Chapter Text
July 17, Bowery Beach
Bowery Beach: a small stretch of sand, no longer than three quarters of a mile and sitting on the western edge of a small town. In a word the beach is picturesque. Blue green waters capped with rolling waves nine days out of ten. Golden sand that sparkles in the midday sunshine and stays warm long into the night. It even has dunes that are home to a plethora of native grasses that wave in the sea breezes. All kinds of sea birds take to the skies above it, their calls heard above the crash of the waves. But grasses and wildlife aren’t the only thing this beach has become the home for.
Half a dozen surfers have staked a claim to these aureate sands with their brightly colored surfboards and even brighter patterned shirts. These self proclaimed kings of the beach were lead by none other than local hazard Spot Conlon.
Spot Conlon who would rather spend the day in the waves with his gang of so called delinquents than worry about whatever rumors were circling about him at that time. And it turns out when someone doesn’t give two shits what the world thinks about him, he rakes up a persona that scares away the typical teenager without even trying. It’s not like he minded, if the world thought he was frightening and angry all the time because he beat the shit out of a bully for picking on Rafaela that one time three years ago then so be it, since contrary to public belief Spot was a fairly laid back guy as long as you didn’t piss him off.
Spot was now currently dozing slightly on the sand, enjoying the warm rays of sun after nearly a week of rain and grey skies. Off in the distance he heard Rafaela cackle and a loud splash, his mind’s eye created an image of Raf watching Hotshot fall off his board yet again as he tried to perfect his aerial. He smiled to himself when he heard a waterlogged “fuck you!” in what was unmistakably Hotshot’s voice.
“Still can’t land it then?” He teased, voice loud enough to be heard over the static like crash of the waves as he sat up.
“Fuck you too Spotty, why don’t you come try it then?” Hotshot fired back, but smiling widely as the surf lapped around his ankles. He was lucky that Spot didn’t push him back under after calling him Spotty, that was probably one of the downsides about growing up with the asshole.
But it seemed he hadn't needed to worry about it since Rafaela had it under control as she aimed a well placed shove to Hotshot’s chest and sent him tumbling into the waves.
Spot stood, shrugging out of his shirt before picking his red and ivory board out of the sand. “You ready to see how it's done?”
Without waiting for a response he ran past the pair and dove into the waves like, well like a fish into water. He paddled out past the breaking waves, arms pushing himself through the rough water like it was nothing. Surfing was in his blood at this point. If you took a blood sample from Spot Conlon the results would come back as 85% saltwater and another 15% sheer determination. He used that fifteen percent to its full extent as he got his bearings on the board, ready to tackle a swell twice his size. Board securely under his feet he glided down the wave, gaining as much speed as he could, then at the last moment before the wave crested he jerked to the right, sending him and the board into the sky. He let out a whoop as his stomache dropped out from beneath him in a moment of pure unadulterated joy. He spun nearly a full three-sixty as he came back down, riding the rest of the wave until it lapped up onto the beach.
Spot couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face when he saw the mini crowd his showing off had attracted. Hotshot looked like he was caught somewhere between utterly awestruck and nursing a freshly bruised ego as Joey came over to pat him on the shoulder. Hildy and York just looked impressed as they stood stoically by the collection of surfboards, though their stoicness was somewhat ruined by their bright grins. Meanwhile Rafaela was a flurry of energy as she practically launched herself at Spot.
“That was sick as hell Spot, you got like at least three feet of air under that!” She punched his arm a little too hard, her violently magenta shirt flaring out behind her like a cape when she ran over. It was the same color and pattern as the scarf she had her hair tied up in, it was kind of impressive she could find the same kind of fabric for both.
“That was nothing, give me bigger waves and I’ll show you some serious air.” He grinned as he slung the arm that wasn’t holding his board around Raf’s shoulers, feeling completely in his element as he gave her a small squeeze.
Nothing else could possibly make this day any better.
