by A. E. Watson
He grinned wider. “That I have somehow let you slip through my fingers at every opportunity?” His answer was mocking and cocky.
“No. You have never actually had an opportunity. That's all in your head.” I took another sip. “Your problem is that you always forget you have a girlfriend. You are actually notorious for forgetting this fact. But luckily for you, your girlfriend is one of my besties. So I can remind you and keep you on track. Like a nun might.” And you have dirty pictures I don't want to talk about.
“Too bad for you, I have a thing for modest girls.” He shook his head, his eyes sparkling in jest. “One day, princess. One day you are going to be begging me to take that v-card.” He walked past me, leaving the kitchen and intentionally brushing the back of his hand along my thigh as he did it.
I shuddered and fought the urge to stab him with something.
The door closed and he was gone, but I could smell him in the air. Cologne and confidence and whatever that sneaky smell was that girls couldn't resist. I hated the fact he smelled good. I knew it was a trap. I imagined even the Venus flytrap smelled good to its prey.
When I got to my room, I checked on the key in my secret stash. It was still there and the room was a complete mess. It was unlikely he had been in here or knew about me sneaking around his room.
I jumped, hearing my phone vibrating with messages and pics from Sierra, Sage, and Lainey. I grabbed my phone and scanned through them, wrinkling my nose at the invite to her party that had been sent in a group chat among the five of us, started by Rachel of course.
I fell onto my bed dramatically, wishing someone had been there to see the effort I put into it. “Noooooo,” I moaned.
I couldn't fight the wrinkle becoming more of a glare. Rachel was the one girl in our crowd I would rather not spend warm summer weekends with. Especially since I was spending my weekdays destroying my manicure by working for my father. Weekends had become a bit sacred.
And the rituality of it all started on Fridays.
Rachel’s attempts at being a ringleader of sorts for the sophomore girls all year were unbearable, but I tolerated it at school. However, summer was my time.
If I wanted to get drunk by the pool, reading and relaxing, that was my choice. I liked being quiet. I didn't have social ADHD. I didn’t need to have a plan for every night of the week.
I pressed a name on my phone and made duck lips at myself as my FaceTime made the ringing sound.
“Hey!” Sage smiled sweetly from her makeup table. I could see the banner she had painted in art class hanging above her bed behind her. She was all sugary until she saw me, then she scowled. “What are you wearing? We have to be ready to go at seven. It’s five and you look frumpy. Is that pool hair?” Her ruby-red lips—might I add naturally ruby-red lips—pursed. “Why do you have to be the annoying one? Just stop. Whatever you’re thinking—stop. You’re making those wrinkle lines again. You are actually going to age badly. Just stop.” She said it like stawwwwp. It was a new thing for her. Everything I did or thought or said, she answered with a STAWWWP!
“I have other plans tonight,” I lied. “I can’t go to the beach party.”
“You’re going.” She forced a glare but the FaceTime froze with her glaring. It made me laugh. She didn't have very many mean bones in her body. But if she and her brother got into it, she turned into something else fast. And Vincent genuinely brought out a sort of dragon lady in her, but she wasn’t the only female with that response to him.
Regardless of how she treated her brother or Vincent, she was one of the sweetest and most giving people I knew.
When people met her, they assumed she was either a ditz or a mean girl. She had all the features of either. Tall, blonde, tanned, blue-eyed, perfect boobs, and leggy. And of course there was the name Sage. It had sealed her fate as the typical dumb blonde or tyrant-esque mean girl.
Getting to know her though, you learned fast that she wasn't exactly what she appeared to be.
Yes, she looked like a cheerleader or an Abercrombie and Fitch ad.
Perhaps she acted like she didn't really have much of a voice to contradict that appearance.
But none of that prepared you for the fact she had low self-esteem, something I blamed her stepdad for.
Her beautiful attributes didn't give you a reason to suspect that she was the best photog you had ever seen, instead of the usual model, which everyone assumed she was.
