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It’s not the first time I’ve gotten a reaction like this, all just because of my ink. Though you’d think the younger generation would have more appreciation.
Jesus, way to make yourself sound ancient.
I’m only thirty-two. Emphasis ononly.I’m hardly an old man.
But these days I feel a lot older. And a lot more jaded than I probably should be. And I look at this kid and all I feel is fucking exhausted.
And pissed off.
At him. At me. At Mel. At the universe.
“What the hell does that mean?” he says quietly with a hint of a growl.
Somewhat surprised by the attitude, though I’m not really sure why, my brows draw up. I rock back on my heel and turn just enough to cut him with a knowing look.
He’s quick to compose his little snarl, taking on an air of snootiness. He blinks rapidly, giving his head a little jerk, almost like he’s trying to shake out the redness from his cheeks. Like he’s a fucking Etch A Sketch.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.
Movement draws my attention downward to where he’s again tapping his fingers together, faster now.
I frown.
What the hell is up with this kid?
“You jonesing or something?”
“Huh?” he mutters, blinking all doe-eyed up at me. His fingers still.
My brow arches significantly more. I gesture at him. “You tweakin’? Withdrawing? You know—” And like the prick I am, I bring a finger to my nose and sniff. “—looking for a little fix. That why you out here, kid? ’cause newsflash, you ain’t gonna find it. Not here.”
Though I’m sure some have found a way to sneak in contraband.
But I don’t tell him that.
His brows slam down over his eyes and he gives a stilted, but firm shake of his head. Fingers curling into fists. “What? No, no I’m not— That’s not—”
Scoffing, I wave him off. “Yeah, okay, sure, and I’m only here ’cause I wanted to work on my tan.”
Again I go to turn away when he stops me.
“I’m not an addict.”
There’s something in his voice that gives me pause.
“Sorry,” I mutter. I peer over at him, giving him a quick once-over. “Forgot there’s other reasons to be here.”
He frowns, his lips forming a little pout that makes him look even younger. More innocent. Less stuck-up and more just…out of place.
Again, I find my gaze shifting past him to where the rocky cliffs loom over the beach, dark and ominous. It’s still fairly cloudy, but the sun hits them just right, bathing the jagged edges in shadows.
A walk. A swim.
He wanted to go for a swim.
But…the ocean’s right there, lapping at the sand mere feet away.
As if he senses the direction of my thoughts, he stiffens. “I—”
