I feel like someone's taken a hammer straight to my skull. I hear the squeal of Wes's pullout coach's shitty mattress when I make the attempt to roll over, but it's to no avail. I remain lying on my stomach, my face pressed into the pillow as I try to open my eyes. My vision is blurry as shit, so I decide my best bet is to fall back asleep and check in with my body in a few hours.
"Morning, dumbass," comes Wes's voice as he leans down to smack the back of my head. I groan loud enough to wake the dead, but not loud enough to drag my sorry ass out of the depths of hangover-ville.
Fuck. You'd think spending most of my days drinking would lead to a decrease in hangover symptoms, but alas, no such luck so far. Guess I'll just have to keep trying, and maybe one day I'll become immune. My dad seems to do a pretty bang-up job ignoring all the symptoms.
"I'm asleep," I mumble back, my voice muffled by the pillow.
"Not anymore, you're not. It's almost eleven."
I can tell he's opened the door to his shitty screened in porch, because a gust of sticky wind sweeps over my sorry ass. I force myself to sit up, yawning and blinking the blurriness from my vision. My stomach shifts like a boat in choppy waters when I stand, briefly making me reconsider my decision to wake up.
Late morning sunlight streams in through Wes's dirty windows, warming my feet as I stumble into the kitchen. I find the bottle of ibuprofen he left on the counter, locate a glass of water, and down the pills with one gulp.
Then I force down the rest of the water, much to the chagrin of my very pissed off stomach. It's not the first time I've felt like this, and it's certainly not going to be the last, either. Fun and freedom is worth a little—okay, a lot—of bodily pain.
"Jack! Hurry your sorry ass up!" Wes yells from somewhere outside.
I withhold another groan, but manage to throw on a cleaner shirt and another ratty pair of shorts. I say another, because pretty much every article of clothing I own is ratty, faded to the point of no return, and occasionally riddled with holes. I don't give a shit as long as they cover what they need to.
"Jack!" Wes yells again.
"Calm down!" I yell back, stuffing my feet into my beat up work boots and head out the door. Neither of us bother locking the house up, on account of the fact that no one in their goddamn right mind would steal anything from this dump.
Wes's old man is out of the state working, and Wes, along with the rest of our group, isn't exactly responsible when it comes to cleaning up after ourselves. It's a dump, but it beats my crappy house. I jog down to where Wes waits by the water near our boat. S.S. Scratch is scrawled on the side, Ri's handiwork.
"What do you got today?" I ask when we're pushing off into the water. We hop over the sides with ease, me driving, him sitting in the back.
"Work at the Karrs and the Wilsons. Oh, and Declan said his mom might want some help delivering shit to the Birds later," he answers before he downs a bottle of water with a wince. "Shit. Why did we drink so much last night?"
"Your suggestion. It was fun."
"We needed that," he says, but with the way he says we, I hear you. I grunt in response, something he doesn't miss. A shit-eating grin spreads slowly across his face, like he knows something I don't.
"What the fuck are you looking at me like that for?" I demand to know, glowering at him in pure annoyance. Wes is good at pissing me off, and he knows it.
"Nothin'. Just that you got shitfaced for a reason. We only followed in support."
"The hell are you talking about?"
He shrugs, but he doesn't answer. We've come upon Declan, who's busy clearing up his family restaurant's dock. Even from here, I can see his forehead gleaming from all the early morning exertion. Wes navigates the boat until we're as close as we can get to the dock.
"Get in!" I yell, Wes chiming in with his agreement.
"Man, my parents will kill me!" Declan complains. "They'll make my life hell!"
An empty threat if I've ever heard one. The Fleiss's love their son; they're extremely proud of his academic prowess and his chance at a real life. Real meaning prosperous. The kid is so smart, he's as likely to end up inventing the cure for some obscure disease as he is working for a fancy ass bank on Wall Street.
I'm not sure why the life he's living now isn't considered real, but I'm not one to argue. It's his life, he can do what he wants with it. Even if that means leaving our asses in the dust when he heads off to some fancy ass college. Maybe he'll fund my inevitable alcohol addiction in the future out of nostalgic pity.
Declan mutters something under his breath before he tilts his head back to look up at the sky. A moment later, he's jogging across the wooden planks and launching himself into the boat. Wes and I laugh maniacally, because we've heard this threat about a million times before. His family doesn't exactly approve their her smart and promising son hanging around a bunch of delinquents, but what can they do? We're his people. No going back now, no matter what happens.
"They might actually kill me this time," Declan mutters, his face contorting into a look of horror as he contemplates the very possibility.
