Chapter Text
It's easy to get lost in the labyrinth that is All A'Board. There are boards stacked across the aisles so you have to duck, twisting out the way of the fins. Ankle cuffs trail down like plastic coated vines. The wetsuits overflow from the racks on the walls to the floor in a sea of neoprene. The store itself is bright thanks to the skylights. The sunlight halos the novelty beach towels stacked next to the register.
JJ knocks his elbow against the side of the singular jewelry display cabinet with a curse. The metal hand used to display the rings wavers, then topplesd. He yanks it free from it's glass prison, manipulates it so it's flipping the bird, then shoves rings on each finger unceremoniously. Touches a fingertip to one gnarled metal one. Pulls it back off to squint closer at it.
"Hello?"
Above the gurgle of the frozen yoghurt machine that refuses to work unless kicked precisely right, and the dulcet tones of Bob Marley, background noise is often lost. It's deadened by the sheer quantity of fabric contained in the unit and the semi-frequent avalanches that JJ has become accustomed to. Which is the only explanation as to why the voice makes JJ jolt, jerking into the door of the glass display cabinet. He slips the ring into his pocket as he spins, the display hand wielded before him in a particularly unwelcoming fashion.
His accoster is barefoot, which explains the lack of warning. JJ can usually locate anyone in the store just from the timbre of their strides and whether they've adjusted for one of the many steps or brushed against the goggle display (he's of the firm opinion that goggles have no right to be so loud). Usually flip flops grate over the film of sand that dusts the store's floor. Sneakers squeak on the odd patch of sea water that emerges, no matter how dry JJ thinks the stock is.
He's still thrown by the emergence of someone in his store without his knowledge that he can do no more than grip the severed metal hand and gaze blankly.
"Hi," the intruder tries again. She has a cap pulled down low over her eyes and her dark hair is divided into two neat French braids, pulled away from her face. There's a pair of oversized sunglasses tucked into the neck of her t-shirt. At his silence, she glances around the store. Obviously finds no answer to her internal question, because she returns to him. "Sorry, do you work here?"
He's wearing a faded Pelican Marina tshirt and board shorts with toucans on them. He's barefoot, as well, although there's sand up his calves because he keeps swiping it off the opposite foot irritably. He's never had to consider a uniform - it's just known that this shitty store with its beaten up front and ramshackle interior is JJ Maybank’s. Which makes him all the more suspicious as to why he feels like he knows this girl, if she clearly doesn't know him.
He's squinting at her and she slowly starts to squint at him - looks from the hand to his pocket to the open jewellery display to the empty register and back again. "Are you - are you shoplifting?"
It's enough to shake off the remnants and leftovers of an overactive startle reflex and unclench the iron grip he has on the metal hand. He places it on the shelf of the cabinet behind him without looking, uses his bare knee to knock the door shut. "Nah."
"That sounds exactly like something someone who has just been caught stealing would say."
He bares his now empty hands. "Not me, officer. I have the whole subtlety part of shoplifting nailed down. Which is what people should do to their goods when I'm around."
The corner of her eyes narrow and her lips pinch, like she's trying to decide upon his honesty. And it's not like his honesty doesn't get tested wherever he goes, when his dad is the first point of reference. But her accent isn't from Kildare - it's the low drawl of California. And still he can't shake the feeling that he knows her.
"Right."
"However," he projects his voice now. "There is someone who may have put something in their pockets and may have forgotten about it but out of the goodness of their hearts and the fact that I know their parents and where they live will put it back on the shelf or pay for it and get the fuck out."
There's some light shuffling down one of the aisles, then a small figure sloping out, clutching a bag of Cheetos and adorned with a scowl.
"Forty cents," JJ chirps brightly, contradicting the price on the shelf. He was young and hungry, once. The coins are scattered across the counter and then the boy makes to disappear through the door. Only he pauses at the last minute, one shoulder grazing the door frame as he spins on his heel.
"Holy shit," the kid JJ thinks is called Gerry breathes. "Kiara Carrera?"
The woman looks at him. Something seems to dim. Her arms shift from neutral to defensive, folded across her chest, her lips pressed together as though keeping the poise confined.
