David: Sophomore Year (Three Daves #1)

by Nicki Elson

  Jen pressed play but kept her fingertip on the skip button in case she couldn’t handle “Boys Don’t Cry” again. But that’s not what she heard. Instead of choking up at Robert Smith’s melancholy lament, she cracked up at Run DMC’s playful rapping in “It’s Tricky.” She started laughing even harder when that song was followed by Beastie Boys’ “Girls.” David had made her an entirely new retro mix of fun, happy, spring-breaky songs. She was sure these selections weren’t from his personal collection. His music was never this silly and upbeat. He’d done extra work for this playlist and had even gone against his snooty musical principles. For the first time in months, Jen thought maybe she didn’t want to hate him anymore.

  Thirty playlists, five incomplete crossword puzzles, and several restless cat-naps later, the sporty red car pulled into the parking lot of a shabby, two-story motel on Daytona Beach. This was the Pink Oyster, a hotel they’d secured in a deal through Celia’s community college rather than choosing one that would be crawling with other CIU students. As Maria had explained it, “This way, we’ve got no CIU spies to report back.”

  The girls stepped out of the car onto a steamy, rain-damp parking lot and stretched their cramped legs. After Celia checked them in, they lugged their bags into a first-floor room just off the pool. Rather than succumb to their fatigue, they immediately stripped off their clothes, flung on their bikinis, and hit the beach. The sand was still heavy and wet. The musty smell of rain hung in the thick air under an overcast sky. The young revelers that crammed the beach weren’t deterred by the damp conditions. They donned sunglasses and rocked to the competing tunes that peppered the beach from hundreds of tiny speakers.

  The girls spent the rest of the day lying on the beach, taking dips in the pool, and walking miles and miles up and down the sand to see where the action was. The bigger hotels along the strip hosted bands and various contests, and there was a mass of frolicking college students everywhere they went. They made fast friends with their hotel-mates at the Pink Oyster, including three guys from Ohio who weren’t technically hotel guests but were sleeping in a van parked on the strip of sand next to the Oyster’s pool deck.

  At night, the tiny rectangular hotel pool and surrounding cement slab became host to a spontaneous party. Jen danced and splashed and drank, drank, drank along with everybody else, waking the next morning with only fuzzy memories of what had happened the night before. She was confused when she rolled onto a grainy mess on her sheets. Sand. Then she remembered a very cute boy from Michigan or Massachusetts…or was it Maine? Wherever he was from, she’d rolled around on the beach with him and had apparently brought several thousand tiny souvenirs to bed with her.

  Maria and Celia inhaled deep, comatose breaths in the next bed. Jen looked around for Chris, but she wasn’t there. Alarmed, Jen sat up too quickly and had to wait for her brain to catch up and her head to stop spinning. She quietly lifted herself off of the bed and slipped through the door and into the hazy glare outside.

  Squinting against the brightness, she examined the pool area. No sign of Chris. She walked out to the beach and scanned up and down the empty strip. Still nothing. Behind her, the door of the Ohio van popped open and slid with a slight rumble. Jen turned toward the noise and saw Chris, quite literally, roll out of the van.

  “Chris!” she called, rushing over and giving her a relieved hug. “Thank God! I was getting worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” Chris mumbled as she attempted to wipe sand off her butt while her arms were trapped at her side by Jen’s hug.

  Jen backed off and nodded toward the van. “What were you doing in there?”

  “What do you think?” Chris pressed at her temples using both hands. She looked like she’d just emerged from a gateway to hell. Dark makeup was smudged under her eyes, and her short hair stuck out at all angles.

  “Oh,” Jen murmured, feeling stupid for having asked.

  “Where are you coming in from?” Chris asked.

  “Our room. I came out to look for you.”

  “Great. Glad you’re up—now I’ll get the whole bed to myself.” Chris moved in an unsteady line toward the pool deck.

  “I’m going to have to shake out the sheets. They’re full of sand.”

  The girls reached poolside, and Chris stopped to look at Jen. “How did that happen?”

