Chapter 22 Marked
I'm sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, the engine cut, but the air conditioning still humming a weak, dying rattle against the heat. Outside, the Pacific is a glittering, indifferent blue, but all I can focus on is the tiny screen of my phone.
I’m shifting between my rearview mirror and my selfie camera, twisting my neck until the tendons strain.
"Son of a bitch," I whisper, my thumb hovering over a cluster of dark, blooming bruises right at the sensitive junction of my shoulder and throat.
Hickeys. Plural. I don't even remember him doing it...everything in that bathroom is a blur. He must have marked me right at the peak, while I was too busy coming apart in his hand to realize he was literally branding me. They aren't just faint marks either....
I look at the passenger seat where the "beach fit" Josie made me is folded. She spent weeks on it. A sheer, open-weave linen shirt and matching trousers that are supposed to look "effortlessly coastal." The problem is "effortlessly coastal" usually involves a lot of collarbone and, knowing Josie, at least half an hour of me being shirtless so she can capture the "vibe."
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. It's Dante.
“Yo, the light is hitting the dunes perfect right now. You in the lot? Don't make us chase the sun, man.”
I sigh, dragging my hand down my face before typing...“Just parked. Walking up now. Keep your shirt on.”
I grab the bag, hop out of the car, and start the trek across the sand. The beach is a Sunday hive....tourists, families, and enough influencers to make me want to walk straight into the tide. I spot them near a cluster of rocks that Dante probably picked for the shadows. He’s already got the gimbal out, circling Josie like a predator.
She looks incredible. The dress is a masterwork of draped silk that catches the wind in a way that looks like liquid gold. I’ve seen the sketches, but the finished product is...well, it’s probably going to pay rent for three months once all the content is posted.
"There he is!" Josie shouts, waving a manicured hand. "The man, the myth, the latecomer! Get changed, Kaden!"
I offer a weak wave, my heart sinking a little. Dante looks up from the viewfinder, his brow furrowed. "You okay, man? You look....out of it."
"Just the traffic," I lie, the words tasting like ash. "PCH is a nightmare. Give me two minutes."
I duck behind a large rock to change, the salt air stinging the marks on my neck. The linen is scratchy against my sensitized skin, a constant, abrasive reminder of what happened a while ago. I buttoned the shirt up to the literal throat, arms crossed over my chest. I immediately wish there was a scarf involved. Or a turtleneck.
It’s not just the bruises. It’s the fact that Josie is my human lie detector. We have an unwritten rule....If someone is in our bed, they’re in our conversation. And I don’t do casual, not really. Plus she knows everything. Every person I’ve ever hooked up with, every almost-date, every mistake that probably involved alcohol. I tell her. It’s just our thing.
And despite the "fuck boy" assumptions people make when I’m behind the bar, I’m not the guy who picks up strangers in bathrooms. Except today, apparently, I am exactly that guy.
Dante glances up from his monitor, squinting at me through the glare of the sun. "It’s like eighty degrees, man, you cold or something?"
"Just acclimating," I say, my voice as stiff as my posture. "The breeze is... brisk."
"Brisk? It’s a heatwave, you drama queen," Josie chirps. She’s already marching toward me, a bottle of SPF 50 clutched in her hand like a weapon. She gestures impatiently at my chest. "Take the shirt off. I need to get your shoulders before you start looking like a boiled lobster."
"I’m good, Jo. I put some on in the car," I lie. My nose is probably growing as I speak.
She stops, her brow furrowing into a look of pure, concentrated maternal judgment. "The hell you did. You have the skin of a fucking Victorian child. Take it off. I'm not losing my engagement metrics because you decided to be modest for the first time in four years."
She doesn't wait for an answer. She lunges, squirting a dollop of white cream onto her palm and attacking my face. She rubs it in with the aggressive, no-nonsense efficiency of a mother who’s already late for a PTA meeting. I’m helpless.
Then, she reaches down.
Before I can jump back, she uncrosses my arms with a sharp tug and starts working on my collarbones. I immediately fix my gaze on the horizon, staring at a distant sailboat. I watch the gulls, the tourists, the way the light hits the whitecaps....anywhere that isn't her face.
Her hands move over my chest, the cold lotion slick and heavy. And then, abruptly, they stop.
The silence is worse than the music at the club. It’s the kind of silence that usually precedes a natural disaster. I can feel her eyes digging into the side of my neck, right where those purple marks are screaming.
"Kaden," she says, her voice dropping the frantic "influencer" energy. It’s quiet. Dangerous.
I keep staring at the boat. "Yeah, Jo?"
There’s another pause. Then, “....what the hell happened to your neck?”
I clear my throat and do my best impression of someone who has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.
“Why?” I say, squinting slightly. “Is something wrong with it?”
Josie blinks at me. Her eyebrows slowly climb toward her hairline. “Yes, Kaden,” she says slowly, like she’s explaining basic math to a toddler. “There’s something wrong with it. You look like you went at it with a suction cup.”
Dante steps closer, curiosity piqued. He peers over her shoulder, studying the side of my neck for a second. Then he lets out a low whistle.
“Oh wow.”
Before I can protest, the camera clicks. He lowers it, turns the screen toward me, and smirks. “Visual reference, Romeo,” he says casually.
I glance at the screen and immediately regret it. The marks look even worse in high definition. Like I’ve been marked for sacrifice by a very wealthy cult. I frown like I’m genuinely puzzled.
“Huh,” I say.
Josie folds her arms.
I shrug lightly. “Probably mosquito bites.”
“Mosquito bites,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
She shakes her head and gestures vaguely at my neck. “Those are not mosquito bites, Kaden. Unless the mosquitoes pay taxes and were amped up on protein powder.”
Dante snorts behind the camera. I wave a hand. “Okay, maybe it’s an allergy then....could be something I ate.”
She lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Dude, you literally have the stomach of a stray dog. I’ve seen you try mystery street food that looked like it crawled out of a drain. You don’t have allergies.”
I shrug again. She narrows her eyes.
“Why are you avoiding eye contact?”
I sigh quietly and turn to her. For a second, I meet her gaze. Her brown eyes are sharp, suspicious. There are colorful beads threaded into her braids now, catching the sunlight when she moves.
I hadn’t even noticed them before. Which probably says a lot about how scrambled my brain still is. I hold her stare for exactly two seconds, then look away again. “It’s nothing,” I say.
Josie points an accusing finger at me. “Oh, we’re circling back to this the second we’re done here.”