by Jenn Bennett
When people say black and blue, they mean later, after the bruises have had time to settle. But right now, his torso is mottled with big red welts, some of them slightly bloodied, some of them radiating jagged, crystalline lines of dark pink. It’s a hideous map of bruises to come. The welt across his ribs looks like South America, it’s so big.
His chin is tucked to his sternum as he holds his shirt open and inspects the damage, and I can tell by his groan that even he’s startled. It hits me all at once. I’m freaked out that he’s so hurt and didn’t say anything, and I’m frustrated that he had to resort to testosterone-fueled rage to solve all this. I’m disturbed by all the violence I witnessed. I’m mad that he has a friend like Davy, and I’m still enraged beyond understanding that Davy stole my scooter.
But despite all that . . . look what he did. Look what he did. For me? And he’s sitting here, in pain, falling apart, and all he’s worried about is that I’m sorry I gave him my number and don’t want to go out on a date with him?
It’s just too much. I fall to pieces.
“Hey, hey,” he says, alarmed, sitting up quickly, and then groaning a little. And that only makes me sob harder. He buttons his shirt halfway, covering up some of the evidence. “It’s okay. I’ve had broken bones before. I’m not broken today, promise. I’m just sore.”
“It’s just awful,” I say, choking back tears. “I’m so sorry you had to do that.”
“He had it coming. You don’t know everything he’s done to me. This is just the last straw. Hey, whoa, shush.” His hands stroke over my upper arms.
I calm down. Turn my head and wipe my nose on my shoulder. Brush away tears.
“There.” He swipes a thumb over my cheek, going back over what I’ve missed. Traces the arch of my eyebrows. Chases a flyaway tendril of hair at my temple. “And you know what?” he says in a low, intense voice. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat, because you didn’t deserve what he did to you. I will be your revenge.”
My breath catches, and I am overcome. Before I even know what I’m doing, I lean forward and kiss him.
Not a polite kiss.
Not a gracious kiss.
And he definitely doesn’t kiss me. O-oh, no. I’m the kisser, which is the first time in my life that’s happened—not the kissing, I mean, the initiating. I mean, hello. Evader! Initiating is not my style. But here I am, mouth firmly pressed against his. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m desperate about it and more than a little insistent, and if he doesn’t kiss me back soon . . .
But he does. Je-sus, he does. It’s as if a switch flipped in his brain—by Jove, I think he’s got it! And I nearly start crying again, I’m so relieved, so happy. But then his mouth opens over mine, and a switch flips on in my brain (ding!), and then his tongue rolls against mine, and a switch flips on in my body (ding! ding!), and holymotherofgod that feels good. We’re kissing, and it’s amazing, and his hand is stroking down my back, and chills are racing everywhere, and DEAR GOD HE’S GOOD AT THIS.
A massive shudder goes through me and I freak out a little. My head’s suddenly filled with all the things he’s said about being eighteen and sexual freedom, and there is no doubt in my mind that he’s exercised his rights with other girls—which is fine, whatever. No judgment. It’s just that I have . . . not, and all this super-filthy kissing makes me more than aware of the experience gap between us. Which worries me. And thrills me. And worries me.
(And thrills me.)
Dear God: Save me from myself.
He breaks the kiss—probably because he can sense all the internal freaking out I’m doing. And yeah, sure enough, he says, “Bailey?”
“Yeah?” I say, but now I’m done with the freak-out. Now that I see his face, I can’t stop smiling. Because his eyes are like slits and he looks all dazed and confused, and that’s how I feel: as if my body is a toy top, spinning so fast that I can’t see anything outside the van. All I can see is beautiful banged-up Porter, and all I can feel is this delicious whirling, twirling, buzzing, and I don’t want it to ever stop.
Now Porter’s grinning too, and I’m sure we both look like raving lunatics. Thank goodness we’re sitting in the rain in the middle of nowhere. “Hey,” he says, all raspy and deep. “Am I crazy, or was that the best kiss you’ve ever had?” His smile is acres wide and miles deep.
He knows it is.