"Nah, but she might kill us," I joke, and Wes cracks up again.
Declan groans, burying his head in his hands until our next occupant boards. Wes, ever the gentleman, extends his hand out towards Ri as she glides down her own dock. In her arms is an unassuming blue cooler, most likely filled with booze. We slug down shitty beer and cheap vodka like its water. It's not exactly to Ri's preference, but I've never heard her complain. Sometimes I think about how close she was with Lilia Samson with her fancy, fruity cocktails and laugh. Ri favors beat up clothing, worn sneakers, and her hair always a little bit unkempt. Her mane is a bunch of frizzed out waves that somehow suit her.
She's undeniably attractive, but I'd never get into it with her. Ever. Our friendship dynamic is weather worn and battle tested, but relationships can be even more unpredictable than the worst summer storm. I'd rather not see my only friend group implode because I dipped into something dumb. When we were younger, Ri definitely had a thing for Wes (who denies everything, because he's an idiot) but I think she's grown out of it by now. She only has eyes for saving sea creatures now.
"So, where're we going?" Ri asks, flipping her sunglasses over her eyes as she leans back.
"You two can go wherever. Jack and I have some work to do," Wes answers distractedly.
I skillfully navigate the boat through the marsh despite the current shifts caused by the hurricane. We chatter about all sorts of random shit, teasing Declan about his smart boy status mostly. He offers groan after groan in response, going on and on about applications and scholarship deadlines.
"Can we please discuss last night?" Ri changes the subject, sitting bolt upright.
"Since when do you say please?" I tease.
She growls. "When I want something."
"What's there to talk about? I remember maybe a quarter of what happened. Maybe."
"Did Rusty really streak?" Wes asks.
"Oh, shit! He did!" Declan laughs.
"I'm talking about the new girl. Rowboat, or whatever."
"Rowan," Declan corrects, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth. "Don't kill me, I just remember her name!"
Wes snorts. "So does Ri, she's just being difficult."
"Who even is she? Seriously, who does she think she is?" Riley huffs, clearly aggravated.
"She's hot," I offer unhelpfully, flashing her a smirk.
She flips me off in response. Her nails are scrubbed clean, but they're never coated in polish. She picks at her cuticles until they bleed, and no amount of paint could fix that mess.
"What kind of name is Rowan, anyway?" She holds up a hand when I open my mouth to reply. "If you say a hot one, I'm throwing you overboard."
I throw my hands up. "What? I'm just being honest!"
"It's actually Unisex—" Declan starts to say, but chokes on his words when Ri glares at him.
"Shut up." She turns to Wes. "What do you think?"
"Don't know enough to say."
"She's hanging out with Lilia. I think that's enough to go off of."
"Yeah, for you," I interrupt, and she positively glowers at me. "What does it matter, anyway? They're cousins, of course they're hanging out. Who else would she even know down here?"
Ri slumps back into her seat, her eyes flicking towards Wes briefly. "Forget it."
I salute her. "Sir, yes, sir!"
"I hate you."
We start laughing, and for a moment, I really do forget. But only for a moment. Forgetting is easy. It's remembering that's always hard.
xxxx
We drop Ri and Declan off at Declan's family restaurant, the one that's oh so popular with the tourists. They seem to live for authentic southern food, and who would Declan's family be to deny them of this pleasure? Even if most of us can't afford anything past food in the fast category. We only ever eat well if it's Sunday and we attend church with the Fleisses. I haven't had much faith since my mom died when I was a kid, but the food at the church potluck makes me want to consider otherwise.
They wave goodbye and make us promise to pick them back up later to shoot the shit (See: drinking.) Wes and I speed off towards work, hoping that the oh so lovely rich folk will take pity on the powerless (literally) Scratches and pay us extra. Fat chance, but hope is all we have in the wake of massive hurricanes like Savannah.
"You ready?" Wes asks when the Samson's dock comes into view. We're to check on their yacht, help clear the yard, basically do all the shit we can't afford to do for ourselves.
"I guess."
We dock our boat; Wes immediately hops over to Mrs. Samson's yacht, going about his usual routine checks. I decide to start in the yard, lugging branches to the curb, awaiting pick-up. The trucks are backed up to hell with all the debris littering the Isle. The midday heat is killer all by itself, but combine it with the sticky as hell humidity? I'm sweating through my shirt in no time.
Suddenly, I'm almost jealous of Wes as he inspects the air conditioned boat. I've grown up with this kind of weather, but working to assist ungrateful people right after a hurricane knocked out the Scratch's power makes it feel unbearable. These people have generators for chrissakes. We have nothing. The yard is a massive piece of land, fitting for the mansion looming over us in the distance.
