Hanging Loose (8 page)

“Morning, sunshine,” he said groggily.

I crawled over him and kissed him. He kicked the comforter all the way off and locked his legs around mine while he pulled me down on him.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine. Idiot.”

Jez grinned, relieved, and pulled me closer.

“Let’s spend the day in bed,” he whispered into my neck between small nips.

He was hard, and I was rapidly getting there myself.

“I have to go to work in a little while,” I groaned unhappily.

“Call in sick.”

“I can’t. It’ll be a busy day.”

“Damn your work ethic.” Jez canted his hip, and his cock pressed harder into the hollow of my stomach, making my skin prickle with anticipation.

“Can I introduce you to shower sex at least?” he pleaded.

“I’d love that.”

* * *

The next Thursday morning, I found him in front of the laptop.

“Hey,” Jez said, giving me a heedful look. I thought sometimes he still expected me to change my mind about us and bolt.

“Hey.” I smiled back to reassure him. He visibly relaxed.

“I got an idea. Let’s go up to Zuma Beach.”

“The waves are good?”

“The waves are dead, baby. No, I was thinking just you and me and the beach. We could pack a picnic.”

“Sounds fun. Let’s do it.”

* * *

We parked along the highway where the beach was narrowest instead of paying a fee to park fifty feet closer. Jez carried an ancient beach bag with the food and stuff. I hefted the towels and a big blanket. We settled on a sand ridge close to the water. It being a weekday, the beach was pretty deserted; there was a gaggle of girls off to the distance in one direction and a couple off to the other.

I stripped off my shirt but left my denim cutoffs on and sat down on the blanket. Jez, shirtless as usual, strolled down to the water. He waded in just far enough that the bigger waves licked the hem of his shorts. He turned around and jerked his head, beckoning. I shook mine. I preferred to stay on dry land and drink him in with my eyes.

I leaned back on my elbows and let the mood of the place take me. Here the world was made of unrestrained splashes of color: pale sand; endless ocean trimmed with sharp white froth; cloudless, vivid blue sky. Against that giant canvas stood Jez, umber and blond, in turquoise shorts, his smile a dash of white. On the half-deserted beach, everything seemed so recklessly simple. It made me believe that life could be like that—uncomplicated. I liked Jez, and Jez liked me. I could let myself enjoy it. All the other stuff—all the worries and doubts—I could let go, let the tide wash them out. I watched Jez stroll up to me in that loose-limbed way that was so
him.

“You’re thinking. I can tell,” he said.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Liar!”

Jez dropped down on the blanket next to me. I gave in to the urge to touch him. I ran my hand over his abs; they were both smooth and hard.

“I was thinking about colors.” I let my hand fell to the waistband of his shorts. “Blue-green goes well with your skin tone.”

Jez pushed me down and threw a leg across me. The weight of his thigh woke up my cock. It didn’t help that Jez had a hand on my chest, thumb absently teasing the edge of my nipple. He gave me a look that I couldn’t categorize; it seemed to be hungry and fearful at once. Like he was fighting himself. He closed his eyes and kissed the soft skin under my ear.

“You’re making me horny,” I grumbled.

“There is one way to take care of that,” Jez said, standing up. “That won’t get us arrested,” he added, seeing the look I gave him.

“But the water’s so cold,” I protested.

“You’ll get used to it. Now stop being such a baby.”

With a dramatic sigh, I stripped down to my swim shorts. Jez dropped his shorts too. The little red swim briefs he wore underneath left little to the imagination. I gasped.

“Those are downright un-American. Only hairy German tourists are allowed to wear them.”

He just grinned.

“I guess they’re more practical under a wet suit,” I admitted.

“I don’t wear anything under a wet suit. Now c’mon, already.”

I followed him, running into the water then throwing myself into it. He’d been right. After the first cold shock, I got used to it.

Later, as we dried off and soaked up the sun’s heat, he turned to me and asked a question.

“I’m driving up north on Monday. Do you think you could get three days free and come with me?”

Monday the restaurant was closed; Tuesday was my day off. I could ask Sandy to cover for me on Wednesday. She owed me one.

“Yeah, I can do that,” I replied.

