She keeps her long blonde hair, which I would really like to get my hands all tangled up in, tied back into a ponytail.
When she reaches the top of the rock, she sits down and pulls a sketchpad and pencil out of her bag. Then, she spends the next hour drawing. At just a little after six, she packs her things back into her bag, climbs down the rock, and leaves the way she came.
And I watch her.
Every day.
It’s not creepy at all.
Okay, maybe it’s a little creepy.
But I just can’t help myself. There’s something about her, something that has captured my attention in a way no one ever has before. And it isn’t just her sexy tan legs, great rack, or tight ass—even though those are amazing.
There’s just something…captivating about her.
I don’t know if it’s the way she seems to put all of herself into her art the moment she presses that pencil to the paper or the way she looks so totally free while sitting up on that rock with the wind blowing through her hair, like nothing or no one can touch her.
For that hour, she’s free.
But when she steps down off that rock, I can see a heaviness falling down on her, like a cloud of responsibility.
And I know what that feels like.
When I’m out on my board, riding the waves, nothing can touch me.
But the minute I’m back on shore, that momentary freedom I felt is gone.
Sure, I have freedom in the sense that my parents haven’t given a fuck about me since the second I was born. So long as I don’t bring disrepute to the Gunner name, tarnishing their smoke-and-mirrors lifestyle, then I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want.
But there has always been an expectation of me.
I’m the heir to Gunner Entertainment, the oldest and largest movie studio in Hollywood.
After this year off—that my parents graciously granted me after I’d threatened to do some seriously crazy stuff if they didn’t give it to me—I’m expected to go to Harvard and graduate with honors. Then, I’m to take my place at my father’s side until the day I take over and become the King of Hollywood.
Sounds like a dream to most. To me, it’s a fucking nightmare.
I despise everything about it and what it represents.
The glitz and glamour cover the lies and deceit. My world is filled with frauds, each one with a dirty little secret to hide.
Soon, I have to become one of them, and when I do, I fear that I’ll turn into someone I’ve never wanted to become—my father…or worse, my mother. She’s a fame-hungry, soul-sucking bitch who cares about no one, except for herself.
I paint a nice picture, right?
Well, call me a cynic, but growing up with the parents I have, you’d be one, too.
I don’t want any part of the life they’re forcing me to have.
All I want is to become a pro surfer. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I just want to be in the ocean, chasing that never-ending wave.
When I was fourteen, I tried telling Ava that I didn’t want to take over the family business, that I wanted to become a professional surfer. She laughed in my face and then reminded me exactly what would happen if I did.
They’d cut me off cold. I would have nothing.
And believe me when I say, they would leave me penniless, living on the streets, and they would do it without losing a second of sleep.
Especially Ava. She is as hard as the Botox filling her face.
I wish I were brave enough to go it alone. The problem with being brought up with unlimited funds would be to have to live without it. And I don’t know if I could do that.
So, for now, I’m my parents’ bitch.
Although I might be their bitch and screwed up in more ways than I can begin to explain, I’m not a fucking weirdo. I don’t usually hang out on my balcony, watching chicks, like some creeper.
I’m not exactly the shy type. I’m confident—probably too confident sometimes—and when I want a girl, I tell her. I don’t hide in my house, afraid to approach her.
And I’m not an asshole—well, not all the time—but I am aware of how I look. When your mother is one of the most beautiful women in the world—even if she is a demon from hell—you stand a damn good chance of scoring lucky in the gene pool.
And I scored well.
At six-three, with an athletic body that I’ve gained from all my years of surfing and swimming, I keep the scruff on my face overgrown and my sun-bleached hair longer.
I have no problem at all with getting chicks. It’s getting rid of them that is usually the issue.
But for some reason, I can’t seem to get my ass off this balcony to go over there and talk to Rock Girl.
I’m seriously starting to worry about myself.
For fuck’s sake, Gunner. Just go down there and talk to her. What have you got to lose?
“Hey, fuckface. You still watching that chick?”
Releasing a sigh, I turn to look over my shoulder at Max. “I’m not watching her. I’m…looking at the scenery.” I gesture weakly with my hand.
Max snorts out a laugh. “Sure you are, limp dick.”
I see Darcy, the girl Max has been banging for the last few days, sidle up beside him. She shoots me a sexy smile.
“Hey, Adam.” She lifts her hand in greeting, wiggling her fingers at me.
I lift my chin at her, not bothering to say hi.
Darcy might be hot, but she’s an idiot.
And she must think I’m fucking stupid.
She tried to play it off as an accident when she walked into my bathroom yesterday while I was in there showering. My private bathroom, the one you have to walk through my bedroom to get into. Yeah, sure it was an accident, Darcy.