by E. S. Maria
Atticus winks in their direction, and I roll my eyes again.
Then he continues, “Let’s see if you can figure this out.” He smiles at the crowd, his dimple in full view, and I swear I hear some girls scream some shit that any girl our age shouldn’t.
Seriously?
You wanna have his baby?
What is this, an MTV reality show?
Why those idiotic catcalls piss me off is beyond me.
Shouldn’t I be pleased that there are other girls vying for Atticus’s attention so he can finally stop torturing me?
Atticus looks at the rest of his bandmates, then nods. He steps closer to the mic, then strums once. The crowd cheers on as he strums the same note again, strumming continuously until I begin to recognize what he’s playing.
Suddenly, I can hear a series of fast beats. But Mike isn’t playing the drums. I place my hand on my chest and realise that it’s actually from the way my heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest.
Why is he doing this? Why is he playing another sick joke on me?
My chest is heaving up and down, panic slowly morphing into anger. And with his eyes now fixed on me, he starts singing the first verse.
He is such … a … jerk.
“I cannot believe he’s singing “Crazy in Love” with just an acoustic guitar! He just made that song sexy. That’s it. I’m buying his album when it drops.”
But I ignore Patty’s comments.
Atticus did this on purpose.
I can’t believe he’s continuing to torment me.
Is he just plain cruel?
Well, I’m not going to hang around anymore. He can take “Crazy in Love” and shove it up his ass.
I turn to both of my friends, “Hey girls, I’m sorry but I think I’ll go home. I’m feeling pretty tired, and I think I ate some bad chicken.”
They sound off their protests, but I give each of them a quick peck on the cheek and a tight hug, telling them I’ll call tomorrow. I’m about to walk away when I remember Charlie’s still standing next to me. I’m about to tell him I’m leaving when an idea hits me.
I turn to the stage, and just as I thought, Atticus’s eyes are back on me, his eyes betraying the smugness I loathe.
Good.
Before I can stop myself, I pull Charlie down to me for a kiss. It takes him by surprise, hence the sloppiness of it all. This kiss, however, is not meant to be anything else but for a show.
And just as soon as I kiss him, I pull away, leaving him even more stunned. And for a tiny second, I actually feel bad for using him as a pawn.
But the need to piss Atticus off has overtaken me. I don’t even look back at the stage to see Atticus’s reaction anymore. I leave the party and walk the two blocks home, satisfied that I, Hannah Mackenzie, finally has the last laugh.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next day, after a night of unwanted dreams about Atticus and the bewildering events of last night, I decide to clear my mind with a morning surf before breakfast.
I look out my bedroom window, where I’m lucky enough to have a decent view of the ocean. The condition seems perfect for catching a few good waves, so I quickly splash on some sunscreen, put on my wet suit, run down the steps, and yell out to whoever’s awake that I’ll be gone surfing. Then I grab my board and make a dash out of the house before Mum chases after me.
I can’t help but smile as I breathe in the fresh, salty air, feeling exhilarated as I watch the waves pounding the coast. There are already a handful of surfers in the water, so I waste no time in getting in on the action.
After a couple of good runs, I notice a swell that looks too good to pass up. So I paddle as quickly as I can before someone claims it. I’m only a few seconds into riding, when something goes wrong. A rogue wave makes me lose my balance, landing me head-first down the pit. I try to swim back up, but another wave pounces over me, dragging me further down. My chest is beginning to feel like it’s burning, like it’s on fire, the desperation to breathe becoming a desperate need. With whatever power I have on my legs, I push myself up until I finally reach the surface, trying desperately to hold onto my board, but failing miserably. From my peripheral vision, I see another wave about to pummel down on me, and with no energy left, I know I have to bear the brunt of it.
Just then, I feel two strong hands lifting me up and placing me on top of my board.
“Hold on,” he barks, and I do what he says. I’m too exhausted to turn and see who it is, and my eyes are hurting from the prolonged sting of salty water. Then I feel myself being pushed forward, with him lying just over my straightened legs as he paddles us to safety.
He jumps off as soon as we reach calmer waters, and I manage to open my eyes in a squint, just as he’s wading beside me.
The first thing I see is dark blonde hair, possibly darker from being wet, and framed in a halo from the brightness of the morning sun. Though I can barely see his face, for me, he seems like an angel―my guardian angel―and I’m not even sure if what is happening is for real, or if I’m just imagining this. But there’s a certain calm that envelops me, like I’m truly in safe hands.
Did I drown to death, or was I actually saved? Is he a lifesaver?
Must be.
“Am I …” I start to ask. But he shushes me gently as he finally nudges my board to the shore. He’s kneeling beside me, not leaving my side, pulling my tangled mass of hair away from my face.
“You scared the hell out of me out there, Hannah,” he whispers, relief evident in his voice.
He knows my name? Is he someone I know?
Though still weak, I try to push myself up, with him offering his arms as some form of leverage.
And these arms are muscular, hard, and connected to shoulders that are equally robust. What looks like a tattoo of some sort appears to adorn his right arm, but I can barely make out the shape from my vantage point.