Nothing about her hinted at her ability to draw anything she saw, or that she spent at least ten minutes of every weekend at her father’s grave. It was always on Sunday morning. If you slept over at her house it meant you were also going.
And nothing about her warned someone just meeting her that her life wasn't as perfect as it seemed. Mostly because her stepdad was sort of a dick, which said a lot about him to me.
I read once that the mark of a true gentleman was how he treated someone who could do nothing for him, or to him. I think it was Austen who wrote it and I probably bastardized it. But either way, Sage and her sister Emily could do nothing for their stepdad Tom, and he treated them terribly. Her brother Ashton was the golden boy in Tom Rothberg’s mind. The girls might as well have been the maids or nonexistent.
No, everyone assumed they knew Sage by looking at her.
But I would have to say no one knew Sage, not even Sage. She was far wiser than she let on and much less confident than she acted. I had seen the other side of the coin with her many times.
And Vincent didn't seem to be helping any of that. He was a cheating bastard with a nasty picture collection.
The phone unfroze and she closed one eye as she started applying mascara. “Stupid FaceTime. Dude, your face froze with you looking all crazy. I wish I’d been able to take a picture of it for you. You know you have to get ready now right? It starts soon and we have to go early.”
“I don't want to go,” I muttered, hoping she might let me off the hook.
“You’re going.” She opened the eye she was doing, dotting her lid with mascara from her long lashes. “Damn, Linds, what the hell? You made me screw up. I can’t do my mean look with one eye.” She dabbed and cleaned the dots but I could see them faintly when she looked at me again. “I am picking you up and you are going to have fun. It’s a beach party. Don't be lame. It’s better than the bullshit we have to go to tomorrow night. I am dreading that event. I mean, I have a cute dress and new shoes, but I still don't want to go.”
“I know.” I sighed and nodded. None of us wanted to go. “Is everyone going?”
“Tomorrow night? Don't tell me you already forgot about the gala?”
I squeezed my eyes together. “No, I mean tonight. Of course, I can’t forget about the gala. My dad is stomping around here like a dictator because of it.” It was also likely the reason her boyfriend was at my house. His dad had probably asked him to stop in and drop something off. They were all bosom buddies when it came to Crimson Cove Inc.
“Oh. Yeah.” She lined her eye, staring at me with one eye and making a weird O shape with her lips while speaking, “You know Sierra wants to go, any excuse to be a slut. Lainey is going since I told her that guy she has the crush on was for sure going to be there because Rachel has invited everyone.”
“Her mystery man?” I asked with a wry grin.
“I swear it’s Ash’s bromance, Jake. If he’s anywhere she’s going too. She’s so obvious.”
“He’s hot. I would have a crush on him too. But he’s not my type.”
“He’s super hot. What is your type?”
I shrugged. “I don't know. I haven’t really met it yet.” Jake was my type but he was way too hot for me. All the guys we knew were too hot. I was the plain Jane in the group. Lainey was way hotter than me—even with her thick dork glasses she swore were actually a bold fashion statement. She just played down her hotness by wearing weird clothes and slouching and never doing her hair.
“You know you thought Gunter, the German exchange student, was hot.�
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“Yeah.” I didn't want to talk about Gunter.
“He was into you.” She smiled as she opened her eyes, again dotting her lids with mascara. “Oh snap! I gotta go. This is brutal. I’m going to look ridiculous if I don't stop talking and doing this.”
Again I pursed my lips. “Fine. Pick me up at eight.”
“Ten to seven, dick.”
“Whatever.” I tapped the phone as she said something else, but I didn't care. I was annoyed that I would be spending my night with Rachel herding us about and telling us how fabulous the year to come would be. A year she had been planning for far too long. Eleventh grade was going to be epic. I could hear her now.
I hated plans and I hated Rachel and I HATED beach parties. Sand in my shoes, sand in my shorts, sand in my bra, and sand in my hair, all combined with sticky drinks and stinky fires.