There's the long dock leading out to the yacht and the water, the perfectly manicured, perfectly green lawn, just the right amount of trees to give it that coveted southern charm. The front yard is just as nice, but of course, it lacks the extravagant pool and patio combo. In other words, it's basically the Holy Grail of Summerbird homes.
Mrs. Samson pays a decent amount, so I can't rip on the work too much, but still, I'd rather work for someone who isn't a Summerbird. That would mean less money, and less money means starving to death. Or less money for booze, take your pick. Jesus fuck, it's so hot it's hard to concentrate on moving these big ass branches out of the way.
"Hey."
"Shit!" I exclaim, dropping my branch in surprise.
My focus is directed from hard manual labor and onto the brunette standing before me. Despite the fact that I almost clocked her, Rowan's expression is as taciturn as ever. She arches an eyebrow and gestures over to a folding table set up in one of the newly cleared sections of the garden. On top of the table, there's a few pitchers of water, already sweating beneath the hot rays of the sun, and some sparkling glasses that are far too nice to ever be handled by the likes of me and Wes.
"Courtesy of my Nana," she says.
I smirk. "No need to use your Nana as an excuse to come talk to me."
She sighs, shifting her weight as she peers up at me. Her eyes are a shifting kaleidoscope of brown and green, bright in direct sunlight. Last night, they seemed too dark to be interesting, but up close I can see lighter flecks of gold that could hypnotize me if I let 'em.
Unlike the Scratch uniform of ratty everything, she's wearing tiny black athletic shorts that probably cost more than a month's rent, and a dark blue tank with the words Rockby Borough Field Hockey advertised on the front. Sounds like a fancy town to fit her fancy lifestyle. Her hair rests atop her head in one of those buns with strands sticking out everywhere, the kind Ri is always complaining about. My gaze drops down to the strip of exposed skin between her shirt and shorts to the beat to hell sneakers on her feet. I silently thank whatever's up there for allowing her to be just as sweaty as me for this conversation.
"Would you just take the water? You're risking heat exhaustion being an idiot."
She stalks over to the table, and I follow with a dumb smile taking over my face. She pours a glass for me and shoves it into my hand.
"Pushy," I observe with raised eyebrows. "I can work with that."
I lift the glass to my mouth, but observe her over the rim. I only really saw her when I poured that initial beer. Lilia dragged her off to hang out with all her dumbass Summerbird friends. I'm sure they loved picking Rowan's brain. As far as I could tell, Lilia's boyfriend (or is it now ex?) had a ball interrogating the girl.
Colt Hatton is nothing if not a massive pain in the ass who can't take a hint if it smacked him in the face at the speed of his fancy new boat. The guy sucks, and I'm not saying that because he'd cause trouble for me and my friends if I attempted to maneuver Rowan away from him. He's a dick in general, the worst kind of Old Isle rich. I place all of this in the back of my mind as Rowan sizes me up.
"The only thing you're going to be working on is my Nana's yard," she retorts, but I don't think she means it as a slight. Just a warning.
"You know, I surfed when the beaches were closed the other day because of the storm. I still skipped class, even when I was threatened with expulsion. Just because you're warning me doesn't mean I'll listen."
I polish off the glass, and this time I'm the one pressing it into her hand. Somehow, she skillfully avoids making contact. She shakes her head when I flash her a grin and return to the task at hand. I fully expect that to be it, having reached maximum capacity for my bullshit, but she surprises me.
"Last time I lived through a hurricane, we boarded up the house and slept in the basement. And I've never skipped class unless I've had to," she says, as if challenging me.
I turn around, taking in the defiant tilt of her chin and the frosty look glinting in those eyes.
"So, you never have any fun," I say flatly.
"It seems our definitions of fun differ."
"For your sake, I hope you stick around long enough to have some fun with me."
It's normally an empty statement, one that I say to piss girls off, but it seems like this one needs to let loose. Despite her no-bullshit attitude and sharp tongue, I can tell she needs to experience the Isle the real way, none of that Summerbird, country club bullshit. All the charity work and galas they do to make themselves feel better about their gross amount of wealth.
She ignores my comment. "If you or your friend need anything else, just let me know."
"Anything else?"
"For you?" Her eyes do a slow perusal over my body before making their way back up to my face. "Only water."
What a goddamn tease. Then she's walking back across the grass, her tiny shorts clinging to a rather fantastic ass. I shake my head, because damn. This girl is an entirely different breed of mystery, but lucky for her, she's one I intend to solve.