The Seasonaires Page 3

  Grace approached slowly, letting the two have their moment. Mia noticed her touch her sapphire solitaire necklace with one hand as she pointed Skullcrusher toward the house with the other. “Upstairs, third room on the right.” Skullcrusher lumbered off with Jade’s trunks.

  “Gracie! My girl!” Maz hugged Grace.

  Grace smiled. “How are Tatiana and the tots?”

  “I’m outnumbered by femmes.” He grinned, motioning to Jade.

  “Jade! I haven’t seen you since you were practically in nappies. You’re positively gorgeous,” gushed Lyndon.

  Jade smiled as Maz put his arm proudly around her. “Listen, I have to jet. Take care of my baby,” Maz said to Lyndon.

  “I take care of all of them.” Lyndon looked at the group on the lawn.

  Maz gave Jade a hug, whispering something in her ear. For a moment, she stopped smiling, but when Maz parted from her, she turned on the megawatt smile again.

  Maz pointed gun-fingers at Grant and Cole as Wrecking Ball escorted him back to the Escalade. The black doors shut. As the car disappeared out of the driveway, a guy in jeans, a pinstripe button-down, and bare feet ran from the house holding an iPad.

  “Cocksuckermotherfucker! I wanted to show him—”

  The others glared at him, Grant bursting with a single nose chortle. He then saw Lyndon, looking at him with a wry smile. “Juan Pablo?”

  “J.P. Yes. Sorry,” he said, pushing back the thick black bangs that had fallen over his eyes. Tall, dark and handsome, and filled with nervous energy, he straightened his shirt. “I have a hat line I think Maz would like. Haberdasheries, you know, because you’re . . . British,” he stammered. Jade rolled her eyes. “I’d like to show it to you, too.”

  “Entrepreneurial. I love that,” Lyndon said with an encouraging voice that relaxed J.P. Cole offered Lyndon a small wave.

  “You’re Cole, right?” Lyndon nodded to him. Grace looked at the ground with a tiny head shake.

  Lyndon smiled warmly at Presley. “Presley, darling, it’s good to have you back!”

  “Proud to be back.” Presley stood taller in the spotlight, like a preening peacock.

  Lyndon gestured to the estate. “Let’s all go in and have a welcome chat, shall we?”

  A slim man in his thirties with a trimmed beard and his hair in a low bun came out of the adjacent guest cottage. A camera was slung across his gauzy collarless shirt. Lyndon turned to him.

  “Photos first. Vincent is our on-site photographer.” Lyndon motioned to Vincent’s camera. “Remember, always photos first.”

  Lyndon joined the seasonaires, crossing in front of Mia.

  “Thank you for letting me be a part of this, Ms. Wyld,” said Mia.

  “Thank you for wanting to be a part, Mia.” Lyndon gave Mia’s arm a maternal touch. Presley caught this, her eyes never leaving Lyndon.

  They surrounded Lyndon. Presley was on one side of Mia, Cole on the other. Grant pressed his bare chest into Presley, who restrained her irritation. J.P. inched next to Jade. Mia was painfully aware that she was a good head shorter than both Presley and Jade. She felt Cole’s hand at the small of her back and glanced at him. His smile made her stand straighter.

  “Ready?” said Vincent, with Grace next to him, supervising.

  “Say ‘Wyld!’” Grace emphasized the smile on the “D.”

  “Wyld!” repeated the group. Presley tilted her head, her hair falling over half of Mia’s face. Mia moved in time for Vincent to snap the shot.

  FIVE

  Mia’s eyes grew wide as she entered the estate, her mouth agape.

  “You’re catchin’ flies, sugar,” said Presley, passing her.

  The airy living room looked like it could’ve been on the cover of Elle Decor, one of Mia’s mom’s favorite magazines. Overwhelmed by the grandeur and the floor-to-ceiling harbor view, Mia backed into a chair, almost sitting on Cole’s lap.

  “Sorry.”

  Cole chuckled. Mia instead sat on the cream linen couch next to Jade, who offered a perfunctory smile. J.P. took the ottoman closest to the couch, though Jade pretended not to notice. Presley had disappeared.

