— alex ☆

The princess holds her coins out to the merchant. “I want two shovels of those morsels you have here,” she requests. The merchant grins, blackened teeth flashing her. “Aye miss, but where would ya like to get else?” 

She thinks for a moment, before finally gesturing to the section of fruits. “Those there, the purplish thing.”

“Aye, the szilva?” the merchant offers one to her. The princess grins, tightening the fabric to cover her face better. 

“Will give you as much as I have in my satchel,” she responds delightfully. 

The merchant nods, giddily adding the rich fruit into the rucksack he will give to her. She hands him a handful of florentinus. 

The merchant gawks, his one good eye bulging. “My, my, yer more than just a traveler.” 

She grins beneath the scarf, nodding her head. “A secret, if you will allow this.” 

“Aye, ya have my word,” the merchant says. 

Tarhos tracks down the girl easily. A merchant had told him the whereabouts of a young woman passing through. Fitting the description perfectly.

Him and his men set off westward of the town, heading towards the otherside where the merchant said she’d be. 

It was simple. He could sniff out a princess, pretending to be hiding among the regular everyday peasantry. That isn’t too hard. There’s a gait and a certain way women in this century hold themselves. It’s a refining standard. Their heads held up high, their confidence oozing with every single step of their leather bound shoes. 

He runs into something, gripping their arms tightly. The veil falls from their head, cover blown. 

“Found ya,” he grumbles roughly. She sneers at him. The scar across her, then he feels the pelts of her legs; nothing is felt for him. He nearly laughs in delight.  

“Let me go, or I’ll–” 

“You’ll what? Kill me?” Tarhos inquires, a grin forming. 

His strong fingers dig into her flesh. The princess is here in such a disgusting place. To Tarhos, to his men, and in this horrible corridor where there are moans nearby. 

“You frequent places such as these, do ya, girl?” he pulls her up to whisper the filth into her ears. She thrashes again, her kicks pinging against his armor. 

Tarhos laughs. He glances at his men, signaling them to depart ahead of him. They already know the look. 

He glances back to the princess, an odd thing to behold in the dimness of night. 

She is exactly what he expected her to be. A wonderfully cruel and defiant thing. 

“You,” she hisses. “I’ve seen you following me at the market.” 

He leans in close, nose bumping her temple. The scent, the hair, the eyes. This is the king’s daughter. A horribly, unretained woman. He nearly licks the side of her cheek, an alluring emotion growing inside of him. 

Strong emotions for a person so wicked. 

Tarhos reels back, knowing she is lethal in ways he is unaware of. He cannot let his guard down with her. 

He feels the odd sensation of something hot and tight in his gut. The slim dagger forcing itself into his side, slicing the bit of flesh it can pierce through even with armor. Clever girl, he thinks. 

“Let me go,” she grits out, eyes ablaze. It doesn’t feel like anything. Pain is secondary to him. 

The struggle he’s endured before this. Before now. The princess thinks she can wound him, down him with a single piece of scrap metal. Laughable, really. 

Tarhos grabs her hand, covering her own with his and forcing the weapon even more into his side. If she can kill him correctly then he will let her, if she hesitates he takes her. “You’re already here,” he challenges. “Finish it.” 

She snarls, pushing into him and he grunts. Ah, that pinch of pain. 

The sensation opens him, uncoiling a flame beneath him. Hot and heady. She is blissfully obstinate as he heard she is. 

Tarhos presses himself to her, entangling her with his free arm, allowing the dagger to push through. He groans deep, the sound rumbling in his chest. The moans around them grow louder, the sounds of a pleasure house only exceeding in drowning out their own foreplay.  

“You,” she murmurs, eyes widening, glancing down quickly at his side. She moves away from him as quickly as she can. This cannot be, her mind warns. 

He grabs her, baring his teeth. “Finish, girl.” 

The princess swallows, her lips parting. Hesitation will only bring about more suffering. He plunges it for her, grabbing her hand and thrusting the weapon deeper into him.

She gasps, more so at the way he’s gripping her, how he seems enthralled by the action. This is a pleasure for him.

No Knight has ever done such a thing. 

“A reward, princess,” he says. 

“What?” She asks, breathlessly. Confused by the turn of events. She realizes their lips are so close. It is the devil’s work. Tarhos is a knight. A foul mercenary doing his king’s bidding. 

The knight pulls her into his embrace, her hands dropping to her side. “Slay the knight that has tried to capture you, and you will be set free,” he tells her.

She swallows dryly, feeling the sweat prickle against her back, rolling down her skin. The moans in the alley grow louder by the second; lovers interlocked. 

Is this what it looks like for them too? 

The princess shuts her eyes, the sounds, the smell of musk on her tongue. The iron is just beneath, the wound should kill him. 

It does not. 

The princess realizes there’s a freedom in the space he gives her. She runs, the dagger dropping and resounding in the alley. 

A sharp clang and she vanishes into the night. 

Arriving back to his men, empty-handed and bloodied. They all look at him quizzically. 

“The girl escaped?” Alejandro asks. His men look nervous, waiting with baited breath for what Tarhos will say next.

“Aye,” Tarhos responds. “I’ll track her. I’ll bring her back.” 

“By yerself? Now—“ Sander tries to speak, but is cut off when Tarhos speaks. 

“I’ll do it. This is my cargo.” 

He leaves then, turning from his men as he can feel their eyes as he continues down the alley. He’d go back to the village and fetch her. He feels the thrum of his blood again, sucking in his teeth. Something about her makes him feel entirely roused, an utterly powerful sensation he hasn’t felt since he’s had his claymore slash against multiple men. 

The wound at his side pulses. He sucks his teeth in. 

This will be a game.  

He finds her at the back of a horse stall. When he hovers above her, he has half to pull her by the hair. Too long, too soft. He wants to know how she maintains it, what it would feel like draped over his face or his crotch. 

Tarhos hoists her over his shoulders. Her hands bound and mouth stuffed with a rag, it’s difficult managing her to behave. Her words come out in a muffled way, which are definitely meant to be various insults thrown his way. It thrills him really. A lady doing such filthy things causes his emotions to stir within him. 

A sort of forbidden fruit; delectable, vile. 

“Do not speak, you’ll only waste your energy,” he warns her.

He can hear her huff, shifting in his hold to get herself free. 

Tarhos considers this a part of the fun. 

She struggles, trying her best to kick him and to cause him harm. Something to make him hurt. She’s been running since as long as she could remember. Has been trying to make sense of all of this. Her cursed father, and his wretched kingsmen. She hopes they all rot in hell. 

“Keep trying, princess. It’ll only exhaust you,” he rumbles. 

She mumbles something angrily. 

Awful, man, she thinks. Rotten, terrible, vile, disgusting. His large hands cup against her ass and she nearly does manage to wriggle away. 

He nearly drops her into the gravel, but catches her carefully. 

“Now, now, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.” 

She thrashes one more time, feeling her body ache at the amount of running and moving she has done. 

Tired, winded, she’s done enough for a lifetime. Surrendering doesn’t seem like an option for her, but how can she get out of his hands? 

She needs to think, she clenches her teeth against the rag in her mouth. Her eyes closing as she thinks of every possible angle to get out of this hold. She will run away, she will be free, she tells herself. 

Tarhos lips twitch slightly upwards as he notices she’s calming down. 

Only he has managed to make her lose her mind. To completely unravel her being. Her sense of self. It drives him to inhale sharply. The essence of jasmine wafting in his nose, his hands grip tighter on the back of her thigh. 

The supple skin underneath. It stirs something deep in him. Insatiable and burning. 

A princess is a lady. A lady of a kingdom. The daughter of a King who wishes to have her head. 

A part of him almost wishes to drag this opportunity for his own selfish gain. He’s become fascinated by her, by her spitfire. She is by law a witch. One that would burn for her treasons against kin. Tarhos snarls, holding her tighter. He’d burn the whole kingdom down if it meant he got to keep what is rightfully his. His own. His. 

Some sort of possessiveness maims inside him, a roaring need. The King may have employed him, but some contracts are meant to be broken. 

Tarhos grins beneath his mask, the wound in his side still there as he carries her back to the Guardia Compagnia’s hideout.

Michael stumbles up the drive, head hazy from the morning sun. It’s almost like the light had sucked the last of his strength. His bed begs for him.

It’s not all terrible, though. At least he finally knew where things stood with him and Star.

Star…

God, he hated leaving her alone this morning! He would have given anything for one more minute in her arms. She smelled so good, so perfect! But he had to leave her and face the oncoming storm.

He'll make it up to her. After all this ... whatever this is ... gets sorted out, they'll catch a movie, grab a bite to eat. Just be normal.

Michael trips, catching himself just in time before he faceplants on Grandpa’s porch. He really needs to sleep.

He would have gone straight to bed, had someone not caught his eye.

The side door is wide open—intentionally open—for Lucy Emerson to spot him when he arrives. And, for Michael to notice.

Mom has curled up in an old wicker chair, a blanket over her lap, tea in hand. Her hair is damp. She’s wearing her fresh clothes—ass-kicking clothes, Michael’s mind supplements.

She looks at him expectantly. 

“I thought you’d be at work,” Michael says lamely.

“Hello, Michael,” she says—patiently impatient. Michael feels like he’s ten again, being reprimanded for forgetting his manners. She sips her tea. "We're still friends, aren't we?"

"Yeah," he grunts, rolling his head skyward.

"Oh. Oh, well, good. So, let's talk like friends, Michael. Let's chat. We never do that anymore."

"Mom—" he starts, but she doesn't let him finish.

“How was your night?”

“Fine.”

She hums, drumming her fingers against the ceramic mug. “And your sister?”

Michael withholds a groan. He rubs his eyes under the cheap sunglasses, summoning every ounce of strength to keep himself upright. Can’t his mom do this later?

“What about her?”

“Did she have fun, too?”

“I don’t know, Mom, why don’t you ask her?”

Mom’s smile falters. “She’s not with you?”

“Why would she be?”

He wrinkles his nose. His little sister hates everything he finds cool. 

“Well, where is she?”

“Have you checked the library?”

“Michael, I’m really not in the mood. I asked you to stay home and look after your brother—”

“I did, mom! But you came home, so I figured—”

“And I hoped,” she says, a little louder, “that your little disappearing act was due to you looking out for her.”

“She was pissed last night and stormed out!” Michael flings his arm out toward the yard. Thankfully, you missed the drama that ensued. He’s not sure how he would have explained all of that, but he knows you would have taken Sammy’s side. “She’s not inside?”

Mom sits the tea on the railing, laying her hand across her stomach. “No,” she says in a slow, measured voice. 

Michael frowns. He knows that tone. That’s the ‘pretend you’re not panicked’ tone. 

“Mom?”

“I haven’t seen her. I assumed she slept through the fiasco last night, but when I went to check on her this morning, she wasn’t in her room. Sam said she went out.”

“No, Mom, I haven’t…” Michael trails off, blinking rapidly. God, he needs to wake up. His little sister … “She wouldn’t go with me. She hates—the guys.” 

He can’t tell his mom about Star, not yet. He’d be in even bigger trouble for bailing if she knew it involved a girl.

“Well, where could she possibly be, Michael? It’s not like she’s made any friends!”

It’s pitch black when you wake.

With every blink, you adjust to the darkness, noticing the fragmented silhouettes. A pit forms in your stomach as it dawns on you that you're not in your bedroom.

Blindly, you feel for your glasses on the bedside table and slip them on. The blanket slides down your naked chest as you rise, and you frown.

You’re in the Lost Boys’ cave. The distant crash of waves haunts the cavernous cave like a far off roar. Memories from the night before trickle in like a whisper of a dream. The ache between your legs reminds you it's all real.

You had sex with all of them.

Well, not all . David had been notably absent from the action aside from some kissing. 

You drag the sheets up to your chin and scan the 'room.' Not a trace of evidence remains aside from the obvious nudity and a sore pussy. Even your clothes have vanished from the floor.

With your glasses on, you can make out more details of the space.

The bed you slept in is a grand thing: four poster, intricately carved. The posts are a little chipped, but it’s sturdy, dark wood that people would pay an arm and a leg for these days. It matches your little antique side table. On top it is a glass bowl of baubles, glass gems, and tarnished silver jewelry. A fat pillar candle, about the size of your wrist, sat beside it and a matchbook.

Hmph. No electricity down here, probably.

You strike a match and light the ancient wick. It crackles and sputters, but catches. The flame grows tall.

Now, you see some more candles sitting on tall, rusted candelabras along the wall. Paintings with cracked frames clutter the corner; a russet rug lays beneath the bed. Pirate is there, too, that poor bastard. You must have kicked him off in your sleep.

It’s beautiful for what it is, but you wish you had a mirror to survey the damage. 

Smiling, you decide to test your legs. You wobble as you pull the sheet with you, and wrap it around your chest. You’ll need to find the boys and get some clothes before you go home. 

All of it had been wonderful. Really and truly—unimaginably—fantastic. They were so kind … even when they weren’t. None of the guys back home would have acted like that. They would have dumped you as soon as they got what they …

… Oh.

Oh no.

You grip a wooden post for stability; your fear threatens to bowl you over. 

You fucked them. Not a cutesy lovemaking with a long term boyfriend. A X-rated, pearl-clutching fuckwith three men. They got what they wanted. And you—you made it so easy, didn’t you? Didn’t even put up a fight?

You’ll never be able to show your face in Santa Carla ever again. News will spread fast: Emerson’s sister is a slut. She’s taken three guys at once. No, I heard it was five. It was an orgy!  

Oh god. You bury your face in your hands. Oh, fuck. This is a mess!

You sniff, steeling your nerves. One thing at a time. First, you have to get out of here. No— clothesfirst, then leave. It doesn’t matter what kind or who they belong to. You grab and you go. And, hopefully, no one notices.

Unfortunately, by the time you make it through the labyrinthine cave, the Lost Boys sit in the main room, chatting and joking, almost like nothing happened at all.

When you appear, they stop what they’re doing. Dear god did their mothers not teach them not to stare?

You pull the sheet higher over your shoulders. You’d had a speech prepared and promptly forgot it.

“Nice toga,” Marko says, breaking the awkward silence.

“I couldn’t, um, find my clothes.” Your voice is small, throat tight. You can’t cry yet. “Do any of you, um …” 

David reaches for the cigarette behind his ear. “Your sweater didn’t make it.”

“Oh.” 

Little slut , hisses a voice that sounds an awful lot like your dad’s. 

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry—

“We can go shopping,” David says slowly, exchanging looks with the other Lost Boys.

“No, that’s—I don’t want to be a problem.”

She was only out with friends, Lance! the memory of your mother cries. 

She’s allowed to stay out past curfew when she’s an adult. But I refuse to clean up her mess if she decides to act like a little slut now!  

The noose around your neck tightens; your throat burns.

“Oh- kay … We can probably find something around here.” He jerks his thumb toward a table. “Your shorts should be dry, they laid out all day.”

The blood drains from your face. “How long have I been here?” None of them answer and you whip your head around to an old grandfather clock. “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirtyish,” says Paul, “just in time for sunset.”