  “I was kissing a boy on the beach last night.” Jen waggled her eyebrows.

  “Wow. Kissing. I kiss my grandma sometimes.”

  “Oh, was your grandma in the van last night?” Jen teased.

  “I said I kiss my grandma. I don’t fuck her.”

  “Chris!” Jen gasped, unable to disguise her shock and disapproval. “You just met him yesterday!”

  Chris smiled and gave her head a condescending shake. “You’re precious, Jenny.” She patted Jen’s face before resuming her lumber toward their room.

  “Please don’t call me Jenny,” Jen muttered under her breath, following Chris into the room. She was used to getting patronizing comments from friends who were no longer virgins, which was pretty much all of them, but that didn’t mean she liked it.

  ***

  Midway through the trip, the four girls strolled down the beach. The sun had finally won out over the clouds, so they were in a festive mood. It almost felt like their first real day in Florida. As they soaked up the sun and scoped out fellow vacationers, all four pairs of eyes were drawn to two sculpted male bodies near one of the hotel pools. The guys had to have been models. Their lean, oiled physiques were clad only in tight, red Speedos and mirrored aviator sunglasses. Without discussing it, Jen and her friends moved toward them as if by ancient instinct.

  A group of giggling girls had formed two lines near the guys, one line in front of each guy. As Jen and her friends approached, she noticed that each of the guys held a juicy slice of lime between his perfect lips. A whistle blew, and the girl at the front of each line licked the smooth, hard pecs of the guy in front of her, downed a shot, and sucked the lime from her guy’s mouth. The two girls walked away, savoring their fruit, and the next two stepped up while the guy with the whistle re-salted the models’ pecs.

  Jen’s mouth fell open and she turned toward Chris, who already held her hand up for a high five. Looking at Maria next, Jen saw her friend was staring at the brunet model to the left. It was difficult to know for sure, given his reflective eyewear, but it seemed he was likewise checking out Maria—most guys they’d passed on the beach had. Her bright orange, crocheted bikini showed off every one of her curves to its full advantage. “We have to do this,” Maria said.

  Licking a stranger wasn’t something Jen would normally consider, but she shrugged. “When in Daytona…”

  The girls jumped in line, and on their way to the front, they learned that this was a promotional exhibit for a margarita mixer. The shots they’d be taking were non-alcoholic. The closer they got to the front, the more reluctant Jen became. Was this even sanitary? She started thinking up excuses to back out, but when she opened her mouth to say something, she realized she couldn’t balk or she’d never hear the end of it from Chris. She had to go through with it.

  She and Chris reached the head of the line, and Jen took the blond on the right. The salt sparkled on his chest in the sun, like tiny diamonds in the most glorious of settings. The whistle blew. Jen clamped her eyes shut and leaned forward to lick the salt. She went for speed over accuracy and felt the firm nub of his nipple under her tongue as she flicked it over him. She gulped down the tangy shot and snatched the lime from the guy’s mouth with her teeth, somehow avoiding any lip contact whatsoever. She nearly choked on the lime as she doubled over in flustered laughter.

  Chris slapped Jen on the back, screaming, “Whoo!”

  They stood back to watch Celia and Maria. Celia giggled, but Maria wore a steely look of determination as she stepped up to the brunet. He was several inches taller than Maria. She reached up and snatched his sunglasses, exposing a pair of gorgeous, ice-blue eyes. Maria h
eld the ice in a steady gaze as she grabbed the salt from the whistle boy and began shaking it in a line just above the rim of the model’s Speedo. He didn’t make a move to stop her. Instead, he watched her work, raising a sultry corner of his lips as he loaded the lime into his mouth.

  The whistle blew, and Maria pushed the band of his suit down half an inch. She bent and slowly licked the salt from his rock-hard, bronzed abs. Jen’s mouth hung open as she watched.

  Chris lamented, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Jen was pretty sure the bold and beautiful Maria was the only girl in all of Florida who could’ve gotten away with such a move. Maria took the margarita mix, cup and all, and threw it over her shoulder. Then she stood on tip-toes, and the guy bent down and grabbed her in his arms, pulling her up. Their mouths opened wide in a long, obscene kiss that Jen felt guilty just watching. Nobody ever found out exactly what became of the lime.

