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“Sup, Angel?” he asks.
Angel. Jesus Christ. I guess I have Dr. Esmerelda to thank for my new nickname now.
I ignore him and go to my locker.
“Hey,” Brett chimes in, “King is talking to you.”
My jaw clenches. Let’s rip this Band-Aid. “What?”
“What’re you doing tonight? You wanna come out?”
“Out?” I repeat skeptically.
“Yeah. We’re having a party tonight.”
Is Jason…inviting me to a party? Seems unlikely. His impossibly tall frame is arched over, one leg crooked on a chair. He’s panther-like and coy in his body language, his knees slightly splayed, his broad shoulders angled back. His tight pants do nothing to hide the package underneath, and I hate myself for noticing these details about him.
His body language always makes him look like he’s flirting…even when he isn’t.
His wolf’s grin makes me suspicious.
“Good for you,” I say.
“So you coming?”
I consider my options. I should say no. On the other hand. If this is a genuine invitation, a party might be fun. When was the last time I was invited to something like that—?
Never. The answer is never.
“Maybe,” I say as I open my locker, “I’ll have to check with—”
But as soon as the door swings open, two wet bodies fly out at me. Huge, slippery bass flip out of my locker and slap against my chest. The smell that my locker unleashes is atrocious.
Jason and his crew cackles. I feel Jason’s hand slap on my shoulder. “You know what?” he says. “Maybe next time. Think you should go home and…shower this off.” He steps backward out the door. Before he leaves, he has the audacity to wink. “Later, Angel.”
The dead fish leak onto the ground. So much for sterilization.
Fucking dick.
Every muscle in my body hurts as I bike back to the marina.
Sunsets are beautiful at Hannsett Island. Pink and lavender streaks across the sky and spills across the water. The boats sway softly, each tucked away safely in their slip. We have a pair of swans that nest in the tallgrass every year and they make small ripples in the glass-like water. Every now and then, a gull calls out or a mainline bangs against the mast, giving out a gong-like sound. Other than that, it’s still. Quiet.
Paradise is nice—if you’re rich enough to enjoy it. My dad and I live in a trailer. It’s tucked away behind the pool. They don’t let us park it in the parking lot, “too unsightly” for the boat owners. Instead, we’re hidden behind the pine trees, in a strip of dirt where grass once was.
I roll my bike through the thicket and rest it against a tree. Dad is cooking up dinner on the BBQ, and the smell of burning meat makes my stomach pinch.
“Dinner’s ready in five,” Dad says.
Things dad never says:
How was your day?
Are those boys still taunting you?
Why do you smell like fish?
Why do you smell like pot?