  Lyndon stood in front of the fireplace. “I’m not going to stay long because this is your summer. But I wanted to welcome you personally.” She smiled warmly. “You were all hand-picked to represent my brand because your videos proved you have the drive, the story, and the look.”

  “Smashing!” added Grace. That’s when Mia remembered: Grace was the woman who came into the thrift shop that February, though her hair was now red.

  “We go over and above the other clothing lines represented on the island,” continued Lyndon.

  “Over, not under.” Grace mimed. “No booty shorts with underbum, no crop tops with underboob.” Part of Grace’s job was to say what Lyndon was thinking.

  “But sideboob is okay?” From the loveseat, Grant eyed Jade, whose loose tank dipped low beneath her armpits.

  “When done chicly.” Lyndon nodded her approval.

  Vincent focused his lens on Jade and Mia. Jade posed in an effortless and natural way, leaning her arm on the couch back, long legs crossed at the knee. Mia pressed her knees and ankles together and sat tall, offering a stiff smile. Realizing she was stiff made Mia even stiffer.

  “Vincent’s camera can wirelessly post to our social media,” explained Lyndon. “But we expect you to grow your own social by cataloging everything you do.”

  Grace held up her smartphone. “You know the drill. Snapchat is moment-to-moment, Instagram is that big daily post. Instagram Stories should be visual snippets of your day.”

  “Four posts every twenty-four hours,” instructed Lyndon. “Tag the brand. Tag each other.”

  Two “pops” from the kitchen diverted everyone’s attention.

  “Champers!” Presley glided into the room, holding a tray with two bottles of Dom and eight glasses.

  “Presley is our returning seasonaire,” said Lyndon. “The seasonaire with the most followers across all platforms will be invited back as our star influencer.”

  “Presley could return again if no one catches her,” added Grace.

  “I wasn’t named ‘Presley’ for nothin’,” said Presley. “But who needs The King when you have the queen?” She looked so full of herself she could’ve burst into a spray of hot pink confetti. As she walked around with the tray, everyone took a glass. Grace poured from one bottle, first for Lyndon, then herself. Presley poured for everyone else, spilling a drop on Mia’s lap.

  “Oops, my bad,” she chirped.

  Mia gave the wet spot on her skirt a quick brush.

  “Let’s toast.” Lyndon lifted her glass. “To a perfect summer.”

  The group clinked glasses. Vincent took more photos.

  “Look each other in the eye when you toast,” said Grace. “It’s good luck.”

  Mia and Cole locked eyes with an awkward chuckle.

  “Seven years of bad sex if you don’t,” said Grant, trying to lock eyes with Jade, who rolled hers.

  “That’s a French superstition. Parlez-vous français?” Vincent asked Grant in his charming French accent.

  “Two years of high school Spanish that I don’t remember. But we had a foreign exchange student who taught me a few things.” Grant winked. Vincent furrowed his brow and went back to his camera.

  Lyndon put her glass on the mantel and picked up her purse. “I’m going to leave you to your adventures. You have the calendar of events. Make the most of everything!”

  “But don’t make too much of a mess.” Grace took both her and Lyndon’s glasses to the kitchen. “Our housekeeper, Nadege, comes only once a week,” she called. She returned and handed Lyndon her work tote. She picked up her own, then tossed LW monogrammed T-shirts to everyone from a canvas shopping bag filled with them. She left the bag next to the front door. “Pass the rest out tonight at The Rabbit Hole.”

  “Sunday nights The Rabbit Hole is our hangout.” Presley sat in an armchair and sipped
her champagne.

  “We’ll be watching your social, so stay out of trouble.” Lyndon’s subtle smirk deliberately contradicted the warning. “And stay on the island.”

  J.P. rushed to hold open the door. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  Lyndon cupped J.P.’s chin. “Never call a woman under forty ma’am.”

  “Apologies.” J.P. glanced at his feet as Lyndon released his chin. “What should we call you?”

  “Lyndon.” She smiled at everyone and was gone.

  After the door closed behind Vincent and the sisters, Presley turned to J.P. “How do you breathe with your nose so far up there?”

  “Through my mouth.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “No one likes a kiss-ass.” Presley glanced at Mia.

  “A little bro-mow before The Hole?” Grant peeked into his shorts, then at Cole and J.P.