  The guy finally set Maria down and said something to the whistle boy. He stepped away with Maria as the remaining girls in line groaned their disappointment. Maria came skipping over a few minutes later and looked back at the guy. He held up his open palm, which appeared to have a phone number scrawled on it.

  Jen felt a pang for Tom and wondered how Maria could be so carefree about cheating on him. She didn’t want to make herself the target of another “precious” comment, so she simply smiled at Maria and tried to push the incident from her mind. She was successful at playing it cool until they returned to the Oyster hours later. Maria hopped onto her bed and pulled her phone from the nightstand drawer, all the while chattering about what a major hottie the guy was and wondering aloud how long it would take him to call.

  “What about Tom?” Jen blurted, unable to stop herself. Something inside her burned.

  Maria’s head snapped toward Jen. Her happy expression turned to one of defiance. “What about him?”

  Jen tried to hold her own against Maria’s stony stare—Tom had become Jen’s friend, too, and she knew how bad it felt to be used, so she had a right to stand up for him—but her glares were no match for Maria’s. “Fine. Whatever happens during spring break doesn’t count,” she grumbled, repeating the phrase Celia had coined during the long drive down.

  Chris came up behind Jen and wrapped an approving arm around her shoulders. “That a girl! You’re learning.”

  Jen rolled her eyes and left the room to sit by the pool. She’d rather not learn some of the things she was learning on this trip.

  The margarita model showed up at the pool party that night. Jen ignored him while she danced and swam with college kids from around the country. She also tried to ignore the door to her room, which remained locked for a good portion of the party while Maria and Mr. Margarita were nowhere in sight. It became more difficult to ignore him when he came around every day for the rest of the week.

  Maria was her usual bubbly, social self, but she also became physically connected to her spring break boyfriend at all moments—her arms around his tight waist, his hand cupping her shoulder, rubbing her back, grabbing her ass. Although no more words on the subject had been exchanged between Jen and Maria, Jen felt distant from her friend for the rest of the trip. Part of it was because she felt bad for Tom, but she was also surprised and hurt by Maria’s cold glare the day she’d met Mr. Margarita. Jen considered Maria to be her very best friend at CIU and couldn’t believe she’d turn on her so quickly over some guy she’d just met.

  ***

  On their last full day in Daytona, the inevitable wet T-shirt contest broke out at their hotel pool. The CIU crew watched from a balcony off the second-floor room of some guys from Tennessee. They drank red drinks served from a large plastic bucket while they cheered and jeered at the girls displaying their thinly veiled wares from the edge of the diving board. Jen and the other girls had been warned all week that undercover police patrolled the beaches in wait of girls who’d break the law by removing the veil. It was well known that they paid particularly close attention to wet T-shirt contests.

  Jen wondered if any of the contestants would cross the line. She stood between Chris and Celia on the balcony while Maria hung farther back in the hotel room, making eyes with Mr. Margarita. The contest ended with no offenders and about fifty guys left by the pool in randy spirits. The boys’ attention turned toward the three bikinied girls on the balcony. Chris danced and encouraged them, Celia smiled and waved, and Jen laughed nervously and blushed. A low chant rose from the poolside. Chris responded to the group’s coaxing by chugging her drink, handing her cup to Jen, and lifting her top. Jen gaped open-mouthed at her friend’s bare breasts while the crowd whooped its approval. The cheers rose an octave higher, and Jen whipped her head around to see Celia’s boobs bouncing freely in the wind. All attention turned to Jen. She screamed and took a step back toward the room, throwing her arms protectively over her chest. She was met by groans and boos from the peanut gallery below.

  Danny from Ohio pushed his way to the front of the crowd and shouted, “Jen! Get them out of there. Cops! On their way up.”

