I clatter down the hall and find my big brother, Emerson, just coming in from working at the bar. He takes one look at me and shakes his head.

  “No way in hell are you going out looking like that,” he vows, glaring in determination.

  I push past him. “You don’t get to tell me what to wear.”

  “Jesus, Brit, you look like... like...?” Emerson struggles.

  “What?” I shoot back. “A slut? A whore? It’s what they’re saying anyway,” I shrug, even though it stings coming from him. “Why should I care what anyone thinks?”

  “Because you don’t know guys.” Emerson’s jaw clenches. “You’re only sixteen, can’t you act it, just for a night?”

  “You mean invite some girls over and watch The Notebook?” I snort. The last time anyone invited me to a sleep-over was in eighth grade, when Marcy Hampton accused me of stealing her charm bracelet and then spread I’d confessed to fucking half the basketball team. I had to put up with whispers and stares for a month after that. And Emerson wonders why I don’t have any girlfriends. “Yeah, never gonna happen.”

  “I’m worried about you, Brit.” Emerson’s glare slips, and I can see my brother is genuinely concerned.

  “We both know I can take care of myself.” I sigh, then reach up on tip-toes to land a kiss on his cheek. “Relax, Em, it’s just a party on the beach. I’ll be back before dawn.”

  “Midnight.” He demands. I laugh.

  “Or what, you’ll ground me? See you tomorrow!”

  I head on out before he can say another word. I love my brother, but he can’t talk. Odds are, he’ll be hooking up with some skank in a bar in the city tonight—still trying to forget the epic heartbreak he suffered at the hands of his last girlfriend, Juliet.

  That’s another reason I won’t believe in fairy-tales: I’ve seen up-close the damage love does when it’s over, when somebody walks away and all that’s left is the wreckage of a broken heart.

  The empty ache in me twists, and I find my resolve slipping. The truth is, part of me wants to stay home tonight: to curl up on the couch with Emerson, order pizza, and watch bad TV. To stay safe in the embrace of what little family I have left.

  But then I’ll go to bed, and turn off the light, and all the dark, desolate thoughts will take over. The loneliness, the bitterness, the anger. And that one, dangerous, awful question:

  Why did they leave?

  I can’t take it, not tonight. So I keep walking, out in search of some distraction, and a way to soothe this pain that cuts deeper in my chest with every heartbeat.

  In search of just a single moment of peace.

  “Brit, baby. Looking good...” A guy from school whistles at me the moment I approach the crowd on the beach.

  I roll my eyes. “Keep dreaming, Jimmy.” I call back, making my way through the crowd. It’s the last night of summer, and Beachwood Bay is sending it out with a bang. Everyone’s here, girls dancing in the light of the bonfire, guys downing beers from red plastic cups. Music blasts from the speakers someone’s rigged up in the back of a pickup truck, and I can smell the sickly sweet drift of dope on the salty sea breeze.

  “Where’s your drink, girl?” Some guy I don’t recognize stumbles into my path. “It’s time to get wasted!”

  He thrusts a can of beer in my direction, so I take it and move along, leaving him calling out behind me in the crowd.

  I pop the tab and take a gulp, feeling the familiar burn of self loathing as the alcohol works its way into my system. Drinking is the easiest way to block out the world, but every time I do, I think of my mom, sneaking whiskey into her coffee at seven AM just to make it through another day. I struck a deal with myself, back the first time some guy sneaked me a sip from his flask down under the bleachers: one drink. Only ever have one drink. I’ve seen what happens to girls who go too far, the sloppy mistakes and barely-conscious hook ups that turn to ash come morning. Sure, I’m no angel, but every guy I’ve been with has been my choice, my rules. My way to block it all out, and lose myself in a hot tangle of limbs and groping hands.

  The music changes to some fast rock song, and I feel the fire in my veins. I need to move, to let it out, so I slip closer to the fire and let my body take over, moving to the staccato beat and angry crash of guitar. My eyes drift closed, and I try and let go, imagine myself a thousand miles from here, some other girl in some other life, with nothing but the music in my mind.

