Femme Fatale

This story is Rated-R and should definitley not be read by anyone who is not ready to read sexually explicit stuff. Seriously, though. Anyway, if you want to, go ahead.

California.

A short story by Detective Blu

A state where the sun seems to shine brighter, where the girls seem to be a lot hotter, and where the laws seem to bend a lot further.

Jolie never really notices any of this. To her, this is it. California is the only place in the world where she would ever be. She takes it all for granted, walking out of her house with her black Billabong bikini on and with an ounce of weed in her backpack, heading toward her favorite beach in the middle of December.

Then again, Jolie never really notices anything or anyone, yet everyone seems to notice her.

I mean how could you miss effortlessly tan legs peeking out from her white satin sarong? Or her long blonde hair, reaching to the small of her back, that screams California girl.

But all Jolie can think of is the party tonight. That and the ounce of weed in her backpack.

Just the thought of that syrupy smoke in her lungs sends her in a frenzy, gets her a little wet even.

Jolie walks down the sidewalk past the array of colorful shop displays and hoard of teenage boys loitering the streets of Laguna Beach until her eyes land upon the beautiful shining gold sand.

God’s gift to earth, she thinks.

She can’t contain herself, Jolie grabs the leathery strap of her burgundy backpack and runs until her feet hit the hot, hot sand and the only thing she can hear is the waves hitting the beach. It’s marvelous, it’s amazing.

It’s home.

Jolie lays down under the burning rays of the sun without even bothering to set her out her towel. Tentatively, her hand reaches into the front pocket of her backpack and she pulls out her iPod. Jolie places the ear buds firmly in her ears and presses play. It immediately goes into a shuffle. She smiles as the deep, harmonious voice of Bob Marley fills her ears. She lies there under the sun for so long; she can almost swear she’s being cooked alive.

Suddenly, behind her eyelids she can sense a presence blocking her beautiful sun. Her almost translucent green eyes flutter open and she can almost swear that the sun’s child is standing in front of her.

Dripping with salty sea water, is a boy. No, a man. All tall, blonde, and muscular in his wetsuit. A true surfer boy. The hottest she’s seen. Jolie can’t help but let a small smile appear on her warm face. He stares at her iPod then at her almost asking if she’ll pause it. But she doesn’t make any motion to, so he crouches down beside her, his toned arms brushing against hers and plucks out an ear bud.

“I almost crashed into you, you know,” he says in a deep voice, dropping his surfboard next to him.  

Jolie turns to face him and she is inches away from his soft pink lips and glowing blue eyes.

“Maybe you should watch where you’re going then,” she counters, with an eyebrow raised. Almost as if she’s challenging him to say anything else.

He grins, showing off a set of bright white teeth.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tan where we’re surfing. You could seriously get hurt.”

“This is my beach, Sunchild,” she replies, lying back down.

The sand digs into her back. Jolie closes her eyes until she feels him lay down next to her.