Selfish Appetite [5 Seconds of Summer]

[38]

"Because of you my mind is always racing."

--

Sloan

Instead of forty minutes, Luke and I were gone for an hour and fifteen minutes.

By the time we finally made it back, the beer was warm, earning disappointed groans from the group. Luckily, the people sitting next to us had a spare cooler and offered to let us use it.

"What took you so long anyway?" Michael asks, popping the cap off his bottle.

"Took a wrong turn, went the opposite way." Luke answers smoothly before I can say anything.

I nod, even though we both know the truth.

He caught the wrong turn early on. We could have been back with just a five-minute delay. But we stopped.

We stood on that bridge, let the world quiet down around us, let words slip between us that neither of us had planned to say. And now, back in the noise and warmth of our friends, it feels like something delicate has been packed away between us, something unspoken but understood.

I don't say anything. If the others knew we stopped, they'd start complaining again.

"When did they start playing?" I ask, dropping onto the sand next to Michael.

"Like twenty minutes ago. Talk about an entrance." Calum remarks, the faintest edge of annoyance in his voice.

We pass around the now-cold beers and start discussing the lineup for tonight's gigs. Supposedly, since it's the last day of summer, the bands will be playing all night long.

Someone hands out the event fliers, and we scan the list of names, trying to guess which ones are going to be terrible.

It's mostly local musicians, a free event, so we probably shouldn't be so ungratefully judgmental.

My gaze drifts over the crowd—people dancing, laughing, making s'mores, playing whatever drinking games they can around the bonfires (probably not the smartest idea).

Two girls have set up an impromptu art station, sketching portraits for anyone who asks. That makes me smile—it seems like something my mom would have done.

A few feet away, a group is playing volleyball, and I wonder how they manage to track the ball in such limited lighting.

But then—

I see it.

The eagle tattoo on a guy's ribcage.

My breath catches.

I do a double take, my pulse hammering in my throat. The air feels thicker, my surroundings suddenly too loud, too bright. My stomach churns, my legs go numb. A cold sweat prickles at my skin.

I lean toward Michael, my voice low and urgent. 

"Hey, um, Mike?" my voice feels distant, an echo in my own ears. I clear my throat, forcing myself to sound normal. "What, uh... what's the name of the complex we're in?"

Michael stops mid-conversation with Calum, brows furrowing. "What?"

"The complex. Our beach house. What's it called?" my words come out sharper than I intend, fear tightening my patience.

He shrugs. "Sunny something."

My stomach lurches. "Sunny Comfort?" I ask, pulse pounding.

Michael snaps his fingers. "Yeah! That's the one." He grins, nodding.

Calum notices the look on my face before I can school my expression. He leans in. "You're pale. What's wrong?"

I take a steadying breath, trying to keep my voice even. "We need to get Luke away from here."