“Let’s go grab sodas at Medda’s!” Rafaela cried, eyes wide and happy as the rest of the gang cheered in agreement.
Okay maybe one thing could make it better.
“Alright assholes, let’s go,” he pretended to grumble, but his tough guy persona didn’t work on them even on a good day so they all just laughed and smiled even wider as they grabbed their boards and started to towel themselves off. Their laughter ringing loud and true over the waves and seagull cries.
Yeah, today had been a pretty great day.
By the time they had made it to Medda’s the salt had dried in all of their hair and the starts of sunburns were starting to show on their shoulders, but they couldn’t bothered enough to care. They all crammed into their usual corner booth and sent Hotshot to get drinks since he had made it there last. Which totally isn’t a fair way to do this guys!
He then returned with an armful of bottles of varying colors and contents.
“Let’s see, I’ve got cokes for Joey, York and myself.” He handed the green glass bottles to the two in back corner who were discussing something that sounded like the mechanics of making the best board.
“A raspberry for Rafaela.” She blew him a kiss after taking a long sip of the berry soda, her lips already starting to tint purple. “You’re welcome.”
“Cream soda for Hildy though I have no idea how you drink the stuff.” The tall girl just shrugged as if to say to each their own.
“And for our wondrous Spotty a cherry soda the color of everything he has ever owned.” Spot just flipped him the bird as Hotshot squeezed into the miniscule space next to him.
The group quickly dissolved into a comfortable conversation about the days events. How Hotshot couldn’t land an aerial if his life depended on it. Whether or not Rafaela had a shirt scarf combo in every color imaginable (she did, to no one’s surprise). Even what the weather looked like for the next couple of days (near perfect waves and lots of sun).
Then they heard the soft roar of what was unmistakably motorcycles. Five of them to be exact.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Spot muttered to himself as the front door swung open.
If Spot and his gang ruled the waves Jack Kelly and his band of misfits owned the streets.
Jack Kelly should have been the one with a reputation like Spot’s, he had the entire Bad Boy look down cold. Slicked back hair that never seemed to stay in place, leather jacket that fit his shoulders just perfectly, and on top of that he had a motorcycle that probably got more of his attention than any of the girls that were always fawning over him. But what he lacked in intimidation he made up for in his ability to charm the pants off of anyone he chose with a crooked smile and a few smooth words. It was aggravating.
Now he stood in the doorway of Medda’s, sunglasses pushed up on his head and a bright grin on his face. He didn’t stay there long instead striding over to the bar and calling out, “The usual please Miss Medda.”
“Glare any harder and you might set this place on fire,” Hotshot commented nonchalantly around the straw in his coke.
“I am not glaring,” Spot snapped without malice, gaze landing back on his drink and a concerned looking Rafaela who had an eyebrow raised at him from across the table. He shook his head at her, I’m fine he mouthed.
“You are, and if you weren’t glaring at Kelly til your head bursts you might have noticed who else just walked in.” He nudged Spot’s side with a bony elbow.
Turning as much as he could without being obvious he spotted (ha!) the other members of Jacky Boy’s crew all crammed into a booth not unlike Spot was himself. But that wasn’t what Hotshot had meant. No he had meant the tall blond boy who currently had his back to Spot, giving him a full view of the dozen or so patches he had sewed almost haphazardly to the back of his black leather jacket. Then Jack shouted something across the room, the fucking loud mouth, that caused the biker to turn around, and Spot’s heart kicked into overdrive against his internal protests. If asked why he would say that it was the sheer atrocity that was Racetrack Higgins’ hair, slicked back with no less than a pound of grease, or the way he looked right at home in the place that was Spot’s home away from home. He could even blame it on Race’s stupidly painted nails that never stayed not chipped for longer than a day and half. But no one was asking and Spot would very much like to keep it that way.
Then as though Racetrack could feel the weight of his gaze, turned his head just enough to shoot a wink his way. It made his stomache do a sickening swoop like he had just crested a monster wave.
