window.
“That’s about the different in Crescent Cove and Horn Island. The
cove is rich, and this place is the ghetto.”
Noah laughs but defends Horn Island by
calling it ‘real,’ unlike the rest of his world. If he wanted real,
I could’ve taken him back to my house – with high school drama,
busy parents, and a ‘fend for yourself’ lifestyle.
“I think these guys will be okay,” Noah says,
reassuring Big Tony more than anyone else. “They don’t even know
who I am. It’s almost like pre-Saturn.”
Earlier this morning, before we headed out to
The Strip, Noah told me that Big Tony wouldn’t get in our way. He’s
the newest member of the security team, and he’s the least thrilled
to be here. Noah’s theory is that he’s only here for the money.
Noah says he’s okay with that, but I think he secretly wishes his
bodyguard was more like Tank or Tate’s Jersey-bred bodyguard Axel.
As long as Big Tony doesn’t crash my plans this week, I really
don’t care if he’s here or not.
We follow the locals into a parking lot near
the beach. A boating ramp sits off to the side. A concrete-ish
building with showers and bathrooms (that I’d prefer to never use)
is planted next to the sidewalk. A mural is painted on the side
wall. Sorry, Horn Island, but that dark red painted sunset doesn’t
do much to brighten up this place.
This place definitely isn’t a tourist
attraction either. Two people – literally two beings – sit on the
beach. They glance back upon hearing car doors. The girl is
probably close to my age. She wears a halter bikini top and
high-waisted swim shorts, like a pinup girl from the 40s or 50s.
She’s sort of classy rock star, if I had to label her style. The
guy with her has a deep tan, long black hair, and a smile bigger
than Horn Island should have to offer. He’s cute in a
Taylor-Lautner-before-the-werewolf-days kind of way.
The girl jumps up and rushes toward us all
too happily, and I wonder for a second if she recognizes Noah…until
she leaps into Miles’s arms and completely ignores his newfound
friends. Noah seems rather pleased that she ran to the dreadlocked
blonde instead of him, like it’s the rarest and most amazing thing
in the world.
“So, um, that’s Emily,” Theo says. “She’s
Miles’s girlfriend, obviously, and that guy down there is Kale.
He’s a friend of ours.”
Emily glances at us and whispers something to
Miles. If she has any clue at all, she’s playing it super cool.
Noah steps aside and talks to Big Tony alone, while Theo tells me
that he and his friends surf here and no one bothers them because
they “beat the fuck outta anyone who tries.” For some reason, it
doesn’t shock me at all.
After officially meeting everyone and
learning about their surf gang, the West Coast Hooligans, I’m
pretty certain we’ve found the right people to hang with.
“They’re not as bad as they look,” Emily
explains. “The term ‘surf gang’ is a bit much too. They’re just
territorial.”
The boys crack open a few beers from Kale’s
cooler and engage Noah in conversation about the best alcohols and
how Theo is suspended from work for showing up with a hangover.
Noah chugs a beer, probably celebrating the fact that he actually
talked Big Tony into leaving us here alone. That in itself is a
small victory.
“Is it just the three of them?” I ask Emily
as I stretch out on Kale’s towel. The sand is thick and clumpy like
cheap mascara.
“No, Topher and Jace are working,” she says.
“Topher works at Drenaline Surf because his brother owns it, and
Jace works at the music store by the hotel. These are the bums of
the group.”
Miles shouts that he heard that, and Theo
says he’s not a bum, just an alcoholic. Kale doesn’t say a word.
The guys offer to give Noah surf lessons, and for half a second, I
think he’s going to take them up on it.
“Are you even qualified to teach me these
things?” Noah asks, glancing out at the water.
Jagged
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