“Are you okay?” asks Dwayne.

“Oh, my god.” Is this what a heart attack feels like? You stumble down the stone slope and snatch your shorts off the side table. “I-I have to go home!”

“Where’s the fire?” Marko asks.

You struggle to keep the sheet in place as you get back in your cut offs, but give up and let it fall. It’s not like they haven’t seen it all anyway!

“I can’t believe I slept all day, I’m so dead.”

“To be fair,” says Paul with a gloating grin, “you were pretty busy last night.”

“Yes, I know! Okay? Please, don’t rub it in my face.” You gather the sheet in your arms, covering your breasts. “Where the hell are my shoes?!”

Mom had to be worried sick. You should have called. How were you supposed to explain this? All night and all day without a word, what did she think happened?

“You’ve been here this long,” says David, “might as well stay a little longer.”

“Look!” You snap your head up, begging the tears not to fall, but David’s figure is blurry. “Last night was a fluke, and I don’t need to be made fun of anymore, so please let me go without smearing the last of my pride on the doormat.”

David scoffs, his bemusement freezing over into ice. 

Paul appears in front of you even though you swear he was across the room a moment ago. “What’s wrong?”

“I know how this goes, okay?!” But you were so totally fucking stupid for not realizing it last night. “I’m just another way to haze Michael. So, good job! Now you get to rub it in his face that his sister is a whore.”

Oh, God, Michael. You could cry thinking about him alone. He can’t fight all of them but he’s dumb enough to try. They'd massacre him!

“We wouldn’t,” Paul insists.

You recoil. “I’m not stupid.”

“Is that what you think this was?” David asks. “A game?”

“What else could it be?”

Quickly, you wipe your cheeks dry, but tears continue to fall. You want to curl up in a hole and die.

David exhales smoke through his nose. He flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the cave floor, exchanging a look with Marko. 

“You’re wrong,” says David.

“Please—”

“You’re wrong .”

Somehow, you believe him. It’s a gut punch. An instinctive knowing , something you can’t quite describe.

David glowers at you, his eyes like torches of blue fire. You sniffle. You have an urge to affirm that you believe him, but you stop yourself. Your lower lip quivers with restraint. 

“David’s right,” adds Paul, raising his hands in surrender.  “We’re not messin’ around.” 

“We don’t plan on quitting you so soon,” says Marko.

“Or ever,” finishes Dwayne. 

David stubbs the cherry of his cigarette against his boot. “But it’s nice to know that you think so highly of us.”

“Dude,” Paul warns.

“You’re not serious,” you state, even though it feels like a lie. 

“We are,” says Dwayne. 

“What, so … this has nothing to do with my brother?”

“I admit, I wish I’d thought of it,” mutters Marko. “Wouldda been a little funny.”

“This has nothing to do with hazing Michael,” David states.

You wipe your cheek. “And you don’t think I’m a slut?”

Paul gently touches your back, and when you don’t shove him away, he says, “What kind of dicks are you used to being around?”

"Dicks that fuck around and kick you to the curb when they're done." The knot in your throat tightens. “If … if this had happened back in Phoenix, it would have been the talk of the cul-de-sac.” 

I refuse to clean up her mess if she decides to act like a little slut...!  

You flinch, and your body suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.

“That’s not really our style,” says Marko.

“We’re not interested in ruining a lady’s reputation.” The chip might have fallen off David’s shoulder, but there’s still an edge to his tone.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like you were,” you whisper. “Not many guys are as … well, as kind as you.” 

David swallows this admission, his jaw tight. Then, he shakes his head.

“I should really go back, though," you say. "My family must be totally freaked. And I do need a shirt.”

“Hey, baby, you’ll hear no complaints from me—”

Dwayne smacks Paul on the back of the head. 

“There’s no rush,” says David. “Your brother and Star got together, too. He was here all night.”

You freeze, “And you didn’t…? He couldn’t hear, could he?”

“Nah,” says Marko. "He was too wrapped up in his own party." He’s too happy to inform you of that, and you sputter.

"You've been here for this long," Paul adds.

“Which is why I should go.”

“But you never get to cut loose," says Marko, jumping back in. "C’mon—when’s the last time you actually did something for yourself, honey?”

He raises his eyebrows to drive home his point and you ... can't tell him. The last time had been the night you stayed out past curfew, nearly four years ago. You can still picture that disgustingly pristine doorway of your old home, barely holding it together as your mom and dad fought. Sammy doll eyes peered at you through the slats of the stairs, his pudgy cheeks pulled down into a sorrowful expression. Michael had kept his hand clamped on your little brother's shoulder to keep him from making matters worse. 

That fight had happened long before your father’s infidelity came to light. Looking back at it now, it was his guilty conscious that made him so belligerent. It still stings. His voice is the salt in the wound, and even if he is divorced from your life, it doesn't erase the past.

Mike never got in trouble when he stayed out late. Not even now. It's always a slap on the wrist, a word of warning, not Hiroshima .

Technically, you’re an adult. 

Which means you need to make the adult choice and go home. Your mom is probably tearing up half of Santa Carla right now—!

Michael had been here night with Star. She probably told him about your awkward reintroduction. She probably told him you were with the guys. Maybe she thought you also went back out?

At any rate, if Michael can do it, why can’t you? All things considered, your brother isn't a bad guy—he wouldn’t endanger himself like that, so the Lost Boys can’t be that bad, either.

“Do you want to leave?” asks Dwayne.

You worry bottom lip. “No.”

He shrugs. “Then stay.”

Maybe you’re naive. Maybe it’s the romantic in you, the one that wants to believe they’re different, the one that wants to believe they like you beyond the fact that you put out. 

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

A little longer can't hurt, right? 

“Yes!” Paul sweeps you into his arms and spins you around. “ Pretty woman, yeah, yeah, yeah. Pretty woman, look my way. Pretty woman, say you’ll stay with me! ” he sings—but it has more of a Steven Tyler flair than Roy Orbison. 

“Paul!” You clutch his shoulder, laughing despite yourself. “Put me down!” 

“ Mercy! ” he shrieks.

“Put her down before she threatens to leave again,” says David. 

“If I make her dizzy enough she won’t go nowhere, man.”

“Pa-ul!”

He obeys, in his own time, planting you on your own two feet. You push your hair out of your face. It’s hard to pretend to be annoyed when he smiles like that—especially when he sang one of your favorite songs. 

“Thought you didn’t like music from the sixties,” you say.

“Hell no, babes. That would nix the Rolling Stones.” 

“But we have to give you shit about something,” teases Marko. 

“C’mon.” David stands from his wheelchair. “Let's find you something to wear before he finishes the verse.”

“ I need you! I’ll treat you right! ” Paul thrashed his head from side to side, miming an electric guitar. "Yow!"

You follow David, but watch Paul until you can’t see him anymore. “Is he always like that?”

“Only on days that end in ‘Y.’” David makes a face. “The weed was supposed to mellow him out.”

You laugh again, shrugging the sheet closer. David’s glaze lingers, dropping to your mouth, then back to the endless rocky tunnels ahead. You cover your mouth. Maybe he didn’t like your smile? You’re sure it couldn’t be too pretty, given the state of you. 

You enter a room not far from the main cave. It’s organized chaos, to put it nicely. Bins of denim and scrap leather litter the space; t-shirts and fishnets and boardshorts haphazardly stick out from nooks and crannies. A single, battery operated lantern hangs overhead. David rummages through the bins until he finds a shirt. There’s a few holes and bleach stains on it, but it’s coverage you desperately need, and you accept it.

David turns around for your sake, granting you privacy. “We should get you something else to wear,” he mutters. ”Just in case.”

You shrug even though he can’t see you. “I have stuff at home.”

“And what about the next time this happens spontaneously ?”

“You think there's a next time?” you ask, popping your head through the shirt hole. You fluff your hair. 

“I can hope,” he states, equally as sarcastic.

“I didn’t mean…” 

“I know.” David turns, assessing you. “That’s just how you are, isn’t it, sunshine?”

“And you’re such a Lisa Frank painting.”

He smiles. “With unicorns.” 

You snort, covering your mouth again. 

David’s amusement simmers in those baby blues of his, lifting the corners of his mouth. “So, what about it?”

“What?” you ask. David gestures with his hand. “Shopping? You’re serious? I told you, I can get more from home.” 

“Might be nice to have something different. Something that’s not so …”

“Dowdy?” you challenged.

“I was going to say ‘modest,’ but that works too.” David scratches his ear. “You can think of it as a date.”

“A date?” You cross your arms. “Like, a you and me thing?”

“That was the idea.”

A date.

A date with David .

Hi, powder keg, meet flame!

Being alone with him like this had been hard enough, but being alone-alone? Unchaperoned? Unsupervised? Your heart might just give out.

Still, it thrills you more than any motorcycle ride ever could. Gaining David’s undivided attention is like ketamine injected into your veins. You crave it so much it scares you.

You toss your hair to one side, masking your nerves behind a wall of taunt. “Is this your way of proving you’re better than the others?”

“After everything you’ve seen so far, do you really think that we aren’t okay sharing?”

Your heart skips a beat. There wasn’t an ounce of derision in his tone, no mocking—beyond what you’d already dished out—to be found. 

“I guess not.” You drag your fingers across a leather jacket draped across the back of a chair. “Let's do it then. Go out. On a date."

God, can you flub this any more?

But David must find you endearing because he doesn't crack.

“Let’s.”

He pulls the leather jacket off the chair and hands it to you. It’s a few sizes too big and smells of cigarette smoke and Lexol. 

“For the ride,” he says. 

The boys watch you curiously as you re-enter the main cave. Toward the back of the room, Star’s curtains flutter. You can’t see her, but you’re sure she’s watching. David leads you down the slope with his hand against the small of your back. 

“We’re going out,” he says. “You boys should grab something to eat.”

“Have fun,” Paul teases. 

Amazingly, the bikes were exactly where the boys left them the night prior, right on top of the Bluff. David claims his. There’s something so effortlessly cool in the way he does it that you’re consumed with half-jealousy, half-awe. 

“You sure there’s not another way we can get to town?” you ask. “You guys don’t have a station wagon hidden behind those trees, do you? I hear the bus system in Santa Carla is supposed to be top rate.”

“Don’t tell me you’re standing me up, Emerson.” David cocks his head, sliding his hands over his thighs.

You cringe. “Can you promise me you won’t go too rough?”

David sighs. “For now…” He offers his hand, which you accept. Your fingers slide into his palm as he pulls you around behind him, not unlike a gentleman leading you in a dance. 

You suppress a snort. David and gentleman didn’t belong in the same zip code. Still, it’s probably not the smartest thing—taunting the driver of the motorcycle you’re on—to tease him for that, and you keep it to yourself. 

You embrace him and rest your chin against his shoulder. He rolls his eyes. “You’re testing my self control, you know?”

“That sounds dangerous,” you quip.

The bike roars to life, drowning out his reply:

“You are.”

“I think that’s the best Chinese I’ve had in years,” you say, swinging your little bag of thrifted clothes as you walk beside him. 

“Mr. Zhang knows his stuff,” he says.

Neither of you ate a lot, but you didn’t feel right asking David about it, in case he asked you too. Not that the food wasn’t good—it was delicious. But your stomach flip-flopped the whole time. Probably nerves. Even after the ordeal that was last night and David ‘buying’ (you’re pretty sure there were things in your bag that he got with a five finger discount) you some outfits, being around him was like orbiting the sun when you're made of wax.

“So,” you start. David’s hand brushes the back of yours, and you return the nudge. He turns his palm and slots his fingers through yours. “Where to next?”

“I have an idea,” he admits. “We’d need to kill some time, though.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“Not a chance.” 

You pout. “You’re not going to murder me, right?”

“If I was, it wouldn’t be smart of me to tell you.”

“Not like I could do anything to stop you.”

David shrugs. “You’re very skilled at avoiding me when you want. I’m sure you’d escape.”

Ouch. Direct hit. He’s getting really good at throwing those back, and you can’t say you don’t deserve it. 

You squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I don’t feel like running right now.”

David hums. He looks up at the sky, which is astoundingly clear tonight. The moon shines like a beacon. He returns your squeeze, dragging his thumb over the ridges of your knuckles.

“I guess I’m doing a good job at behaving.”

“Me, too,” you laugh.

David smiles and your insides quiver. He’s handsome, always has been; but there’s something mystical about him when he grins without a trace of mockery. He really is the sun. So bright, so intense, but one look from him and you blossom.

Together you round the corner, approaching a quieter street with less storefront lights and chatter. Santa Carla doesn’t have much to offer away from the Boardwalk and the Pier, so you were surprised when he brought you to this side of town. The old shops are shack-like, painted barn-red and sky-blue. Most of them are mom and pop shops: there’s a grocer, a diner, the old chinese restaurant, and the thrift. Seashells peek through the cracked cement—someone’s bright idea of making this strip festive, you guess—and bits of sand have blown over the dunes to fill in the gaps. 

“You like books, yeah?” David asks.

“A bit.”

He ingests the answer thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “I might know a place. It’s not an overpriced tourist trap like the one on the boardwalk, either. We could go there next?”

“Now you’re spoiling me.” You dare to lay your head on his shoulder. You move it off him just as fast. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“You don’t need to deserve it,” says David. “But, I think it’s important I make up for the misunderstanding earlier.”

“That wasn’t—” you sigh, and stare at the sand-pit below your feet. “You don’t have to make up for something that’s not your fault. It’s my stupid brain.”

You arrive at the alley where David had parked his bike. A rush of warm, salty air blusters past you, rustling your hair and David’s coat. The metal glints under the street lamps.

“I’m sure your ‘stupid brain’ wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions if someone had been there when you woke up.” David tugs on a strand of your hair. “That is my fault. I thought they would misbehave if I let them stay longer.”

“They didn’t do anything I didn’t want,” you say softly.

“Good.”

You tighten your grip on his hand and take a breath. The question of why sat on the tip of your tongue. Why didn’t he join in? Why didn’t he have his ruthless way with you? If there were any regrets from last night, it was that, as unrelentingly shameful as it was. How could you not be satisfied with three gorgeous men ravaging you—three men who hadn’t acted selfishly, either. Your pleasure had never been an afterthought, which none of your friends in Phoenix could say about their boyfriends. 

Instead, you say, “Tell me about yourself, David.”

He releases you and sits side-saddle on his bike. “What’s to know?”

“Lots of things,” you laugh. “What’s your last name?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I don’t have one I claim,” he clarifies.

“Well, what’s it say on your birth certificate?”

“Don’t have one of those, either.”

“Shut up,” you say. “How is that possible?”

David looks away, and your heart sinks into your stomach. His silence is a knife. When he speaks, it’s with great slowness, “I’m not exactly supposed to be here.”

“Oh.” You rock back on your heels and turn away. You're such a dumbass. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.” David plays with the fresh cigarette he stashed behind his ear before you left the cave. "Not all of us are as lucky as you."

There's not a trace of resentment anywhere to be found as he says this. His truth is unburdened by jealousy or contempt; you could swear he's nostalgic.