My life was already horrendous with the dirty fingernails and the weird tan lines from my job.
After a long week of landscaping like a minion, I didn't want to spend my time out of doors unless it meant being on a patio with a drink.
I didn't even need friends for that. I could read or write and be by myself just as easily.
I still couldn't believe I had a job. It was so pedestrian.
Getting up, smelling the defeat in the air, I pulled on a tee shirt and jean shorts and dragged my jaw-length brown hair into a pathetic ponytail. I wrinkled my nose at the sad little stump at the back of my head. “Why did I ever cut my hair?” I asked the mirror as I shoved my cell phone into my back pocket. The girl in the reflection had nothing. She looked as disappointed as I was. She had liked the long hair too. I dragged the ponytail out and let my hair fall back to my jaw so it could dry naturally.
After texting Sierra back, I grabbed my keys and bolted. When I got down the stairs, I almost sprinted through the house to avoid the angry version of my father lurking about like a dragon in a keep.
Hanging with Rachel was bad enough, adding my dad being a dick wasn't necessary. Worst weekend ever!
I closed the front door with a slam and hopped into the Maserati GranTurismo—my sweet sixteen prezzie! The engine purred, even when I skidded the tires and squealed out of my driveway. I had tried awfully hard and still couldn't make this car angry. The back end slid a little, declaring my recklessness in case my father missed any of it.
When I got to the end of the driveway the gate was randomly closed and it didn't open. I pulled up really close, hoping the sensor might be on the fritz.
When it didn't even think about budging I sighed.
Slamming that door had been a bad idea. I was always acting and then thinking—or regretting as it was in this case.
“Shit!” I sat in the car and tapped my fingers against the wheel as I contemplated my options. One being abandoning the car in the driveway and taking my keys. I could climb the fence and walk to the Shack. I wrinkled my nose at that option and jumped out of the convertible, leaving it running with the door open, and walked to the monitor at the gate. I bit my lip and pressed the button. “Daddy, something is wrong with the gate!”
“Linds, we talked about the driveway. We talked about you marking it up. What did I say about that?” His face wasn't present, just mine, thank God. His voice was scary enough.
“Not to,” I answered weakly and rubbed my eyes like I was tired. “Daddy, I’m sorry. I was just trying something out from the movie I saw last night. It was that one with the racing drivers—” My lie got higher pitched and died a painful death mid sentence. Why didn't I watch more racing car movies?
“And what did I say about the goddamned door?”
That made me flinch. His spicy attitude was hovering just under the surface, ready to launch itself at anyone close by. “Not to slam it?” My answer came out like a question.
“And what did I say about sleeping on the job? Andrew was telling me a fabulous little tale about scaring you, while you were sleeping.”
And there it was.
I bit my lip and went for the one thing he hated the most. “Uhm, well. I got my period at work. It was really bad. My cramps were awful. I tried working but it just made it worse. And I kinda threw up a little. After I finished my work I took the nap. And I didn't want to tell Andrew so I—”
“Okay!” The gate buzzed as he panicked, always avoiding the fact I was a girl. “Don't do it again.”
I waved, beaming at the camera. “I totally won’t! I’ll take Midol next time.” An evil chuckle slipped from my lips as I rounded the car and jumped back in, skidding the tires and peeling out, cutting a vehicle off on the main road.
I waved a hand at them as they honked and skidded to a halt.
My car was a dream to drive. I could almost let it do all the work. I had learned to drive on the gardener’s beater, a Toyota truck. I nearly killed myself and the gardener eight times learning to drive in it.
Had my father gotten me that instead of this beauty, I might not actually be alive to piss the people off behind me.
I sped along the coastal highway, my hair flipping about in the warm breeze as I contemplated the many reasons the Blacks might be selling their house.
Was it a divorce?
I loved Crimson Cove divorces. They brought the llamas to the drama and made the gossip so much juicier.
I got lost in thought on the drive, noting the familiar gates of the estates that lined the highway. If you paid attention there was a pattern to them. Every fourth one was the same.
