Its Perfect Until Its Not

I was running away.

I’d left behind a bad situation in Kansas – a life I desperately wanted to avoid thinking about or dealing with – and never looked back.

Where do people go to reinvent themselves? Where do they move to get a shot at a new life, to live out their dreams?

For me, it was Venice.

No, not Italy – Venice, California. That funky little beach town chock-full of all the people too weird for the rest of Los Angeles. (Which is saying something.)

I didn’t need to go halfway around the world to escape. Compared to what I was used to back home, Venice might as well have been another planet.

I was running because love had dealt me a bad hand, and I had played it even worse. As far as I was concerned, I was done with love.

Funny… because while I was running away from it, that’s when it came and found me.

It was my first day settling into the neighborhood. I’d just rented a room in a house nearby, and I was enjoying the fruits of my awesome new digs: a two-block stroll to the beach.

As I lay there on my towel, slowly getting over my self-consciousness about my pale skin and incredibly unfashionable one-piece, both of which came courtesy of Kansas (note to self: go get a bikini as soon as possible), I saw him.

He was absolutely gorgeous – a blond-haired surfer with several days of scruffy facial hair. Late 20’s. Bronzed skin. Muscles to make your jaw (and panties) drop. He was wearing only board shorts and flip-flops, so I got the full show: enormous biceps, powerful chest, broad shoulders, massive thighs.

I couldn’t see his eyes because of the sunglasses he wore, but he had a strong chin, sensual lips, and cheekbones to die for.

Big hands and feet, too.

I’m just sayin’.

Now why couldn’t I get a guy like THAT back in Kansas? I thought.

Note to self: learn surfing as fast as humanly possible.

He was walking towards the water with his board under one arm, and he dropped something as he passed – a little round object that plopped in the sand.

“Uh, excuse me,” I said, rolling over to pick it up.

He kept walking.

“Excuse me!” I called out.

He turned around with a scowl.

“You dropped your – ” I started to say, then looked down at the little cellophane-wrapped package in my hand.

Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax.

I immediately blushed.

I might have been thinking naughty thoughts about his body, but I wasn’t about to say ‘sex wax’ out loud to a stranger.

What the hell is sex wax?!

The label said, ‘The best for your stick.’

…your ‘stick’?!

Did he put it… ‘down there’?

Why was he bringing it out to the beach, then?!

“Uhhhh… you dropped this,” I said, blushing even worse, as I lifted it up to him.

“Thanks,” he grunted, snatched it out of my hand, and then walked off without another word.

Rude!

Just goes to show, hot guys don’t always have the best personalities.

Even insanely hot ones with perfect physiques.

I sighed and just enjoyed the show as he moved towards the water.

That was when my phone rang.

I knew from the ring tone who it was.

Rick.

My stomach twisted and I felt sick.

He doesn’t know where you are, I told myself. You don’t even have to answer it.