"I wish you could have been lucky, too."

"I was, in my own way." He leans back and assesses you from head to toe. “You remind me of someone I knew back then."

“Yeah?” You grimace. "Is that a good thing?"

“I think it is. It’s one of the first things I noticed about you.”

"I'm afraid to ask what the others were."

"I don't promise to answer truthfully, either."

You scoff playfully, and yet, your stomach twinges with melancholy. "What happened to them?"

"She died," he says.

"I'm sorry."

David humors you with a small smile, but it’s distant like his mind. “‘You do not know how longingly I look upon you,’” he starts.

He reaches for you, the tips of his leather clad fingers grazing yours until you give your hand to him. “‘You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return.’”

David interlaces your fingers with his. “‘I am not to speak to you. I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone. I am to wait.’” He pauses, “‘I do not doubt I am to meet you again. I am to see to it that I do not lose you.’”

Finally, he looks away with a roll of his eyes, as if he was embarrassed by himself.

You swallow thickly. “Who…?”

“Walt Whitman,” he confesses. 

“Oh.”

“That ... is the second thing I thought of." He huffs through his nose. "You acted like you hated us."

"I didn't know you," you insist. "But one look at me, and I drove you to poetry?"

“You reminded me—” He stops short, drops his hand from yours, but you’re already closing the distance. “I’m not a good writer, Emerson. I don’t have any original words to woo you with.”

“I don’t care.”

David swallows. There’s a chink missing from his armor, and you catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “You’re looking at me really funny.”

“How?” 

“Like you might actually like me.”

“There’s a chance,” you admit. “Don’t tell anyone.”

David shakes his head. “That’s going to be hard.”

When did he start whispering? And when did you get so close? You couldn’t fight the magnetic pull guiding you toward him anymore than you could fight gravity. You were going to kiss him.

At least, you were until David stopped you. 

“What—?”

A firm hand on your wrist silences you. David stands. He stares past you, down the alley, where the street lamp illuminates the crumbling sidewalk. 

A man stalls near the mouth, tall and broad. It takes a blink, but you recognize the figure. He’s carrying a bouquet. 

“Max?”

Though you’re sure you say that under your breath, Max acknowledges you with that jovial smile of his.

“Ah—good evening,” he cheers. David steps in front of you, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “David, it’s nice to see you out and about. What are your brothers up to?”

“They went to the boardwalk,” he says lazily.

You tear your eyes away from Max to look at David, but he won’t meet your eye. 

“I’m on my way to your house, now,” says Max, addressing you again. “I picked these for your mother. Do you think she’ll like them?”

“They’re beautiful,” you stammer.

You start to speak again, but David cuts you off. “We were just about to go.”

“Ah. Yes, I should do that, too. I’d hate to keep Lucy waiting.”

“Your date must have gone well last night,” you call out. David tenses.

Max pauses, laughing nervously.

“This is take two, I’m afraid,” Max says. “Luck hasn’t been on my side as of late. I’m a bit out of practice with this, er, dating thing. But I’m glad to see the two of you are getting along. I’ll pass it along to your mother. Will Michael be joining you tonight?”

David gives you a look, and alarm bells blare inside your head. “Oh, I’m not sure," you say. "Is he, David?”

Max waits, eager to hear as well.

“He has plans with Star,” David says tightly.

“Very well.” Max checks his watch, “I really must be going. You kids have a great time. Don’t stay out too late.”

But David is already climbing onto his bike. He doesn’t wait for you to take his hand this time; he pulls you by the arm, and your only choice is to get on the bike or topple over it. You don’t even see Max leave. 

“You know Max,” you say.

But David revs his engine loud enough to drown you out. The bike rumbles furiously beneath you and he pulls out in lieu of an answer. The summer air is a razor to your face as David weaves through the Santa Carla streets, disobeying every traffic law in the book. But you’re beyond caring; a newfound dread usurps any fear you could have had.

“David,” you call, “how do you know Max?”

“It’s nothing.”

“David.”

Still he doesn’t answer.

“David, pull over right now or I’ll jump off!”

You feel his chest rumble, and he speeds up to call your bluff. You may have been terrified of bikes, but you were nothing if not stubborn. You unwind your arms from around him, barely even lifting the pressure off his waist, and David abruptly pulls off the main road.

The bike skids to a stop into the grassy, sandy strip of trees just beyond the last lights of the city. 

David whirls around to look at you, his face contorted in anger. “Are you crazy ?!”

Your head spins from the encounter. Too many thoughts in your head, all of them shouting, clamoring to be heard; a chorus of why? and how? crudely bounce in the echo chamber of your mind. A mystery lies in front of you, and you fear you’ve already found more than enough clues to come to a conclusion. 

​​I wish my boys had someone like you around. Maybe you could knock some sense into them.

You have sons?

Oh, yes. They’re reckless. As untamed as wild horses.

… Where are your brothers up to?

“Max is your dad,” you say.

David blinks, still appalled at your almost-stunt. “What?”

“Max—he’s your dad.” You get off the bike, pacing. “He told me he was a father … And you said you didn’t have any parents.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“Answer my question, David.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, and looks away into the trees. “He’s not my birth father.”

“Your adopted dad, then,” you huff.

David’s jaw flexes. He tightens his grip on the handlebars, and you wonder if he’s debating on leaving you here. 

“Am I wrong?”

“Why do you care?” David sputters.

“Because you lied .”

"I didn't lie!" David’s mouth tightens. “He’s more like a benefactor.”

You scoff, and pace back and forth. “Unbelievable.”

David says your name, but you’re too angry to care.

“So what was all that crap you fed me last night? A few minutes ago? Huh?”

“I didn’t lie to you," he says again.

“Yes, you did! You said you had no one but each other.”

“And that’s all we do have! Max doesn’t give a damn about me.”

But you're fired up, and his excuses glance off you. “Putting aside the getting into my pants bit, do you know how royally fucked up it was not to tell me? He’s dating my mom .”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with this!”

“It does if you hate the guy so much that you’re willing to break them up!”

He scoffs, slamming his hand against the handlebars. “And how would I do that, sunshine?”

“This!” You gesture between the two of you. “You—me—sex! You want to mess with him!”

“No, I don’t.” David flips his kickstand down and is in front of you in seconds. “Not like this, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t believe you.”

“Why are you always looking for an excuse for this?”

“Because!”

“Because you can’t accept that maybe, just maybe, I like you?”

“Yes!”

David grabs your nape and kisses you, hard. 

You don’t even realize you’re kissing him back until he has you against a tree, and all those latent feelings arise from their hiding places. You grip his coat as he holds your face, kissing you with a hunger that hadn’t been satiated last night. His mouth tastes faintly metallic and you realize you must have re-opened the wound you caused last night. The tang of his blood ignites your senses. Every hair stands on end. You moan. David breaks away.

“Max has nothing to do with the way I want you,” he rasps. His mouth grazes yours as he speaks. 

It dawns on you that there’s no possible way it could. David couldn’t have known about Max and your mom until last night, their first date. He and the others had been a fixture in your Santa Carla life almost from the beginning. 

“Do you understand me?” You don't answer fast enough, because David speaks again, "Do you?" 

You nod, utterly speechless

David flicks his gaze down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, and kisses you again. Your body conforms to the contours of his, moving when he moves, breathing when he allows you, until all of it belongs to him and him alone. 

“Please,” you gasp.

“Yeah?” He nips your bottom lip. “More?”

“Please.”

“Another word, sweetheart. A real one. Tell me.”

“I want you. All of you.”

‘All of him’ presses snugly against your pelvis, giving you the courage you needed to beg. Despite that tough guy act, he was held together by a singular, fraying string.

“I need to feel you in me,” you breathe.

He grasps your waist, hands delving beneath your denim to play with your pussy. You’re sensitive from last night, and it’s embarrassing how wet you get from a little manhandling. But it’s not just anyone doing it—it’s David. And you have always been putty for him, no matter how hard you’ve fought it.

“Lift your hips.”

He moves your shorts down just enough to where he has full access and unfastens his pants.

It occurs to you, vaguely, that you’re barely out of sight from the road. Anyone could drive by and see you, anyone could stop to check—a good samaritan thinking you broke down or something—and you should have been horrified. But David sinks himself into you, and you forget all about that.

You paw at his back as he drives into you, slow to start, gradually building depth and rhythm. Still, it’s sloppy. A bit uncoordinated, and whether that’s because of the clothes, the location, or your mutual desperation you don’t know. 

All you know is that you’re whole.

The missing piece has clicked into place; your silent wish fulfilled, even if it was away from the others. 

David grabs your throat, pushing your jaw upward. Stars fill your eyes as he kisses your pulse point, and you choke on a moan when he drags his teeth across the fragile skin. 

“D-David,” you moan.

You yearn to ask him— bite me! Please, please, please bite me!  

You’ve never craved pain before this, never fantasized about teeth and blood until you felt his. It’s only fair, isn’t it? You drew first blood, now it’s his turn. 

“Ah!” Your voice breaks, eyes rolling when he sucks your sensitive spot below your ear. “More.”

David delivers, but not in the way you secretly wanted him to. His fucks you like he owns you, hiking one leg higher over his hip to reach a place that might be Heaven. 

“I-I’m going to—”

“Do it. Let go,” David grunts.

There’s something about his voice—about his eyes—when he says that. There’s a pulse. That once strong, but distant, cord of pleasure suddenly ripped through you, like the invisible string had been pulled tight by David’s leather-clad grip. It’s a rush; less of a tumble and more like you’ve been shoved head first off a building. You cum with a moan.

David swears. He isn’t far behind you, working himself into you as you wade through the aftershocks of your climax. He cums, not bothering to remove himself from your pussy as he did so. You’re glad. If he had, you might have begged him to go again. You still could. David has an allure about him, his touch, even his smell, is a drug that you’re afraid you’ve become addicted to. 

The hand on your throat moves to your cheek. David rests his forehead against yours. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.” He kisses your forehead. When he's caught his breath, he kisses your cheeks and slowly withdraws from your sex. He fixes your clothes. "I'm ... I didn't mean to make it sound like a lie."

"I believe you," you say. The rage lingers like a bruise, but you'll put it aside for now. "Can we go back to the cave?"

"Yeah. Of course."

The surprise date would have to wait for another day. Once you're as clean as you can be, you load onto David's bike and he takes the long way home.

The boys are back when you arrive; belly’s full and raucous as ever. Their laughter carries through the rocky halls, spilling out and mingling with the ocean’s roar like ghosts on the wind. 

You pet your hair self-consciously, praying it doesn’t look like a rats nest, and hoping they don’t notice your strange walk. 

David keeps an arm around your waist. He squeezes your hip reassuringly. Six eyes turn your way, each accompanied by toothy grins.

“So,” Marko drawls, “how was it?”

You turn on your heel to march back the way you came, but David you back into his arms, capturing you in his embrace.

“Classy, Marko,” David snarks.

Time blurs the longer you’re with your boys. Memories bleed into one another like an inkblot soaking into a page, seeping into a single, endless night. The coming daylight existed as a cruel reminder that you’d have to abandon your recklessness eventually, return to the dreadfully boring life you lead before. You hated it, and prayed it would stay away for as long as possible.

It’s the first time you’ve truly felt alive. Like someone finally flipped on the flashlight, illuminating a path ahead. Your once murky, dismal future appeared with razor sharp clarity, and it involved all four of them. 

They made you try on the new clothes first, stating it’s only fair since they hadn’t been there to help you choose. Everyone approved of your picks. They’re the sort of clothes you’d always dreamed of wearing, in your secret heart of hearts. Bold, daring, and racy. Clothes that didn’t make you look like someone’s grandmother; clothes that turned heads. More specifically, the Lost Boys’ heads, which were the only people you really cared about impressing anyway.

Next, Marko insisted on helping you modify your jacket. 

“Am I not allowed in your club until I’m fully customized?” you quipped.

“Something like that.”

They had accumulated heaps of fabrics, buttons, patches, and baubles; paints, spikes, and pins overflowed from their buckets, and they all took turns picking out pretty little charms to add to the chain Marko secured around the homemade epaulets. He embroiders blue feathers down your sleeves, like falling plumage in hues of cornflower, periwinkle, and cerulean. Together you cut up the back and used excess leather and ribbons to cinch it tighter, like a corset, so the once oversized and shapeless form now fit you like a glove. 

There was more. More stolen kisses, more weed, more of that peculiar wine poured in tiny dixie cups. 

“What is this stuff, anyway?” you asked David.

“Blood.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me.” You downed it, savoring its taste. “Whatever it is, you can’t even taste the alcohol.”

Paul would whirl you around the fountain as you jammed to his rock box and still spontaneously burst into bouts of Pretty Woman , or Be My Baby , or My Girl in his own hair-metal way. The boys and Laddie had no sympathy for you, finding it utterly hilarious, especially when you inevitably melted into a pile of sheepish goo.

Dwayne would only save you if you agreed to hop on his skateboard—no, not a euphemism—and let him teach you. The grin on his face when you could finally hold your own without falling was criminal. Just wait until you can do a kick flip, he might cry.

It’s as close to Utopia as you could find in Santa Carla; your very own Neverland. 

You've never felt more different in your life.

You've never felt more yourself than in that cave.

You’re waiting for Laddie to come back with his spinning tops when Marko and Paul slide up beside you, pulling you onto your feet.

“Can I help you?” you ask, half-heartedly struggling against them.

“We were just thinking,” starts Paul.

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

He pouts.

Marko doesn’t beat around the bush. “You need to learn how to ride a motorcycle.”

“Ha!” You unwind your arms from theirs. “No.”

But they catch you, weaving their arms around you so you can’t escape. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” says Paul. “Relax, girl.”

“I don’t think road rash is fun.” You rotate your wrist and add, “Or plaster casts.”

“We wouldn’t let you get hurt,” says Marko.

“Like you can prevent that.”

“We happen to be excellent teachers, honey.”

“Ye of little faith,” taunts Paul.

"Look, I've already tried to ride a bike and almost killed myself. So thanks but no thanks."

"Yeah, but that was when Mikey was your teacher," says Paul. He uses your brother's nickname like a slur.

Marko adds, "We've been riding these things since before he was born."

Oh, god. The ego driving pissing contest. "You're not going to let me get out of this, are you?"

Paul shakes his head.

And on they drag you, away from the safety of the cave up the aging wood steps to their rides from hell. It's like marching to your own death.

“Do you guys hate your motorcycles so much that you’ll let me, of all people, drive them?”

“No,” drawls Paul. “We like you so much that we want you to drive our motorcycles."

“What would you do if somethin’ bad went down and we needed help, huh?” asks Marko.

“I’d wait for the bus,” you say dryly. 

Marko slaps the handlebars of a bike. “You’re not getting out of this, honey. Hop on Paul’s bike.”

Paul’s face falls. “My bike?”

“Ha!” You point in Paul's face. “See?! Hang on to that picture of mangled metal. It’s a premonition.”

Marko gives him a look. Paul’s eyebrows shoot up and he gestures toward the bike, but Marko doesn’t let up.

