𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

04. fresh kfc.

F O U R
fresh kfc.

I lay in a hammock that smells like weed and cheap cologne. After dating Rafe, I can smell the difference between the real stuff, and the knock-off.

JJ always smells like the knock-off stuff.

Rafe always smells like the expensive stuff.

JJ also smells like soap. But not normal soap, some weird soap, but still soapy.

Rafe always smells sweaty. Not necessarily bad sweaty, just sweaty.

Whenever I shift slightly in the hammock the hinges creak ominously. I don't think I'd survive the embarrassment if it snapped and I hit the ground. I'd go on one of those juice cleanses the country club women spout absolute bullshit health claims.

Celery doesn't cure cancer, Janice. Not even cold-pressed.

JJ is in his element. I can hear him reenacting the afternoon's hectic events for Pope and Kie, exchanging himself for the brave hero. Swooping in saving the damsel in distress, like he wasn't on the verge of shitting himself. Not only is he changing his role in the happenings, he's turning the already ample drama up.

JJ exaggerates a lot of things, trust me on that fact.

The thick, humid air makes my skin slick. I also think I'm in a minor state of shock. This day really has been something—these last forty-eight hours, have been something.

My head tips away from the group, and my eyes look at the water John B's house backs onto. It expands as far as the eye can see either side, it looks infinite. Mostly still, a slight ripple dances across the top. A few boats bob on the surface, tied near the shore so they don't drift off into the seemingly endless expanse of water.

The sun is beginning to slip down the sky, heading to disappear behind the waterline. Soon to be replaced with the glimmering moon which would let the shimmering stars be seen.

I've never been overly fond of the water. I can swim, I'm actually quite good at swimming, but I avoid it if I can help it.

Surfing is out of the question. I did try once, I almost broke my neck falling off into shallow water.

Boats are too complicated.

The almost continuous buzz on my phone tucked in my pocket can no longer be ignored by thinking of almost breaking my neck. I shuffle my position and grab my phone from my pocket, turning it on my lock screen has a list of all my notifications. Dozens and dozens. Scrolling through them there is a text from my Mum, a missed call and two texts from Sarah (apologies for abandoning me,) and, of course, the majority are from Rafe. Missed calls and texts almost constantly, all at varying levels of ferocity.

I turn my phone off and tuck it underneath me.

I look at the group, JJ is showing Kie the paint chips in his hair; as some kind of evidence as to how insane the afternoon actually was. In all honestly, it just looks like dandruff.

"So you saw the guys that shot at us, did you get a good description? Anything we can write in a police report?" Pope asks, sounding too hopeful. Leant forward, his elbows on his knees. It's a good, practical question—not shocking, coming from Pope. And it's one I'm sure I could answer if I was given any warning of heading into. Also if I wasn't violently high.

If those aspects were different, I'd have a hood, detailed description.

"Burly," JJ answers with way, way too much confidence. He's acting like it's some distinctive tattoo or facial scar.

"Burly?" Pope repeats back to him, almost begging for expansion. He's obviously frustrated with JJ's antics.

Attention is turned to me. "Frankie?" Kie looks at me with such misplaced hope.