He shifts his position, and that’s when his face finally comes to light.
Atticus.
And suddenly I’m overcome with a mixture of different emotions. I feel elated that he was the one who pulled me out of the dangerous undertow. But I also feel embarrassed at my show of weakness and trepidation because I’m afraid he might use this incident as ammunition against me.
My chest feels tight again, and I’m feeling totally breathless … but for a completely different reason.
“You … did that? You saved me?” I barely whisper to him, not realising that my hands are still grasping his arms. “Thank you. I-I don’t know what else to say.”
He brushes his fingertips against my cheek as he regards me with tenderness I’ve never seen coming from him. “You don’t need to say anything. It was just sheer luck that I was surfing here with a couple of friends this morning. I saw you when you got in the water. No one else took that wave for a reason, Hannah. I’m just relieved that you’re okay.”
“Oh. Don’t let me keep you. By all means, you can go back in there.”
He scoffs, “I’m not leaving you, and I’m not gonna let you go back in there, at least not for today.”
I turn away, doing my best to ignore the way my heart skipped a beat just then.
“So you don’t have any smart ass remark to say about my wipeout, or will you think of something later?” I ask, still looking at the ocean.
From the corner of my eye, he shakes his head, “No, of course not,” he tries to catch my eye, and I relent. “Look, Hannah, I’m sorry about what happened last night. I acted like a dick, and it was completely uncalled for. If I can take them all back, I would.”
Oh.
My heart dips from the hurt, as memories from the party begin to invade my thoughts again. And without thinking, I pull away, conjecturing, “I see. I guess you’d wish you can take back kissing me, huh?”
That takes him aback, but he just shakes his head, resignedly placing his hands on his lap.
“I’m sorry that I put you in that position. I know I shouldn’t have kissed y
ou. That was a momentary lack of good judgement on my part, and I won’t put you through that again.”
I don’t want to feel hurt from his apology. I mean, he sounds like he means it. And isn’t this what I wanted to hear from him after all?
Then why does him regretting the kiss feel like I’ve been bashed with a rock and left for dead?
“Okay. At least I know for sure now that it was a mistake. You almost made me think that you liked me,” I answer with a laugh I can only describe as phony. “But after that stunt you pulled onstage with you mocking me outright, I knew then that you still didn’t.”
I turn my attention back to the ocean. Atticus may have saved me from drowning out there, but right now, I’d rather be out there than feel this bittersweet torture I’m receiving from him.
“Hannah,” he holds me by the arm, and the way he speaks my name makes me turn my attention on him, “I never said I don’t like you. And I’m sorry if this whole time, I made you feel that way.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, surprised with his admission.
“Brodie has become a good friend of mine,” he starts, and I put my hand up to try and stop him.
“Atticus, you don’t have to explain,” I say to him, but he just takes my hand by the wrist and gently pushes it back down.
But he’s not letting go of it either.
“I do need to explain. I owe you that, at least,” he sighs, before continuing, “Brodie had seen how I was looking at you from the first time we met, so he repeatedly told me to keep away from you. You even heard him say it, right? He sounded like he was joking when he said you were too good for me, but I know deep down he believes that. And he’s right, I’m no Prince Charming.”
This is what being blown away feels like.
Is Atticus implying that he likes me?
No way.
Before I can stop myself, I counter, “But I don’t want a Prince Charming.”
The way his eyes seem to glisten at my answer makes my heart flip. But it’s gone, just as soon as it appears.
“You’re too damn perfect to deserve anything less.”
No, I was wrong. This is what being blown away feels like.
“I’m not perfect, Atticus. I’m flawed just like every single person that exists on Earth.”
“You’re not like every single person that exists on Earth,” he says.
I swallow hard, trying to halt the way my chest is expanding.
He just keeps one-upping the way he’s blowing me away.
“Atticus—”
“That’s why I know I should keep my distance.”
What? Bullshit.
“Hold on, so what are you telling me? That after all the times you mocked me, practically bullied me, you’re actually saying that you liked me all along? And because you like me, you have to keep your distance and push me away? You know how twisted that sounds? But what about those slutty girls who cling on to you when you practise at my place, or the ones you can’t seem to keep your hands from? Don’t tell me you don’t like them either because that will just confuse the hell out of me.”
“You kind of sound like you’re jealous,” Atticus seems amused.
Jealous? Now I’m beginning to get pissed off.
“I’m not,” I lie, shaking my head vigorously.
“Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss that jealousy of yours away?” He deliberately stares at my lips, watching intently as I unwittingly run my tongue across my now dry lower lip.
“But you won’t kiss me because you’ll just regret it, right?”
He smiles and with his lips and that damn dimple, he doesn’t have to do much to make me swoon. He places his hand gently on my thigh, making my insides twist. “So, you basically just admitted that you’re jealous.”
“Screw you.” Embarrassed, I try to get up, but his hand feels heavy on my thigh.
And I’ll be lying if I say that I don’t like how it feels.
“What if I ask for your permission to kiss you? Will you let me?”