  I feel hands grab my waist and I stumble back, my eyes flying open. It’s some guy I don’t recognize, wearing an oversized football shirt and looming in way too close. “Hey!” I protest, putting both my hands against his chest and shoving at him, hard. “What the hell?”

  “Relax, babe,” the guy moves in again, and then I feel someone else behind me. It’s another guy, grabbing at me from behind.

  “Back off!” I yell, louder this time. I turn, trying to slip out from between them, but they’re too big, all meat-head muscles and grabbing hands, and I’m trapped. The first guy grabs at my ass again, and I smack his hand away, glaring. “I said, get your hands off me!”

  He ignores me, yanking me against him and laughing to his buddy.

  “What do you say?” He slurs, smelling of beer and cigarettes. “Think she can handle the two of us?”

  “Fuck yeah.” The other guy grabs at my ass again, thrusting lewdly. “You like it crazy, don’t you, slut?”

  I snap. Pure rage courses through me, and I’m just about to unleash hell on them and put to good use all the karate moves Emerson taught me in the back yard when Meathead is yanked back away from me. A split-second later there’s the sound of someone’s fist smashing into his jaw.

  Time stops as I lock eyes with the guy who hit him: the one person in this whole crowd who noticed what was going on and came to my defense. The last guy I’d ever expect to see at a party like this.

  Hunter Covington.

  A jolt of electricity flies through me, setting every nerve ending alight. Then time un-freezes and the world comes rushing back in: the meathead goes flying back with the force of Hunter’s blow, knocking into the crowd and sending people flying. Someone screams, and then his buddy shoves me aside and goes charging at Hunter.

  I struggle to stay on my feet, watching in horror as he tackles Hunter hard and the two of them tumble to the ground. Hunter manages to twist on top, and then he’s raining down punches: hard, sharp jabs to the guy’s face and throat, until his fists are bloody; expression fierce and determined. There’s no time for me to move, it’s like I’m fixed in place, but I look past him and see the meathead on the ground recover and drag himself up, murder in his eyes.

  “Hunter!” I scream a warning, but he must not hear me. Before I can say another word, the meathead pulls Hunter off his friend and punches him hard in the stomach.

  I flinch at the blow, my heart twisting as I watch Hunter reel back, pain flooding his expression.

  No!

  Hunter may be fast, but this guy is massive: built like a truck, and now he’s pissed too. I don’t know what I can do to stop him, this is already way out of hand. I look around for help, but everyone is just standing, watching. They’ve even got the nerve to look thrilled, like this is some game for their entertainment. Do they even realize Hunter is about to get ripped limb from limb?

  My heart races in desperation, and I try and push my way towards them. I don’t know what I’m planning to do, I just know I have to try and help Hunter, but before I can reach him, someone else appears through the crowd and grabs hold of Meathead in an iron restraint.

  “Enough!” He orders. It’s Jace, the other Covington brother. Older, gorgeous, the one who has every girl in town panting just from walking by.

  “Are you kidding?” The guy screams, furious. “He started it! He’s fucking crazy!”

  Jace says something to him, trying to calm him down. Whatever it is, it works: I can see both guys relax, still pissed, but not looking to throw any punches.

  I catch my breath, relief breaking over me like the tide. It’s over. Hunter is safe.

  But now the danger has passed, the world comes flooding back in. I realize I’m in the center of a huge crowd, and I can see their stares, hear all the whispers as their eyes rake over me, the gossip in their not-so-hushed tones.

  It’s your fault. All this drama, they’re blaming you. They probably think you deserved it.

  I feel a hot flush of humiliation as I realize just what happened. God, bad enough to have those assholes with their sweaty paws all over me, but he saw it all. He saw everything.

  Hunter.

  What must he think of me?

  I check one last time to see he’s OK—bent double, but recovering from that punch—and then I whirl around and flee, fighting my way through the rubber-necking crowd until I’m out on the dark beach alone.

  Damn.

