Page 72 of Crew Princess
We weren’t allowed, and when he came back out, both parents just shook their heads at us. He headed over, gave us the run-down, which was that he said nothing. He couldn’t remember how he got his bruises and cut-up face.
Cops weren’t happy. His parents weren’t happy. No one was happy, except us.
Well, technically because Zellman wasn’t happy.
He wanted to drive. Jordan said no.
Zellman said Jordan looked like a hospital patient.
Jordan didn’t care.
The argument was resolved when Cross took the keys and tossed them across the lot.
“First one gets the keys, drives.”
Zellman surged forward.
Jordan grabbed his head in the palm of his hand and shoved him backward. Z fell back, and Jordan was halfway over the lot by then. He swooped up the keys, but Zellman was in a mood about it all. I got it. It was a dick move that Jordan did, but it was also kinda nice to see some of that dickhead part of Jordan was still in there.
Afterallof that, we headed out of town.
We had a spot north of Fallen Crest and Frisco. We’d found it by accident one time when we were out for a drive, and we’d only been back a handful of times. But tonight was a night for the beach.
We had booze. Blankets. Lighter fluid for the fire. Food to grill if the guys got ambitious, but if they didn’t, we went through a drive-thru in the last town before our spot.
Jordan and Zellman were in the front. Cross and I took the back, and it’d been a rough drive, but we were there. Jordan pulled onto the gravel road that took us closer to the beach. From there, it was a hike down the cliff to our little alcove.
A small creek joined the ocean, sidewinding between two ridges of rock, and it was there we usually sat.
“We’re here,” Jordan said, the truck rocking to a stop just before he and Zellman got out.
They came around the back, and everyone grabbed something to carry. With our arms full, we started the trek down.
It wasn’t long, but it was steep enough that we needed to go slow or risk breaking an ankle.
“God.” Jordan stopped at the bottom and tipped his head back for a deep breath. “Why does the air feel lighter here than back home?”
Z went past him, grumbling, “It shouldn’t be. We learned why in school, but fuck if I know. I just know it’s not. You can breathe easier because Tab’s not looking for you here.”
“Ah.” Jordan’s tone was wry, watching Zellman stomp ahead of us. “Right. The voice of logic, that one.” He smiled faintly. “Who’s the scholar of our crew now?”
“Fuck you, dude!” Zellman held up his middle finger. “Google that shit. I’m right.” He paused a beat. “About both things!”
Jordan didn’t respond. His head lowered, his eyes closed, and then with a soft sigh, he started forward.
Cross and I followed. Zellman chose the spot by the creek and threw his items down. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he yelled over his shoulder, “Gonna look for shit to burn.”
“Now that’s the Zellman I recognize.”
Jordan’s voice was loud enough to be heard, but Zellman didn’t react. He just headed down the beach.
Jordan began rifling through the bags as Cross started to unfold the chairs, setting them in a circle. My job was to grab some rocks and outline where the fire would go, but I knew there would be a conversation. I was slow to get going. I wanted to hear it.
Cross’ eyes flicked to mine, and I gave him a small nod. Now or never.
“Why are you and Z fighting?” he asked.
Jordan didn’t look up, still rifling through the bags. He pulled out lighter fluid and matches. “Because we spend all our fucking time together.” A beat. He glanced up. “I mean, you and Bren are actually fucking, but he and I ain’t. You get my drift.”
