One Hot Summer

by Heidi McLaughlin

  But safe feels relative right now, unfortunately.

  Jonah hesitates, and, for a brief moment, I think he will be reasonable and simply let me go. For now, at least.

  But I already know reason isn’t in his current vocabulary, certainly not in his present state, and I barely make it halfway down the short, wooden path before his hands are on me yet again.

  “The fuck you do! I am speaking to you, Lizzie!”

  I’m not surprised that Jonah came after me—though I was hoping he would just return to the party—but I am shocked by the sharp sting to my scalp as he grabs me by my hair and hauls me into his disproportionate mass.

  Before I can scream—to demand exactly what the fuck he thinks he’s doing—Jonah’s callused hand is covering my mouth, and I have to gasp just to get enough air into my lungs not to panic.

  My blood seems to boil in fury and go cold in terror all at once, and before I even realize what’s happening, he’s dragging me into the dunes, behind the tall sea oats and beach grass.

  Jonah cautiously removes his hand my mouth, his glower alone warning enough not to scream, and I suck in long, stunned breaths, as his other hand releases my hair. I barely have time to register the burning in my scalp before that same hand shifts downward, to the base of my neck, his brutal grip an ongoing threat I can barely process, let alone fully register.

  “I’ve had e-fuckin'-nough of this bullshit!” He lowers his head just enough, his vicious glare, which I’ve only seen glimpses of in the past, a mere inch from my own defiant one. “You wanna be all badass woman?” he says mockingly. “Fine. But I draw the line at disrespect!”

  He heaves in a harsh breath, as if he was the one with a hand around his neck. “Act like a fucking lady, and show me some goddamn respect. For fuck’s sake!” he huffs right into my face, the sharp, bitter taste of tequila explaining more about his current behavior than Jonah himself probably realizes.

  But my fight or flight response can’t ignore the alarms of danger blaring viciously in my brain, and my auto-response is to defend myself however possible.

  I shove at his chest, somehow still shocked when, instead of doing the logical thing and releasing me, he just adjusts his grasp, applying enough pressure to my throat to make the mortal threat undeniable.

  Jonah controls my breathing. And, in this moment, there is nothing I can do about it.

  I still in utter terror.

  Jonah has been frustrated with me many times. Most times, if I’m honest, and he’s even been blatantly angry with me. But never like this. I never even thought him capable of this.

  “I would do anything for you! You fuckin’ know that.” Jonah’s words are completely at odds with his tone, with his everything. And right now, the only thing I want from him is to leave me the hell alone.

  “Please,” I force out through shallow, desperate breaths, my voice notably hoarse, “let me go, Jonah!”

  I can’t even listen to his words, can’t process his meaning. I can barely fucking breathe.

  Jonah roughly presses his nose to mine, but there’s nothing affectionate about it. He's just pushing his agenda, forcing his point down my throat.

  “I. Will. Never. Let. You. Go.”

  And it’s all I can take.

  My dad taught me a few things before some asshole drunk driver took him from us two years ago, and I launch my knee into Jonah's groin with every ounce of power I can muster from my admittedly slight build.

  Jonah howls in a moment of agony, and I take full advantage, squirming furiously to escape his savage embrace.

  By some miracle, I manage to get a few feet between us before he dives for me like a madman, feral with rage. “You fucking cun—”

  Jonah doesn’t finish his insult, but I can focus on nothing other than bracing myself for more pain, my arms positioned to protect my head from the fallout of Jonah’s wrath.

  But it doesn’t come.

  Before I can process what’s happening, a wall of muscled, olive skin topped with light brown hair has blitzed into Jonah, and topples him to the ground.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  A firestorm of animalistic masculinity and white sand tumults through the dunes as I stare in stunned silence. I crawl backward, out of the line of fire, a short but safe distance from the flying fists and brutal blows.

  Crack!

  The sound of bone giving way to a fist sends a tsunami of nausea rolling through my stomach, and I finally get my voice to work.