Paul sighs, begrudgingly complying with a tone that could only be describes as child-forced-to-eat-vegetables: “Hop on.”

So much for fear, huh?

You sling your leg over the seat, shifting uncomfortably. It’s got a similar make up to Michael’s Honda, but there are a lot more bells and whistles to contend with. Paul settles in behind you, taking full advantage of the position by scooting as close as possible.

“Hey, sweet thing,” he coos. 

The man's libido is truly something. In ten seconds flat, he forgot all about the very high likelihood of you wrecking his pwecious baby .

Your wring your hands together, too anxious to touch more than you already were. “I don’t know about this, guys. Seriously. Maybe we should wait until it’s daylight, o-or grab someone else. Like Dwayne. Or David.”

Someone who isn’t a certified terror .

“Paulie ain’t gonna let you crash,” says Marko, slapping the handlebars.

The bike jiggles, giving you the opposite of reassurance. 

“I’ll keep you real safe,” Paul assures you.

Oh, joy.

You’re shaking as Paul and Marko instruct you on how to start the bike, but phrases like use the clutchand don't flood the engine mean nothing to you. Paul has to be the one keeping it steady. There’s no other explanation why it didn’t tip over immediately.

Paul lays his hands over yours when you start the engine. His grip is sturdy. In that moment, he's as good as God in your eyes. Or, he would be if you could see him.

He doesn’t force you to go fast, which is a small, merciful, win as you loop around Hundson’s Bluff, the road, and back. The wheels jostle as you go over rocks and uneven terrain, but it takes each turn like a champ.

They make you do about a dozen more loops before Paul forces you to do it by yourself.

With sweaty palms, you jerk into a turn and head back for the road.

It’s … not as bad as you imagined it would be. You gradually take the turns faster, moving from a snail’s pace to a semi-acceptable road speed. 

The two of them whoop and shout like fans at a sporting event, and even you can’t help but laugh. You’re doing it. You’re riding a motorcycle—and you’re not crashing. The landscape blends into varying hues of black and gray, and the constant rumble from the bike is almost soothing.

You come to a shaky stop in front of them, a smile plastered on your face. You’ve barely killed the engine and flipped the kickstand down when Paul surges forward and kisses you. 

“God, that was so sexy!”

“Shouldda brought a camera,” Marko mumbles, biting his thumb. His dark eyes dart over your figure, still straddling the bike. “You’re like a centerfold waiting to happen.”

Paul pinches your chin. “We need less clothes for that.”

You gulp, chest heaving from the exhilaration and something else. You push your hair back and wet your lips, looking between the two of them. “I guess it’s not so bad when you don’t crash. Like flying.”

“Hell yeah,” Paul cheers.

Marko’s grin is razor sharp. “Exciting, yeah?”

“I can’t stop shaking,” you admit. But they were good shakes, tremors of adrenaline, greater than any high their weed could formulate. 

“You look excited,” Marko muses.

You must be made of glass for him to notice your transparency.

Paul stares down at you with those forget-me-not eyes of his, worrying his pretty bottom lip until it’s pink. He’d been no help. It’s partly his fault you’re all wound up in the first place. 

You squirm against the seat, ultra aware of the tingling between your legs. It started as a tickle as the rush of successfully riding a bike thrummed through your veins. Having Paul’s budding erection snug against your ass, and the vibrations from the bike pressed right against your bundle of nerves, motivated your libido to rocket skyhigh. 

“You’re horny, baby?” Paul asks rhetorically.

You swear everything quiets, even the wind, just enough to make your heartbeat thunderous. You don’t mean to grind against Paul’s bike, but when you shift forward it shoots fireworks of pleasure through you.

You glance between them, and step into the deep end. “What are you going to do about it?”

All it takes is a look. Barely a nod. Paul and Marko move in sync, hauling you onto your feet and shoving your leather jacket off. Marko meets your mouth half way. He’s fiery, keeping one hand on your throat while the other pushes your embarrassingly short shorts aside. Paul kisses your jaw, groping your breasts through your shirt, teasing your nipples until they’re stiff.

Marko turns you around, and you finally catch a good look of poor, needy Paul. He’s palming himself through his pants, lips parted, like he’s moments away from kissing you himself.

But Marko doesn’t let that happen. He bends you over the bike, smacking your ass as you go down. You’re eye-level with Paul’s bulge, your middle squished awkwardly against the seat and ass hiked way up. With your shorts pulled to the side, there’s nothing between you and Marko.

“Look at you,” Marko whistles. He sinks a couple of fingers inside your dripping pussy as Paul undoes his pants. “You gonna let Paul and I have our fun now?”

You nod, gasping as he twists his fingers just right. “Yes!”

Paul strokes his shaft with one hand and pets your head with the other. “Be a good girl and lick it, yeah?”

He looks like he really needs it, too. Somehow, even though you’re in the dark with barely even the moon to light your path, you can see him perfectly. His tip is the same pretty pink shade of his lips; a pearl of precum blossoms out of his slit.

You stick your tongue out flat and slowly lap over his head. Paul’s breath hitches, and he eases forward, breaching the tight, wet suction of your mouth as Marko pushes inside you.

You whimper. You hadn’t even noticed Marko’s hand leaving your cunt, it felt like it happened so fast. And now, his cock bullied its way into your hole. It’s thicker than you remember— mean how it stretches you open even though you’re dripping. 

“Oh, fuck,” Marko hisses.

Paul is beyond words, possibly because you can’t stop making noises as you breathe him in. 

Crass as it is, it’s strange being filled at all ends. Yes, they’ve done it before, but you had been so far gone that it seemed like a distant dream. But this is real. This, Paul in your mouth and Marko in your pussy, is grounding. 

And then, they begin to move.

They’re overeager, and if you weren’t as much of a mess you would have made fun of them for how horny they got seeing you on a motorcycle. Yet, knowing you’re the one that riled them up that way is an aphrodisiac on its own.

Marko jerks your clit like it was a toy to be played with as he slams into you, forcing you to take every inch he had to offer. He doesn’t talk much—not like Paul, who talks enough for both of them—but his grunts and groans are sublimely erotic. 

“Doin’ so good, baby, just like that,” Paul mumbles. You bob your head faster, uncaring of the drool seeping from the corners of your mouth. “God, you’re so fucking pretty like this. Looking up at me as you suck on my dick— fu-uck! ”

Marko pulls out abruptly, and tugs you off Paul’s cock by your hair. The absence of him inside aches like a stab wound. You have to arch against Marko to satisfy the pull on your roots, and Marko takes advantage by kissing your cheek.

“Straddle the bike, honey,” he orders. 

Clumsily, you swing your leg back over Paul’s bike, but a sharp jerk on your hair keeps you from sitting.

“Marko!” you whine.

“Almost, honey.” Marko kisses his teeth. “You wanna shake? I can give you something to shake about. It’ll be the best ride you’ve ever had.”

Paul turns your head and kisses you as Marko’s fingers probe your needy pussy. He rolls your clit, starting slow then building up speed as Paul’s hand slides over the globes of your ass. Paul reaches your cunt from behind and pushes two fingers inside.

It’s the strangest sensation, more so than their cocks. Two hands, completely disconnected from each other, different sizes, different shapes; and yet they come together to build a matching, punishing pace.

It’s too much.

You break free of Paul’s kiss with a gasp. You’ve never been drawn to watching yourself be gratified, and yet you can’t look away from their hands as they undulate under your shorts. Open mouthed and glassy eyed, you sob. Your knees quake, threatening to buckle and send you crashing onto the seat of the bike.

“W-Wait, I feel—” Indescribable. The sensation is unlike any orgasm build up you’ve experienced prior. You’re not even sure it is an orgasm. It feels wrong, a rising tsunami as opposed to a crashing wave. “S-Sto—ah—it’s—!”

They don’t stop. Paul’s fingers hit just the right angle as Marko rubs your clit, and you climax so hard your vision goes white. Something gushes out of you, and for a couple of horrified moments—once you’re actually coherent—you’re positive you’ve pissed yourself. 

You expect disgust. You don’t expect to see Marko beaming. 

“Oh, fuck,” Paul moans. “Squirted all over my bike, didn’t you baby? Such a good fucking girl.”

You don’t have the time, or the ability, to ask what that means. Marko rips you off Paul’s bike and shoves you backward, onto another. You land like a ragdoll, limp-limbed and bobble-headed; too disoriented to see straight. The kickstand groans, but the bike doesn’t tip. 

Luckily, Paul appears behind you, being the solid wall that keeps you from dropping over the edge of the cliff. Marko hikes your knees to your chest.

Marko enters you with a low, drawn out fuuuck . You gasp, clutching his jacket. He reminds you of an ancient statue in all his ecstasy, head tipped toward the gods, curls cascading down his shoulder, his back. He might as well be carved from marble.

You reach behind you and take Paul’s cock, fervently stroking him as Marko pummels your pussy. 

They take turns kissing you. Marko first, all tongue and teeth, then Paul, who uses your mouth as a confessional. He mutters fragmented, sinful words that slur and break whenever your thumb teases his slit. Marko butts in again, and you can feel how close he is. His thrusts are sloppy, his breathing ragged.

Paul rests his head on Marko’s shoulder and watches the lurid scene between your legs.

Marko cums with a grunt, sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck. You yelp. The twinge of pain burns, but Paul is quick to kiss you, distracting you from the pain. Marko must have drawn blood because he soothes his tongue over the divots as something wet dribbles down your clavicle.

" Oh ," you moan. That pleasurable pain threatens to do you in a second time; you're already so thoroughly fucked and wound up that a little bit of agony goes a long way. 

It fuels a second wind. You twist onto your belly, laying across Marko's bike so you're down in front of Paul, and you swallow his length. It's akin to being drunk, that belligerent sensation of invincibility and craving . Paul is weak from skirting the brink for this long, it doesn't take much to force him over the edge. Paul's breath hitches, too far gone to even whimper before he floods your mouth with his cum.

“Aw, look at you. You take cock so well,” Marko croons. He pushes your head further down Paul’s shaft. “You’re gonna swallow it all, right? Since you’re so hungry for it?”

You gulp it down and stare at Paul through your lashes. Tears of pleasure stream down your face. 

“Fuckin’ hell, dude,” Paul groans when he's capable of human speech again. 

Marko relents and you drag yourself off Paul's cock with a cough. You're hypersensitive to the strain in your body, now. You sag against Marko's bike, and Marko embraces you.

“Need a shower,” you grumble. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Feel like a used sock.”

“What?" Marko snickers.

"Like a cum—never mind."

You're too tired to explain yourself.

“Oh, fuck, gimme a minute, man.” Paul runs his hand over his face. “Jesus.”

Paul grumbles something along the lines of having his life sucked out of his penis, but it's mostly gibberish. Marko noses your temple, rubbing soothing circles against your hips until you come back to yourself.

You pull your shorts back into place, cringing as the wet slip of denim grazes your pussy.

“I’m have to throw these away,” you lament. They were one of your favorites, too. Homemade from an old pair of your mother's and ultra soft from years of use. Damn. 

“Why don’t you take ‘em off," Marko murmurs. "Then we can really get that centerfold look we were talking about.”

You’ve never had a better bath in your life. Sure, the water is lukewarm—the boys siphoned hot water off someone else’s tank since the hotel didn’t have power—and you don't have nearly enough bubbles to make it fun, but the tub is massive. A porcelain clawfoot monstrosity that probably cost a small fortune in today’s money, much like all the other antiques junking up the Lost Boys' cave.

It takes a while to get fully clean, and you guiltily stole some of Star’s hair products. (You absolutely needed a head-to-toe wash after your time with the guys.) But with every layer of grime, you are made anew. 

When all is said and done, exhaustion seeps into your pores. You're tempted to fall asleep in the water just like that, but you've survived a motorcycle tonight. You're not about to be taken out by a little bit of liquid.

Through the twisting hallways of the cave, you wander back to your bedroom with nothing but a single candle to light the way. Your eyelids droop and brain tingles with the allure of unconsciousness. A sweet, tv-snow like fuzz hazes over most coherent thoughts. It's a miracle you make it without passing out.

Dwayne lays in your bed, one arm behind his head, the other propping Pirate up against his stomach. He glances at you.

You must look truly ran through, because he says, “I can go."

“Please don’t.” You drape your robe and hair towel over the banister and climb into bed. “I ... I'd like it if you stayed.”

Dwayne nods, shifting around the sheets to make room for you. The bed is big enough for you both, and then some, so it wasn't necessary. Still, it's sweet . You settle beside him, mindful of your glasses as you lay. You've never noticed how dark his irises were. If someone had taken the entire night sky, bottled it, and squeezed them into two teaspoons, it still wasn't as black and fathomless as Dwayne's eyes. They're an abyss you could fall into, drift away, and never worry about anything ever again. You study his cheeks, his jaw, all the way down to the curve of his shoulder.

"You sure you don't wanna sleep?" he asks.

"Eventually. I'll try not to when you're here."

Dwayne makes a face. "Wouldn't mind if you did."

You hum and drag your finger over his collarbone. “How’s the bite?”

“Huh?”

Remembering it makes you want to spontaneously combust. You peel his leather jacket off one shoulder, observing more of him. “I thought I drew blood. Wanted to see how bad it really was.”

But the only thing on Dwayne’s neck were a couple of well-hidden freckles that you had to squint to see in the candle light. Everything else was smooth. Unfairly unblemished for someone his age.

“See? Nothin’ to worry about.”

“But, I swore I…” You shake your head, stroking his skin. “I guess I was pretty messed up. I’m glad I didn’t hurt you.”

“Not possible,” says Dwayne. He kisses the tips of your fingers, wearing that handsome almost-smile of his. “Did you have a good night?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “Paul and Marko made me practice riding.”

“And you live to tell the tale. Proud of you.”

“Guess it’s not too bad when I have a real teacher.” You remove your glasses and plop them on the bedside table. “Or two."

"I can teach you. If you want." He coils a strand of your hair around his finger. "Some other time."

"I might like that."

His eyebrows twitch inward. "You sure you didn't hit your head?"

"Now that you mention it..."

Dwayne chortles. His chest rumbles warmly. "I'll start looking for parts."

"For what?"

"Your new bike," he says simply.

"You're hilarious," you deadpan. "It'll be a long time before I even think about something like that. I'm leaning toward 'never.'"

Dwayne hums, unimpressed.

"No, but ..." You snuggle closer and pick at your lip. "They were less intense than I thought they’d be. It was kinda fun.” 

“Surprised they didn’t keep you out there longer.”

You cringe. “You heard?”

“A little.”

Groaning, you scrunch your eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay.”

“I swear—I’m not usually like this."

“Even if you were, we wouldn’t care.”

You’re grateful that you can’t see him all that well, so even if a modicum of judgment lingered somewhere in his expression, you didn’t notice. “I don’t know what it is about you guys. You make me feel …”

“Weird?”

“Happy,” you correct. “Which is very weird in a ... kismet way. Like I don't need to try with you.”

“Who says it’s not?”

