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“Which is why I’m inviting you, nimrod.”
I stifle a grin. “Okay.”
Jason picks us up in a golf cart. Which is not the ride we expected.
We both changed for the occasion—she’s wearing a bathing suit underneath tiny shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and bright orange sneakers and, somehow, pulls it all off. I’m in my one pair of pants without holes in them, a black button-up with the top buttons undone. Kenzi has also had her fun running a little gel through my hair and adding some liner to my eyes. I don’t hate either of it.
Jason is classic prep boy chic, in his polo shirt, khaki pants.
“What, no hot rod?” Kenzi asks as she climbs into the back of the cart. I follow suit, gripping the side.
“It’s the only thing my dad lets me drive after I wrecked the Buick.” As he starts it back up, Jason adds, “And the Mercedes.”
Hannsett Island is a little over five miles long, so it’s golf cart–friendly.
Jason drives us to the beach on the east end. The sunset stretches ribbons of orange and pink across the sky and ocean. The air tastes dry and salty.
Hannsett Island has two main beaches: bayside and cliffside. We’re going to the cliffs now, which has choppier surf and therefore is less populated by tourists. The cliffs are made of clay, and after the rain, you can scoop your fingers through it and draw clay tattoos over your skin, like henna.
We can hear the party before we see it. Jason parks, we hop out, and he lifts a huge cooler that clinks when he carries it. Kenzi and I are in charge of the more manageable things—a couple of beach towels, a fold-out chair.
We climb the sand dune. The sun is dying, but we have plenty of light—a roaring bonfire in the middle of the beach. A boombox blares. Someone picks a guitar to an entirely different song. When Jason enters the scene, he’s greeted with a war cry. He lifts his hand in acknowledgement. The King settling his buzzed and blazed clan.
This is not my clique—hell, this isn’t even the same species. They are the rich and beautiful of Hannsett Island. I’m the guy who polishes Daddy’s boat.
I feel my feet slow down, toes sinking in the sand the closer we get to the group.
Jason’s core gang circles him. He points to me and Kenzi.
“This is Kenzi. Kenzi, this is Nick, Amy, and Brett.”
Nick glares at me. “What’s Dick Boy doing here?”
I brace for impact.
“I invited him,” Jason says, which surprises me. He’s claiming me. Then Jason’s eyes sweep over Nick. “Go grab him a beer, yeah?”
They’re bowing up—two stags with clashing horns. And then Nick breaks.
“Yeah,” Nick says. “Okay.”
Ah. So this is what it feels like to be blessed by the protection of Saint King himself.
Nick doesn’t stop glaring at me, but he obeys, pulling two High Lifes out of the cooler. He hands one to me and one to Kenzi.
I take it and swallow back my small victory. I’m not used to the taste.
Amy—all thin limbs and blonde hair—leans her body into Jason’s. She plays with the collar of his shirt. “Can I steal you for a second?”
“Sure,” Jason grins. “Be right back.”
He won’t be right back, not if the hungry look in Amy’s eyes is any indication as she drags him through the dune grass.
Kenzi plops down next to the guitarist. “So!” she says cheerfully, “Can you play anything other than Kumbaya?”
Kenzi is vivacious and bright. She might not fit the mold—Barbie-doll girls with big tits and empty heads—but she has a cutting wit and is “one of the boys”. Maybe they can smell the entitlement on her, like a pheromone. They accept her into the group, and she blends in well.
Meanwhile, I sit beside her, quietly drink my beer, and sift sand between my toes. The lower layer still retains the day’s heat.