“Fuck you, Ferreri.” Spot took a long drink, downing nearly the rest of the bottle. His face still felt too warm for his liking.
“It’s not me who you should be fucking,” Hotshot muttered just loud enough for Spot to hear.
Hotshot hit the floor with a resounding thud that caused Rafaela to let loose another loud cackle, which then set the rest of them laughing louder than what was probably appropriate. Big guffaws and crows-like caws filling up the room and making them all clutch their sides.
“Hey can you keep it down over there!” A familiar voice called out over the noise.
Spot glanced up to see a cocky smirk from a few booths over.
“If we wanted to hear the seagulls screaming we’d be down by the beach.” Race’s smirk grew wider once he saw he had Spot’s attention, the bastard.
“Oh yeah? Well I hate it to break it to you but you’re already there sweetheart,” Spot fired back with the same amount of bite, rather pleased with the light shade of pink his rival’s cheeks flushed. He had to admit bantering with Race was addictive.
“You saying we don’t belong here Conlon?” Race strode over to their table in a few long strides, hands tucked cooly in his pockets. His features were schooled into one of practiced coolness that held what most would see as a hidden edge. But not Spot, no he knew exactly what that look meant.
Spot made no move to get up, instead he took another sip of his soda, not once breaking eye contact with Racetrack. “I never said that. It sounds like you’re putting words in my mouth Higgins.”
“Am I now?” Race raised a brow and Spot felt his friends tense around him. They didn’t know where this was going, but Spot sure did.
“Are you?” He countered, leaning up every so slightly to get as close to in Race’s face as he could despite still being seated. From his angle he could see how hard Race was fighting to not break out into one of his truly radiant grins, the ones that light up his entire face. The left corner of his mouth had just started to tick up when Jack appeared over Race’s left shoulder. Spot tried to ignore the swell of disapointment that flooded through his chest at the sight.
“C’mon Racer, drop it.” Jack had a hand on his second’s shoulder, pulling him away, but not before Race could slip in a barely there wink and smile. If Spot had blinked he would have missed it.
“You should listen to Jacky Boy here, Racer.” Spot couldn’t help the jab, especially since it pissed off both bikers. Though he knew it didn’t really bother Race, but they both liked to play along.
Now with his attention focused back on the table of rowdy surfers he noticed the face Rafaela was making in his direction. It looked like she knew more than she ought to but was still putting all the pieces she had together, hopefully she was still missing enough to not see the picture. It was an unsettling expression but in a flash it was gone and a much more mischievous one was in its place as she tried to swipe a sip of Joey’s coke.
Spot finished off his cherry soda, just watching his band of dumbasses. He was proud to call them his friends, they all knew that, or at least he hoped they did. And that thought must have showed on his face because before he knew it Hotshot was elbowing his side again.
“What d’you have bouncing around up there?”
“Nothing much.” Hotshot snorted. “Fuck off, I was gonna say that we should probably bounce if we want to catch more waves before it gets dark.”
And he was right, the sun was low in the sky and if he had to guess it was probably around six, so they could squeeze another two hours in if they moved fast.
“You all heard the man, lets blow this joint!” Hotshot was met with more whoops and hollers as they all pushed and shoved one another to get out of the booth. Mostly they succeeded in tripping each other, Spot was pretty sure he saw Rafaela stick a leg out in front of York as they ran towards the door.
As they all exited the shop Spot made sure to find Race one more time, shooting him a quick look. I’ll see you later?
Race’s half covered grin and eyeroll were answer enough. Yes you dumbass.
Spot couldn’t fight the grin that stretched across his face as he jogged to catch up with the rest of the gang. Maybe it was the sugar and carbonation that made him feel like he was going to jump out of his skin in the best meaning of the phrase, but he knew it wasn’t that. Bright blue eyes and a snarky comment were much more effective on that front.
He kept on smiling as he jumped back into the ocean with his board.
Yeah, today had been really fucking good.