It clicks in his mind, then. He thinks he knows her because her face is in every magazine and on every advert and splashed across every social media platform. Kiara Carrera, the model turned actress, or maybe the other way round. He's seen her in the most recent action movie, cast alongside Cameron Rafael and rumoured to be involved in more than just a movie with him. She can barely take a shit in private without the whole world knowing what brand of toilet paper she uses, and in what formation she wipes.
And yet she's here in his shitty store, barefoot and mocking.
"Can I have a selfie?" Gerry asks. And though he's asked, there's not much in the way of informed consent - he's already at her side with his phone aloft. Is looking like he's about to sling an arm around her waist or something. Kiara stands stiffly, sunglasses still tucked in her collar by the arm. Media training clearly kicks in, because although the smile lacks warmth there is a facade of friendliness.
"Hey - JJ - get a better angle-"
"This isn't a zoo," JJ snaps brusquely. "Off you fuck."
Gerry locks his phone with one deft motion. Slides it into the pocket of his ragged washed denim shorts. "God, this is so cool."
"Gerry."
He raises his hands. "Going, going. Jesus." He backs away from the scene, hands still raised. Stops just short of the door. "You're not gonna tell my pa, about this? He's still not over the Wreck thing."
JJ has to stop himself from chucking several more bags of Cheetos at the boy. Or offer him a room or some words of advice or something. Because although his mind has jumped to the worst possible explanation for the teen’s fear and hunger, he could also simply be an asshole.
"About what?" JJ asks innocently.
There's a smile, brief and bright. Gerry pushes the door open with a hand and finally disappears. He calls, "nice to meet you, Kiara!" over his shoulder, then the door snaps shut and it's quiet inside once more.
The girl clears her throat quietly. "Uh - sorry about the - photos. It happens. Normally easier to get it over and done with."
JJ tries the latch on the hatch to the register. Finds it jammed. Gives up and vaults the counter in one smooth movement; mostly for speed, but also kinda for show. "S'cool. Does it happen much?"
"Not so much, in the beginning. But now, yeah."
"Must be annoying as fuck."
Her reactions are on a tightly reeled-in leash. "I'm immensely grateful for all my fans and their support-"
"They can still be annoying as fuck." There's no teasing or acknowledgement. Just a schooled expression. The bracelets get placed on the counter between them. JJ looks at the twisted scraps of cord. "You must be here for that film shoot, down at Agnes'." At her look, he shrugs. Punches the price into the distinctly vintage register. The 0 button sticks, adding several zeros to the total. JJ debates keeping the inflated price, figuring she can afford it, then sighs and clears the transaction. Starts again. "It's a small island. And I signed a petition to stop the shoot."
Her public persona mask cracks as she narrows her eyes. "Petition?"
"About the impact on the environment."
"I'm pretty sure we make all the provisions necessary to protect the environment on shoots. We even recycle."
"Oh, wow, recycling." JJ picks up the bracelets to glance at the price tags. They're the brightest ones, polished sea glass threaded on strong cord. "Forgive me. I'm sure your presence has an overall positive impact on the environment."
The mask cracks further. "I personally do everything I can-"
"That'll be $12.70, when you're ready." Then, because he's struck with the thought that he's probably no better than Gerry in the asshole stakes, "it's more the litter from fans and the cars and the crowding and the catering and the buggies up and down the beaches. Not you."
Kiara looks at him, the faintest line between her eyebrows, lips parted. From behind her, the frozen yoghurt machine gurgles loudly. Kiara flushes. "That wasn't me."
"Nah, that's Frozone. He's a rowdy motherfucker."
She turns towards the direction of his nod. Sees the machine in all its temperamental glory. "You do ice cream?"
"FroYo, but yeah. If it feels like it."
She chooses chocolate yoghurt with raspberry sauce, glancing at her bare feet when he explains the machine needs to be kicked before daring to work right. JJ gives in, vaulting the counter to knee it in the sweet spot. It's dented, the paint faded, but then it hums into action, the stream of yoghurt inconsistently spurting into the awaiting cup.