“Surprising thing is, it’s the best you’ve ever had too,” I shoot back.
Both brows raise, and then he laughs, eyes closed. “You win. Want to do it again? Maybe it was just a fluke. We should test it out.”
We do. It was no fluke. I’m going to melt right through the car seat. It’s ridiculous. This is how teen pregnancies happen, I’m fairly certain. I finally push him away, and we’re both breathing heavy. “See, told you,” I say. “Best you’ve ever had.”
“Wanna know a secret? I knew if we ever would shut up and stop arguing, it would be. Come here. Don’t get all shy now. I just want to hold you.”
“You’re injured.”
“And you’re soft. No more kissing, I promise. Please, Bailey. Let me hold you, no manhandling. Just for a little while. Until it stops raining. I like the rain.”
He beckons me into the shelter of his arm, and since I’m on the side that didn’t get too beat up, I gently curl against him. He’s warm and solid, and I try to be as weightless and small as possible, try not to cause more pain, but he pulls me against him more firmly, and I give in. He sighs deeply, and we sit like that together, watching the rain fall over the ocean. Not talking. Just us. Just quiet.
But in that quiet, images of his bloody fight with Davy race back. This body that’s holding me right now so protectively . . . it was violently tearing another human being apart. How can he be both things—tender and brutal? Is this what boys are? Or is this what Porter is? He’s so complicated. I swear, the more I learn about him, the less I understand who he really is.
His ferocity unnerved me today, so why did I kiss him?
And why do I trust someone who can shake me up like that?
I think of our heated arguments. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not exactly an innocent bystander. He provokes me, but do I allow myself to be provoked? Do I want it? And what about my ruthless takedown of that kid who stole the Maltese falcon? Grace keeps teasing me that I’ve got secret strength, and it’s starting to make me think more and more about my stupid therapist back in New Jersey and all his talk about me paying the price for my avoidance techniques. Shake up a bottle of soda long enough, when you take off the top, it’s going to explode.
Am I more afraid of Porter . . . or the person he’s unleashing inside me?
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY
PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@mink: Hey, sorry we haven’t talked much recently.
@alex: MINK. I’m so glad you messaged me. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You haven’t made a firm decision about flying out here yet, have you?
@mink: No, why would you ask that?
@alex: God, it took you so long to reply, for a second I thought I’d lost you there. Anyway, that’s actually a good thing. Things are crazy at work for me right now. So before you get your dad to buy a plane ticket, just check with me beforehand, okay? Since it’s so busy here.
@mink: Yeah, okay. I’ve been busy too, actually.
@alex: Then you understand. So just let me know? In case my situation changes?
@mink: Okay. Sure. You know I never rush into anything.
“Fight back, you coward! Fight back!”
—Daniel Radcliffe, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2009)
17
* * *
A couple of hours before my shift the next morning, sunlight is already breaking through the gray sky as I pull Baby into a narrow alley behind Penny Boards Surf Shop. Porter’s supposed to meet me here. He says his dad can fix the wonky lock on my seat, since it appears that Davy took a crowbar to it and screwed up the lock. I’m nervous
about meeting his dad. Really nervous.
This is a mistake. That’s all I can think. I’m not sure how he talked me into coming here right now, but I didn’t really know what else to do about my bike.
My own dad was none too happy when he got home last night from San Jose and I told him the story of the stolen scooter. If he only knew the entire story, he’d have a heart attack—so really, he’s lucky to have a daughter who cares enough about the state of his ticker to make sure that he only got the bare details he actually needed. And those details were as follows: The bike was stolen from the Cave’s parking lot, but one heroic security guard, a Mr. Porter Roth, chased the unruly teens off the museum property, sustaining injuries in the process, and got my bike back. A shame that Porter couldn’t identify the boys who took it, otherwise he would have filed a police report.
“It all happened so fast,” I told him. “I’m glad he was there.”
“He didn’t see the thieves’ faces?”
Err . . . “It was raining. They hit him and took off running.”
“I still think we should tell Wanda.”
“The museum security is taking care of it, Dad. Let them do their jobs, okay?”
