Chapter 1: Poolside Panic and a Passionate Lie
The last thing I remember clearly is the crisp taste of my IPA, the way the condensation dripped down the bottle and onto my jeans. The late afternoon sun was a warm weight on my chest, the smell of chlorine and blooming jasmine thick in the air. Sabrina was a silent, gleaming statue on the lounge next to mine, lotioned up and soaking in the rays.
“You’re gonna fry, you know,” I’d mumbled, taking another sip.
“My skin tans. Yours just… crackles.” Her voice was a lazy murmur. “Pass me the water?”
I’d reached for the bottle on the small table between us. My fingers had just brushed the plastic when a sudden, soundless pressure collapsed behind my eyes. The world didn’t go black so much as it snapped—a TV channel changing instantly from one reality to another.
The beer was gone.
The familiar, comforting heaviness of my own body was gone.
I was lying down, but the angle was all wrong. The lounge chair felt huge around me. I saw the world from a lower vantage point, the sky too vast, the roof of my house looming. A wave of dizziness washed over me, followed by a deep, wrong coldness across my skin where the sun had been warm a second before.
I tried to sit up.
My body responded with a strange, lightweight agility that sent a jolt of panic through my system. As I pushed up, a heavy, soft weight on my chest swayed and pulled with a motion that was utterly, terrifyingly foreign. I looked down.
Two pronounced curves, barely contained by tiny triangles of turquoise fabric, blocked my view of my stomach—a stomach that was a flat, smooth plane, ridged with the faint hint of abs I’d never worked for. My hands flew up, not to my chest, but to my face. My fingers met full, pillowy lips and a small, narrow nose. Long, silky strands of hair the color of bleached wheat fell over my shoulders and stuck to my neck.
“What the…”
The voice that came out was higher. Mellifluous. A stranger’s.
From the chair next to me—my chair—a deep, guttural sound of terror erupted. I turned my head, my new neck moving with a fluid ease that felt bizarre.
My own body—six feet of me, scruffy beard, faded ZZ Top t-shirt, beer belly—was scrambling off the lounge, movements clumsy and too large. My own blue eyes, wide with horror, were staring back at me from my own face.
“Justin?” my own voice boomed, cracking on the second syllable. “What… what is this?”
“Sabrina?” my new, lighter voice squeaked.
We both stared. The understanding was a physical blow, a nauseating drop in a gut I no longer recognized. The body that had been Sabrina’s—petite, tanned, stunning in her turquoise bikini—was now inhabited by me. And she was… in mine.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, no.” Sabrina—in my body—stumbled, looking down at the large, hairy hands she now possessed. She patted the broad chest, the beard, her movements growing increasingly frantic. “This isn’t happening. This is a dream. A bad, tequila dream.”
“Did we get hit by lightning?” I whispered. My new voice didn’t feel like it came from my chest. It resonated in my head, a bright, clear sound. I looked down at myself again. The bikini bottoms cut high on my hips—her hips. I felt the slight, uncomfortable pressure of a thin strip of fabric nestled between the cheeks of an ass that was undeniably fuller, rounder. A thong. She was wearing a thong. I was wearing a thong.
Every sensation was a violation. The gentle breeze wasn’t a comfort; it was a lick of cool air across a vast expanse of exposed skin I’d never had. The weight of my breasts—her breasts—was a constant, distracting pull. I shifted, and everything jiggled. A soft, unsettling sway. I felt simultaneously fragile and conspicuous.
“What do we do?” Sabrina-in-my-body demanded, her—his—voice a rough bass of panic. “We have to fix this! Call someone! A doctor? A priest?”
“And say what?” I shot back, struggling to keep the new voice from climbing into a shriek. “Hi, we’ve swapped bodies? They’d lock us up.” The logic felt slippery, but the fear was cement. I tried to stand. My center of gravity was completely different. I was a foot shorter. The ground felt leagues away. My small feet, painted with perfect pink polish, slipped awkwardly in the designer sandals. I had to catch myself on the arm of the chair, my new hands small and weak-looking against the wicker.
Just then, the gate latch clicked.
Our heads swiveled in unison.
Mark Mooers strode through, a towel slung over his shoulder. The dying sun lit him like a bronze god. His swimsuit was a tight black speedo, and it did absolutely nothing to hide the substantial bulge it contained. To my new, five-foot perspective, he was a mountain—six-foot-four of corded muscle and effortless confidence. His smile was easy, aimed directly at me.
At this body.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, his voice a warm rumble. His gaze swept over the bikini-clad form I now occupied with an appreciative heat that made my skin—her skin—prickle.
Sabrina, in my body, made a choked sound. “Mark, listen—”
“Not now, J-man,” Mark said, not unkindly, but without looking away from me. He dropped his towel on a chair and closed the distance in two easy strides. The scent of his cologne, something spicy and expensive, mixed with the chlorine. It was overpowering.
My brain short-circuited. Every instinct from thirty-six years as Justin Zygurski screamed to throw a fist bump, to offer him a beer, to make a joke about the speedo. But his eyes weren’t looking for Justin.
He cupped my face. His hands were enormous, swallow-my-whole-news-skull enormous, but his touch was surprisingly gentle. “Missed you today,” he murmured, and then he leaned down.
I froze. This was my best friend. This was Mark.
His lips met mine.
The sensation was an electric shock delivered directly to my nervous system. Her lips were so much softer, more sensitive than mine had ever been. The pressure of his mouth was firm, commanding. A strange, fluttering heat erupted low in my stomach—a stomach that was now tight and small. A traitorous, tingling warmth spread through me, a physical response utterly divorced from my screaming mind.
I felt my new hands, acting on some alien instinct, come up and rest on his chest. His skin was hot and smooth over solid muscle. I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart.
He deepened the kiss, and a low noise vibrated in his throat. The sound went straight through me. My fingers, with their stupid pink nails, curled against his pecs. One of his hands slid from my face down to the small of my back, pulling me closer. The full length of his body pressed against mine, and I was acutely, horrifyingly aware of every point of contact: the hard plane of his stomach against my soft one, the crush of my new breasts against his chest, and the unmistakable, thick pressure of his erection against my lower belly.
A dizzying cocktail of terror, revulsion, and a sharp, undeniable spike of arousal flooded me. This was wrong. This was so profoundly wrong.
But the body—her body—was responding.
I heard a ragged, masculine breath from beside us. Sabrina, watching her own body kiss her boyfriend while her mind was trapped in her cousin’s. The sound broke the spell.
I pulled my mouth away, gasping for air with her lungs. My lips felt swollen, buzzing.
Mark’s eyes were dark, satisfied. He brushed a thumb over my bottom lip. “You taste different,” he said, a playful smirk on his face. “In a good way.”
I couldn’t speak. I could only stare up at him, trembling, my hands still splayed on the terrifying geography of his chest. The taste of him was still in my mouth—mint and something darker. My heart was a frantic, bird-like fluttering in a cage of delicate ribs.
The plot was in motion. There was no going back. The evening stretched ahead, a minefield in a turquoise bikini, and I was now stranded in the one place I could never explain: inside the skin of the woman my best friend was dating.