  “Stop!” But my scream is more of a strangled sob, thanks to Jonah’s handiwork, and it has little to no effect.

  Jonah and the massive form, which I belatedly recognize as Noah Reed, tumble and tangle in a mess of limbs and blows, grunts and growls, and an impressive range of choice expletives.

  “Stop it!” I screech with the pitiful remnants of my voice. “Now! Or I’ll call the fucking cops!” I should call them anyway, a small voice whispers internally.

  With one last mighty shove, Noah launches Jonah onto his back into a small dune, leaving no question as to who won the fight. He takes several steps back from the site of the skirmish, lifting his palms in a belated show of pacifism, but the blood coloring his knuckles scarlet betray the events of the last minute or so.

  It all happened so fast. One minute I didn’t know what Jonah might do in retaliation to my knee to his balls, and the next...

  The next, Noah was just here.

  Noah’s hazel eyes are still dark with thoughts of violence, which, fortunately, a glance in Jonah’s direction—at the pitiful ball of drunkenness and injury—makes it clear are not directed at me.

  Unlike Jonah’s was. I shiver at the reminder.

  Noah's chest heaves as he catches his breath, his broad shoulders shaking, muscles and sinew flexed from exertion, his abs visible through a large rip down his white V-neck t-shirt.

  I cringe inwardly. This is not a time to start drooling over Noah Reed.

  “You need to get on home,” Noah says out of nowhere. As if what he just saw—what he just did—requires no discussion or explanation.

  I bristle in place, irritated, but it takes me a second before I can form a coherent response.

  Jonah cradles his smarting cheek, groaning in a way that makes it clear his intoxication and recent beating have left him incapacitated for the moment. But whatever sympathy I might have had for him was vanquished the moment he put his hands on me. Frankly, at this point, he’s lucky I don’t kick him while he’s down just for good measure.

  But the last thing I need right now is yet another guy giving me fucking commands. Even one who looks like Noah Reed—even if he just saved me from God only knows what.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” I insist, sounding more petulant than I intend. But I’ve just been put through the ringer and I need to process.

  I turn quickly on my heel, my head shaking on its own in confusion, trying to reconcile everything that just went down.

  I’m desperate to escape the last several minutes of events, and I rush back toward the ocean, to what has always been my happy-place, even if “happy” is so far out of reach right now I couldn’t locate it with fucking Google Maps.

  But I need to find some peace, and if there’s anywhere it exists, it’s the shore—where ocean meets sky, where I am reminded of the universe, and my miniscule place in it.

  Confused and stressed far beyond comprehension, I try to process what’s just occurred. I try to leave both Jonah Berry and Noah Reed—and all of tonight’s violence—behind me in those damned dunes. Even if I know that only one of the two men had directed it toward me, and, the other, in my defense.

  It’s hard to process, because it makes no sense that the guy who tried to claim me as his girl is the one who hurt me, and the virtual stranger I barely even know anymore is the one who stopped him.

  I shudder, my teeth chattering for entirely different reasons than this morning’s cold sea. My pulse races frantically, and I wonder if I’m in some k
ind of shock.

  I don’t seem to know what to do with myself.

  “Liza.”

  I jump, but it’s Noah’s voice, not Jonah’s, and something about it is inherently comforting.

  Still, I know better than to just trust him. Not after I was just threatened by the guy I should have been able to trust the most.

  I take an automatic step back, into the calm surf, my toes digging into the wet sand out of sheer habit.

  Noah winces, and it stuns me still for a moment. It’s as if my fear of him is so off-putting it makes him second-guess himself. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy; he wants to be the hero. And while I resent just the concept that I needed rescuing at all, I can’t very well blame him for it. I should have known better.

  Noah shows me his palms in some kind of promise. It’s his way of distinguishing himself from Jonah, and I can’t help the guilt at making him think I could ever even compare the two of them. Especially not after tonight.