  I walk quickly, my feet bare on the cool sand, wishing I could leave that scene behind, like it never existed. But the shame trails me, sharper with every step. I always told myself, I don’t care what anyone thinks. Don’t care about the rumors and whispers and bitches in school spreading their lies, but the thought that Hunter sees me that way too—that he had to jump in to defend me, or stop them following through on their filthy comments...

  I can’t take it. It’s different. I don’t know why, but it is.

  Hunter...

  I let out a sigh, thinking of him. Those blue eyes, brighter than the summer skies. The golden glint of his tanned skin, the artless, ruffled shock of blonde hair. All summer long, I’ve been fighting my attraction to him, writing it off as some useless hormonal crush. I mean, a guy like that would never look in my direction; I may as well daydream about some Hollywood actor or rock star, for all the good it’ll do me. Even now, I’m surprised to see he’s still in town. His family takes off after Labor Day, every year: back to their perfect, preppy lives in Charleston, and the privileged world I’ll never know.

  But he’s here, tonight. And he saw me, with those guys...

  The shame burns hotter. I wish the tide would surge in and carry me away. Now he thinks what the whispers say are true, that I’m just some cheap slut who’ll hook up with anyone.

  “Brit!”

  I hear a call behind me.

  “Brit, wait up.”

  Oh God. It’s him. Hunter. His voice calling me through the dark. The first time he’s ever spoken to me, and it’s now. What could he possibly want?

  I brace myself and turn.

  Hunter catches up with me, looking disheveled from the fight. He’s got a dark bruise already blossoming on his cheekbone, and I have to dig my nails into my palm to stop myself from reaching out and touching it.

  He catches his breath, and when he speaks, his voice is even. “You weren’t even going to stick around and see if I was OK?”

  I flinch, disappointment crashing through me at his words. So that’s it, he expected some kind of pay-back for stepping in back there, and is pissed I didn’t fall at his feet and do whatever he wanted. What he figured was a sure thing.

  “I didn’t ask you to come flying in and rescue me.” I snap, coldly. I guess he’s just like the rest of them, after all. “I had it handled.”

  “Didn’t look like it from where I was standing.” Hunter sounds pissed, but I don’t have time for this—not if he’s just looking for his ‘reward’.

  “Yeah, well maybe you shouldn’t have been looking in the first place.” I tell him. I try to stay angry, but I can’t help the sadness slipping through my voice. I thought he was different, but I guess nobody is.

  Hunter must have heard the catch in my voice because his expression changes. He lets out a long breath. “Hey. I’m sorry, that came out wrong.” His eyes soften, caring. “I just couldn’t stand to see them treat you like that.”

  I blink, confused. “Maybe I liked it,” I tell him, still defensive. “Maybe you just screwed up the wild night I had planned with the both of them.”

  “Hey, what did I ever do to you?” Hunter demands, looking hurt. “I was trying to do a nice thing back there, and you’re trying to rip my head off.”

  I stop.

  He’s right. He’s done nothing but be good and decent. I’m the one jumping to conclusions and assuming the worst about him. “I’m sorry.” I admit. “You’re right, you didn’t deserve that.” My voice is breaking, so I quickly say, “Thanks,” and then turn and walk away, back the direction I was heading across the empty moonlit beach.

  But Hunter doesn’t leave. He falls into step beside me, matching my stride easily with his long legs. “Where are you heading?” he asks. “You shouldn’t be wandering alone after dark like this.”

  I can’t help but smile at that. “It’s Beachwood Bay,” I point out. “What’s someone going to do, smother me to death in coastal charm?”

  Hunter doesn’t reply for a second, and I wonder if he’s thinking about what happened back at the party. I’d never admit it to anyone, but I’m still a little shaken up. I like to think I’m invincible, that nothing and nobody could ever hurt me, but those guys... They made me wonder for a minute if they were just talk, or if they really would follow through on their disgusting plans.

  I shiver in the dark.

  “Where are you heading?” Hunter asks. “I’ll walk you.”

  “Nowhere, it’s fine.” I fold my arms, on edge. Part of me refuses to believe Hunter is just being a nice guy. He has to want something from me.

  They always want something.