Chapter Nine

California State Route 1, aka Pacific Coast Highway, runs right along the coast, and parts of it are officially designated as “scenic highway,” I was told. Jez also informed me that the really spectacular parts were farther north, but I thought it was pretty damn picturesque already.

Once we passed Malibu, with its expensive homes overlooking the ocean and the rest of the hubbub that went with them, there were just long stretches of shoreline and public beaches to the left and hills to the right. We were somewhere in Santa Barbara County when we took an exit and got on a narrow two-lane road that meandered among orchards, hills, woods, and fields of tall grass turned yellow and brittle.

We had been reluctant to leave Arthur alone, but Mrs. Gonzalez promised to look in on him. She lived in the same building and was a nurse, plus her husband worked night shift, so he would be home during the day. Not that Arthur needed looking after—not according to him. He had been vehement about that point, shooing us out of the apartment and telling us to get lost. So we went.

Jez hadn’t volunteered any information about our destination, and I hadn’t pried. I think he enjoyed being mysterious and watching me fill to the brim with curiosity. I was holding back heroically. After all, we had to be headed to a beach somewhere, right? But the new turn made me spill.

“Okay, I give,” I said. “Where are we going?”

I had to give it to Jez: even smug like that, he was as lovable as a bucket of puppies. “Doug and Loreen are old friends. Rob first brought me up here when I was five.”

“All this time I thought you were going surfing.”

“The beach is just a few miles to the west. I’m taking you on the scenic route.”

“So you come up here for the change of scenery?”

He kept his eyes on the road. “Yeah. To be honest, I’m not that keen on Venice Beach. I grew up there, but I always liked it better here. Less craziness.” He flashed his teeth at me. “Jasper should be there too. And Ginger.”

“Jasper and Ginger? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named Jasper or Ginger.”

“Doug and Loreen are a bit hippie. You’ll see. They were even worse back in the day. They could have given their kids much worse names.”

“Like Moon Unit?”

“Or Dweezil.” Jez grinned back.

Every once in a while we passed a lonesome mailbox on our lonesome highway. At one such box, we slowed and turned off to an undistinguished dirt road disappearing into the trees. After a minute or so of bumping around, we reached a clearing. A funky little house sat in the middle of it. Not too little, actually. Definitely funky though; it showed signs of having gone through a number of growth spurts over the years. I discerned the stone building that had to be the starting point. From there it grew in zigs and zags, sideways and upward, mostly in uneven green-painted wood. The main door stood wide open. Jez strolled right in, so I followed.

Doug and Loreen Williams weren’t hippie in the conventional tie-dyed sense, but they radiated an undeniably bohemian vibe. He looked like a skinny, wiry version of Jerry Garcia, and she complemented him well. He wore faded jeans and a T-shirt, she a long, flowing skirt with a colorful blouse and beaded necklace. They were both barefoot.

We found them in the large sunshine yellow kitchen. There were herb pots in the windows, prints and photos on the walls, colorful bottles, and all kinds of odds and ends on the shelves. And books everywhere—on the table, in the windows, on top of the fridge. The kitchen—and the rest of the house, I was to find out—was chaotic and well used. Loreen greeted us with exuberant cheerfulness. She hugged first Jez, then me.

“So you’re the famous Nate. Nice to meet you at last.”

Her arms were strong enough to squeeze the stuffing out of me.

Once free again, I shot a sharp glance at Jez, but he gave me a wide-eyed, innocent look that I was so not buying. Mercifully, Doug was content with a handshake and a slap on the back.

“Right on time! Lunch is almost ready. The kids should be back any minute.”

As on cue, a car engine sounded outside, and a second later, a freckle-faced whirlwind of about seventeen or eighteen threw herself at Jez.

“It’s nice to see you too, Gin,” he said.

A guy about Jez’s age appeared in the doorway, carrying a very large watermelon. He had to be Jasper. The Williams family resemblance was obvious, but he looked so solemn compared to the others. Maybe solemn wasn’t the right word for it, but with his short-cut hair and serious expression, he stood out among our scruffy crew.

“Jasper, right?” I held my hand out, bracing for more friendly physical abuse, but he just shuffled the melon to one side and took my hand.

“Call me Scoot. Everyone does.”

“I’m Nate.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Nate.”

There it was again. When did I become so famous? The whirlwind who had to be Ginger had detached herself from Jez and eyed me with suspicion.