  I shake my head in some kind of denial, but words won’t come.

  Noah chews his full bottom lip as if mulling something over. He shakes his head, his eyes closing for the briefest of moments. “Liza, he can’t treat you like that. I won’t let him treat you like that. No one should ever lay a hand on you like that, or talk to you like that, and your boyfriend, of all people, should never—”

  I cut him off. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Noah stares skeptically. “The guy you’re dating then,” he qualifies.

  I shake my head again. “No, we’re done.” I shoot him a meaningful look. “I’m not some pathetic little girl,” I insist, “he’s never done anything like that before.” But I choke on my words, because I know they’re a lie. “He’s never gone that far before,” I correct.

  Noah nods thoughtfully. “Well, that’s one way to break up,” he comments.

  My eyes narrow. As if I wanted this. As if I would have ever asked for this.

  “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

  Noah grimaces, taken aback. “What?”

  “You think I asked for this? That I wanted him to—”

  “Fuck no,” Noah defends. He takes a step toward me, his clearly expensive sneakers dipping into the seawater, but he pays them no mind. He hunches his shoulders, lowering his head so that our gazes are on equal ground, and it’s entirely at odds with Jonah’s forced eye-contact of not just minutes before, but many times before that. “No, Liza. You were very fucking clear about what you asked for.”

  My own words ring out in my mind: Please, let me go, Jonah!

  Noah nods carefully at my understanding.

  I swallow dryly through my sore, abused throat, trying to hide my wince, but I’m not sure Noah misses it. His expression softens, as if leaving Jonah and their physical altercation behind, and focusing on me, instead. There’s something about having the full focus of Noah Reed, his eyes holding mine captive in ways Jonah couldn’t achieve even with his hand around my neck.

  But considering the night’s circumstances, I find myself ashamed by the fluttering in my belly... and lower.

  “I was referring to your knee to his ‘nads,” Noah explains.

  Huh?

  My confusion must be obvious, because he elaborates. “I hope you don’t break up with all your boyfriends that way. I’m hurting just thinking about it.” The corner of his mouth slides cautiously into a half-smirk, and it takes me off guard.

  My short laugh is so out of place after tonight that it comes out more like a snort, and I cover my face in embarrassment. But Noah’s soft chuckle is strangely, inexorably soothing to my soul, and when I remove my hands from my eyes, his own are undeniably lighter.

  “Let me get you an Uber,” he suggests, and it takes me off guard.

  I won’t pretend I don’t appreciate his rescue tonight, because I have to admit to myself that I truly don’t know how the night would have ended otherwise.

  But he’s also not my fucking father, he’s barely even a friend, and I don’t need him taking care of me indefinitely. If there’s anything tonight has taught me, it’s that I don’t need some dude trying to control my actions. Ever.

  “I’m just going to walk. I need the air.” I explain, because he does deserve at least that, I suppose.

  I expect Noah to shrug it off, to make his way up the beach, to Jillian's, and join the party he showed up for in the first place, and appears to have yet to actually attend.

  His judgmental expression is unexpected, but I’ve taken about all I can tonight, and I decide I need to get myself home and figure myself out. Like, now.

  “Didn’t I tell you earlier it’s not a good idea for you to be out walking the beach alone at night?” Noah accuses, and I’m surprised by his change in tone.

  It bugs me. More the concern than the judging, for some incomprehensible reason.

  “Well, I think Jonah has been neutralized.” I quip.

  For now, I continue inwardly, a breath shy of thanking Noah for his help tonight, my completely unwarranted ego preventing me from swallowing down my pride and following through.

  “I think I’m safe from psycho ex-boyfriends for the time being,” I add with more conviction than I believe in, hoping my casual affectation comes off as more convincing than I actually feel. Especially considering I don’t actually have any other ex-boyfriends. In fact, I’m not sure that Jonah himself was ever truly my ‘boyfriend’ at all.