My dad raised his hands. “All right, Mink. I’m just glad you’re okay. And Grace knows someone in town who’s going to help you get the seat fixed?”
Another lie. But it’s necessary, because as great as my dad is in a lot of ways, he’s not handy. So he’s fine with letting this mystery person handle it; he’s even happy to lend me money for a new wheel lock. I don’t deserve him.
So that’s what started the stress train. What kept the train chugging along the track was knowing I had to face Xander Roth, son of Pennywise, survivor of the great white shark, father to the boy I made out with . . . and then went home last night and before I went to sleep did unspeakable things to myself under the covers while thinking about all that making out with said boy. Which is how teen pregnancies don’t happen, I’m fairly certain.
Then, what sped the stress train up to full speed was getting those stupid messages from Alex this morning. Because it sounded like he doesn’t want me to fly out here. I mean, of course I’m already out here, but he doesn’t know that. What if I’d already bought a plane ticket? And why did he suddenly get so freaking busy, anyway? Did he meet another girl? Because it sure sounds that way to me.
I don’t know why this bothers me so much. It’s not like I’m not doing the same thing (hello, double standard). And we never promised to save ourselves for each other. We might not even get along in real life. Isn’t that why I was being so cautious in the first place, drawing out my elaborate map legend of the boardwalk and carefully tracking him down, just in case we weren’t compatible?
It’s just that nothing is working out like I’d planned. Alex and I have a connection—at least, we’re simpatico on paper, but who knows about reality? On the other hand, Porter and I are simpatico in reality, yet we’re also opposites. His life is pretty messy, and I don’t like messy. Been there, done that. It’s why I left my mom and Nate LLC in the first place. And then there’s the small, eensie-meensie detail that I’m not even supposed to be anywhere near him, thanks to Wanda’s police warnings, ugh. But that’s part of the whole appeal, isn’t it? Because being with Porter is crazy and exciting. And much like a great thriller film, I’m not sure who’s going to end up dead by the closing credits.
A dark blue van pulls up behind me and parks in a space marked for the surf shop. But it’s not Porter’s van. And it’s not Porter driving—or riding, for that matter. Two people jump out, both eying me with great curiosity. The first is Mr. Roth, wearing a lightweight yellow Windbreaker, one sleeve sewed up, and the second is someone I recognize from photographs as Porter’s sister, Lana. They are both slightly damp, and, I assume from the droplets of water on the boards strapped to the van, have just come from the beach.
“Hi,” Lana says, chewing gum, super friendly and open. “You’re Porter’s girl.”
Am I? This makes my chest feel funny. “I work with Porter,” I say as she saunters around the van. God, she moves just like him, slinky, like a cat. And she’s wearing skintight long sleeves and shorts—whatever she’s put on after getting out of her wet suit, I guess, but she’s built like Porter too. Not model-thin, but muscular. Solid and shapely.
“Lana,” she says, joyfully chew-chewing her gum.
“Bailey,” I answer.
“Bai-ley. Yeah, I remember now,” she says, slowly grinning. She’s young and pretty, no makeup, long curly hair. Very laid-back. Open, like Porter. “He’s yapped and yapped about you. Hey, Pops, this is the scooter Davy jacked.”
Mr. Roth, who has completely ignored me up to this point, already has his hand on the back door to the shop. He looks at the scooter, then gives me a critical once-over. “You messing around with Davy?” he says brusquely. Not Porter. Davy.
Shock washes over me. “N-no. God no.”
“Because the last one was, and why did Davy steal this if there isn’t something going on?” He gives me a look like I think he’s an idiot. “You expect me to believe my son comes home with his face banged up for no reason? Like he’s just some hoodlum, fighting in the streets? I raised him better than that.”
“Dad,” Lana says, sounding almost as humiliated as I feel. “He was defending her honor.”
“Why did it need defending?” Now Mr. Roth is waving his arm at me, angry. “Why did Davy steal this?”
“I don’t know,” I bark back at him, surprised at myself. “Maybe because he’s a scumbag who thought he could make some quick cash. But I didn’t encourage it. I don’t even know him.”
