DRASTIC (Book 4 of the Soundcrush Series)

Chapter 2: Drummer Boys Don't Like Sand In Their Bed

Alright, so Bodie's layin' one on Marley, but let's see what happens next....

The song is Payphone, because I think it captures Bodie's feelings. He can't shake "Jaz," he doesn't really trust Marley, he's pretty disillusioned about  her in every way, but at the same time, he's kind of...standing at the payphone, trying to make a connection with her...

Still Martha's Vineyard, Still End of Last Summer

Bodie 

Well, this is unexpected.

Kissing Marley feels good. Feels real good.

Fuck, I don't even feel pissed off anymore.

I can't remember the last time I wasn't pissed off. Probably sometime during the first week with Bells.

Bells. Shit.

Nope. Not going there. This feels too good.

I slide my tongue along hers, coaxing, and she gives hers up, letting me take it in my mouth, and taste her. She takes like beer and barbecue, of course, but underneath she tastes right. So fucking right. She tastes like what's always missing.

I find myself letting go of my grip on her arms and wrapping her in my embrace, and she reaches around my shoulders and pulls herself around me and that feels right, too. Her embrace is like all the women in my family—warm, solid, real.

Jaz—I mean Marley—she makes an anxious sound inside my mouth and even though I'm ninety-nine percent sure the moan is a green flag to take her down right here on the the sand and take us both from feeling good to feeling fucktastic, there's that one percent chance that I'm wrong. That I don't know this girl like I used to. And she ain't no fangirl. And she's drunk.

I untangle our tongues, and she slips from my grasp. For a second I feel a racing disappointment that she's trying to get away, but then she reaches a desperate hand toward me and I feel the chill over my feet and I realize she's just surprised and unsteadied by the wave that has gotten ahead of the tide and rushed in around us. I grab at her, keeping her from tipping over and she laughs.

"Oh fuck, I'm so drunk," she mumbles. Then she looks up at me, "You must be, too. Kissing me is not an appropriate reaction to the crazy shit going down between us."

Between us. Another racy emotion spills through me, but falls away with the receding wave.

"You right," I tell her. "All I can think is...I don't even know what to call you."

Her grip tightens on my forearms. She's searching my face, hers so pale in the bright moonlight. "What do you want to call me?"

"What do you want me to call you?" I counter.

Our feet are sinking in the sand as the tide sucks away our solid ground.

"I...I...don't know," she says, stumbling away from me and hurrying away up the beach toward the house.

I'm not at all bothered by that. The whole time I knew her, she was like this. Letting me get close, then pushing me away for my own good. She probably thinks that's what she's doing now.

Yeah, I should let her go, but I hardly ever do what's good for me. And I ain't done with this girl. I need to know. What happened to her. How prison treated her. How she rose above it.

I need to hear it, in the morning. We both know what's going down tonight.

I follow her at a distance. She walks straight into the house and plunges into the throngs of people. She picks up a bottle of Grey Goose from a side table and keeps going. I keep following, snagging a half empty bottle of cranberry juice as I weave through the crowds of people, behind the barefoot girl with beach curled hair and the short ass jean shorts and the lavender shirt tied up around her midriff. She walks up the stairs, and I'm still right behind her. When she stops in the upper landing, I take her hand and lead her to my room.