  “Liza...” The drawn-out sound of my name in Noah’s deep, gravelly timbre almost distracts me from his skeptical tone.

  Almost.

  But I can’t deny that, despite not bothering to elaborate, Noah’s point isn’t lost on me.

  Surely, Jonah isn’t all there is to worry about when it comes to the world at large. Even in our relatively safe, seaside neighborhood.

  But I can’t seem to admit to myself that reality gets worse than tonight. Intelligently, I know better, but, right now, just the thought is more than I can bear.

  “You’ve had a rough night,” Noah insists. “Let me just order you a car.” He's being diplomatic, I know, but I also hear the words he’s holding back.

  He doesn’t think I can handle myself. And after what just went down in the dunes, why would he?

  For some inexplicable reason, I find that idea more shameful than anything else, even after everything that’s gone down this evening.

  “No thanks. I’m good,” I persist, refusing to be babied, even by him. I’m fucking eighteen, for God’s sake, barely months younger than Noah himself.

  I don’t await a reply, because I’ve no doubt it would just include more of the same. And I’m not sure I could even really begrudge him that after everything.

  But too much has occurred to make even the most basic sense of, let alone debate, so I simply turn my back on my undeniable savior—as humiliating as it is for me to admit that that’s what Noah was tonight—and I start walking the twenty or so minute trek up-beach, toward Arizona Street, knowing that home is the only place I might find some respite in this moment.

  I keep my gaze focused on the low-set horizon, the rippled reflection of the nearly-full moon casting its light onto the empty beach in soft light and dim shade.

  Despite telling myself to keep my eyes peeled—to remain careful and vigilant—my recent trauma overtakes rational thought, and I only scarcely register the lone jogger on the boardwalk thirty or so yards to my right, and two stories above me.

  Similarly, it’s at least a few minutes before I realize I’m not alone on the beach, either.

  A wary glance over my shoulder reveals just as I suspected, and, uninvited as he may be, I’m relieved to confirm that my company is a comfort and not yet another threat.

  Noah.

  4

  He has maintained a safe, respectful distance of no more—and no fewer—than ten feet behind me, the whole way past the grassy dunes. And he shows no sign of slowing. Or accelerating, for that matter.

  It would appear he’s decided t
o follow me, like some kind of protective shadow or something. At least, that’s where his agenda seems to lie, if recent events are to be taken at face value, anyway.

  If it were literally anyone else, I have no doubt I would be frightened enough into a confrontation.

  Another one.

  But something in me sincerely believes that Noah’s intentions, annoying—and borderline insulting—as they may be, come from a genuine place of good. And with the night I’ve had—we've had—I can’t bring myself to give him more shit over it.

  It’s equally comforting and off-putting. Comforting for obvious reasons, and off-putting not because I fear him—after all, he’s had ample time to take advantage of the quiet, desolate beach, if that were his intention. But because, for some inexplicable reason, Noah appears to have taken it upon himself to become my self-appointed goddamned chaperone or something, and the thought agitates me more and more with each footprint I leave in my wake, with each of Noah's ensuing steps, as they heedlessly bury mine beneath his own.

  I manage to hold onto my temper until we’re passing the beach of the Aqualina club, when I finally turn to challenge him.

  But Noah, caught or not, doesn’t waver, his expression as impassive as ever, like he never actually cared whether or not his self-assigned bodyguard-mission was stealth or not.

  I lift my chin in my trademark defiant attitude—even if, not-so-deep-down, I know Noah doesn’t really deserve it—but I can’t quite bring myself to let go of whatever pride the night has allowed me to retain.

  “I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” I spout, more aggressively than I mean to.

  Noah simply shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “I’m just walking here, Liza.” He gestures to the ten-foot safe-zone between us. “But if you don’t want me in your space, I’m not going to force the issue. Not my style.” If he means to set himself apart from Jonah, it’s entirely unnecessary, and I suspect he knows that.