“Logic. Reality .”

"Two highly subjective things," Dwayne philosophizes. "Why can't it just be what it is? Easy."

You wrinkle your nose. You could make several self deprecating jokes about being easy, but you don't think Dwayne wants to hear that. Besides, things that are too easy are always suspect. 

"Thanks, by the way," you say, "for not being a total jerk."

Dwayne unspools the curl from around his finger. "Still a part of me that is, though?"

You fidget with the hem of your oversized shirt. “Well ... the Max part."

The air in the room thickens. Dwayne takes a measured breath. “David said you put it together.”

His acknowledgement opens the floodgates.

“How…? I mean, why…? Not that you guys don’t live in a sick place, but if Max is your guardian…?”

Dwayne quietly shrugs, turning his attention to the cheap stuffed animal on his abs. “It’s complicated.” 

That sinking feeling returns. They’re not telling you something—and you’ve only asked David and Dwayne about it. Marko would likely close ranks too, but Paul …

No. Even he has enough sense not to spill his guts, especially if the others get to him first. 

“Is he a good guy?” you ask. Dwayne drops Pirate’s arm. “At least give me that. My mom is involved with him. She doesn’t need another shitty man ruining her life.”

“Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean …” Dwayne trails off. “We chose to walk away, alright? He didn’t force us out or beat us or anything. ‘S a matter of differing opinions.” 

You sigh. Even if you push, you doubt Dwayne will give you more than he had.

“And it’s not weird to you? All of this?”

“No." He doesn't even pause. 

A man of few words. You suppose that’s all you would get out of him on the subject. You sigh again and lean your head against his chest. Dwayne pulls you closer, and rests his hand on your hip. 

“I have something for you,” he says after a long pause. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws something small and circular. It rattles pleasantly. It’s a bracelet of small, smooth crystals.

You graze your fingers over it. “Jasper?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s beautiful.” 

He fastens it around your wrist. “You like it?”

“I love it.” Tilting your head to the side, you kiss Dwayne. His lips are soft and welcoming, and you loath to pull away, but you do. “Thank you.”

Dwayne’s adam’s apple bobs. “If you could do this forever, would you?”

“Kiss you?” You grin.

He nudges his nose against yours. “That. Everything. Be here. With us.” 

“All four of you?”

He nods.

Humming, you say, “I don’t know. We have to get serious eventually. Grow up. Get jobs and pay taxes and make investments and worry about gas prices.” Dwayne pokes your ribs and you burst into laughter. “That’s how it goes! You guys will get sick of me eventually.”

“Not a chance, beautiful,” says Dwayne. “When we like something, we hold onto it for a very long time.”

“A very long time isn’t forever.”

“We haven’t gotten that far yet.” Dwayne adds, “But would you? If you didn’t need to grow up?”

Your mouth twitches, and you trail your fingers over his chest. If you try hard enough, you can picture it. It’s one of those fantasies you should keep to yourself, one that most adults would call a flight of fancy. Everyone grew up. But there is a time when everyone thinks of themselves as young, dumb, and immortal. You can see that. It’s a little cloudy, in a haze of smoke and premarital sex that would make the average American clutch their pearls, but it’s there: your endless night. 

“I would stay as long as you wanted,” you say. 

Dwayne embraces you, pulling you fully onto his chest. “Forever it is, then.”

You laugh, squirming as Dwayne prods your ribs again. The tussle ends with you on your back and him overtop. His long, black hair cascades around your face like a curtain. 

“I would like to go back to the kissing bit,” you say quietly. 

“So would I.”

Dwayne closes the distance between you. Kissing him is better than before, especially with his weight pressed solidly against you. 

“Dwayne,” you whisper. 

“You got all clean. Not gonna make you dirty again.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

His lips caress yours, tongue flirting with the seam of your mouth, and yet you can't focus on a damn thing other than his bulge. 

"You're hard," you say into the kiss.

Dwayne rolls his hips against yours, not denying the accusation in the slightest. What a barbaric way to taunt you. Despite your earlier exhaustion, every atom inside you perked up, eagerly anticipating what could come. 

Yet, Dwayne doesn't push your sleep shirt aside. He doesn't slide your panties aside. Doesn't even move to unbutton his jeans. 

But he does flip you both over, forcing you on top of him. Dwayne slides his hand over your ass and grips it. “I don’t need to be inside you to feel good.”

He parts your thighs just wide enough to press his thigh against your sex. 

“Use this for me, yeah?”

"W-What?"

"You know what to do," he assures you.

The brick of muscle snug against your clit taunts you like a punishment fit for Tartarus. The pressure is just right and simultaneously too far, too soft. Not enough. It creates a delicious form of agony, one where you try to buck your hips fast, but Dwayne holds you too tight, forcing you to go at his pace: languid .

"That's it," he says. "Hump my thigh, beautiful."

Rude, awful, horrible man!

You try to speed up again, only for Dwayne to foil the plot by stilling your pelvis. "Not fair," you grunt through gritted teeth. 

"Plenty fair. You're doing so good." He pulls you higher up his body. His hipbone caresses your swollen nub to your unfettered delight. He drags you, up and down, round and round, over the ridge of bone. "Just like that."

But chasing a high at this speed is like a dog chasing a car: so close yet so far. 

Dwayne undulates with you. He drags his cock over your thigh, and moans when the friction gets to him.

Then, you break. It's not a satisfying climax; it hurts. Your clit is too puffy, too overused, and the cotton of your underwear rubs it raw. Your pussy flutters around nothing—yearning for something —that it will not get. Still, it's pleasure. Unwanted, paltry pleasure and if you had the energy you would have torn Dwyane's pants right off and did the job yourself.

And yet, he might have been on to something. 

Overworked, you wither and practically collapse against Dwayne, utterly spent. You've been running on fumes for hours.

"That's it. You did perfect." He catches you under your arms and readjusts himself so your head rests comfortably against his sternum. "Knew you were tired."

"You didn't ..." you trail off. 

"Shush," he admonishes. "You can make it up to me some other time."

"Dwayne."

"Go to sleep."

You're halfway there without realizing it. You don't even realize you're nodding off until Dwayne shifts his weight, and you jerk awake. "Please stay."

"Not goin' anywhere," he says, and pulls the sheet over you. 

A hand covers your mouth. You jolt awake, a scream half-formed in your throat, but before it's born—

“Shhh!"

—an unfamiliar voice shushes you.

Panic subsides like a slow, creeping slug and your eyes adjust to the dark.

Dwayne is still sound asleep beside you, and though she's blurry, you recognize her silhouette.

Star messily slides your glasses into place, smudging the lens in the process, and you clamor to fix the arms over your ears. She holds a finger to her lips and removes her hand from your mouth. You exhale, no longer scared, but not exactly sure you shouldn't scream. After all, who barges in on someone like this?

Come with me, she mouths. Frowning, you obey.

The main cave is just as dark as your bedroom; none of the bonfires had been lit, and none of the boys seemed to be around yet. Like this, it's eerie. The shadows have eyes and long spindly fingers. Her heart leaps into your throat.

“We have to get you out of here,” Star breathes, “Michael—your whole family—they’re worried about you.”

“I'm fine,” you say. "They know where I am."

Maybe not what you're doing, but certainly where you are. 

“No they don’t.” 

Star thrusts piece of paper into your hands. It's unevenly folded, and you raise an eyebrow. When it's open, you recognize the black and white Xerox is a picture from last summer. Michael and Sam's faces are cropped out, but you see their hair and bits of their dimpled cheeks. There's a heading in big, bold letters.

MISSING, it reads, LAST SEEN AUGUST 13th, 1987. 

Below that, IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE CALL THE SANTA CARLA POLICE OR THE NUMBER BELOW.

It's not a new paper. It's weathered and creased, like someone had been compulsively folding and unfolding it. The top is ripped from a staple. 

“I don’t understand,” you stammer.

“You’ve been gone for a week,” says Star.

You step back. “No ... No, that’s impossible.” 

“Please, you have to come now, I need you to trust me. You are in danger.”

“Is this a prank?” you ask. You clutch the missing flyer between trembling fingers. “Because I don’t think it’s funny, Star.”

Star reaches for you, like she thought she could somehow drag you out of the cave, but you jerk away. Star’s face falls, her urgency fading into a glassy-eyed horror. 

“You drank it, didn’t you?”

“Drank what?”

She winces and turns around, pacing the floor. Her voice cracks when she says your name. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you talking about Star?”

“I can’t tell you, I don’t know how.” She sniffs, fisting her hair. “It’s all my fault. I should have told Michael sooner but I thought they’d kill him.”

“Who?” You shake your head. “You’re not making sense?”

“Star.”

You nearly scream for a second time. 

David stands by the fountain. Dwayne and Paul aren’t far behind him. Marko stands at the mouth of the cave, jaw clenched. You hadn’t noticed any of them come in. 

Star’s voice is thick as she whispers, “What have you done?”

“That’s enough, Star.” It’s a warning. The ferocity in his icy-blue eyes scares you. 

You press the missing flyer to your chest, inching away from both of them. “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?”

But David isn’t looking at you. His nostrils flare, aiming every iota of vitriol at Star. It terrifies you. This look that you’ve never seen before, this unadulterated, animalistic rage and fear. Star shrivels under his glare, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“David?” you whisper.

He blinks, glances at the ground, then back at Star. “Take Laddie to get something to eat.”

“David,” you say again.

“I want to talk to her alone,” David says.

“I made the mistake of leaving once,” Star starts, moving forward so she shields you from David. She balls her hands into fists, and you want to laugh at the absurdity of all of it. 

“And what more could we possibly do?” His impatience seeps into his tone, but so does a twinge of desperation. Star holds his gaze. Her mouth trembles. David sighs. “Just go. Tell Michael to come to the Boardwalk.”

It's the desperation that gives you pause. Star, too. She hesitates, and her hands uncurl, hanging limply at her side. Laddie pops his head out of the lacy curtains surrounding Star's head, apparently done pretending that he wasn't listening. He rushes past you to Star and clutches her skirt.

"Fine," she says. Star lays a on Laddie's back and guides him out of the cave. You feel her look back in your periphery, but you can't look away from David. 

Why is it that whenever you think you've unearthed the last secret from him, another pops out?

No, you won't let him weasel out of it. David starts to turn away from you but you bound after him. 

“Did you know about this?” you ask weakly, thrusting the flyer into his chest. 

David’s expression is impenetrable. He doesn't even look at the paper. “Yes.”

You release the breath you didn't know you were holding and drop your hand. David catches the flyer. Your grainy, toothy grin stares back at you with pity.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask. “I couldn't have been— that long? I thought—if I had known, I would have …”

David interrupts your stammering. “You were happy.”

“My mother thinks I ran away.”

“They would have learned the truth soon enough.”

“For once, can you please not talk in riddles!” you shout. “Why did Star wake me up to tell me I’m in danger?! What is going on?”

David carefully folds your missing flyer into fourths, taking his time to smooth out each crease before sticking it in his coat pocket. “And if I said it was nothing?”

“I’d leave,” you say.

The words ring through the cave. 

A vein in David's neck throbs. He sniffs. Nods.  Won't look up from the ground. "Fine. You'd learn the truth soon enough."

"Where are you taking me?"

David tosses a look over his shoulder, smiling thinly. It’s the sort of gloating face someone made when they sang I know something you don't know . 

"Around," says David. “We’re taking the scenic route.”

You should have expected an evasive answer. You're starting to regret this whole 'blind faith' thing. 

The ‘scenic route,’ as David called it, was nothing more than a long loop around the Boardwalk. You pass overpriced resort shops, jewelry kiosks that swear they won’t turn your fingers green, face painting stands, even a pickle shop, and still, David stops for nothing. None of them do. They’re just … strolling.

Marko slides a hand into your back pocket as you pass the Tilt-A-Whirl, and you jolt. He notices, unfortunately. It’s something you, on any other day, would have slapped him for. But you don’t. You tell yourself it’s for Michael’s sake and not because he’s a cute boy.

“Look,” he says. He nods towards a pastel-painted fudgery and ice cream parlor. "Treat time.” The cold air rushes over you like an Arctic blast as Marko pulls you inside. “Pick your poison."

The request leaves no room for refusal. You pick at random, muttering your thanks as Dwayne pushes over a handful of quarters. No one else orders. Paul steals a lick from yours, though, when you’re not looking. 

Surely, this isn't what they do all the time, right?

When you accepted David's hand, you thought they'd haze you—maybe kiss you—but so far, the craziest thing you've done is get a brain freeze. 

Passersby gave you a wide berth. Dwayne floats along your outer orbit with David causally taking the lead, puffing his cigarette and daring anyone to meet his eye. No one did, even though you stick out like a sore thumb between them. 

And it’s the way people went out of their way to avoid them that should have scared you, but it didn't. You’d known for a while that Santa Carla had, for lack of a better word, a gang problem. But you didn’t really consider David and his crew to be part of that until now. 

It’s dizzying.

Heart pounding, you fight a smile. An erratic, fizzing rush of adrenaline builds like soda trapped behind a cap. Irrationally, you think, this is what someone my age should be doing.

Is this how Michael feels when he’s with them? Alive? Normal?

The bright garish lights of the carnival booths and the scent of caramel and sweat blur into a cacophony of delirium. Bells, buzzers, and shouts play on loop—the Boardwalk’s own soundtrack. Before it had overwhelmed you. Now, it’s nothing more than background music.

David pauses at a three-tries-for-a-dollar booth. Its golden bulbs twinkle hypnotically. The Merry-Go-Round's calliope plays a jaunty tune, and the roar of screams from the Snake whizz past, stirring up a breeze. Overstuffed teddy bears sway on their hooks.

"You wanna play?" Marko asks, squeezing your hip.

You shake your head. "It's rigged."

"Eh, you say that 'cause you suck at it."

"I don't suck!" you laugh.

Paul says something under his breath that sounds like 'not yet,' but you elect to ignore that.

Marko raises his eyebrows. For such an angelic face, he acts like a devil.

You finish off your ice cream and pass the empty cup to Paul without looking. "Are you challenging me?"

"It doesn't sound like it'll be a challenge, honey."

Listen, you're better than Michael. Michael can't turn down a dare to save his life. You, on the other hand, are more mature and level-headed. You know when you're being goaded into something, and you don't let it get the best of you.

That being said, you're going to make this little prick pay.

"Fine."

The boys elbow their way to the front of the booth. Dozens of glassy eyes stare down at you from the rafters, their neon fur illuminated by the innumerable blinking lights on the Boardwalk. Before, you scoffed at the ugly things. Now, you mentally picked out which one you'd take once you creamed Marko.

The owner looks at the five of you with disinterest. He takes the money and doles out the balls.

"Three balls," he says, "three chances. Knock 'em down, and you get a prize."

He gestures to the back wall where a litany of small prizes line crimson-painted shelves. A handwritten sign said that one bottle equaled a small prize, two bottles equaled a medium one, and all three meant you could get the big bear.

You roll a ball between your hands, eyeing Marko. He tosses his in the air a couple of times, then nails a bottle dead on. It flies off its perch, crashing into the wooden wall with a clang!