All the beautiful houses were developed by a company my father was a partner in, Crimson Cove Inc. They had started it when I was six, and in the last ten years it had become the vision they had told us all it would be. I smiled, remembering the way I was obsessed with the model they had made, though it was more of a diorama. It came with people, cars, bushes, and flowers—all demonstrating how beautiful Crimson Cove could be, if only it was cleaned up and repopulated with the right kind of people.
The rich kind.
And not just the regular rich—the old-money rich. Those were the preferred people.
Some bits of the original downtown core lingered amongst the newer, fancier versions of everything. But if you looked hard enough, you could still find mom-and-pop restaurants and shops. And if you went to the north, you’d also see a few of the old houses where there was no ocean view, just a bog.
The Shack was one of the long-standing established businesses my father hadn’t managed to run out of town. It was a local coffeehouse on the waterfront, right in the cove. It was my favorite place to hang out. None of my friends liked going there. They preferred to represent in finer establishments.
I often chuckled, pondering if a rich girl drank a coffee in a regular restaurant but didn't have her picture taken, had it even happened?
Maybe it was the reason I came here, knowing none of my portentous friends would be caught dead here, except Lainey. And even she towed the line of expectations rather tersely.
As I pulled up to the small building and the smell of coffee wafted over my head, I sighed. “Heaven!”
The car made a subtle beep as it locked when the door closed and I sauntered inside. Hailey, the slightly emo-looking barista, offered a wave. I smiled at her, walking past the lineup of desperate java seekers. The tension in my neck eased and the possibility of a headache vanished when the full scent of the shop permeated my pores.
I loved coffee.
“You back again?” Hailey asked, almost flirting with me. She was just the type of girl I wanted to flirt with.
Firstly, she wasn't a lesbian so she wasn't ever going to expect this, whatever it was, to move beyond the subtlety it had peaked at. We laughed like little girls and teased each other but there was no pressure or expectations.
Secondly, she was stunningly beautiful but in all the indirect ways, ways that attracted me. Dark hair with a hint of a beachy wave to it. A deep dimple in only her left cheek. Her skin was pale, contradicting the beachy waves, and her smile wasn't always
real. Sometimes it sat there on her face, lingering and left behind while her eyes had already changed to a subject she didn't share aloud. Whatever it was she was thinking, contradicted the smile on her face though.
Her eyes were amazingly bright blue—the kind you wished you could borrow, like you did a sweater.
And thirdly, she was super cool. The kind of cool that required zero effort. She didn't try. Her personality wasn't exaggerated or fake, which around here was unheard of. She was just mellow and sort of poor and a little humble in the way people who don't expect anything are. If I had to set her up with someone, it would be Andrew. I think in a world without expectations, they would be the perfect coupling.
He could smoke pot and tell her his weird stories and she would have zero drama for him to bother with. But she did have a boyfriend. One I hadn’t met yet. He lived out here somewhere, along the shore. I assumed it was in one of the small houses in the North.
Her piece-of-shit cobalt blue Ford Taurus was exactly how I imagined Andrew’s room looked, just chaos and yet an invisible system was in place. It was how my room looked. I nearly died, gleaning information from the car the one time I was in it. I suspected that she lived in the car, maybe randomly sleeping at her boyfriend Zack’s when she needed to, but otherwise she was in the car. Her purse was in the car. If you wanted floss or lip gloss, it was on the floor. Her bank card was in the glove compartment. Her ID was strewn about in amongst the clothes. That cardigan she wore last week that I liked, lay on the back window.
Had I been given the chance, I would have sifted through the debris, finding it all disturbing and yet tantalizing, like reading an interview with a bomber or mass murderer.
What I assumed from what I had seen was listed in my mind like a to-do list:
She was an only child. There were no photos in the car of her and family and no phone calls when you were mid conversation, which made me think there was no one but her. My dad hounded my ass a lot.
