2.4 | Knight In Distress ✓

01 | knight in polka-dots

0 1

k n i g h t i n p o l k a - d o t s

I didn't know what to do, or even think, when the notorious Gregory Simons came up to Wavelength one afternoon, stood his surf board against the palm tree nearby and leaned across the counter, saying, in that warm, husky voice of his:

"Well, well, looks like this is the classic bad-boy good-girl love story, it's no wonder there's so much sexual tension between us."

If this were a cheesy love story, I would've fallen head over heels in love with him there and then. But it wasn't, so I simply raised a finger.

"One sec," I told him, before turning to my fifteen-year old brother.

Ean was frowning at the Fifa game on his tablet, busy beating the crap out of whatever team he was playing against (he generally picked crap teams so he could completely obliterate them and then feel good about his measly accomplishment). There was a can of coke in front of him, half-drunk, beads of water condensing on the bright red surface.

"Ean, hand me your soda, will you?"

Without glancing up, Ean pushed his coke over to me. Seizing the can, I raised it to my lips and took a huge gulp.

Then I shifted away from Greg, leaned over the counter so that I was facing the sand below and happily sprayed the coke out of my mouth, as a dramatic reaction to his ridiculous statement.

What else could you do when a self-proclaimed bad boy propositioned you like this?

Greg's reaction was instantaneous; he stepped back quickly as if I were an open flame and he was about to catch on fire. And then he stared at me, utterly appalled. "What the hell, Darcy!"

"Sorry," I said, but I hardly sounded contrite; my lips were stretched into a wide grin, amused giggles spilling from my lips every few seconds. "I've always wanted to do that."

He frowned. "That bad, huh?"

"Bad's an understatement, sweetheart," I informed him, gravely, because one generally needed to be cruel to be kind. "That's one of the worst pick-up lines I've ever heard in my life."

And it was true. God forbid he actually used it on any girl he met. I didn't know exactly whom he used it on, of course, since Greg and I went to different schools.

But trust me, if I did go to his school, I'd be warning every poor potential victim of his, telling them to stay at least ten feet away from him.

Since I couldn't, I could only act as Greg's test-subject. And as his test-subject, I had to listen to every new pick-up line he came up with.

Sometimes he texted them to me, and it was all I could do not to bang my head against the wall at how ridiculously funny he was being. It was fortunate that he wasn't with me at those times, because I would've had no qualms elbowing him in the gut.

But now it was summer. And Greg and his group of friends visited the beach almost everyday. And I had the pleasure (or, rather, displeasure) of seeing him everyday.

Especially since my family owned Wavelength, the modest little shack at the beach, which in summer, when the weather was all sunny and lovely and warm, was a thriving business.

"Oh, come on," Greg argued, with a frown, "Don't tell me that didn't even turn you on a little bit."

"It didn't," I returned flatly, "If I had a penis - which I don't - and heard you say that, I wouldn't be having a half-boner. Not even a twitch, really."