Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
The next morning, Carl’s head was pounding. Like, really pounding.
It was hard to know, though, if it was due to the beer last night or the million thoughts that plagued him since reading his darned horoscope.
Capricorn may have mistaken friendship for something more and bitterly resent himself for not seeing the signs, but rest assured, it’s better to face the music. New relationships will reveal themselves as you grow from this experience in heart, mind, and courageous spirit!
Carl lifted one of the dozen pillows he’d drowned in last night and muffled a growl into its feathery mass. As if predestined or something, his phone shrilled with a call from his twin.
Jason sounded rather breathless as he interrogated Carl about the cop he shared a fence with back home. “I got the feeling you’re rather infamous at the station.”
“Well,” Carl grimaced. “I might’ve been the subject of a tweet or two . . .”
Carl answered Jason’s questions about his neighbour the sergeant on automatic, his mind blasting ‘Dead-End Dude’ like it was a chorus in a bad song. “. . . he seems as annoyed as I am that I’m always getting tickets. Or getting caught with a beer in a public place—” Like last night! “You know . . . I might have a problem with rules.”
Carl should make it his mission: No more trouble.
But trouble, it seemed, was also plaguing his otherwise-rule-abiding twin brother who was currently at Carl’s house pretending to be Carl. Turns out, pretending to be someone who looked exactly like you could actually be a bit tricky. Carl’s grip on his phone doubled. This couldn’t be all over before it began. He couldn’t face the music. Pete, the boy he’d known forever. The one he’d been most comfortable with in the world. Pete, who was tying the knot with Nick. He had no guts to go back to Tas until the wedding. Even then . . . could he not run away forever?
When Jason vowed “This is not over yet,” Carl let out a deep breath of relief.
Call over, he rolled out of bed, foot miraculously okay, and found Jason’s bike and rainbow helmet in the garden shed. He always felt better leaving his devices behind and getting some good wind in his face, so he peddled hard and fast down the wide road towards Island Bay and swung a left around the coast. The surfers were out at Houghton Bay this morning, the sea sparkling turquoise and navy before crashing into white rushes up the beach, and it looked . . . like a good spot for a fast dip.
His shorts were pretty much the same material as swim shorts. They’d do.
He stripped off his flannel and the t-shirt under it, and stuffed his socks into his shoes. His stuff he left with the bike, leaning near some benches on the footpath.
He got as far into the—crikey—cold water as his hips when a familiar holler of boredom and mischief had him whirling towards the shore.
Just his luck. “Oi!”
His shout fell on dismissive ears; the rascals took off with his bike, one riding, the other perched on the bag rack.
A nearby surfer, already half stripped out of his soaked wetsuit at the back of his ute, caught the whole incident and sprinted—barefoot and bare chested—after the teens. He yelled . . . something. Whatever it was, it had the teens coming off the bike, abandoning it at the side of the road, and running off.
Carl waded out of the water and sand clung ticklishly to his feet and ankles. The surfer strode along the footpath, the bike alongside him. Grey neoprene clung low on his hips, the fine tight muscles on his perfectly tapered torso shifting under his damp skin. He moved with a cool, easy gait, showing off an overall physique that could only be described as . . . too much work.
Too much work and too hard to look away from. How many innocent bystanders got locked into gym memberships after looking at this?
Carl ignored an appreciative swoop in his belly and grinned as he came up the steps; his bike rescuer leaned the bike in its original spot, and then shook his dark, damp hair like he was being filmed for a shampoo advertisement. Like he knew he’d sell a lot of it.
When he glanced over at Carl, he did a double take and blinked. Carl totally got it; one of them was a heart-throb, and the other was a guy in sort-of-swimshorts too au-natural in colour. Possibly like he wasn’t wearing anything. Upon closer inspection, though, things were all squared neatly away, everyone’s purity preserved.
“Thanks.”
Bike-Rescuing-Surf-Dude cocked his head, dark eyes stomach-jumpingly riveted onto Carl.
“You haven’t seen a multicoloured helmet, have you? Or my clothes? Little devils.”
Bike-Rescuing-Surf-Dude’s frown deepened. He shook his head as if ridding himself of a wayward thought. “They took off with the helmet.”