Page 34 of Hexed
My momma drove a Mustang convertible.A sparkly blue-green one that changed tints in the sun depending on how the rays hit the paint. It was her pride and joy, and she spent more time loving that thing than she ever did loving me.
Ironically, most of my best memories of her were in that car. Whenever she’d cover that curly brown hair of hers in a silk scarf and smile in that blinding way she was known for—one that stopped hearts and made a mess of a man—I’d know she was about to take me on a ride.
We’d giggle like schoolgirls and pile into that convertible, and if it was my birthday, she’d make an extra stop to get shaved ice from Morgan’s Ice Shack on the boardwalk before we’d ride down the coast without a care in the world.
I’ll never forget the feel of the wind blowing in my dark hair or the grin that split my face, my lips stained a cherry red, sticky with sweet joy.
Back then, I used to think it was her way of apologizing for ignoring me in virtually every other aspect of life, but now I realize it was just her way of escaping reality. My father was not a kind man, and I have a begrudging respect for my momma,knowing she did her best to hide the ugliest truths about her life from my view. It’s just buried beneath the mountains of animosity from how badly she failed at it.
I step off the city bus that stops right in front of the boardwalk, pushing away the memories that cause old wounds to rip open and bleed from the center of my chest.
It’s humid today, the smell of city and salt water mixing in the air and lying like a thin coat against my skin. The familiar feeling makes my insides crawl.
The Atlantic Cove Boardwalk is a landmark of South Carolina. First built in the 1930s, it spans over two miles of beach, filled with tourist attractions and overpriced food and drink. It’s been reconstructed several times, usually under my family’s hand, but there’s one area that’s original, where the wrought iron arch with the pretty pink seashell sits like a beacon, drawing people to the bridge on stilts that extends out into the water.
That’s where I find Enzo.
He’s leaning against the railing as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, his ocean-blue eyes already trained on me as I walk up to greet him.
“Lover Boy.” I nod, slipping my hands into the back pockets of my frayed black shorts.
He lifts his chin in reply, his gaze stripping me bare as he peruses my body, from the top of my bleached head, over my exposed shoulders in my purple top, to the tips of my black Nikes. He looks laughably out of place in his tailored suit, and I know hehasto be sweltering, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it makes him look even more powerful, as though even the South Carolina heat can’t touch him.
People are laughing around us, lounging in their tiny bikinis and tropical board shorts, kids building castles in the sand or running away from the waves as they lap at the shore. Coupleswalk between us, some aged with leathered skin and some young with puppy love in their eyes.
The boardwalk is good for that, setting a beautiful backdrop to a first date or a proposal that promises the fairy tale of a forever kind of love.
But Enzo acts as though none of that exists, his stare trained on me like I’m the only thing he can see.
It’s unnerving.
He frowns, and somehow eventhat’sattractive.
“You’re late,” he states.
I hit back. “And you’re overdressed.”
“It’s sweet you care.” He straightens off the ledge and takes a step closer to me. “Do you always take the bus by yourself, looking the way you do?”
I glance down at my outfit.What’s wrong with it?“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
His lips twitch as though he’s about to smile, and he reaches out, tugging lightly on one of the large silver hoops dangling from my ear.
“My earrings?” I question. “Well, you know what they say.”
He tilts his head. “No, what do they say?”
I grin. “The bigger the hoop, the bigger the wh?—”
His finger presses against my lips, and the feel of him touching any part of me makes me squirm with unease, like static electricity is sparking through my body.
“Watch your mouth,” he says slowly, his New York accent coming through strong, dropping the r and elongating the vowels. “You won’t disrespect yourself to me.”
Surprise at his words makes me feel off-kilter, and I reach up, my heart tripping in its rhythm as I grab his wrist and pull his hand away. “I was just joking, Enzo.”
He stands there and stares at me for a moment, the muscle in his jaw ticking before he grins. “I like the way you say my name.”
My brow furrows. “You know, you don’t have to be nice to me just because I’m Aria’s cousin. It’ll probably work against you, actually.”
