Free Summer's Temptation by Ashley Lynn Willis Page A

Hannah as soon as she stops sucking face.
    She shakes her head, her lips a little swollen. “I’m going to help the boys with the boats.”
    I nod, and Liz and I stroll toward the manmade beach next to Barnacle Bob’s Boat Storage and Pier. Hannah and the boys leave to gas up the boats and the jet skis. During the summer, Hannah practically lives at Pete Lake with Dylan. His dad is an executive at Mercruiser, and the company keeps a half dozen watercraft at the lake. They want as many hours on the boat motors as possible to help detect reliability issues. Enter Dylan and his friends, reliability-testing experts as Hannah likes to call them. They’re relentless in their pursuit of finding defects by taxing boat motors to their limits. That usually involves long days of wakeboarding and jet skiing.
    I’ve only joined Hannah and Dylan once, during the summer last year when I demanded a weekend break from waiting tables. Wyatt and I had driven down from Dallas and enjoyed a day on the lake with them. The outing had been small. Intimate. Perfect. Today’s outing is going to be a shindig, with lots of girls I doubt I’ll know and Josh’s buddies. Plus Liz, Hannah, Dylan, Tyler, and probably a few of Tyler’s friends. I cringe at the thought of so many people seeing me in a bikini.
    Ever since ninth grade when my breasts grew three cup sizes, I’ve hated swimsuits. I know millions of women fork over beaucoups bucks for big boobs, and afterward they flaunt them in string bikinis with little triangles to cover their nipples. I’m here to say real boobs cannot be supported by bits of fabric the size of a Starburst wrapper. They need industrial strength underwire and fabric as thick as drapes to keep them in place. I can handle all that. What I can’t handle is the way boys stare, eyes wide, tongues hanging from their mouths like starving puppies eying a meaty bone.
    When I wore a bikini after the boob explosion in ninth grade, I learned that when presented with a larger-than-normal rack, boys go brain-dead. I was no longer a girl; I was boobs with a girl attached. Guys no longer cared if I was smart, had pretty eyes, or could speak in complete sentences. All they wanted was to see them, touch them, and taste them. Boobs became my identity. I was so upset by the way boys treated me that I stopped wearing swimsuits altogether.
    My mom sat me down and told me to be proud of what God had given me and to stop letting body consciousness dictate my life. Now I refuse to be influenced by the orbs attached to my chest and I go to the pool or lake whenever I please, but I still hate the way guys won’t look me in the eye because they’re too busy staring at my ta-tas.
    Liz stops a few yards from the water’s edge and drops her beach bag. Without hesitation, she tugs her shirt over her head, revealing perky lemon-sized breasts. I pause with my hands on the hem of my T-shirt, the apprehension an old habit. Swearing off men is turning out to be liberating in some ways. If a guy hits on me today, I no longer have to worry about his motivation. I remove my shirt and push it into the beach bag at my feet.
    Liz is already sprawled on her towel and soaking up rays. I join her after slipping off my shorts and flip-flops. My purple bikini has a turquoise paisley print. The top covers more than most swimsuits, but the underwire pushes my breasts up, causing lots of cleavage. We lay there for ten minutes, and I’m half asleep when Liz startles me.
    “I think Tyler’s your man,” she says.
    “My man for what?”
    “He’s fuck buddy material,” she says in a sun-drowsy voice.
    I groan, bringing my hands to my face. “Not this again.”
    “I’m serious, Cassie. Think about it. He’s not your type at all. I see no presidential elections in his future.”
    I roll my eyes, but she’s right. Someday in the far, far future, if I ever decide to put myself on the market again, I’ll probably marry a guy who needs a scandal-free wife since