  “Those who bunk together don’t manscape together,” said Cole. He moved to pick up Mia’s suitcase as everyone started up the stairs.

  “I’m okay, thanks.” Mia pulled up the rear with the heavy bag as they reached the second-floor hallway.

  “I’d better have an ocean view,” remarked Jade, with a sniff. She stopped at the open door that revealed her trunks at the foot of a plush king-size bed. There was an incredible view. “This is me.”

  “Private room? Nice,” said J.P.

  Mia saw Presley’s eyes flash anger as Jade disappeared into her room. The three guys entered theirs. Presley turned to Mia, her pageant-winning smile glued back on.

  “I guess that makes us a team.”

  SIX

  It’s been forever since I’ve ridden a bike,” said Mia as she approached the line of beach cruisers in front of the estate.

  “They say you never forget,” replied Cole, who was already on one. He pressed his heel into the kickstand, which flipped back.

  “Well, I guess I’m going to test that theory right now.” Mia mounted one of the bikes, teetering on it, her toes barely touching the ground.

  “I’d tell you to wear a helmet, but we don’t have any.” Presley fluffed her hair. “Helmet head is tragic.” She and Jade had managed get on their bikes with more poise than Mia, who pushed off to a wobbly start. Mia and her brother had shared the one bike their mom bought for $10 at a yard sale when Mia was seven. The chain broke after six months and it ended up in the junkyard. But thirteen years later, Mia was surprised at how quickly she got comfortable. “I guess the old saying is true,” she mused to herself as she pedaled along just behind the others.

  They cruised over to The Rabbit Hole while Vincent followed in the G, stopping them at spots to take snaps.

  “These cobblestones are the worst,” complained Jade as they jostled along. “They hurt my damn V.”

  J.P. laughed.

  “Riding is the only way you can wear heels,” said Presley, who was peddling in tall white espadrille wedges. “Two out of three female seasonaires sprained ankles last year. Guess which one ended up unscathed.” She put a hand to her chest.

  Grant popped a wheelie up the curb and rode on the sidewalk, arms up. “Ahhhhhhhhhh,” he yelled, his voice fluttering with the bumps.

  A black Crown Victoria driving down the street slowed. A man in a plain short-sleeve button-down shirt called out to them. “Bikes off the sidewalk.”

  Grant looked at him, but kept peddling along.

  “Off. Now,” demanded the man.

  Mia noticed he had one brown eye and one blue eye.

  “Do it, dummy,” Presley said to Grant.

  Grant popped off the sidewalk and joined the group riding in the street.

  The man in the car nodded and continued on.

  “That’s the po-po,” Presley explained. “They like to flex their muscles during the summer to make sure we’re not having too much fun.”

  They parked their bikes in front of The Rabbit Hole and entered. Vincent followed. Despite its dive vibe, the place was packed with people jostling amid the worn wood panel interior, TV’s bordering the ceiling, pool table, dartboards, ping-pong table, and jukebox. Ironically, the low-rent atmosphere attracted upper-crust customers: offspring of moneyed summer residents, flush young tourists, and brand ambassadors for everything from clothes to liquor. A small stage awaited Tidepull, the night’s featured band, according to the scrawl on the blackboard.

  “This place is lit!” yelled Grant over the din as the group waded through the crowd.

  A trio of thirty-somethings abandoned a table as if invisibly bullied out of the bar by their younger, better-looking counterparts. Grant and Cole grabbed it while J.P., holding the canvas shopping bag, followed Jade. She hadn’t bothered to wear her Lyndon Wyld tee like the others, who styled them in various outfits, Mia’s with white cuffed jeans and a woven belt, Presley’s tied at the waist and paired with a denim snap-front skirt. Jade accessorized her jersey maxi dress with a well-practiced “I don’t give a fuck” expression.

  Presley took Mia’s hand. “We’ll get drinks because I don’t trust any of you jokers.”

  “A pitcher,” hollered Grant.

  “Please,” added Cole with a smile at Mia.

  Mia stepped up to the bar with Presley. She recognized the bartender as Scruffy-Sexy Bearded Guy who had stood with the Wear National girl in the alleyway. He was skillfully mixing drinks, pouring beers, and ignoring the shouts of “Bro! Here!” and “Where’s my damn drink?”