You throw. The ball glances off the mouth of a bottle and ricochets onto another, but fails to knock one down. You frown.

"Ooo, so close," says David.

"Can it," you snipe.

Marko snickers, nailing his second bottle without breaking a sweat.

These bottles should have been glued down, so how the hell is Marko knocking them over so easily?

You throw your second ball and it soars over all the bottles, disappearing behind the perch. Your frown deepens.

"You wanna know the secret to winning?" says Marko.

"No," you snap. Then, "Tell me."

Marko abandons his ball and slides behind you. His arms encircle yours. He grasps your dominant hand—still tender from punching Paul—and winds back.

"The secret," Marko whispers, "is to hit the owner and take the prize while he's down."

You whip your head back, staring incredulously, but it's too late. Marko uses your arm to throw, launching your third and final ball at the stall owner. It slams into his shoulder.

He shouts and Paul jumps into the air, snatching one of the giant stuffed teddies off the rafters while Marko yanks you forward.

"Run!" 

The five of you take off down the Boardwalk as the stall owner shouts for security. You should be angry for what they roped you into, but despite yourself, you laugh. People throw themselves out of your way, and you risk a glance backward to see an elderly security guard trying his damndest to catch up.

The boys parked their bikes illegally at the base of the boardwalk, and they each leapt on to their respective ride. You hesitate.

After your accident in Phoenix, the one that landed you and your brother in casts, you had vowed Never Again. Not to mention, their bikes were huge, not that whiny little dirty bike Michael had. 

But you had already broken that vow once this summer. 

"Hop on," says David. 

You glance back at the Boardwalk to the security guard, then at them.

"I don't suppose any of you have a helmet?"

Paul cackles, and you decide the safest option is Dwayne. He offers his hand, helping you saddle up behind him, and tosses a catty grin at Paul.

"Told you."

Paul flips him the bird.

Dwayne addresses you, "Hold on tight."

You don't even have the chance to beg him to go slow, because the boys peeled out right as the security guard reached the landing. You shriek, burying your face into his back. You would have grabbed his shirt if he had been wearing one, but your clawing fingers meet the smooth expanse of his stomach.

You've never ridden on anything so fast in your life. Not even Michael's bike could go this fast. You press your cheek against Dwayne's back, daring a peek at the night. It whips past you in a blur of navies and blacks and beige. 

The bike is airborne.

You scream again, squeezing Dwayne so tight it's a wonder he can breathe. He lands in the sand, and you're not dead. At least, you're pretty sure you aren't. Dwayne laughs, maintaining perfect control over the bike as the others weave wild and recklessly ahead of you. 

"You okay?" Dwayne calls. 

You can't speak—mouth too dry and tongue too heavy to try. You nod, pressing your thighs tightly around his when he hits a bump. He releases one of the handles and pats your knee, and speeds up to catch up with the others. 

The bikes pull through a wooded area then stop near a cliff. The sun-bleached rock beneath you bears tire marks. Beyond the cliff, the ocean roars at near deafening volume. 

You're half-deaf from the wind, and your legs are as good as jelly. Dwayne peels you off the bike, offering his arms for you to steady yourself.

"I could carry you," he offers.

"No," you breathe. "I'm fine. I just—I need a moment. Saw my life flash before my eyes."

"Wasn't that bad, was it?" Dwayne cocks his head. He wears a crooked grin.

You're staring , a voice says in the back of your mind. You look away and clean your glasses. 

"It was fine."

"You can say you had fun," interjects David.

You peer at him through your lashes, but he's just a blur. "I could say that."

Dwayne laughs through his nose, and once your glasses are securely in place, David jerks his head for you to follow. Paul and Marko were already a few yards ahead, jogging down a set of stairs that should have been condemned ages ago.

The stairs groan with every step, bowing under the slightest bit of pressure. Though it's dark, you can clearly read the large metal signs posted every few feet. DANGER, they read. KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE FINED, et cetera, et cetera. 

You stall at the base of the stairs, warily eyeing the craggy rocks and the sheer drop from the cliff above. The tide is high, waves stopping a few feet short of you.

"Are you sure we should be down here?"

David chuckles, stuffing his hands into his overcoat. "Marko, are you sure we should be down here?"

"Pretty sure," says Marko. "Whaddoya say, Paul?"

"I totally think we should be down here." Paul hops atop a narrow ledge of rock, balancing on one foot. "Dwayne?"

Dwayne’s arm brushes your as he passes you. "Definitely."

"See?" David slows, 'til he's walking right beside you. "Everyone wants to be here. And they want you here, too."

Dwayne, Marko, and Paul disappear into the mouth of a nearby cave. You plant your feet. 

"Do you want me here?"

David pauses, mouth twisting. "Why do you ask?"

You don't know why you even try getting a straight answer out of him. 

You cross your arms, stopping right where you are. You could lie, but the truth comes easy: "Because I can't tell with you. I mean, you avoided me at the Boardwalk."

“Oh, and you were a little ray of sunshine.”

“You don’t even know me, David. I’m the embodiment of sunshine!”

“Michael says otherwise.”

Frustration mounting, you take a breath and unclench your fists. That’s a low blow, using your brother. Michael probably had many colorful things to say about you over the past week. You scuff your shoe against the sand. “You’re hard to read sometimes.”

David quiets. The wind tousels his hair. “Figured I would let them have their chance at fun. Whenever I’m around you’re … uneasy.”

“Sure, when you’re a jerk … tearing up my Grandpa’s yard and making Michael weird. You’re hot and cold.”

Unfathomable blue eyes rove over you, unreadable and unreachable as always. His smirk fades, but doesn't vanish. "You wouldn't be here if I didn’t want you here."

Okay. That's an answer ... Sort of. 

Your mouth pulls into a frown as faint voices float from the cave. It sounds like they’re saying your name.

"Do you want to be here?" David asks.

"Kinda too late, don't you think?"

He shrugs. "I can take you home."

"No," you say, a little too fast. "Don't bother. We’re already here and gas is expensive."

David chuckles. He bows, gesturing at the cave. "After you, then."

The scent of stale sea water and mold fills your lungs—it smells old. As you round a corner, the once daunting cave brightens; light dances over the rough stone from flickering flames in metal drums. 

It was a cave, but it wasn’t, either. It had been something before. More. 

The floor slants to one side, most of it covered by a worn carpet, which looked brown, but might have been maroon once. Where there wasn’t carpet, there was stone. Bone-white rock peeks through the torn fabric and stretches beyond into a wide open space. A fountain sits at the heart of it—obviously obsolete—with a chandelier, strung with jewels and seashells resting in it. 

Surfboards, giant paintings in broken frames, and band posters line the walls. A huge mahogany desk stood in a far corner, covered in scraps of fabric. Toward the back, a small section of the cave is cordoned off by thin gauzy curtains. 

“What is this place?”

David touches your lower back, guiding you down the steep decline into the cave. “This was the hottest resort in Santa Carla about eighty years ago.” He draws you in close, whispering in your ear. “Too bad they build it on the San Andreas fault.”

“It sank?” you ask. 

David hums. “Back in 1906. The ground opened up and swallowed this beauty whole. Now it’s ours.”

Paul hops off the fountain, landing in front of you. “You wouldn’t believe all the cool stuff we’ve found here, babe.”

“I can imagine.”

David leads you around the fountain, and you crane your neck to see all the cave has to offer. You can almost picture it as it was—the opulence, the grander. Now, it sits in the bowls of a beach, turned into a gang’s paradise. 

They certainly had made a home out of it. It would have taken years to drag all this stuff in here. It couldn’t all be from them.

“So, where exactly are you guys from?” you ask.

“Right here,” says Paul.

“Santa Carla navies.”

“We’ve lived here for a long time,” corrects David.

“But, like, where do you live?”

“Right here,” says Dwayne.

You tear yourself away from the graffitied oil painting. “Your parents let you stay here?”

Paul snorts, and you notice he’s rolling a joint. “What are parents?”

A collective chuckle ripples through the room, and you sense your blunder. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“We’ve been on our own for a while,” says David. “Longer than we’ve been in Santa Carla.”

“Oh.”

“We’re all the family we need, right boys?” says Marko.

“I can’t imagine…” you murmur. Even thinking about losing your mom brought tears to your eyes. 

Before you could fall too far down that rabbit hole, a small figure bounded toward you. “Hi! I’m Laddie.”

It's a child. The boy couldn’t have been older than ten, if that. He’s tiny for his age and in desperate need of a haircut—and a bath, if the soot on his cheeks is any indication.

He holds out his hand, and you tentatively place yours into it, smiling back. “Hi there.” You tell him your name. 

“I know who you are,” he says, still shaking your hand, “I hear about you all the time, even when I’m not supposed to.”

“Laddie,” warns a voice, but it’s not one you expect.

You look up and lock eyes with the girl from the Boardwalk. Star. She glances between the two of you, pressing your mouth into a firm line. She’s swathed in all sorts of lace and beads, the total opposite of the rest of the boys, even Laddie. 

Your stomach twinges with discomfort. She had come from the gauzy corner near the back of the cave, which was open just enough to display a bed piled high with pillows and blankets. So, she lived here too.

You inch away from David.

“Star,” says David, “why don’t you go get Laddie some food.”

“What are you going to do?” she asks, voice thick. You swear it sounds accusatory and your heart sinks.

How much of a fucking idiot can you be? You only saw her once, but still … with how close she and David had been … But how would you have known that she lived here, too?

“We’re going to stay here with our new friend. You remember her, don’t you. Michael’s sister.”

Warily, she nods. Her throat bobs. “I remember.”

“Hi again,” you mutter, uneasy.

Is that what they liked? Girls like Star? All flowy skirts and tight tops? You pick at your sweater, pulling the sleeves down your arms. This was a bad idea. You should have left when you had the chance. 

“Laddie’s hungry, Star,” reminds David, pointedly. 

“We won’t be long,” she vows.

“Take as long as you need. Let the kid play some games.” David shrugs. "Maybe he'll finally eat some real food."

Star takes Laddie by the shoulders and leads him out of the cave. Even when they’re long gone, you find yourself staring after them, still frowning. The uncomfortable knots in your stomach don’t ease up one bit. 

“Speaking of family,” David starts. “You don’t look like yours.”

You startle. Suddenly, you’re all too aware that everyone is staring. Eight wide, curious eyes affixed to you, and blood rushes to your face.

“What’s it to you?”

David arches an eyebrow. “We’re getting to know each other, aren’t we?” 

So, he chooses now to throw your words back at you? 

Disgruntled, you step back, broadening the distance. “Hardly something a perfect stranger says to someone else. What happened to ‘what’s your favorite color?’” Quietly, you add, “Besides, it’s not like you tell me anything.”

It doesn't go unnoticed. David turns his head, sighs, then opens his hands in front of him like a book. “What do you want to know?”

“Nothing.” You shake your head. “You were right. I should probably go.”

Dwayne grunts, giving David a look. David rolls his eyes.

“If this is about Star…”

“It’s not.”

“She and Laddie are runaways. Far be it from us to let a girl and a kid be alone in Santa Carla. There’s a lot of bad elements out there.”

“My Grandpa told me something like that,” you say.

It didn’t make sense, given what you knew about them. They’re a gang, for fuck’s sake.

But, they did save you from those Surf Nazis way back when. And bought you ice cream tonight. And it’s not like they retaliated when you punched one of their own earlier.

Looking back on all your other interactions, they hadn’t done anything untoward—besides a couple of flirty comments and causing a rift between Michael and your mom. 

That last one puts a damper on your mood. 

“Still,” you say, cringing internally, “I don’t want to make you have a fight with your …”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” David says. “I think she’s into your brother.”

“Ew." The reflexive answer. You grimace. "Maybe she’s the one that needs glasses.”

Paul cackles and holds up his hand for a high five. You reluctantly give him one. 

“Is that what you were worried about?” David asks.

“I wasn’t worried, I just thought…” No way to end that sentence without showing your ass. 

“You thought?” he prompted.

“I didn’t want her to get the wrong impression.”

“And what impression would that be?” asks Marko.

“That there was something going on here.”

“Well there is something going on here,” says Paul.

“Yeah, but not like that.”

“Why not?” joins Dwayne.

“Because.” Four pairs of eyes blink, waiting for a reply. “Oh, come on. Because it wouldn’t! Because I’m … and you’re …”

“What?” asks David.

You groan. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Now I’m curious,” says Marko.

This might be hell. Like, for real. You run a hand over your face, wishing for a way out of this, but they were pests. 

“You-you know how you look, okay?” You scowl, boiling alive in your own skin. “It’s gotten you far in life, I’m sure, and you don’t need anyone to inflate your egos anymore. Especially me.”

David rests a hand on your shoulder. “We should work on how you compliment people. That was terrible.” 

“Please, shut up,” you grumble.

“She’s cute when she’s embarrassed,” says Marko, loud enough for you to hear. You’re pretty sure that was the point.

Paul hums a verse of Pretty Woman, rolling his shoulders and wiggling his eyebrows at you until you crack a smile.

David tips backward into a wheelchair and drums his fingers against the armrest. “Now that we’ve cleared that up…”

“God, you’re relentless.”

“Some might say that’s one of my more endearing qualities.”

“I’m sure Michael told you—”

“Nothing,” says David. “He doesn’t like to open up about family matters.”

That's not a huge surprise. Michael didn't like people pointing out the difference. You've bandaged a couple of schoolyard bloody knuckles because of it.

But there's no point in hiding something that’s not a secret, and you’re far too eager to latch onto a conversation that isn’t about how hot they are. “The Emersons took me in when I was a baby. I never knew my birth parents. I think they died or something.”

And, for the first time, a look other than smug asshol-ery crosses David’s face. His eyebrows crease. Paul quiets, and the only sound is the distant howl of the wind and static from the radio.

“Do you miss them?”

“Nothing to miss,” you say, shrugging. “Lucy is my mom, Mike and Sammy are my brothers,  and that’s that.”

“And your dad?”

You wince. “Lance made his choice and that doesn’t involve us, so…” 

That bastard hadn’t even fought for Sam during the whole thing. You and Michael were too old for custody to matter, but Sammy? He idolized your father. It crushed him when he realized he was nothing more than baggage to Lance. 

“I’m sorry,” says David. He meant it, too, you can tell. He leans forward in his chair, grazing his fingertips across yours. 

“Good riddance,” you correct with a shudder. 

That brings a spark back to David’s face. “Guess we’re more alike than I thought.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Our parents are also dead. It’s … the reason we met.”

You swallow another wave of guilt. If David could pry, so could you, but it didn’t stop you from feeling like a dick. You filled in the gaps, though. They must have met in foster care or something. Probably ran away. Santa Carla is great for that kind of thing, or so you’ve heard. 

“Well, look at that. Common ground. It’s nice to meet you on it,” you say. 

David offers his hand to shake, and you take it. “Who would have thought?”

“Our lost girl,” says Dwayne.

“Lost … girl?” you test. “What does that make you, the lost boys?”

