Free Tidal by Emily Snow

that look that
    clearly conveyed he thought I was a
    dumbass, or worse, that he was picturing
    me naked. I probably would have stayed
    out all night, but as Miller and I stood in
    line to ride the only decent rollercoaster
    in the entire park, he slowly turned to me.
    I groaned when I realized he was
    nervously working his teeth back and forth
    over his top lip and that his skin was
    flushed beneath his slowly fading spray
    tan.
    “I hate when people look at me like
    that,” I pointed out, knowing his sheepish
    expression meant an end to my night and
    the noise.
    I wasn’t at all ready for that.
    Miller lifted his muscled shoulders.
    “Don’t you think we should call it a night?
    I mean, this place is thinning out.” He
    gestured around us at the handful of tourist
    strolling through the muggy darkness.
    When we arrived—two or three hours ago
    —the place was in full swing.
    Shoving my giant sunglasses up on my
    nose, I focused my attention to the front of
    the line and let the sounds around us wrap
    me up. “It’s only nine,” I argued.
    Miller snorted. “Yeah, an hour and a
    half ago.” Okay, so we’d been here more
    than four hours. When I held up my hands
    in a so-what motion and gave him an
    irritated look, he said in a gentle voice,
    “You’re the one who told me two hours
    ago to make sure you went home before
    eleven to study your lines and go to bed
    for your lesson with Billabong,
    remember?”
    If I wasn’t so irritated about making
    that particular promise to Miller, I would
    have smiled at his nickname for Cooper.
    Instead, my frown deepened. Thinking
    about surf lessons with Cooper made my
    chest hurt. And the last time my heart or
    chest or anything hurt thinking about a guy
    . . .
    Things ended badly.
    “One more hour,” I pleaded and
    though he looked conflicted, Miller
    dipped his head. He stepped forward
    when the person in front of us showed his
    wrist band to the attendant.
    “You’re just like my kid sister. Okay,
    one more hour and then I’ll carry your ass
    out of here if I have to.”
    If any of my friends back in
    Hollywood knew I was hanging out with
    my bodyguard as friends, that he was
    talking to me like we’d known each other
    for years, they’d make a smart ass
    comment. They’d ask me if we were
    sleeping together. Luckily, I wasn’t in
    Hollywood. Besides, my friends’ opinions
    weren’t exactly at the top of my list of
    things to give a shit about since I still
    hadn’t heard from any of them—not even
    Jessica, who was supposed to be my best.
    Giving Miller a smile which coaxed a
    gap-toothed grin from him, I crossed my
    fingertip over my heart. “I promise, only
    one more hour,” I said.
    Of course, when my phone rang and
    woke me up at 8:45 the next morning, I
    immediately wished I’d chosen to turn in
    much earlier. Apparently, I was losing my
    party girl touch. I answered without
    opening my eyes to check the ID, letting
    my fingers wander over the smooth
    surface of the screen until I found the right
    button.
    “Hello?” I mumbled.
    “Hi, I’m trying to reach Willow
    Avery,” a female voice said.
    I flew up into a sitting position,
    brushing my hair out of my eyes. “It’s me.
    Anne?” I asked, thinking it was Kevin’s
    assistant on the line. Now, I was fully
    alert—wide-eyed and expecting good
    news.
    “No, sorry. This is Officer Stewart
    from probation.”
    Fuck my life.
    “Oh,” I said, unable to hide the drag of
    disappointment from my voice.
    “I was calling to set up your first visit
    to our office—and to confirm your
    address.”
    As I copied down the information
    Stewart gave me on the back of a scrap
    piece of paper I found in one of the
    nightstand drawers, and answered all her
    questions in a monotone voice, I felt a
    chill claw down the middle of my chest. It
    wasn’t like I was in danger of failing a
    random pee test—and I’d failed my fair
    share of those in Los Angeles with my old
    probation officer who overlooked