  Presley leaned over the bar. Her beauty and confidence caught the bartender’s eye. “Strawberry daiquiri. And not the kind that comes out of that machine.” She pointed to the machine behind him, whirring with fluorescent pink and blue slush.

  “Shall I get you a chalice, too?” The bartender pulled the handle on the daiquiri machine and put the flamingo-hued drink on the bar in front of her.

  “Is that how you talk to a patron?” Presley’s eyes narrowed at him.

  “A patron is one who pays. Your boss is paying.” He motioned to Presley’s Lyndon Wyld tee, appearing unfazed by the flat stomach she proudly showcased.

  “If you think this whole ‘bad boy’ thing is going to get you into my drawers, you’re sadly mistaken,” Presley drawled, knowing full well that no one said “drawers” anymore.

  “You’re right,” snapped a brunette waitress who put a tray of empty drinks on the bar. “You bougie bitches come in here like you own everything on the island, but honey, you do not.”

  “I don’t remember you from last summer,” Presley said to the bartender. “But I remember you.” She sized up the waitress’s curves, voluptuous enough to cause accidents. “What’s your name again?”

  “I never shared that with you. I’m not sharing anything with you, and that includes him.” The waitress nodded toward the bartender. She sauntered into the kitchen.

  Presley looked at the bartender, who continued to make cocktails, impervious to the drama. “Your girlfriend’s got the line on spunk. In more ways than one, I’m sure.” She strutted off, taking a sip of her pink drink from the straw. “This is shit, by the way,” she called back.

  Mia eked out an embarrassed smile to the bartender. “Can I get a pitcher? Please.”

  “ID.”

  Mia took her wallet from her purse and showed him her driver’s license, holding her breath but keeping her gaze steady.

  “Nice job with that.” The bartender filled a pitcher and chuckled. “Kidding.”

  “Funny.” Mia took the beer and a stack of glasses. “Thanks.” Heart racing, she headed off.

  The curvy waitress returned from the kitchen to grab her tray.

  “You might want to try to avoid catfights with the customers,” the bartender said to her as he set four tequila shots on the tray.

  “That deb twat with the stick up her ass isn’t a customer.” The waitress nodded to the bar’s entrance, where the Wear National girl with the blond hair with violet streaks entered. “Now that is a customer.”

  The paunchy, middle-aged manager, face
full of weary wrinkles, approached them. “Hey, Mac, canoodling time cuts into set time.” He waved off the waitress. “Eve, move it.”

  “Sorry, Frank,” Mac said. He turned to pluck a bottle of rum from the shelf, side-eyeing Eve as she walked away with the tray.

  Mia returned to the seasonaires’ table, where Vincent was snapping photos. Grant relieved her of the pitcher while Cole took the glasses. Mia sat next to Presley.

  Jade put her fingers under her nostrils. “It smells like a fucking frat house in here.”

  “Calling a fraternity a frat is like calling your country a cunt.” Grant poured himself a beer. “Sigma Sig, Penn State!” He pumped his chest and chugged.

  Presley pointed to herself. “Rho Pi at Georgia. Sigma Sigs were always decent hookup material.” She turned to Jade. “Have you ever even been in a fraternity house, Jade?”

  “At NYU, no. But I slummed it with a friend once.” Jade lived in a Manhattan penthouse that her dad bought her.

  “RISD doesn’t have a Greek system,” said J.P.

  “Oooh, artsy!” remarked Presley. “What do you study there?”

  “When I started, I wanted to sculpt. My mother was an artist.”

  Disinterested, Jade took a selfie and posted on Snapchat.

  “But then I took an apparel class and realized that I wanted to design hats,” J.P. continued. “So now, I’m sculpting masterpieces on heads.”

  Mia did a small spit take with her beer. “Ironic for a college with a scrotum for a mascot.”

  Everyone laughed, including J.P.

  “But RISD is a great school,” added Mia. Rhode Island School of Design had been one of Mia’s dream colleges.

  “Where do you go to school, Mia?” asked Cole.

  “Nowhere.” Mia didn’t flinch.

  “I graduated, too,” said Cole.

  “I didn’t graduate because I didn’t go to college.” Mia wasn’t going to hide this because she had done the best she could.

  “Oh.” Presley sniffed. “Hm.”