It's one of the longest interactions he's had with a customer who has not entered the changing rooms or insisted on him dragging every available board down in the required size for inspection. The frozen yoghurt drips down the side of the tub, the raspberry topping intermingling with the yoghurt. Her nails are painted bright red. Her legs look like they're not just shaved or waxed - the skin gleams, like it's buffed. He considers it safe to look now she's walking away, her wares safely packaged in the tote bag swinging from her arm. The outfit seems too poised to just be thrown together. Just like she seems too familiar to be a stranger he's only seen on a screen.
She pauses with her hand raised for the worn brass handle of the door. "You should come along tomorrow, to the shoot. See if you agree with our environmental policies up close and personal."
There's a stream of light from the narrow window in the door which shines directly onto her shoulder. It's a back glow which highlights the wayward strands of hair in a fuzzy halo. JJ reckons if she were in a line up of fifty people, she'd be picked out every time as the multiple award winning movie star. "Oh yeah? You let the locals come and sabotage your fine work, do you?"
"Sometimes. Only if I want them to. JJ, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Well, see you tomorrow, JJ."
The door drifts shut behind her, the gust dislodging a flyer hastily tacked to the end of some nearby shelves. JJ squints after her, wondering if it's normal to come away from an encounter with a movie star with a headache.
JJ shuts up shop an hour early, heading back to the fishing shack shared with his best friend, John B. His roommate is bounding down the steps as the engine on JJ's dirt bike cuts out.
"The whole film crew from that film thing is down at The Wreck," John B babbles excitedly. "I'm talking photographers, filmographers, runners. Might go find myself a scriptwriter or some other creative."
"What would a script writer be doing there? Isn't the script done?"
John B double finger guns him. "And that negativity is why you're still single, my friend."
"You're still single!"
"Yes, but I am single and ready to mingle and you are single and reorganising wetsuits for funsies or Googling how to make a board from a dead tree. There are differences."
JJ sniffs. "It is established that wooden boards still hold a place in the market against their fibreglass counterparts."
John B touches a hand to his cheek. JJ jerks away with a scowl. "Remember when you used to be fun?" his friend whispers loudly. "When you used to have game? What happened?"
A girl that promised the world and left without a word. JJ knocks his hand away. "I became an admirer of women, not a pursuer. Feminism, darling."
John B scoffs. "In the feminist and men supporting women stakes, I am number one. Which is why I shall be engaging very respectfully this evening."
"Well, have fun with your respectful engagement. See how far that gets you."
"Oh, I will. And you have fun organising your sock drawer or washing your hair."
JJ dismounts the bike, kicking down the stand deftly. "It's not hair washing day."
"Well, it probably should be." Knuckles to the shoulder lessen the blow. JJ sidesteps but not quite quickly enough. "Seriously, though. You should get on Tinder or something."
"Isn't it Hinge these days? You dinosaur."
"Tomato, tomato, potato, potato. I'll see your single ass later."
The door to the fishing shack fondly named the Chateau is unlocked, as usual. The chickens hear footsteps on the back porch as JJ exits with a beer between his index and forefinger. He uncaps it on the back porch railings, considering John B isn't around to berate him for it.
He unlatches the coop door to let his feathery companions free. They cluck quietly as they scratch in the dirt and peck at the grass. Barbara butts at his knee with her head, squawking indignantly until he tilts his bottle enough for her beak to fit in. "Don't tell the boss," he tells her quietly.
"You need a life," a voice tells him, from the shadowed depths of the Chateau. The voice is swiftly followed by Pope, a bag slung over his shoulder. "You should be sharing a beer with a human, not a chicken."
"Don't listen to him," JJ tells Barbara. "He's just jealous because you all hate him."
"They do not."
"Sure they don't. And now you're here, you can share with me."
Pope looks down at the proffered bottle with disdain. "You do realise bird flu is still a thing, right?"
“You gotta build up your immune system somehow. You’re telling me you’d happily eat chicken but shun sharing a beer with them? You would eat what comes out of this chicken’s ass but care where dear Barbara puts her beak?” Babara spreads out her wings with a low cluck, shaking her head. JJ points the bottom of the bottle at her. “Yeah, you tell him, Babs.”