  I shiver again in the breeze, and before I know what he’s doing, Hunter pulls off his hoodie and drapes it around my shoulders. It’s warm from his body, soft against my skin, and smelling like him: clean and fresh, and some hint of aftershave too. I breathe it in despite myself, suddenly feeling safer.

  “What a coincidence,” Hunter drawls, “I’m heading nowhere too.”

  The comment is so ridiculous, I laugh. “You?” I ask him. “You’re heading straight to Yale. And then the White House, if what they say is true.”

  Hunter falls silent, and even in the dark I can see a flash of disappointment slip across his face.

  I pause. He can’t be self-conscious about his background, can he? He’s the perfect one, the Golden Boy, everyone agrees. Kids around town would hold it against him, if he weren’t so damn charming and likable. He’s got everything in the world going for him, but here he is, looking like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  And I just put my foot in it. Crap. I wonder what to say. I’d do anything to take that frown off Hunter’s face, but I have no idea what’s going on with him.

  That’s when I realize, maybe I don’t know him at all. I’ve been judging him by the gossip around town, the charm he gives so easily to people on the street, just what’s on the surface. But wasn’t I spitting mad a moment ago, thinking he was doing the same thing with me?

  We’re strangers here, connected by nothing but this inexplicable bond between us. Strong enough to make my heart skip, beating restlessly in my chest just at his nearness, but too far apart to know what to say now, or how to bridge this divide.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Hunter turns to me with a wide grin. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, sticking out his hand to shake mine. “I’m Bob. Bob Smith.”

  I giggle in surprise. “Bob?” I ask, taken aback.

  “Sure,” Hunter keeps his hand out. “And you are...?”

  I study him cautiously for a moment, not sure where this is coming from--or going. Then I see: he feels it too. The weird distance; the undeniable connection. This is his way of saying we can be anyone we want tonight, just between us.

  He’s wiping the slate clean.

  “I’m Susie,” I say, smiling shyly, reaching to shake his hand. The touch sends a shiver rolling right through me, and Hunter looks startled for a second, like he didn’t expect me to play along. Then he recovers.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Susie.”

  There’s a pause. My heart is racing in my chest, and I know it’s my move. My turn to put myself on the line.

  This is your last chance. A voice whispers. The last night of summer. What are you going to do about it?

  I steel myself and hear myself asking. “You busy, Bob?”

  Hunter shakes his head.

  “Come on,” I gather every last ounce of courage and hold out my hand to him. “There’s some place I want to show you.”

  ***

  I follow beside her, about mile along the shoreline, and with every step, my heartbeat races faster, until I feel like I’m standing on a ledge, about to hurl myself off into the unknown.

  Brit doesn’t look at me. She’s wrapped up in my too-big sweater, eyes fixed ahead of us on the moon-lit beach. I can’t stop myself sneaking looks at her, mesmerized by her nearness. God, she looks beautiful, all that tough-girl attitude stripped away so there’s nothing but vulnerability and nerves on her face. Whatever I’m feeling, the panic, the anticipation, I somehow know, she feels it, too.

  I taste a rush of fierce possession so strong, it takes me by surprise.

  I want to see her in that hoodie tomorrow morning; next week; always. I want to feel her below me in my bed; wake up gazing into those dark, haunted eyes.

  I want all of her, forever.

  Easy, boy. I force myself back to reality. You don’t even know where she’s taking you. After that scene at the party, kissing you might be the last thing on her mind.

  I take a breath, trying to stay in control. She’s just a girl, I tell myself. But the words have barely formed in my mind when I’m struck with how ridiculous it sounds.

  Even now, I know. Brittany Ray will never be just some girl to me.

  I reach out and take her hand.

  Brit flinches at my touch, tripping on the rocky shore. Damn. I quickly pull her up before she falls.

  “I got you,” I say, self-conscious. I should let go, I know, but my hand has a life of its own: it closes around hers, lacing my fingers through hers.

  “Thanks,” she whispers. She glances over at me shyly, and I catch her eyes, struck dumb all over again just at the sight of her.