  Jen grabbed both girls by the wrist and led them swiftly through the hotel room. The second they arrived at the doorway to the hall, a helmeted police officer stepped in front them, blocking their way out. Jen froze. She was barely conscious of Celia’s wrist slipping out of her hand before the officer grabbed both Jen’s and Chris’s arms and pulled them out to the balcony. He was bringing them out there so that an undercover officer on the beach could identify them. Jen as released, but Chris was arrested.

  The officer handcuffed Chris and gave Jen and the others directions to where he was taking her. He told them that Chris was going to get fingerprinted and booked and that there would be a hundred and eighteen dollar fine to get her released. Once he left, Maria and Celia emerged from the bathroom. Maria had dragged Celia in there to hide. Celia was crying because she felt bad for abandoning Chris. Jen could only make half an attempt to console her because she was also concerned about their friend. Poor Chris. She was probably near hysterics. It had all happened so fast.

  Ohio Danny backed his van out of the sand, and Jen, Maria, and Celia piled in and headed through the Daytona streets to rescue their friend. When they arrived at the address, they found a trailer in a parking lot next to two portable cages. The cages reminded Jen of something you’d expect to see transporting circus animals. Instead of circus animals, these cages held mischievous college students. The Daytona police were old pros and had the spring break misdemeanor racket down to a science.

  Ohio Kurt, the one Chris had slept with that first night, seemed to be experienced in these matters. “Let me handle this.”

  The girls gave him money for the fine, and he jumped out of the van and disappeared inside the trailer. Chris would be mortified when her one stand showed up to spring her from the pokey—double humiliation. Jen tried to wipe the pity from her expression so she wouldn’t make Chris feel even worse. After about fifteen minutes of anxious waiting, the door to the van slid open. Chris bounded in, laughing and showing off her inked thumb.

  “When Kurty here paid the fine, the guy was like, ‘That’ll be fifty-nine bucks each!’” Chris burst into guffaws. Apparently, humiliating Chris wasn’t a challenge the Daytona police were up to.

  ***

  Jen pulled herself out of bed early on the last morning. The cousins still slept, and Chris was MIA again. Jen had learned not to panic about Chris, anymore. She swept her long, brown hair into a high ponytail and stepped outside to get a good last look at the ocean before heading back to the cornfield-locked center of Illinois. She dropped down directly onto the sand and sat staring at the horizon. The sun was just beginning to peek over that eternal line, casting an orange gleam onto the water’s choppy surface.

  Jen reflected on the past week. It had been fun, and yet, she felt a sense of discontent. Something undefined gnawed at her. Gazing out at the sea, she listened to caws of seagulls and lapping waves on the yellow sand. She tried to block the sou
nds of the guy retching into the ocean about thirty feet down the coast.

  “I’m surrounded by sluts,” she announced to the open air. This wasn’t news to Jen, nor was it judgement. She’d realized within her first few weeks of college that her choices regarding her sexuality were different from those of most girls on campus. She sometimes wished she could lighten up on her self-imposed guidelines and go with the flow like her friends. But she didn’t want to come rolling out of vans or lock herself in shabby hotel rooms with strangers or flash her boobs off a balcony.

  Daytona had certainly highlighted the difference between herself and her friends, but that wasn’t what bothered her. What troubled her was the realization that if nearly every girl out there was giving it, then nearly every guy out there was getting it. This meant that by the time Jen met her Mr. Right, he’d be coming to her with a load of experience. And she’d still have none. El zippo. Would she be able to satisfy him? Or would she be a colossal disappointment?

  Jen thought about a novel she’d read for English Lit the previous semester. In it, a woman had saved herself for marriage, as did most women during the era in which the book was set, but since the woman hadn’t gotten married until a relatively advanced age for the period, she’d become frigid. Although she’d adored her husband, he’d never managed to thaw her, and they’d never been able to know each other physically as man and wife. Could that happen to Jen? She didn’t want to be like that woman.

  Then she began to wonder if the exact opposite could happen. While she waited, would her expectations get built up to mythical proportions? Proportions so high that no human male could possibly live up to them. What if she ended up disappointed because real sex didn’t measure up to how she’d imagined it for years and years?