The door to the shop swings open. Porter rushes out, breathless. He looks . . . awful. The cut on his cheek is dark red and swollen. The bump on his temple is now an ugly shade of blue and brown. His usually perfectly groomed scruff is darker and thicker.
“Pops,” he says. “This is Bailey Rydell. Remember, I told you about fixing the scooter seat last night? Like that one you fixed before, Mr. Stanley’s.”
Right now I’m wondering how a one-armed man is going to fix anything—and frankly, with his crummy attitude, I don’t think I want him to bother.
His father doesn’t say anything for several seconds. Then he looks at me. “I don’t know any Rydells. Who’re your parents?”
Before I can answer, Porter says, “I told you already. Her dad lives in the old McAffee place. He’s an accountant. He’s seeing Wanda Mendoza. Bailey moved here in May, from the East Coast.”
“Oh, yeah. Sergeant Mendoza. She’s all right,” his dad says, still gruff, but a little softer, like he only half believes Porter, but maybe he’s thinking about considering believing him one day soon. And—poof!—just like that, the interrogation is over. “Get inside and help your mom,” he tells Lana before turning to Porter. “Go get the green toolbox out of the van. I’ll also need the keys to her seat.”
Mr. Roth isn’t addressing me. I am dismissed. I’m not sure how I feel about this. Pretty lousy, I think. Porter used to think I was too fancy for him, but now his dad thinks I’m not good enough to date his son? And what was all that business about him assuming I was seeing Davy because “the last one” did? Is this the Chloe girl Porter and Davy were arguing about outside the vintage clothing shop on the boardwalk? Man. This guy is a piece of work. When Porter described him as a drill sergeant, he wasn’t kidding. I think Porter dropping Wanda’s name was the only thing that gave me a pass.
Coming here was definitely a huge mistake. I’m regretting it so hard and wishing I could leave somehow, but I can’t see a way out of it.
When I give Porter my scooter keys, he mouths, Sorry, to me and squeezes my hand, and just this tiny bit of skin-on-skin contact feels like when you wake up on the weekend and smell breakfast cooking: completely unexpected and delightful. One crummy kiss (okay, two—okay, AMAZING KISSES), and my body doesn’t even care that Porter’s dad hates my guts and I’m seconds away fr
om a panic attack; it’s too busy enjoying all the actual, real, live tingles being generated by surfer-boy touch. Not good. I’m so terrified his dad will see me react, all I do is drop his hand like a hot potato.
Coward that I am, I’m about five seconds away from turning heel and running down the alley, never to return again, so when Lana nods her head toward the shop, I’m already in such a state of confusion, I just follow her inside. Better than staying outside with the drill sergeant. Or Porter—who I might swoon over in front of his dad. I can’t trust myself anymore. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?
“Pops doesn’t mean to come off like that,” Lana says as we head through a storeroom filled with shelves of boxes. “He’s just grumpy. I think he’s in pain twenty-four-seven, but he’ll die before he admits it. You ever hear about the whole phantom-limb thing?”
“Yeah,” I say. Vaguely. Amputees come back from war and still feel their missing limbs.
“I’ve heard him tell Mom that he still feels pain in the arm, even though it’s not there. He has a lot of nightmares and stuff. He won’t take pills or go see a doctor because he’s scared of getting addicted. Our grandpa was an alcoholic. Pops doesn’t want to turn into him.”
I don’t have time to process any of this before she pushes open another door and we’re blinking into the sunlit windows of the surf shop. Redwood and brightly colored boards surround the walls; music plays from speakers hanging from the ceiling. It’s not busy, but a few people mingle, looking at boards and wet suits, chatting around displays of gear.
Funny, but this is one of the places that was closed for lunch every time I came by to mark it off my Alex map; either that or I got distracted, because my favorite churro cart is outside—I can see it from here, along with the waves slamming against the pier—and it’s that churro cinnamon scent I smell now, mixed with Porter’s coconut wax. It’s a heavenly combination, almost erotic. Definitely not something I want to think about when I’m meeting his family.
