As he trails off, I spot one of the men in question. Braxton lifts a girl in a white bikini and tosses her into the pool before launching in after her. My lips twitch. He looks so young and carefree as he dive bombs into the pool, making a huge wave that has several of the current occupants slipping off their floats into the water. He comes up, laughing, bright teeth, sparkling eyes, and dark curls flopping against his forehead.
Jake's right. I can't imagine Braxton without Abel or Dean at his back and vice versa for the others. There's an invisible bond between them. It was there in the warnings from Abel. There in the way Braxton never approached me without them unless he was asked to. They back each other up. They support each other. The only thought that comes to mind is that they resemble a family. Like brothers rather than best friends.
"The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb," I mutter absently.
Jake looks at me, his brows drawn down. "What?"
I sigh, shaking my head. "Nothing," I tell him. "It's stupid, just an old Bible verse."
"Didn't take you for the religious type." I can tell I've shocked him, but when you grow up in the southern backwoods, the religious fanatics ran supreme and though I'd never gone to church myself—I certainly doubted Patricia ever had either—it was hard to get out of a place like that without a few notes from the doctrine.
"I'm not." I stare out into the sun and ocean scenery, frowning as my mind tells me to move. To walk away. To make a joke and distract him from his curiosity. I don't do any of those things, though. Instead, I tell him the truth. "It's a common saying," I tell him. "But it's usually misquoted. Are you familiar with the phrase 'blood is thicker than water'?" I ask.
He nods, curious eyes watching me.
"The real quote is 'the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,’" I say.
And it means the exact opposite of what people assume. It means that the family they choose, the bonds a person makes in life is stronger than that of the connection of blood relatives. Because in the end, the family that a person is born with doesn't always necessarily see you as anything more than a possession or a meal ticket.
44
Avalon
Two days into spring break and I think, maybe the Sick Boys aren't so bad. Most people are too afraid to talk to me. I would like to think it's because they heard about what I did to Kate's car or they've heard about the fight at the warehouse and recognize that I'm a badass bitch. In actuality, however, I'm pretty sure it's because of the guys. People are terrified of coming near me because the Sick Boys have made me both desired and untouchable.
I don't like people as a general rule—the only ones I can seem to stand are Dean and the guys, Rylie, sometimes Corina, and Jake. Suffice it to say, I'm not disappointed by the lack of well wishers and friendship making. I'm perfectly content to drink beer and tan by the ocean.
On the second day, Jake tells me he found a staircase leading down to the actual beach and we gather our shit and practically camp on the sand for the entire day. "Corina's here," he comments, tipping back his fourth beer of the day and draining it down his throat.
"Yeah?" I should've expected that. "I haven't seen her."
He shrugs. "She's probably off with her new guy friend. Heard she brought some dude with her. They're probably fucking in one of the spare bedrooms nonstop."
I snort at that comment. "Jealous?" I ask.
He drops his bottle into the pile we've collected between us before grabbing a new one out of the cooler and cracking it open. "Not really. Corina's … well, let's just say she's not the kind of girl I'd stick my dick in more than once."
That bothers me for some reason, but I don't reply. Instead, I rest back and stare up at the massive cliff as a hoard of guys from the party above come down the staircase we'd found earlier with giant surfboards at their sides. They make carrying the heavy boards look easy, but I'm sure it's anything but. They're big and clunky and professional grade if the glossy sheen of their surfaces is anything to go by.
I look up when a shadow falls over me. "Hey, Brax."
Braxton's body may be hovering over mine, but his eyes are zeroed in on my friend. "Having fun?" he asks, glaring at Jake.
Reaching up, I slap his washboard abs. "Leave him alone," I snap. "I need someone to hang with since y'all ditched me at the first opportunity and no one else is willing to fucking entertain me."
"Dean hasn't come to see you yet?" I jump when Abel's voice sounds right behind me as well.
Sitting up, I strain around Brax's big ass body and gape when Abel comes striding up, carrying one of the surfboards. Body cut like a fucking Olympic swimmer, the upper half of his wetsuit hangs down revealing the deep grooves along the sides of his abdomen. Curious, my eyes cut back to Brax. Unlike Abel, he's wearing fairly plain board shorts, but they do nothing to diminish the deep v cut of his body that seems like it’s pointing straight down to the front of his pants.
Jesus fuck. I whip back around, snatch my beer up and drain it in one go.
"Nope," I answer quickly.
Abel comes around the side and I try as hard as I can to not watch as he bends over the cooler to grab a beer for himself. "Stubborn asshole," he mutters.
"What?"
He shakes his head, popping the top. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. Are you enjoying yourself?"
I nod and peel my eyes away from his fine ass muscles to look back out to the sea as the waves come crashing in. Two of the others who'd come down with them start out with boards already flat on the water, their bodies pressed down as they paddle into the waves.
"For a prison, it's pretty nice," I comment, lifting my beer again.
Just before Brax lets out a snort, his hand comes down on my head, rubbing awkwardly like one might do to a kid sister. "As if we could keep you here if you didn't want it," he replies.
I can feel Jake's shock like little pinpricks along my skin as he watches the exchange. I ignore both and keep talking to Abel. "So, you surf?"
Abel shoots me a grin and sticks his beer in the sand so it doesn't fall before using two arms to lift his sturdy board and shove the end into the ground. It's at least a foot or more taller than his frame. "Nah, this here's just for decoration," he says sardonically before shaking his head. "Yeah, I’ve been surfing since I was a kid. My mom liked to do it."
"Hmmmm." I watch him with interest. "Do you look like her?” I ask.
He pauses, half-bent over as he reaches for his beer. There's a moment of silence and then he stands up and turns away. "No," he says quietly, "I don't look anything like her." Then without another word he drains his beer, dumps it in our pile, and grabs his surfboard, heading out.
I cock an eyebrow up at Brax questioningly. "It's not you," he says, shaking his head. "His mom's just a sore subject."
"He seems to care about her a lot," I comment. "The Mustang's hers, and now surfing..."