“Hell yeah, baby!” Paul crows.

“Seriously?” you ask David.

“It’s better than ‘Surf Nazis,’” His lips curl with disgust.

You vaguely remember a dream you once had and snort. “Big fans of Peter Pan, hm?”

“Something like that.” David reclines in his wheelchair, not unlike a king on a throne. “We govern ourselves. No rules. No parents. We are the masters of our fate—we have complete and utter freedom. Nothing holds us back from what we want.”

David’s voice drops seductively, but you tell yourself that it’s all in your head. Still, you’re entranced by him, and the heaviness of his blue eyes. It dredges up all sorts of horrifically delicious feelings, and you swear every single cell trembles. 

This, right here, is why you’ve avoided him so ruthlessly. You don’t trust this feeling, or the thoughts it inspires. Look where it led you tonight? Into the den of beasts. You’ve dipped your toes into insanity—into the pits of hormonal whimsy—because he batted his pretty eyes at you and held your hand. 

“And what do you want right now?” you ask.

David’s eyes are impossibly blue as they bore into yours. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“To dance.” Paul appears behind you, pulling you into him. “C’mon, baby.”

You sit on a beaten up couch sandwiched between Marko and Dwayne. David rocks himself back and forth in his wheelchair, unusually quiet. 

You’re still short of breath after Paul forced you to ‘dance’—more like jump, flail, and thrash—to Rebel Yell. Even though you’ve quit, Paul won’t turn off the stereo. Thankfully, the music is softer now. No where near the ear splitting decibels from before.

“What’re you gonna name him?” Dwayne props the stolen teddy bear on his lap, pupping its head to look at him, then at you. 

“I don’t know,” you say. The bear tilts its head to the side quizzically and you snort. “Am I even allowed to name him if I didn’t win?”

“Sure you did,” says Marko. “It was a team effort.”

“Then you should have a say in the name,” you point out.

“Nope, that’s all you.”

Dwayne makes the bear cock its head to the other side and you swear it’s guilting you with its glassy eye. You’re not sure what happened to the other one—if it fell off in your daring escape, or if it had been missing it for some time. Whatever the case, the teddy bear did look like a wreck with its sad purple-ish fur and missing bead. 

“Stop that,” you laugh. “What about ‘Pirate.’”

“Pirate.” The bear turns its head to look at him. “Do you like that name?” The bear nods. “Pirate it is.”

You think Dwayne is handing you the bear, but before you can secure your arms around it, Dwayne dips Pirate’s head forward to kiss your cheek.

“I think he likes you,” notes Marko.

You’re not entirely sure he’s talking about the bear.

Paul thrusts his torso in the space between you and Dwayne, blunt in hand. “Want an herbal refreshment, babe?”

You offer a smile, hand still pressed to the spot where ‘Pirate’ kissed you. “No thanks—weed makes me sick.”

Besides, you’re not sure you could trust yourself to be high around the boys. It’s bad enough, all the things you’ve already said, and you’ve known yourself to be a tad loose-lipped when intoxicated.

Paul shrugs and offers it to Dwayne, who takes it and passes Pirate to you. It makes a circuit, and by the time it comes back around to Marko, he says, “It doesn’t have to be a big hit.”

His pretty pink lips close around the blunt and you suppress a shiver. You’ve already ingested so much second hand. “I shouldn’t, really.”

Paul kneels in front of you and rests his chin on your exposed knee. The movement is so sudden—you swear he wasn’t there a moment ago—that you nearly kick him in reflex. 

“Have you ever heard of shotgunning?” asks Paul.

“No.”

Paul jerks his head at Marko, silently requesting the blunt. Marko places it between Paul’s teeth. He breathes in, both hands resting on your knees. You don’t even notice how you’ve parted your legs to give him more room until he’s leaning between them. 

Dwayne drapes an arm across the back of the couch and taps your cheek. 

“Open your mouth and inhale,” he instructs. His east-coast drawl is more prevalent than ever, or maybe you’re hypersensitive to his voice.

You obey. Paul sits up, his nose inches from yours, and to be honest, you’re more focused on his mouth than anything else. He’s close enough to kiss, and you’ve wondered what that would feel like ever since your first night in Santa Carla. Wanting him is a curse by itself, especially considering the other two prettiest men you’ve ever seen are watching your every move. 

If he kisses you, what would they think? What would you think? Or do?

Paul blows a stream of smoke into your awaiting mouth. You remember to breathe in—barely—and nearly double over as you cough. The boys snicker.

Paul exhales smoke through his nose. “Don’t sweat it, baby. Your virgin lungs need practice.”

“Hardly,” you say in between coughs. “You could’ve warned me.”

“It’s the kind of thing you’ve gotta experience to understand,” says Marko, patting your head. He takes your chin between his fingers and turns you toward him. “Wanna try again?”

You should say no. No, because that’s the responsible thing to do. No, because that’s the smart thing to do. No, because you don’t need this feeling inside getting stronger.

But, a teeny tiny part of you says why not? Michael gets to act out. Most days, all he gets is a slap on the wrist. Why can’t you give it a go? Don’t you deserve the chance to make a dumb choice with a really, really pretty boy? 

“Sure,” you say. “Okay.”

Marko takes a hit and coaxes you to open your mouth. This time, you’re ready as you breathe in, and Marko blows the smoke. 

It’s just as bad as the first time, but at least you were prepared for it. 

When Dwayne asks for a turn, he brings his mouth so close to yours that it’s practically a kiss. 

The three of them take turns ‘shotgunning’ with you, and soon enough you stop hacking with every pass. You’re not sure if you can get high from this, or if it’s the close quarters, but you develop a steady buzz. Not enough to be concerned about. Oh no. By all accounts, you’re still in possession of all your faculties. Still all-too aware of where you are and what you’re doing, but you don’t care as much anymore. 

You relax into the couch, cuddling with Pirate as you stare at the graffitied ceiling. How the hell had they put that up there? 

“What are you thinking about, baby?” asks Paul.

“That I don’t want to go home.”

Marko bites his lip. “Having fun, honey?”

“Yes.” You slide your gaze away from the ceiling. It’s much easier to look them all in the eye, now. “I don’t want to leave and you guys go back to being dicks. You’re nice tonight.”

“Marko,” calls David. 

It startles you because you almost forgot he was there. He’s been so quiet.

Marko reluctantly gets off the couch, and Paul steals his place, pulling your legs into his lap. Dwayne readjusts himself so you can lean against him more comfortably. He reaches for Pirate, and takes the bear's stuffed arm between his fingers, making him wave at you. Pirate bops your nose.

Marko returns carrying a jewel encrusted bottle and a stack of colorful paper cups. He passes the bottle to David and lays out five cups in a line. 

David uncorks the bottle and breathes in the scent of … whatever he has. Wine, maybe?

You’re struck by a memory of your parents’ last anniversary party—when mom was trying so hard to keep the family from falling apart, before Lance’s affairs came to light. That was the night you stole a wine bottle, and you convinced Michael to let you drive his bike. It was the same night you wound up in the ER from the crash. 

You weren’t even drunk—you were just a shit driver. 

Ironically enough, if that hadn’t happened, then your mom would have never found out about the nurse—one of Lance’s jilted lovers. She covered for you and Michael, too. She hadn’t realized your dad was still married. 

It was the last time you allowed yourself to be reckless. Mom needed you more than ever, and you wouldn’t be much help in jail. Your broken leg and Michael’s arm gave her something mundane to worry over amid that shit show. 

A Dixie cup appears under your nose. 

You peek at the contents. “I know there’s a saying about beer and liquor, but is there anything about weed and wine?"

“It’s not that strong,” David assures you. “Drink it. You’ll like it.”

You bring the cup to your nose and sniff. It doesn’t smell like alcohol. It doesn't smell like anything you recognize. There’s something earthy about it, or maybe that’s the weed clogging up your nose. 

Tentatively, you tip the cup and allow the smallest drop to touch your tongue. It’s … good.

You swallow the contents in one gulp. A drop trickles down the corner of your mouth, and Dwayne catches it with his thumb. When you finish, you swear you’re floating. Less than air, you’re light itself. Every atom sings, every worry evaporates.

You exhale shakily, mourning the empty well you hold. 

Paul kisses your temple. “Atta girl.”

“Welcome to the club.” David smiles.

You drink a few more cups before David insists you have at the bottle. You probably could have finished it off, had you had worse self control. 

Every thought not about the present melts. 

The blissed out feeling lingers, spreading from your tummy to the tips of your eyelashes. You’ve been drunk before, and this is nothing like it. You’re not nauseous, not one quick turn away from hurling. It’s like … sunlight in a bottle. 

Or, you’re cross-faded. It’s possible.

But it’s not . You’re not inebriated, you’re uninhibited. The noise in your mind quiets like a stereo turning all the way down. 

You like the cave. You love the cave. Leaving the cave sounds terrible. You’ll miss it. You’ll miss them.

You sprawl between Dwayne’s legs, resting your head against his sternum. His thighs cage you in on the couch, hugging you like you hugged him on his bike.

Paul occupies the opposite end of the couch. His hands run up and down your exposed legs, occasionally playing with the frayed edge of your shorts. 

It’s cold inside the cave, but the chill isn’t too bad. You had a nice blanket of warmth left over from the weed and wine. Being trapped between two pretty boys helps, too.

All four of them are gorgeous. It’s a timeless beauty, disguised under layers of leather and feathered hair. Faces that belong in a bygone era, like this hotel.

“Probably a good thing you sent Laddie away,” you mutter. “And Star.” They didn’t need to see this. That’s what you want to say. But what comes out is, “I don’t think she likes me.”

“She likes you fine, honey,” says Marko.

“It’s us she doesn’t like,” says David.

You frown. “Why wouldn’t she like you?”

“You don’t like us either, sunshine,” David points out.

“That’s not true,” your words pour out without a filter. “I like you like this.”

“What’s so different from before?” David asks.

You struggle to articulate the difference, because it doesn’t make much sense in your muddled mind. “You bought me ice cream.”

David scoffs, slinging his leg over the arm of the wheelchair. “We’ll be sure to take you on dates more often, then.”

“That was a date?” you boggle.

Dwayne’s chest shakes as he laughs, joined by quiet snickers from Paul and Marko, too.

“‘Bout the closest thing to it in this day and age,” says David.

“Oh.” You hug Pirate a little tighter. “Well, um. Thanks, I guess. I’ve been on group dates, but never a, uh, group date.” You address David. “And I didn’t dislike you guys before that, either. I was … scared, I guess.”

Marko hops over the couch, kneeling beside you on the floor. “Yeah? You’re not scared of us now, are you?”

“Not anymore. Not like, scared-scared, but … anxious, y’know. You guys are too sexy to be frightening." 

You clap your  hand over your mouth, but it’s too late now. You giggle. That’s exactly what you had been trying to avoid—hoping beyond all hope that you wouldn’t say those dreaded words. But now that they were out, it was a little funny. Especially with how quickly all of their expressions shifted from teasing to shock to something else.

“And I like it when you call me baby,” you say to Paul, “it makes me feel … tingly. That’s why I avoided you guys.”

“You like it that much, baby?” Paul grins.

“Uh-huh. I like the way you say it.”

“How do I say it?”

You wiggle higher on Dwayne's chest, fighting a grin as you put on your best Paul. "Baby." The impression falls short. However, the boys are thoroughly amused, and laugh their asses off.

Paul sits up. He crawls over top of you, pushing you closer to Dwayne.

“So, you really don’t hate us?” he asks.

You shake your head, too bashful to speak with all of him pressed against all of you. 

“Where’d your voice go?” Marko asks. 

How could you forget Marko is here too? He eats up what little wiggle room you have left.

He and Paul remind you of sharks racing toward blood in the water. Their sharp smiles and heavy eyes make you feel like food to be devoured. Your heart races. Your hands shake. Pirate is suddenly more of a nuisance than a comfort in your arms.

“You’re so annoying when you’re sexy,” you say.

“Didja hear that, David? Apparently we’re annoyingly sexy.”

“And I thought you weren’t going to feed our egos tonight,” says Paul.

Dwayne shifts beneath you and drags Pirate out of your arms. Paul takes advantage, dragging his nails over your flesh lightly. Goosebumps rise in his wake. He strokes your thighs, going higher and higher. Your breath hitches. He grazes your mound, but not in a meaningful way. It was accidental, on his way to your stomach, so he could feel your waist as your sweater bunched up.

Dwayne joins in, sliding his hand under your sweater. His thumb traces swirling patterns just below your breasts.

“Not fair,” you mutter.

“What’s not fair?” asks Marko. 

“You’re teasing me.”

“Fuck, you’re the tease,” Paul hissed. He shifts his hips against your thigh, pressing himself into you.

“Not true.”

“Isn’t it, though?” says Marko. “Think we can’t see you when you’re in the upstairs window? You look so pretty ignoring us.”

Your heart skips a beat. They had noticed, after all. 

“You started it. Coming to my house every night. What was I supposed to do?”

“You’re s’posed to come downstairs,” says Dwayne. He moves subtly against you, his clothed manhood painfully obvious through the denim.

“We asked every time,” adds Paul.

“Could’ve done this so much sooner,” agrees Marko.

“I-I didn’t know that.”

“Tell me, baby,” starts Paul. “Have you ever been touched like this?”

You hum as his hand ventures lower. He grabs the crook of your knee, hiking it up so high that your sex was virtually unprotected. Paul grinds himself against you, stoking that horrifically glorious flame in your gut.

“I used to date in Phoenix … Only one got this close.”

“Oh?” Marko’s eyes flashed wickedly. “And here we thought you were a good girl, saving yourself for marriage and shit.”

“No,” you stammer, fighting a moan. “Not marriage. I haven’t—I couldn’t—find someone who—who—”

You bite your tongue. For some reason, acknowledging the pleasure is your limit. You should feel ashamed for being this greedy, having not one but three guys pawing you, stroking you. It’s everything you’ve ever imagined. 

You suck in a breath, staving off a whine. “Just lots of kissing.”

“Too afraid to take the leap?” Paul captures his pretty bottom lip between his teeth.

“Never f-felt right.” You strain against him, hoping he’ll take the hint. Paul slows, but Dwayne cups your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Never felt anything when we kissed … Never felt anything at all. Figured it meant they weren’t the right choice.”

“They weren’t,” says Dwayne.

Impatient, Marko pushes your sweater all the way over your chest. “Have you had a real kiss yet, honey?”

“I-I’ve kissed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“But you didn’t like it.”

“No,” you whisper, ashamed.

“Think we can change that?”

Without waiting for an answer, Marko bows his head to plant several open mouth kisses to your stomach, a kitten lick here, a nip there. 

Too hazy, too hot, you arch into him. Someone needs to relieve the pressure building or you might die. 

Paul's lazy grinding catches the exact right spot between your legs, and you moan. “Oh, please.”

“Marko asked you a question,” says Dwayne.

“I-I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Do you want it?” he taunts. 

“I do,” you nod aggressively. “Please.”