Pope’s eyes roll skywards. “Whatever, dude. I’m just here to pick up that shirt John B borrowed months ago. The blue one with the-” he draws his finger across his shoulder. “Checky things.”
“Think I just saw him head out in that one, bud.”
“That bastard. And it’s Cleo’s favourite.”
JJ hums in mock empathy. “He’s gone to pick up some scriptwriter or something over on that movie shoot thing.”
“The one at Agnes’?”
“That’s the one.”
“Aren’t they shooting it already? Why would the scriptwriter be there?”
A droplet of beer spills down the side of the brown bottle as JJ gesticulates elaborately. “Exactly what I said!”
“Huh. Cleo kinda wants to go and protest about it. But then that Kiara Carrera is her only free pass, so I think she’s reconsidered. As if she’s going to just stumble across her in her life and be wooed.”
JJ digs his thumb into the label on the beer. Glue and paper gets jammed under his nail. “Gee, yeah. She’s in fantasy land on that one. Although they are shooting around here.”
Pope scoffs. “She’s hardly going to go anywhere without a security detail and all that shit. Especially after the petition and everything.”
“Doubt she even knows about that.”
Pope sniffs derisively. “Anyone shooting in a location should at least acquaint themselves with the locality. That’s the issue with paying filmstars so much. They just become so removed from reality-”
JJ hums non-committedly and talks louder. “So yeah - your shirt is currently trying to pull a scriptwriter.”
“It’s got more chance of pulling Kiara bloody Carrera. Tell John B I hate him, that Cleo hates him, and he’s ruined our anniversary.”
“Can’t call it an anniversary until you’re married.”
“Try telling Cleo that.” Pope’s sneaker scuffs across the porch. “As much as I’d love to stay here and watch you drink with a chicken, I have people to see, places to go, etcetera.”
“No need to rub it in, you sick bastard.”
“I’m telling you - the key to success is swapping chickens for actual humans, in a bar. Go. Be free. Soon you’ll be tied down celebrating dating anniversaries and being ridiculed for your choice in shirt.”
“The blue one does look good on you.”
There’s an acknowledging wave over his shoulder, then Pope disappears into the depths of the Chateau. A few moments later, JJ hears his car engine start. Looks at Barbara, who looks right back at him.
“It’s just you and me now, ladies.”
Barbara squalls.
*
It’s quiet at the store. JJ flicks through a surf magazine he can’t figure out how to unsubscribe from on the counter idly, wondering whether he should do something useful like a stock check or something. Then the wetsuits at the back of the store start moving in a black and brightly coloured tsunami, the untethered ones cascading towards the floor. They sweep boxes and various other items with them to their demise, clattering to the linoleum.
There’s a very small but very distinctive, “oops.”
JJ vaults the counter and darts to investigate. “Matilda?” he calls, as he rounds the aisle and towards the scene of the disaster. “You okay?”
The pile moves vaguely. JJ starts moving wetsuits and throwing them to the side until his store assistant is revealed. She peers up at him sheepishly.
“You didn’t use the step stool,” JJ guesses.
“In my defence,” she mutters, “I could reach. Just someone stacked those wetsuit shoeboxes in a really stupid way.”
“You can’t reach, and you stacked those boxes.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. You got freaked out by the ones which went between the toes like a foot glove.”
Disgust passes over Matilda’s face, even with her hair fanned out over the mountain of displaced wetsuits. “No one needs to see your individual toes.”
“That’s what you said when you saw them last time.”
“Well, at least I’m consistent.”
Once JJ retrieves Matilda from the pile of items he is going to have to try and sell at some point, she has a cup of recovery frozen yoghurt sitting on top of the counter and kicking her heels. She, too, flicks through the unsubscribable magazine with her spare hand, a droplet of yoghurt dripping onto her All A’Board navy sweatshirt she had made especially. The light outside has changed from the usual May sunshine to a light drizzle of rain. It patters reassuringly on the corrugated roof and skylights.
“I can do your Tinder profile,” Matilda urges. “I have that youthful touch, I know what the ladies want.”
