The Truth About Sex & Surfing [Featured Story]

Chapter seven

Hailey could not develop a massive crush on Dylan Shane. Or even a tiny crush. She would not allow herself to, because (A) he was her teacher and that made it wrong, not that surfing lessons were exactly the same thing as, say, Anthropology 301. Besides, and more importantly, (B) he was way out of her league, probably the hottest guy she'd ever seen. And, as if she needed another reason, (C) he clearly had someone. Kylie.

As Hailey trailed him down the beach, her giant foam training surfboard bumping and chafing against her, she stared at the name. That black lettering, light and heavy at the same time.

Whoever Kylie was, Hailey could guess that she was beautiful, completely fit and probably an incredible surfer, too—the female equivalent of Dylan Shane. Probably one of those girls whose hair dried perfectly straight, not a bit of frizz, even after a three-hour stint in saltwater... Who was so naturally pretty that you wouldn't expect her to be nice, but then she was nice, and beloved by absolutely everyone, from her grandma to her mailman to her gorgeous but asshole-ish surfing-champ boyfriend...

"Have you bought a board yet?" Dylan asked. Without Hailey noticing, he'd slowed down to match her pace. Now she nearly bumped into him.

"Uh, nope," she said, steadying her foam board with one hand. It was the surfers' equivalent of training wheels, but she still couldn't control it. "I mean, do you think I'm ready to? I kind of thought I should complete one lesson first."

"That's right. You're too much of a beginner to know what you'll want just yet."

"Uh huh. Makes sense." She didn't feel much confidence that she'd ever be anything other than a beginner.

"But when you feel ready, let me know, and I'll take a look for you and let you know whether you're getting a good one. You don't necessarily have to spend a lot of money. There's no need to spends thousands if you don't want to."

The reference to money was pointed, impossible to miss. Did he really think, just because of that horrible newspaper story, that she actually was some kind of hooker? Hailey wasn't sure what to make of that—of course the idea that someone would pay money to sleep with her wasn't flattering, but at the same time it wasn't exactly unflattering either. But anyway wouldn't a hooker have a proper tan and a manicure? She didn't. 

Before she could convince herself not to, she rushed in. "Listen, Dylan, I'm guessing you saw that story. Yeah, that was me in the picture. But I can explain. I'm not... I mean, the assumption that I'm some kind of, well, that was just a mix-up, I swear. I'm an unemployed waitress like I told you, okay, not a—"

"You don't have to tell me about your sex life."

Hailey shuddered, partly at the memory of that terrible front page, partly because nothing could be sexier than Dylan saying that word. With his accent, it was like some kind of gale-force hotness. She had to stop talking and take a deep breath, sort of brace herself against the impact of it. After a second, she started again. "You've got to believe me, that's not what my, uh, sex life is like at all. Nothing like that happened. I could never even date a guy like that, much less..." 

"Yeah, Weston's kind of well known around here. He's like this icon of greed. Has been since the early nineteen-nineties, when all the development took off," he said. 

"So if his face was on a t-shirt, people would recognize it?"

"Most people would, yeah."

"So he's, like, a t-shirt of greed."

Dylan gave her a sidelong look then, like she wasn't picking up what he was putting down.

"I don't really find it funny, I swear," Hailey added quickly. "This is mortification you're seeing here. A little bit of nervous wisecracking, not amusement or flippancy or whatever."