I stare at his eyes and see no sign of smugness on them. Instead, I see apprehension, even a hint of vulnerability. Atticus is nervous about my answer? He can kiss any girl he wants, and they’ll probably say ‘thank you’ for his trouble.
“If I say yes, will you?” I answer abruptly.
“Yes,” he whispers under his breath, and before I know it, his lips are upon me, justifying his answer. I feel a sense of desperation in the way he thrusts his tongue inside, licking my lower lip and drawing it to him. I open my lips further, and I welcome the taste of saltiness of his lips, as well as the sweetness that must be unique of him. I gasp when he suddenly lifts me onto his lap, holding me closely, tightly, making me wish I’m not wearing this stupid, thick wet suit. I can feel his masculine body with my wandering hands. He’s still slick from being in the water, and just as I imagined, he’s built amazingly for his age. Now my whole body wants to feel him skin-to-skin. I moan in frustration, hugging him as tightly as I can instead, my small breasts pressing against his hard chest.
“You taste so damn sweet,” he murmurs against my now moistened lips before devouring me again.
“But you taste like someone I don’t deserve.” And like an internal switch within him suddenly flickers off, he stops kissing me, hissing a curse word under his breath, and pulls away immediately.
But then he stares back at me with solemn eyes. “I don’t think I can disrespect your brother’s friendship like this. I can’t allow anything else to happen between us.”
The mere mention of my brother has the same effect as being thrown a bucket of ice-cold water. I let him go, and I slump back on my board.
He’s right. My brother will never agree to this―with me, seeing Atticus―his close friend and Halcyon band member. What if things don’t work out? Other than music and this stupid attraction, what else do we have in common?
“So you’re happy to just leave it like this? You kissed me twice, pretty much admitted you like me, and then decide to just put a halt to it?”
“Hannah, it’s more complicated than that,” he looks past me, avoiding my gaze.
“You just made it more complicated by kissing me in the first place.”
He turns back to me, eyes harder this time. “My music comes first. It’s the one thing I’m good at, and it’s what’s gonna get me out of here and out of my hellhole of a life.”
He breaks his stare, eyes downcast as he focuses on the sand instead. He seems caught out, like he admitted more than what he’d wanted to.
But I want to understand. I want to know why he seems so lost and so determined to leave.
I never ask Brodie about Atticus. Most of his friends are open to me about anything, sometimes even a little too open to the point of awkwardness. But Atticus is different. He’s never friendly with me, and I’m not sure about getting to know someone who seems to hate my guts.
Is that a front?
I never want to get to know someone more than I want to get to know this boy in front of me.
“Why do you want to leave Avoca Beach? It’s beautiful here.”
He laughs, but humour doesn’t reach his eyes. “You think I live in this part of town?”
“But you’re always around since you became friends with Brodie, so I just assumed …” I trail off, not exactly knowing what to say to him next.
Atticus shakes his head, “I’m not a local, Hannah,” he sighs and starts holding onto the sand and letting it slip from his fingers, “and if you knew where I lived or who I live with … well … hanging out with Brodie and the band, and being able to play music … and seeing you … make existing bearable.”
My heart tugs at this admission, the pain in his eyes is too distinct to hide.
“Atticus, you can talk to me. I’ll listen.” I reach for his hand, a comforting gesture that is meant to reassure.
He stares at my hand over his, but he doesn’t answer back. Then he surprises me when he links our fingers tog
ether. My hand is practically swallowed by his much larger one. That’s when I notice the callouses on his fingertips, possibly from years of playing guitar. I can’t help but run my fingertips over each one of them. I feel each hardened bump, knowing now that he earned each one from years of practice, having been self-taught, just so he can hone his skills into perfection.
I feel his gaze on me, feel the warmth creep up from my neck to my face. When I turn to meet his gaze, he untangles our fingers instead and places both his hands on his knees.
I follow his movements, wishing Atticus’s hands are touching mine again.
“Can you teach me how to play guitar?” I ask out of the blue. “You’re gifted, Atticus. It would be great to learn from you.”
“What? That came out of nowhere. But don’t you play the guitar already?” he asks while looking amused and puzzled at the same time.
“Yes, I can play. But have you heard me play?”
His eyes widen in realisation, “Ah, yes. I’ve heard you play a few times. That was more than enough in my opinion, no offense or anything.”
I laugh with embarrassment, “See! So do you still think I’m perfect? I’m a shitty guitar player!”
He laughs at that, and I can’t help but stare at his face in awe. I really do like his laugh, especially when it’s with me and not at my expense.
“Well,” he nods, pointedly staring in all seriousness, “your amazing voice practically balances it out. You’re on the cusp of perfection.”
What he said takes me back to last night, and my smile falls flat.
“Why did you make fun of me last night?”
He exhales aloud, “I wasn’t, Hannah. You really do have a beautiful voice. I was being truthful about that, and I’m sorry for being such a dick. But I’m just … I don’t know how to act around you.”
“Why?” I ask softly. “I’m just me.”
He regards me for a few long moments before he turns his gaze back at the ocean, licking his lips in contemplation.
“Okay, I’ll teach you how to play.”