“This is my sister. Don’t worry; she doesn’t bite. Be nice, Ginny.” Jasper nudged her in my direction.

“Hi,” she said coolly, staying out of arm’s reach. I guessed she wasn’t a member of my fan club.

We lugged our stuff into an upstairs bedroom and met back with the family behind the house. Under a large tree sat a big and heavy wooden picnic table flanked on two sides by benches. It was laden with a mishmash of plates and bowls. We took our seats. Doug and Loreen sat at the two ends, Jez and I on one side, Jasper and Ginny on the other.

Insects buzzed around us, and the soft breeze rattled the tree limbs, knocking stray bits of tree bark and the occasional dry leaf onto the table. It was all very rustic, and thus thrillingly exotic, standing in stark contrast of the crisp seriousness of the West family outdoor ventures my father had planned out like battle maneuvers. Everyone talked and passed dishes back and forth at the same time.

“Joe Delgado bought the Johnson Ranch,” Doug said once we all had piles of food on our plates.

“Is that the one that’s been sitting there unused?” Jasper asked.

Several heads nodded.

“When old Bill Johnson died without a will, the fourth Mrs. Johnson and all the kids from his previous three marriages started a big legal battle over the estate,” Loreen explained it for my benefit. “I don’t even think it was worth that much. They just did it out of spite. Anyway, it was all tied up in courts for years while the land was left untouched.”

Doug took over next. “It’s all for the best. As it turns out, it gave enough time for the pesticides and other chemicals to wash out of the soil so it can be qualified as organic. I met Joe at the farmer’s market. He told me he’s going to turn it into an organic orchard.”

As I eventually figured out, Doug didn’t talk much, except when it was something he was passionate about. Then he couldn’t stop.

“He’s a smart young man, and his family’s been farmers for generations. His great-grandparents came over from Mexico as day laborers, then in time got their own land. Joe’s brother grows organic vegetables and sells them to small grocery store chains. Some of the bigger ones too.”

Jasper nodded. “Local and organic is getting more popular. That reminds me, Jez, I want to talk to you about something.”

We didn’t learn what it was, because he was interrupted by Loreen shoving a salad bowl at him. There was a quick exchange of looks I couldn’t decipher. It was odd, but the whole family was a little odd.

Doug cleared his throat and went on talking. “We had Joe and his wife over for dinner. He gave me an interesting idea. He’ll need bees to pollinate his trees, and that costs money. They need to truck the bees in from God knows where. Commercial beekeeping is very stressful for the bees. No wonder they are having so much trouble with colony collapses lately. So Joe and I made a deal. I’ll keep my beehives in his orchard, keep the honey, and his trees get pollinated. We’ll start next spring.”

“That’s exciting, but a little risky, isn’t it?” I chipped in.

“So is everything in life,” Loreen said, smiling.

“Do you know anything about beekeeping?” Jez asked.

“When I was growing up, we had bees. I know quite enough. The rest I can learn by spring.”

“Dad grew up on a farm in Idaho,” Jasper whispered to me.

Ginny rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything.

It was all small talk till later, when we sat around among the ruins of our meal, shooting the breeze. At that point, Ginny pulled out a hefty camera and began to click away. Nobody but me seemed to be bothered by it.

Noticing my unease, Jasper leaned over and explained. “My parents got her a camera for her thirteenth birthday. She’s been a nuisance ever since. Even worse since she switched to digital; now there’s no limit to how much she can shoot. Just ignore her. Eventually you won’t even notice.”

* * *

The whole Williams brood participated in the old-world custom of siesta. I couldn’t blame them; the hottest part of the day was best spent resting. I, however, wasn’t sleepy. I opted to stay at the table and sketch: the house with its uneven lines and overflowing window boxes, the yard with its citrus trees, piles of wood, vegetable garden. Jez sauntered out of the house and sat behind me on the bench, his legs framing mine, his shirtless chest pressing to my back.

“It’s hard to draw with you plastered to me,” I grumbled halfheartedly.

“Mmm…” Resting his chin on my shoulder, Jez reached around to flick through my sketchbook. He stopped at some semiabstract doodles. They were of waves and sea foam in an Art-Nouveau-meets-tribal style I was playing around with.