Chapter 1: Sun-Baked and Cornered
The bus dropped him off in a cloud of exhaust and bad decisions. Will shouldered his duffel bag, the weight of his gaming laptop digging into his clavicle, and stared at the coastal strip mall that passed for a town center.The air smelled like salt, fake butter, and defeat.
A horn honked, two sharp blasts.He turned.
The car was a vintage convertible, coral pink and gleaming.Leaning against it was a woman.No—a spectacle. She was tall, draped in something leopard-print and stretchy that ended in tiny shorts. Her legs, tanned and improbably smooth, went on for miles before culminating in sparkly wedges. Her hair was a short, platinum shock. And her silhouette… it was like a cartoon hourglass, all extreme curves and sharp angles.Will’s brain, excellent at coding and useless at this, short-circuited. The chest was a shelf, the hips a sudden, dramatic parabola. It was his step-grandmother, Bunny.The photos his dad had didn’t… couldn’t… capture the physical reality of her.
“Will!Sugar!” Her voice was a husky drawl that carried across the parking lot. She pushed oversized sunglasses onto her head. “Get in, the sun’s murder on my implants.”
Implants.He’d never heard someone say that out loud. He shuffled over, trying not to look directly at her, which meant his eyes kept snagging on the dizzying topography of her body. He threw his bag in the back, which was piled with shopping bags and a single, gaudy garden gnome.“Thanks for picking me up,” he mumbled, sliding into the passenger seat. The leather was warm.
“Pish, of course.” She gunned the engine, the roar throaty and unnecessary.“Your folks said you needed some… fresh air. Get out from behind that screen.” She glanced at him, her eyes a bright, watery blue behind thick mascara. “You’re paler than my bathroom tile, honey.”
Will adjusted his glasses. “I get out.To get the mail.”
Bunny barked a laugh, a single, smoky sound. “Well, you’re in luck.The mail here is fascinating. Catalogues, AARP bulletins, coupon circulars… it’s a goddamn thriller.” She navigated out of the lot, driving with one wrist draped over the wheel. “My point is, you’re with me now.And I take care of what’s mine. This summer, we’re gonna live. Really live.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the ocean breeze went down Will’s spine.“I appreciate it, Bunny.Really. I was thinking I could just, you know, fix your Wi-Fi or something. Maybe organize your media server.”
“Darling, my server is just fine.” She let her hand drop, patting his knee. Her nails were long, painted a vicious shade of crimson.“What you need isn’t digital. It’s tactile.Experiential.You’re eighteen, for Chrissake. You should be… exploring.”
The word hung in the air, thick and unfamiliar. Will stared straight ahead at the rows of pastel bungalows.Plastic flamingos stood sentinel in manicured yards. A man in a motorized scooter gave them a jaunny wave.
“This is it,” Bunny announced, swinging into the driveway of a pepto-bismol pink ranch house. “Casa de la Beaumont. No rules, just vibes.” She killed the engine and swung her legs out in one fluid, practiced motion.
Will grabbed his bag and followed, his eyes helplessly drawn to the sway of her as she walked ahead of him up the path. It was a mesmerizing, engineered rhythm.At the front door, she paused, digging in a tiny purse for her keys. She glanced back over her shoulder, catching his gaze.A slow smile spread across her face. “See something you like?”
Will felt a flush burn from his neck to his hairline. “I, uh, the garden gnome.In the car. It’s… unique.”
“Don’t be a coward, Will,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “You’re a young man with eyes.I’m a woman who takes care of herself. Looking is free.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Deserved, even.”
The smell hit him first—a potent cocktail of heavy perfume, stale cigarette smoke, and beneath it, a sweet, vanilla rot.The living room was a pastel assault. Pink velvet sofa, lime green recliner buried under knitted blankets, walls papered with faded roses. The coffee table was a chaotic museum: ceramic kittens, vases of drooping carnations, a towering stack of Playgirl magazines.“Home sweet hell,” Bunny said, tossing her keys into a giant clam shell. “Your room’s down the hall, last door on the left. Uncleaned since the last handsome young handyman visited, so try not to think about it.” She turned, leaning against the doorframe, exaggerating the curve of her spine.“Now, don’t dawdle. Unpack fast. The sun’s perfect, and the hot tub is just… simmering.”
Will’s throat went dry.“Hot tub?”
“Mmmhmm. Best way to… unwind.To get to know each other.” She winked, a grotesque, delightful gesture. “Don’t worry, I bought you some trunks. They’re… European.” She pushed off the frame and sauntered toward the kitchen, calling back, “I’ll mix us some margaritas. The good stuff, none of that pre-made crap.”
Will stood frozen in the floral vortex, his duffel bag at his feet. His mind, a reliable machine for logic and pattern recognition, offered him a rapid, unwelcome series of images: Bunny, submerged in bubbling water.Bunny, in a bikini that would be a geometric paradox. Bunny, holding out a salty glass, her bright eyes locked on his.
The narrative was hurtling forward, a pink convertible on a coastal highway with no brakes.He was no longer a programmer here. He was a variable in someone else’s wild, perfumed equation. He picked up his bag and walked, zombie-like, toward the back hall, the words European cut echoing in his skull with a terrible, specific gravity.