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in Bali last year.” Lana’s expression became a playful frown, but there was truth under it. She was pissed.
    “Ouch…ouuuuuch.” Wes cringed as she giggled. For the past two years, he’d been the first loser at nearly every major surfing contest he’d participated in. The prize money was still great, but he had obviously earned a reputation. “Your Googling skills are astounding,” he added with amused sarcasm. He was never wary of people taking an interest in his professional endeavors. Some of the guys he knew worried that people who cared about what they did for a living only wanted to know them because of it, but Wes welcomed the attention. Who cared why they were there? He was the gatekeeper to their ability to indulge in his lifestyle, anyway.
    “Almost as good as your surfing,” she teased with a soft smile, “Wesley Elliott, free surfer extraordinaire, and sometime contest participant, who rides for Team Lava Energy Drink.” Her smile withered into a disapproving frown . “And the fact remains that you waited too long that day at Padang Padang. The good waves were already sporadic. You probably wanted some major moment of glory, huh? And you sabotaged yourself. You should’ve won the contest, Wes.
    “ Rookie Josh Wilden should not be the reigning Ridley Pro Bali champion right now. You should be. He lucked out in a crazy way. He’s going to be an amazing surfer someday, but you’re one now. You’re both good at wave selection, but his barrel riding is iffy and inconsistent. You make that shit look effortless, which is why I don’t understand…what?”
    He must have been giving her a look. “Jesus, girl, you’re worse than the magazines and bloggers.”
    “I spent that entire contest yelling at the live stream—I must’ve aged like five years that day—and I was pissed all weekend afterward.”
    “No, you’re right…it was my ego. I was so sure I’d get one last big wave and kill it, you know, so I waited. I wanted that shot on someone’s camera, one I knew people would be talking about all year. And I blew it. So, now, I’m going back to basics, training harder—like tomorrow, I have a very early session with my trainer—and eating a shitload of humble pie with my sponsors right now.” The bottom line was that Wes had earned a pretty deep five-figures annually the last few years in a flailing industry, and a surf trick he had accidentally invented had more than six hundred thousand views on YouTube; so, his ego had made his head big enough to blind him.
    “Why do they call you Deuce then?”
    “I guess I’ve been coming in second my whole life,” Wes said, laughing flatly with a wink. “Abel started that. He was born, like, three minutes before me. It sort of stuck with the rest of the surf team. Sucks now, though, given my recent surfing accomplishments. So, you follow surfing? How come you didn’t say anything?” How much hotter could this woman get? Wait. Naked. Naked and riding him while discussing surfing was probably much hotter.
    “I didn’t want to seem like a stalker once I figured out who you were.” She shrugged and pursed her lips. “I used to follow surfing a lot more before though.” She got quiet as they rolled through two songs from Aerosmith and Johnny Cash. When the more recent, pop tunes started—Justin Timberlake, P!nk and Maroon 5—she finally turned her back to him, and Wes grabbed her hips when she re-linked her hands at the back of his neck. His heart rate dove into a rhythm that rivaled the songs, as a fever rose in him from the way her butt rocked against the front of his jeans. And he knew she could feel his hard-on. Fucking friction. But, really, just her ass in its sheer amazingness.
    “How am I doing?” she asked, tipping her head back to his shoulder.
    The music or the dancing, he wondered, but he was pleased in both instances, especially the second. “Just…fine...” Wes lilted right against her ear before he buried his face in her