Marko captures your lips in a cool, sensual kiss. It’s not fast like you expected. Marko savors you, hand on your throat, mouth gliding over yours like you were a fruit made to be devoured slowly. It melted you to mush, eradicating the last shameful bits of reluctance you clung to and unlocking a horrifically animalistic need.

You start to reach for him, too, but Marko is done with you. 

You might have whined, but the instant he left you, Paul captures your chin and guides you to meet his mouth. His erection stays nestled against your sex, but he’s given up all attempts to relieve himself and targets your clit with his thumb. He kisses you breathless. It’s demanding—chaotic, unlike Marko’s calculated kiss. 

Another hand on your face. Dwayne pries you away from Paul, impatience seizing the otherwise stoic boy, as if he can’t wait another second before kissing you. His tongue sweeps over the seam of your lips and you jolt, but don’t move away.

Paul unzips your shorts. Marko helps him shove them off. Three hands torture your lower body—two hold your hips, one toys the lace edges on your panties, too high, too slow, too maddening for you to feel pleasure. 

“Good girl,” Marko hisses.

You gasp. You grip the back of the couch, digging your hand deeper into a preexisting rip.

Dwayne is usurped by Marko once more, and Paul whines. “Dude.”

“Hey.” It’s David. Your eyes fly open, finding him exactly where he’s been all night, in that wheelchair, watching. “We should move this somewhere else. We’ve got company.”

You can’t hear a thing over the rush of blood and roar of the ocean, but you’re also a little preoccupied.

Paul hoists you into his arms and secures your legs around his waist. “Hold on to me, baby.”

You don’t know where they take you. It happens so fast it doesn’t feel like you’ve gone anywhere, and yet you know you’re not in the main cave because it’s darker in here. It smells of disuse and salt. 

Paul drops you on a mattress. Or, onto Dwayne, who is laying on the mattress. It’s identical to the position you were in on the couch.

Candles cast elongated shadows across the cave walls, making the boys look monstrous. An antique bedside table stands to your right. Strings of crystal from a broken chandelier dangle from the ceiling, the candle light catching the prisms and casting hypnotic rainbows over the rock. 

With the utmost care, Dwayne removes your glasses and sits them aside. “Don’t wanna mess these up, right?”

“I dunno,” says Marko. “If she keeps them on she can be a sexy librarian.”

“I-I can’t see,” you protest.

“Keep them off,” says David. “We can see you. Isn’t that what matters?”

“‘Sides, all you need to do is feel,” says Paul. 

Your glasses stay off.

Paul attaches his mouth to your inner thigh and sucks on your supple skin. You arch upward, and Dwayne glides your sweater over your head. His leather jacket is gone. You stifle a whimper at your first taste of skin on skin. Marko kneels on the bed to kiss you. 

Six hands on you. Six hands groping, three mouths alternating between your mouth, your breasts, and your legs.

Three. Six.

Not four.

Not Eight.

Not David. 

You’re a glutton, you realize, for not being satisfied by only three.But … hadn’t David said that he wanted you here?

He’s the one that lured you in with his seductive offer. Every time they came, he was the one who made it difficult to say no to. Why isn't he joining?

“Please,” you beg.

“Whaddoya want, baby?”

“P-Please.”

Tears of frustration prick your eyes and you gasp, reaching blindly into the dark. 

“Do you think we broke her?” Marko muses.

Hands—Paul’s, you think—slip under your waistband and snap the elastic against you. Dwayne unhooks your bra, guiding it off your body. Closer, now, so much closer to what you want and yet so far away. 

“Please,” you mouth, “David, I-I want ...”

"Louder," says Marko.

"I want David, too."

Hot tears break confinement. You hiccup. Damn them for taking your glasses. Damn your eyes for not working properly. Damn your pride, which was irrevocably broken after calling for David. 

All that self loathing quiets when a gloved hand caresses your cheek. It smells of tobacco and weed, and you know, instinctually, that he’s come. A blurry blob is all you see, but it has the faint shape of your David. The hair, the jaw, it’s all there. You smile. 

“All you had to do was ask,” says David. 

He kisses you, deep and demanding, and doesn’t wait for you to settle to slide his tongue into your mouth.

Paul lightly smacks your thigh. “Spread ‘em.”

You’ve barely moved an inch when Paul throws your leg over his shoulder and nuzzles your still-clothed core.

David swallows your moan. Cold fingers run down your exposed breasts and encircle your nipples. Dwayne pinches one. Marko tugs on the other.  You’ve never considered your breasts sensitive before, but it fans the flame. You’re so far gone, you bet you could have cum from just that. 

David pulls back as Paul licks the gusset of your underwear.

“Take them off already!” you whine.

Blindly, you reach for his hair and tug on the strands. Paul moans. It’s the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.

“Paul,” David’s breath fans across your face as he speaks, still holding your face. “It’s not nice to make a lady wait.”

“She smells so good,” Paul slurs. 

David clicks his tongue. “She’ll smell even better without any panties.” 

You shudder, guzzling down air like it’s your last breath. And, given how these boys have kissed you, it could very well be.

Paul removes your underwear and moans again. “Fuck, baby.”

“Do you want Paul to eat you out, sweetheart?” David asks.

Your ears burn—partly from the nickname. You’ve never heard that phrase before, but you have a pretty good idea what it means. 

“Please, Paul.”

“You can do better than that,” says David.

“Please, Paul, please, I-I need it.”

“Need what?” David punctuates. Every syllable has an edge.

“I need your mouth on me.”

“Fuck, yes, baby.” Paul didn’t allow David to goad you into more. He drags his tongue through your slit and finally gives your clit the relief it needs. 

“How far can you go, sweetheart?” David asks.

The fact that he thinks you can manage a coherent sentence is flattering. Laughable , but flattering.

You stopped being able to think straight the second Paul started sucking on your bundle of nerves. Your lower half stuttered upward, arching into him, but Paul held your hips in place with a forceful shove.

“W-What do you—huh?” 

You can’t see David, but if you could, you imagine you would see a patronizing smirk. 

“We can take it easy. Take turns with you. Or.” Here, he pauses, pushing two of his leather-clad fingers between your parted lips. “We can have Marko take your mouth while Dwayne and Paul fuck your pretty holes.”

David wipes his fingers on your cheek, then kisses your forehead. 

“Fu-uck!” The word breaks in half, coming out more pathetic than you intended. 

Paul laps at you faster, dipping his tongue in and out of you. 

“Use your fingers, Paul,” David instructs.

Paul pulls away with a pop. He spreads your lips with his fingers, completely exposing you. A feast for his stupidly functional eyes. “You have such a pretty pussy, baby.”

David says your name, reminding you of his impatience.

“I-I don’t know!”

It’s all too much. You can’t even ponder the idea more than you can think about what exactly led you to this moment. It’s all a jumbled mess of instinct and hunger for things you’ve only dreamed of. 

Marko closes his mouth over your nipple as Paul dips his middle finger into you. His thrusts are sloppy, his fingers so much longer than yours. He can reach places within you that you had never been able to. Your eyes cross, the hand not buried in Paul’s hair seeking purchase. One of them grabs it. By the rings, you know it’s Dwayne. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t at all,” David thinks aloud. “Since you’re so indecisive.”

“No!” 

Oh, god, if they stopped that would be even worse. That would be murder. You were so close as it was as Paul thrust into you.

“Then, what do you want?”

You focus on his blurry face, wishing he could read your mind. “I-I want to cum.”

David huffs. You imagine him rolling his eyes. “Trust me. Not even God could stop them from doing that tonight.”

Paul works a second finger inside of you. He sucks air through his teeth.  “Ever finger yourself before, baby?” he asks. “You can tell us. We wanna know.”

“Yes,” you moan.

“To us?” asks Marko.

You hold it in as long as you can. “Yes.”

“All of us?” Marko prompts. His teeth graze your overly sensitive nipples. 

You nod. Though, of course, you had no idea how that would have worked before now. Just vague ideas. Smells. Imagined sensations. Your dreams were excellent fodder, as it turned out. 

“Such a good girl,” Dwayne whispers. 

“She's close," says David.

He kisses you, hard and deep, like he wanted to devour your soul.  You didn’t mean to bite. Really, you didn’t, but David moved too fast and Paul thrust a little too rough, causing you to accidentally close your teeth around his lip.

David gasped. The salt of his blood barely graced your tongue before you came. 

You never knew a climax could feel like that. All of yours had been quick, the fruit of artless rubbing in the shower or before bed, quick enough not to be caught, clumsy enough to never truly satisfy. But this? This transcended the physical. You weren’t sure if you were human anymore.

When you come back to yourself, you realize that you’ve pulled David’s lip between yours, suckling on the small split you caused, You release him with a gasp, and he separates, even though that’s the last thing you want.

“I can take it,” you say. Though you can’t see any of them, you feel them freeze. “Please, don’t go. I-I can take it.”

“What’s that?” David asks.

“All of you. I want all of you. I want more.”

You hold fast to Dwayne’s hand, not letting him slip away. 

“You heard her,” says David. “All the way?”

“All the way,” you affirm.

“You’re perfect, baby,” Paul groans.

A chorus of zippers and fabric falling greets your ears.

“Think you can hold yourself up?” asks Dwayne. You're not sure, but you tell him yes anyway.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Marko. “More than enough of us to keep her steady, ain’t that right, honey?”

It doesn’t take any effort at all to flip you on your hands and knees. Dwayne places your hands on his chest. Of course the one time you get to see it all is when you can’t see anything.

“… Stupid fucking eyes …”

“What’s that?” Dwayne asks.

“Bud,” Paul mutters, “Lemme do it first, okay?”

“Hurry.”

“Unless she wants to be double stuffed,” Marko jokes.

“Not for her first time,” answers David.

Paul ruts against your sex, then slowly sinks inside.

Your previous orgasm left you loose enough to take him, inch by glorious inch, without pain. All the horror stories you’d heard until now seem ridiculous. The foreign stretch of Paul’s cock is strange, but not in a bad way. It’s almost … welcome? 

You moan and squeeze your eyes shut. 

“How’re you feeling?” Dwayne asks. He reaches between your legs to your puffy clit and rubs it.

“Good.” You gasp. 

“Yeah? Taking him real well. Let Paul stretch you out, he’s not gonna stay there.” 

Your hips jerk, your bud overly sensitive from earlier, and yet Dwayne doesn’t stop. He’s not rough about it. He’s deliberate. Slow, methodical, dare you say gentle—but he’s sadistic because he doesn’t stop. 

“Open your mouth, honey,” Marko requests.

He turns your head to the side, and you’re greeted by his member. Blindly, reach for him—this act was not wholly foreign—and lick his tip. You swirl your tongue around his girth, and envelop him slowly.

Marko hisses, “Shit!”

“Looks like that smart mouth is good for something after all,” says David. 

Paul pulls out with great reluctance. He grips the globes of your ass so hard that you’re certain it will bruise. 

Marko bunches his hands in your hair, holding you as you take as much of him as you can.

“This is probably going to hurt,” David warns. “But you can take it, can’t you?”

You nod. Whatever it is, you will. You're pretty sure you'd do anything he asked.

Dwayne lifts your hips with surprising ease and positions his thick cock against your entrance. You make a noise of surprise and Marko moans, lightly thrusting into your mouth. 

Slowly, deftly, Dwayne pushes you down on him, leaving you no choice but to sink all the way. 

He’s thicker than Paul. Obscenely so. The stretch burns a little more than it had with Paul, and your thighs quake around him. 

“Fuck, man,” Dwayne swears. “Pussy’s fuckin' heaven. Takin’ all of me so wall,”

Paul hooked his thumb into your tight ring of muscle. You squeal.

“Marko,” says David, and Marko withdraws from your mouth. David takes your chin and pushes you into Dwayne’s chest. “Bite Dwayne, sweetheart.”

You don’t have time to ask what he means. 

Dwayne drapes one hand over the back of your head, guiding you to the crook of his neck. Paul’s tip nudges your puckered asshole, and it dawns on you.

You sink your teeth into Dwayne’s shoulder to keep from screaming as Paul all but shoves himself inside.

It’s a flash of pain, but it mellows into a low, dull burn the second Dwayne’s blood touches your tongue. Your eyes roll back into your head.

“Oh, fuck,” Dwayne groans. 

“She came?” David asks.

“Mhm.”

Did you?

You hadn’t noticed, not until they said something. The bliss caught you unawares. So fast, so strong you must have blacked out, because when you come to, you’re suckling Dwayne’s wound like a crazed animal. 

“That’s it,” Dwayne coos, lifting his hips. He can’t move like this, but he can grind. Your walls flutter around him. "So wet, now. You feel amazing."

You need to say something, but Dwayne keeps your head tight against his body, almost like he wants you to keep going. You lick the divots you left apologetically.

“That’s enough,” David instructs. 

Marko pries your mouth off Dwayne. It’s the one time you’re glad you’re blind. You didn’t want to see what kind of wound you left. 

There’s bound to be blood on your mouth, yet Marko still kisses you. It’s feverish and feral, more tongue and teeth than lips. You reach for his cock, wrapping your hand around it, and stroke him. 

“Fuck, honey,” Marko groans. He nips at your bottom lip. “Taking all of it so well. So fucking hot when you bit Dwayne. Need to be in your mouth again.”

“Marko,” you moan. You tug his shirt, and he gets the message. 

You kiss his head, and take him into your mouth once more. 

Used at all ends. Every single hole plugged. You lose yourself in it—in being wanted so thoroughly. Not even in your dreams did you imagine this was possible. 

Dwayne grinds his cock inside you as Paul takes your ass. It's almost a game with them. Neither of them would hurt you, but you can feel their desperation as it builds into a selfish pace. Both of them paw at your waist and hips. Dwayne runs your clit, and you know you’re so drenched that it’s dripping down your thighs. 

All three of them grunt and groan and whimper, spouting pretty—disgusting—praises as you continue to take it. 

You wonder if they were right. What if you had gone with Michael that night when they raced. Would it have wound up the same way? Could you have been doing this the whole time? 

But it's happening now. You suppose that's the only thing that really matters. 

You cum a third time, and your consciousness gets hazy. 

They use you up beyond your limit, that you’re certain of. You want them to. You never want it to stop.

Paul cums first. He kisses your spine, staying inside as long as possible before the sensitivity gets to him. 

Dwayne follows—with Paul gone, he manipulates your body to ride him faster—and he spills himself in you. 

Marko lasts the longest out of spite. You try to swallow all of him. If you weren’t so fucked out, you probably could have. But you’re exhausted, and some of the semen escapes, dribbling out from the corner of your mouth. Marko cleans you with his tongue, though, and makes sure you taste every drop you missed.

It’s even fuzzier after that. 

You open your eyes a crack to find that you’re on the mattress alone. The blurry blob of David’s head isn’t far away. 

“Dav…” The rest of his name cuts off, breathy and quiet. 

He was so far away all night. You should have done more. Should have asked for him. 

Your finger twitches, but David covers them with his gloved hand. 

“Sleep,” he instructs. 

“But…” 

“Later.” He pushes sweat-damp strands of hair away from your face. “Just sleep.”