Read Online Losing Faith (Surfers Way) by Jennifer Ryder - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Ryder
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Touching me. I don’t let go of his hand, because well, he’s holding my frickin’ hand. The fact it’s sweaty and probably teeming with grass and dirt particles doesn’t faze me one bit. Call me selfish, but I’m only letting go when he does. In this very moment, I don’t even care that he has a girlfriend.
I’m just glad to have my friend home. So I decide to tell him.
“It’s good to have you back, Q.”
He swings our linked hands between us and winks at me. “Good to be home.”
For one second, my heart forgets he’s a friend and his bluest of blue eyes flash at me with such promise, turning my insides into what would probably resemble a raspberry slushie. Great, now I’m thirsty .
I walk faster, pulling him to keep up. The sooner we get this finished, the sooner I can get home and have a cold, cold shower. Quade Kelly is doing wicked things to my body, and I don’t think he has any idea.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You’re late again,” Dad says, catching me as I try to sneak in the back door of the Palace.
“I’m sorry.” I exhale loudly. “I was”— drooling while delivering pamphlets —“distracted. Sorry.”
He sighs and stands in front of me, placing his warm hands on my shoulders. “What’s done is done.”
He tilts his head to the side and stares me down, making me feel as if I’m twelve years old again. Back when I used to tell him everything . Instantly, I remember crying to him when Quade got his first girlfriend. I was twelve; he had just turned fifteen. When Dad couldn’t understand what had got me so upset and demanded to know, I told him all about my giant-sized love for my bestie’s brother. He’d told me back then that I wasn’t old enough to understand love. Maybe not, but by the time I was eighteen I’d reckoned I had a pretty good idea.
“Mail drop, no?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.
I nod. “I had company,” I tell him. Maybe he’ll take it easier on me if he knew I wasn’t alone this time.
The lines across his forehead deepen as his brows pull together.
“Quade,” I say, my voice rough for some strange reason. “It was, you know, nice.”
A slow smile pulls at the corner of my father’s mouth. His hands squeeze my shoulders, and before I know it I’m pulled into his embrace and he’s hugging me as if I’m about to take an extended overseas trip. “I forgive you den. I’d forgive you anyways, but dat boy … you need to …”
The phone rings, echoing throughout the kitchen.
I need to what?
Dad clears his throat and holds me at arm’s length. “Be careful.”
I roll my eyes at him. Quade is a friend. I’m not about to let him break my heart again.
“Better get dat call. You get started, huh?” he says and kisses my forehead.
“Yeah, Dad.” And then I can’t resist saying the words my old man has repeated since I first came to see him work in the shop. “Time to prep because there are pizzas to make and tummies to fill.”
Dad picks up the phone. “’Ello?” He rolls his eyes at me and smiles. “Yes. Our daughter ‘as arrived. Love you.” He hangs up. As a teenager I’d hated Mum always checking up on me, but I kinda dig that she still does it now. You never know what could happen. One day you’re here, the next you’re six feet under the ground.
“I’m off,” Uncle Marco says from behind me, startling me with his close presence. “De tables out back ’ave been cleared.” He runs his hands back through his dark wavy hair and gives me a crooked smile. I wrap my arms around his middle and hug him.
“Sorry if I held you up,” I say in a quiet voice, feeling like crap.
He leans down and kisses my forehead. “S’okay, love.” My uncle slaps Dad on the back, and calls out “ciao” as he nears the back door.
I shrug and smile at Dad, and then get started kneading the pizza dough. Dad chops us some fresh basil and sprinkles it into the cauldron-like pot on the stove, which has a batch of our Runaway Beach
I’m just glad to have my friend home. So I decide to tell him.
“It’s good to have you back, Q.”
He swings our linked hands between us and winks at me. “Good to be home.”
For one second, my heart forgets he’s a friend and his bluest of blue eyes flash at me with such promise, turning my insides into what would probably resemble a raspberry slushie. Great, now I’m thirsty .
I walk faster, pulling him to keep up. The sooner we get this finished, the sooner I can get home and have a cold, cold shower. Quade Kelly is doing wicked things to my body, and I don’t think he has any idea.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You’re late again,” Dad says, catching me as I try to sneak in the back door of the Palace.
“I’m sorry.” I exhale loudly. “I was”— drooling while delivering pamphlets —“distracted. Sorry.”
He sighs and stands in front of me, placing his warm hands on my shoulders. “What’s done is done.”
He tilts his head to the side and stares me down, making me feel as if I’m twelve years old again. Back when I used to tell him everything . Instantly, I remember crying to him when Quade got his first girlfriend. I was twelve; he had just turned fifteen. When Dad couldn’t understand what had got me so upset and demanded to know, I told him all about my giant-sized love for my bestie’s brother. He’d told me back then that I wasn’t old enough to understand love. Maybe not, but by the time I was eighteen I’d reckoned I had a pretty good idea.
“Mail drop, no?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.
I nod. “I had company,” I tell him. Maybe he’ll take it easier on me if he knew I wasn’t alone this time.
The lines across his forehead deepen as his brows pull together.
“Quade,” I say, my voice rough for some strange reason. “It was, you know, nice.”
A slow smile pulls at the corner of my father’s mouth. His hands squeeze my shoulders, and before I know it I’m pulled into his embrace and he’s hugging me as if I’m about to take an extended overseas trip. “I forgive you den. I’d forgive you anyways, but dat boy … you need to …”
The phone rings, echoing throughout the kitchen.
I need to what?
Dad clears his throat and holds me at arm’s length. “Be careful.”
I roll my eyes at him. Quade is a friend. I’m not about to let him break my heart again.
“Better get dat call. You get started, huh?” he says and kisses my forehead.
“Yeah, Dad.” And then I can’t resist saying the words my old man has repeated since I first came to see him work in the shop. “Time to prep because there are pizzas to make and tummies to fill.”
Dad picks up the phone. “’Ello?” He rolls his eyes at me and smiles. “Yes. Our daughter ‘as arrived. Love you.” He hangs up. As a teenager I’d hated Mum always checking up on me, but I kinda dig that she still does it now. You never know what could happen. One day you’re here, the next you’re six feet under the ground.
“I’m off,” Uncle Marco says from behind me, startling me with his close presence. “De tables out back ’ave been cleared.” He runs his hands back through his dark wavy hair and gives me a crooked smile. I wrap my arms around his middle and hug him.
“Sorry if I held you up,” I say in a quiet voice, feeling like crap.
He leans down and kisses my forehead. “S’okay, love.” My uncle slaps Dad on the back, and calls out “ciao” as he nears the back door.
I shrug and smile at Dad, and then get started kneading the pizza dough. Dad chops us some fresh basil and sprinkles it into the cauldron-like pot on the stove, which has a batch of our Runaway Beach
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