SCANDALOUS

WEIGHTLESS.

The feeling never got old.

Floating on a fat wave, becoming one with the ocean. Curving it skillfully—knees bent, stomach tucked in, chin high, focusing on the only thing that really mattered in life—not falling.

My black wetsuit clung to my skin, keeping my temperature warm, even in the briny water at six in the morning. Bane was charging on another wave in my peripheral, riding it the same way he did his Harley—recklessly, aggressively, ruthlessly. The ocean was loud. It crashed against the white shore, deafening my negative thoughts and tuning out nagging hang-ups. It switched off my anxiety, and for an hour—just for one hour—there was no drama and no financial worries and no plans to be made or dreams to be shattered. There were no Jordan and Lydia Van Der Zee, no expectations and no threats dangling over my head.

Just me.

Just the water.

Just the sunrise.

Oh, and Bane.

“Water’s fucking freezing,” Bane growled from his wave, squatting down to prolong every moment of gliding on one of nature’s most arduous forces. He was much taller and heavier than me, but still good enough to go pro if he really put his mind into it. Whenever he rode a sick wave, he cleaved to it with bloody claws. Because surfing was like sex—it didn’t matter how often you’ve done it, every time was different. There was always something new to be learned, and each encounter was unique—wild with potential.

“Not a good day for hang eleven,” I grunted, my abs flexing as I rounded the edge of a wave to keep the ride alive. Bane liked surfing naked. He liked it because I hated when he did it, and making me feel uncomfortable was his favorite pastime. Seeing his long dick flapping in the air, on the other hand, was distracting and a

“You’re going to eat it, Gidget,” he said, rolling his ringed tongue over his pierced bottom lip. Gidget was a nickname for small female surfers, and Bane called me that only when he wanted to piss me off. His balance was already stuttering, and he’d barely hung onto his wave. If someone’s board was going to snap, it was his.

“Dream on,” I shouted over the ferocious waves.

“No, really. Your dad’s here.”

“My dad is…what?” I’d misheard him. I was sure of it. My father had never sought me out before, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to make an exception at butt crack o’clock, on a sandy beach that couldn’t accommodate his expensive suit addiction. I squinted toward the coast, losing stability, and not just physically. The beachfront was lined with palm trees and bungalows in pink, green, yellow, and blue. Sure enough, amidst the carnival of bars, hot dog stands, and folded yellow loungers, there was Jordan Van Der Zee. Standing on the beach, the sun rising behind him like an inferno mounting straight from the gates of hell. He was wearing a three-piece Brooks Brothers ensemble and a disapproving glare, both of which he had refused to strip out of even after his working hours.

Even from afar, I could see his left eye ticking in a

Even from afar, I could feel his hot breath cascading down my face, no doubt with another demand.

Even from afar, despair clutched my throat in a death grip, like he was too close, too severe, too much.

I slipped on the board, my back slamming against the water. Pain shot from my spine to my head. Bane didn’t know my father, but like everyone else in this town—he knew of him. Jordan owned half of downtown Todos Santos—the other half belonging to Baron Spencer—and had recently a

He was either loved, feared, or hated by everyone. I stood with the latter group, knowing firsthand that his wrath was a double-bladed sword that could slice you open deep.

The taste of salt attacked my tongue and I spat, tugging the leash on my ankle to find my floating yellow board. I climbed on, flattened my stomach against it, and started paddling toward the shore, my movements quick.

“Let the prick wait,” Bane’s voice boomed behind me. I shot him a look. He was straddling his black surfboard, staring at me with fire in his eyes. His long blond hair was plastered to his forehead and cheeks, his forest-green eyes blazing with purpose. I watched him through the lens my father probably had. A dirty beach-bum with tattoos covering the better half of his torso and entire neck. A Viking, a caveman, a Neanderthal who felt comfortable living on the outskirts of society.

A bad apple.

Van Der Zees always hang with the shiniest fruit in the basket, Edie.

Snapping my head back to the shore, I paddled faster.

“Fucking coward,” Bane yelled loud enough for Jordan to hear.

I didn’t answer, and not for lack of words. Bane didn’t know the whole story. I needed to stay civilized with my father. He held my future in his callous hands. I wanted it back.

Bane got his name for a reason. With zero filters, he was essentially a glorified bully. Only reason he was never kicked out of school was because his mother had a shit-ton of co

Bane wasn’t a good guy. He was a liar, a thief, and a drug dealer.

And my sometime boyfriend.

So, while Bane was right—my father was indeed a world-class prick—Jordan was right about something else. I was obviously making dubious life choices.

“Jordan?” I asked, hoisting the board horizontally and tucking it under my arm as I strode toward him. The cool sand clung to my feet, numbing my skin. The rush of the surf still coursed through my veins, but I knew the adrenaline would die down soon and I’d freeze. I didn’t wince, knowing my father would take small pleasure in watching my discomfort and deliberately lengthen the conversation.

He jerked his chin behind my shoulder, his eyes narrowed to slits. “That the Protsenko kid?”

I scrunched my nose, a nervous tick. Even though Jordan was a first-generation immigrant, he had a problem with me making friends with a Russian kid who’d come here with his mom after the downfall of the Soviet Union.

“I told you to stay away from him.”

“He’s not the only person you’ve told me to stay away from.” I sniffed, squinting to the horizon. “Guess we agree to disagree.”

He thumbed the collar of his dress shirt, loosening it around his neck. “See, this is where you’re wrong. I’ve never agreed to disagree with you, Edie. I simply choose my battles. It is called good parenting, and I try to execute it as much as possible.” My father was a chameleon, interchangeable, and adaptable to a fault. He masked his ruthlessness with concern, and his bulldozing ways with enthusiasm and a type-A driven personality. It was his actions that made him the monster he’d become in my eyes. From afar, though, he was just another law-abiding citizen. A poor Dutch boy who’d come to the States with his parents, fulfilled the American dream, and became a self-made millionaire through hard work and merciless wit.