It was no surprise that, down the long stretch of beach riddled with college kids, underpaid nannies, and mommy bloggers alike, a tattered, burnt orange beach towel housed the slender, reclining form of bailey reid. More often than not, one could find the twenty something bumming on the beach for hours on end. The sand, the salt, the sea, it felt more like home than any beachside shack and any old van. With her tucked away in the caramel colored crochet bag that was half as old her, were her beach essentials; her phone, a couple of bottles of sunscreen, a bar of surf wax, a pair of wired headphones, an extra bikini, and a rolled up wetsuit for those days, or nights, the water was chillier than she would have liked.
Stretched across the towel, forearm draped casually over the front of her eyes, feet propped up on the sage green, longboard perpendicular to her, she didn’t hear nor feel the familiar buzz of her phone alerting a message received. Her mind lingered elsewhere, contemplating what she would have for dinner, until a shout of a noise caught her attention. Squinting in the afternoon sun, Bay postured herself upwards on her elbows, nose scrunching as she peered down the way towards the sandy section dedicated to volleyball. Normally, she wouldn’t have paid the hoots and hollers and gasps any mind. Frat boys were notorious for their obnoxiousness that the sun, the sand, and beer only amplified. However, the familiar form of one boy in particular caused her to do a double take.
Hazel hues narrowed, homing in on the tall and toned figure standing off with some pookah shelled asshole. “Shit.” Bay muttered the word as she scrambled to her feet, tugging the black straps of her ribbed, triangle top back over her shoulders the waistband of matching bottoms higher on her hips, darting off towards the altercation.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Without much of a second thought, Bay situated herself between the two men, hands raised in a defensive position. “Fuck off, alright?” Her voice stern as she looked up at the frat boy, brows pulling into a deep frown. “Come get your friend, cops are crawling around here.” Not only was it a horrible idea to pick a fight with Jax Jameson, of all people, but now certainly wasn’t the time. “ And put on some fucking sunscreen, you look like a god damn lobster out here.” Once a disgruntled friend came over, clasping their hand on the assailant’s shoulder, Bay let out of air, turning towards her friend.
His temper could rival most natural disasters. Once the anger wraps its way around his body, there’s less than nothing he can do to stop himself from exploding. With both fists clenched and ready to swing upon his assailant, Bay’s voice opened the sky and stopped him from making a huge mistake. With his father missing, the police were watching his family. If he were to get arrested for beating some dumb frat boy’s face into putty, that would circle Siesta’s grapevine and give the people more reason to stare and whisper. He’s heard it all. They thought they were being discreet, but gossip spreads like wildfire: That’s Jeffery’s son. I heard his father was really hard on him. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had something to do with it. His father is missing and he’s throwing parties? Psychopath. Did you know he beat a kid into a coma once? Yeah, it was eight grade and he pummeled another boy for touching his locker. His senior year he almost crippled a kid on the football field. Lock his ass up and throw away the key. Jaxon did his best to ignore it. He could have easily told himself, ‘what the fuck do they know?’ But they were right. He did do those things and he hated himself for it. For having these outbursts he can’t control. Imagine not having control over your own emotions. Imagine watching yourself do horrible things you don’t want to be doing. And knowing no one can stop you; including yourself.
“Yeah ... Yeah, I think so.” The anger was still rolling around and aching to be released, but somehow, some way, Bay was able to smother it just enough to keep him from lashing out. “Maybe, uhm, maybe we should get the fuck out of here?” Initially, it may have been a threat to scare everyone off, but someone had called the police during the altercation and now they could be heard in the distance. One of the detectives working on his father’s case didn’t like him already. In theory, it was because the detective was hooking up with his stepmom, and didn’t want her asshole stepson to find out. But Jaxon knew, because Alesia told him. They didn’t have secrets. Not many at least.
“My car is parked by the boardwalk.” One of the many expensive cars he’d been borrowing from his father’s high-end dealership. This week it was an Aston Martin. Last week it was a Bentley. For someone who wanted to fly under the radar, he had a difficult time letting go of the flashy lifestyle that came with being the heir of Jeffery Jameson. “Thanks for coming when you did...” despite offering her a ride, he unsheathed a flask from his bag and took a long swill of Richard Hennessey, stolen from his father’s liquor collection. “I just— I don’t know what I would have done... if you hadn’t— you know?”
