This place is exactly how I remember it. A tight-knit community who look down their noses at any and all who don’t fit the mold.
Obsessive fathers and aggressive mothers pushing responsibilities and expectations onto their children one second, pretending we don’t exist the next.
It’s not something only myself and my sister deal with, but a standard across the board in communities like ours.
The extent of it depends on your parents’ position, and what they demand of you.
The Gentry boys, for example, they’re to be carbon copies of their father. The oldest is already an intern while Scott is expected to follow, go to an ivy league, and he will, as his father and grandfather did—his parents’ hefty donation will see to it. He’ll be frat house president, without a care, paying people off for assignments, and then take his place in his parents’ company when he’s done.
Cali will sit like a waiting duck and take her pick of the litter and slip right into the socialite role her mother laid breadcrumbs for.
Jules, I don’t even know. Her mom wants her to go to college, but she hates school, hates everything her mom wants her to do, period, it seems. Maybe she just hates her mom?
Either way, our lives are a series of Hallmark cards, written—and sold, if I want to look at my situation for what it is—by someone else, yet a perfect play-by-play of our reality, and that’s pathetic.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
Boring, boring, boring.
Again, another reason why I’m eager for this year to come and go, because why not get right into what follows? At least some of the scenery will be different.
A heavy sigh leaves me, and I continue my people watching, and with each cycle of the room, I pause a little longer on the three who stand out above the others.
Maybe it’s because they’re the only ones who still have their clothes on, whereas everyone else dons a swimsuit. Or, perhaps it’s the lax way in which they dangle the long neck of their beer bottles I’ve yet to see them drink from, rather than swirling scotch in a glass that costs more than summer highlights, with their pinkies half in the air.
It could be the hardened glare that’s yet to leave the one with the deep mahogany shaded, tight cropped cut, even if it remains directed toward his drink.
It might even be the backward cap on the dark-haired guy, and the fact he keeps adjusting it, a full side smile on his flirty face, one that falls flat the moment he looks away from his friends.
Of course, not to be counted out is the ominous bronzy brunette with bone structure that could rival Colton Haynes on his worst day and how his sharp gaze continues to flick along the corners of the room. If I had to bet, I’d say he’s searching for nothing, but awareness is key when hearsay has the potential to bury you alive.
Ah, the joys of Orange County.
A grin pulls at my lips at the refreshing sight before me.
The ripple in the rich little haven that is Corona Del Mar.
No shorts that hit above the knee, or open, windblown cotton shirts. No Loewe deck, yacht club must-have slip-ons or gleam of overused tanning lotion.
No, all three are wearing solid black, shoes included, giving you no insight as to the personalities within, assuming they’re not as hardened as their expressions lead you to believe. And I was right, I do spot a Givenchy coat.
I’m far from surprised at how many girls have gravitated toward the three, a couple guys too, the need to stay with their happy endings of the night extreme, and even as these ‘blackout’ boys make their way from one space to the next, the others follow. Funny, though, while they stay within a few feet of the trio, they don’t approach them.
Maybe they’re hoping they’ll be the ones approached?
I could almost laugh.
These guys must know they beam as bright as a knockoff in a country club, but perhaps that’s how they want it?
Cali says they’re crazy, yet these girls are practically foaming at the mouth for a split second of acknowledgment, their jerky movements and pursed lips telling the tale of how they’ve yet to receive their wish.
Oh, how the entitled hate to be ignored.
I chuckle to myself at the hypocrisy of it all. How those deep inside this world, the ones who live for it, feign disgust, annoyance or irritation. Put off the whole ‘we’re the only one in the room’ vibe, when really, every move they make is for the benefit of those they hope are watching. It’s a comical sight and playing out right in front of me right this second.
The age-old truth behind their masks, the one the fathers in our world likely hate the most but can’t deny.
Every spoiled little rich girl craves herself a psycho, at least a time or ten.
“Girl, for real, you must have a death wish.”
I shrug, turning to Jules. “I’m bored, what else is there to do but study new sights instead of the same ones we’ve seen for the last month?”
“Boredom is what ends you, got it,” she jokes, taking the seat beside me. “You, my friend, are going to get murdered in your sleep.”
Little does she know they haven’t so much as glanced my way all night. My game of Susie Stalker is safe and sound.
“And you are going to get pregnant if you keep hopping on your man in the water,” I deflect, doing as she prefers and switch the conversation so it’s about her.
She laughs into the cooled air above us. “Honey, I’m all for it. That boy gets me pregnant, I’ll be set for life. Besides, I love him, so win-win.”
I shake my head, forcing a small smile, knowing she’s dead serious. If you’re not deemed ivy league status early, you’re a token your family will later cash in on. This is how it goes for a lot of us trust fund girls. Minus the love.
Love is not something anyone should chase in our world.
Convenience breeds confidence and keeps the daily dosage down. Love creates jealousy and doubt and mental instability.
Love kills.
The two of us look up when Cali walks over, officially swaying on her feet. “I’m starved. Who wants to help me order—”
The lights go out.
“Oh shit,” Cali hisses.
People yell in drunken numbness, some squeal and scream.
I roll my eyes, my fingers falling against the expensive leather at my sides, only to be pulled from it seconds later.
I frown, yanking my arms back.
“Jules, back—”
Something is slapped over my mouth as my hands are bound together.
What the hell?
A cloth is thrown over my head next, the soft fabric forming to my nose as my breaths quicken.
I kick, but I’m barefoot. I attempt to shout, but to no avail, and then I’m lifted into the air, not by one set of hands, but several.
I claw and scratch the muscles along the arm in reach, flexing as I do. When the cool night’s wind stings my skin, alerting me I’m no longer in the house, I wiggle every inch of my body in an attempt to set myself free, but all I get is a firmer grip on my upper thighs. My muscles clench beneath a rough palm, and a dark chuckle wafts over my chest.
I squeeze my lids shut, a knot forming in my throat as my Barocco robe is torn from my arms, leaving me in nothing but a triangle top swimsuit and bottoms a decent parent would slay their daughter for wearing at a party—a gift from my mother.
All I can think is I’m about to be raped, murdered, or kidnapped.