“Why is everyone so obsessed with my dating life?” JJ complains balefully. “What happened to being single and empowered and happy with life?”
“Because you are turning into a dating scrooge and you are unsettling customers.”
“That’s false.”
“Yesterday you refused to sell a ring to that guy because he let slip it was an eternity ring for his girlfriend.”
“They’ve been together three months! You can’t promise someone eternity over three months! Eternity is a long time!”
Matilda peers over the top of her vanilla yoghurt. “Is this about Rachel again? She dumped you like, a year ago.”
“Year and a bit,” he corrects petulantly. “How about you go fix what you ruined in my store?”
Matilda’s eyes narrow somewhat, then she pushes off the counter. “Fine. Only because I think I snapped something on the way down.”
“Something like a bone, or something like a store inventory thing?”
Her voice travels over the ramshackle shelves. “I’ll let you know!”
The afternoon crawls by, the rain getting progressively heavier. It drives most of the clientele away from the store, apart from the seasoned regulars who drop by for board wax or to peruse the selection of secondhand suits Matilda has arranged, not by size, but by colour, following their escapade.
It’s 4pm when JJ and Matilda descend to doing the crossword on page 14 of the unsubscribable magazine. They are arguing over sixteen across (begins with C, four letters).
“You don’t even surf,” JJ complains, as Matilda commences brainstorming (also known as scribbling every four letter word beginning with C on the side of the page).
“Yeah, but I’m the best reader.”
There’s no refuting that, honestly. JJ pouts and gives up trying to read what she’s writing from upside down. “We need to get you back in the sea.”
“The only C I’m interested in right now is the one that has four letters.”
JJ smirks. Takes a sip of tea. He used to drink it out of spite, to run down Matilda’s specially imported tea collection down, but now he regrettably has a taste for it. “Is that why you don’t have a dating profile?”
“I do have a dating profile.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Do you use it?”
“When I’m bored, yeah. I date, too.”
“You do ?”
Matilda sniffs. “I went on a date.”
“How did it go?”
“He ate all the breadsticks and talked a lot, then ordered soup, and complained about the lack of bread. Then told me he was gluten intolerant.”
“I’ll punch him,” JJ decides. “I will. Give me a name. And maybe a photograph, in case he’s called John like every other fucker on this island.”
“Blonde hair,” Matilda circles something on the page in front of her. “Actually, maybe brown. Or was it blue? Although that could have been the light.”
JJ considers whether he would be able to successfully hide a body in the store. “I could encase him in plastic and have him as a mannequin,” he muses aloud. “Did he have a good body? Sex sells.”
Matilda seemingly forgets about the pen in her hand as she drags her fingers through her hair and draws all over her own cheek. “I think so? Didn’t get that far. And he did eat a lot of breadsticks.”
JJ warms to the theme. “Or would an uber-realistic mannequin freak people out? Would his parents come in and say my, that mannequin there looks just like my boy John, I wonder why we haven’t heard from him in a while-”
“He was from New Jersey. Bit of a trek, for them.”
It descends into Matilda persuading JJ that he definitely needs a dating profile. She scrolls through his Instagram, offering constructive criticism on every photo he’s ever been tagged in.
“Douche,” she assesses. “Douche. Surfer douche. Lobster douche. Boat douche. Where are the normal photos?”
“They are normal photos.”
She raises an eyebrow over the top of his phone. “Also, you need a phone case.”
“It’s already smashed.”
“It wouldn’t have smashed if you had a phone case. You literally sell phone cases.”
He makes an unsuccessful lunge for his phone. Grouses as she lifts it out of reach. “Matilda - as your boss - give me back the phone.”
“Look - I’m saving you from yourself - you can’t have these photos on your profile-”
“They’re literally just photos of me-”
The door opens. JJ ignores it in favour of trying to wrestle his phone from Matilda. Eventually and in desperation, she throws it across the floor. It skids across the floor like Bambi on ice, bumping off the unsuspecting newcomer’s shoe.
Matilda sniffs. “That wouldn’t matter if you had a case.” Then, to the incomer, “sorry about that! I’m trying to help JJ with his love life which currently and quite frankly, is tragic.”
