It is crowded, half tourists and half locals, familiar smiles greeting me as I grab a bar stool. Bip, the bartender, a pretty brunette that has managed to look eighteen for a good ten years longer than physically possible, pops a Corona top and slides it over to me.
“Thanks.”
“No sweat babe. Where’s your sexier half?”
“Somewhere on I-5. He’s with Nick and Moses, headed back from Del Mar.”
“They catch good conditions?”
“According to the text I got, the waves were great, but too many shoobies, it was a zoo.”
“That’s the problem with this time of year. Tourists everywhere.” She lowered her voice, glancing around before shooting me a smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Hey, me either.” I toasted her, taking a swig of the beer and glancing at my watch. “Can you put in a large philly to go? I’m gonna head home before it gets too crazy.”
Venice Beach has been romanticized by Hollywood and an impressively deceptive tourism marketing campaign. They paint our sidewalk stands and street performers in a romantic light, touting our artistic graffiti and muscle beach as unique oddities. In actuality, it is the armpit of LA tourism. Panhandlers and druggies everywhere, homeless getting rich off of intimidated tourists and families of four too far from the safety of their car to say no. We have at least ten murders a year, over three hundred aggravated assaults and around a hundred rapes. The majority of those crimes happen to tourists, prostitutes, and drug users. Paul and I fall in the lower-risk demographic, but that doesn’t mean we are safe. Locals do their best to protect other locals, our misfit band of eccentrics attempting some basic form of civility. But I am a young, attractive female. Walking down the boardwalk after dark alone scares me. I call Paul and let him know I’m on my way home.
“Awesome babe. I’m twenty minutes away. Gonna drop the boys at their place and then I’ll be home. Call me when you get to the house, so I know you’re safe.”
I agree, hanging up my cell, and slip it into the pockets of my sweatshirt, the cash in my pocket burning my skin. Then I grab my food, throw a twenty on the bar, and head into the crowded night, a half-mile from home.
I move quickly through the crowds, my hood up despite the warm night air, ignoring the catcalls from men and the panhandlers who know me yet still stick out their hands. I nod to familiar faces and share words with a few locals. Then the crowds thin and I am on the sparse path that covers the last quarter-mile home. There are still tourists here, ones who didn’t realize that the South Venice parking lot is the wrong place to park, a long walk from the attractions, a much closer lot a quarter-mile north. We all hurry, the night sky unsettling, too many shadows and dark alleys in between the million dollar bungalows that face this oceanfront broken sidewalk.
Then I reach our street, head a block east and jog up the steps to our home, my key out and ready, the deadbolt flipping in the lock as soon as the door is fully shut. I strip off my sweaty pullover and call Paul, letting him know that I am home.
I hear his jeep rumble as I pull two beers from the fridge, popping their tops and carrying them to the coffee table, flipping the dead bolt switch on my way. He bounds up the steps, flinging the door open and crossing our living room in four easy steps, pulling me into his arms and taking my mouth. I jump, wrapping my legs around his waist and he catches me, his hands strong on my ass, his mouth desperate on mine, like he has been away a month instead of a day. He carries me to the couch and tosses me down, the worn leather soft against my back, his mouth following my descent before softly releasing me. His eyes linger on me, a smile on his face before he wheels around and shuts the door.
We eat on the couch, sharing the sandwich, juice running down my wrists as I try to bite into the overfull sandwich. I get up twice for napkins and more beer, our conversation dancing over, but not touching, my activities last night. Paul prefers to not discuss the existence of Stewart. While Stewart approaches their shared split of my time as he would a business merger, coolly and unemotionally—it is much harder for Paul. I have all of Paul’s heart—surfing and his career taking a backseat to me, to my happiness. I’m sure he struggles with that—having half of me while giving me all of him. But I was with Stewart first, gave him that half of my heart before Paul ever came into the picture. Paul was just sex to me, a warm body to fuck my body and occupy my days while Stewart worked. But somewhere, over a year ago, Paul took the other half of my heart and I fell for him as well. I know it bothers Paul. I know that he is competitive and possessive and wants me to be only his. But he will not give me up over that desire, so he doesn’t fight it. He goes with the flow, and only asks for my happiness.
We eat, we watch tv, and then fuck—starting in the shower and taking the activity to our bed. Then we spoon, the sound of waves lulling us to sleep.
DANA
The definition of a secret is something not meant to be known by others.
What do you do when you discover a secret? Do you have a responsibility to share it? Or is the responsibility in the keeping of the secret?
I think it all depends on the outcome of sharing the secret. Some cause harm, some good. I need to find out more about this secret. To know what outcome it harbors. So I will watch. And try to find out as much as I can about this woman. And why she has latched onto these men, who hold my heart as much as she holds theirs.
I don’t know if she loves them or if toying with them. The chances of both of us loving them are too slim, too incredible to be a coincidence. What I don’t understand is why. Why these two men?
With the millions of men in Los Angeles, why date brothers?
MADISON
I watch Stewart sleep, the rise and fall of his strong chest. He is so rarely still, so rarely calm. Intensity is his standard; peace is a rare moment for me to view. At a time like this, when his eyes are closed and his breathing is soft, I feel protective of him. As if I have some responsibility for his world, for his happiness, for his life. I love him, there has not been a question of that for some time. I fell quickly for this brilliant man—a man who has no time for anything more than bites of time and affection. He will never bounce our child on his knee or take me to the doctor when I am sick. Those are his limitations and he realizes that. Is regretful for that shortcoming but unwilling to change. He has chosen his lifestyle, and accepts the restrictions that come with it. Maybe one day he will change. Maybe one day his brow will relax and he will smile easily, laugh more often, and lose the suit and tie. Maybe he will be able to do more than fuck me senseless and kiss me before leaving me alone to sleep. Maybe he will have a life outside of work, and maybe I will still be around when that time comes. Life is too unpredictable to plan for that. What I do know, as I watch this beautiful man sleep, his face relaxed and body still, is that I love him. Just as much as I love Paul. And that, one day, will be a problem.
10 YEARS EARLIER
The fire burned hot, a wave of heat pushing Jennifer Brand back from the pit, her feet sinking in the thick sand. She tripped, stumbling backward, and was caught by strong arms, her gaze looking up and catching on gorgeous green eyes and a cocky smile.