JJ’s limbs go heavy with dread as he realises exactly who the newcomer is. Kiara Carrera is determined to try and stick with her low profile disguise, it seems. A cap and oversized sunglasses; a sensible navy windbreaker and shorts, considering the rain outside. But once you look you can’t look away. He wonders whether that effect was present before or after the whole movie-star thing.
When she removes the sunglasses, there’s a droplet of rain on her eyelashes and a whole ass other human behind her. The other human has blonde hair and sighs. Waves half-heartedly. “Hi. I’m Sarah,” she intones boredly, like she’s used to people becoming literally and metaphorically starstruck. “Kie said you might have an abundance of Hawaiian shirts.”
Kiara recovers from looking between JJ and Matilda. “Oh - yes, sorry. This is Sarah. She works in - costumes.”
“Oh, boy,” Matilda jumps from the counter with dexterity which usually eludes her. “You’re in the right place for shitty shirts. Just out back here - I’ll show you.” The pair traipse off to whatever corner Matilda has arranged the shirt collection in.
When Kiara blinks, the rain droplet tracks down her cheek. JJ looks away from it to FrozZone, who is kicking slowly but loudly into his afternoon cool-down period where he refuses to serve anything but mint yoghurt.
“Sounds like you need to get that fixed.” The words are almost hesitant. But her shoulders are thrown back, and now her sunglasses are removed and the cap readjusted so he can see her face. He’s almost tempted to ask her to put them all back. His brain has turned to lasagne or cream cheese or some other delightful substance.
“He has character,” he defends, flipping the magazine for something to do with his hands. “It’s all part of the charm.”
“Charm?”
He can hear the amusement. And he doesn’t know how to cope. With one of the most objectively beautiful people in the world making fun of him. He knows she is just human - that her farts still stink, like the rest of the population. It launches him on the offensive. “Charm,” he affirms. “People love him.”
She steps closer to the machine so she can skate her fingertips over the smooth metal. Over the bolt that is definitely looser than it was last time he looked. “People love ice cream,” Kiara says dismissively. “Not Frozone.”
JJ frowns at her back. He hates feeling like he has something to prove. Hates feeling he is already indebted to someone by virtue of their status. "FroYo, not ice cream." Then, because he's on the back foot and mostly an asshole, “did you want something?”
“Yeah,” now it’s a grin that could be wolfish, over her shoulder. “FroYo. Served by some grumpy asshole.”
“Give him a kick, he’s all yours.”
“The machine, or the grumpy asshole?” Kiara Carrera has charm Frozone could only dream of, even in his most ice cream filled dreams. She’s placing a cup in the designated space, her back still to him. Her tone is casual. “You didn’t come, this morning. To the shoot. To observe our most diligent recycling and environmentally friendly policies.”
“He only does mint, after three,” JJ says reflexively, as she presses strawberry and receives distinctly green yoghurt.
“Why didn’t you come?”
Her back’s still to him. There’s the counter and register between them and the faint chattering of Sarah and Matilda examining the shirts John B likes to insist JJ buy in bulk. But it feels like they’re in a cupboard, or a white room. He shrugs even though she can’t see it; flips the magazine closed. “Had to open up the store.”
“The store.” She turns slowly, having added two spoonfuls of freeze dried raspberries to the top of her mint yoghurt.
JJ stares at the concoction as it’s placed on the counter. Can’t keep it in any longer. “Mint and raspberry?”
Her expression, which has gone from wolfish grin and something which could have been mistaken for flirting to something distinctly more aloof, barely flickers. “What of it?”
“Just-” now he flicks the tub with his index finger, so it jolts across the counter. “It’s gross. I should ban it, and you. Mint and raspberry? Seriously?”
“Raspberries are my favourite and it’s not my fault your shitty machine only does mint!”
JJ can’t help the smirk. “Why, she does have feelings-”
“Yes, well,” Kiara pulls herself back together, emotions sliding back into the neat mental box her publicist or her manager probably gave to her. “Just this, thank you.”
“I hope it tastes gross.”
“If it does, I’ll leave a bad Tripadvisor review.”
He rings the satanic concoction up, adding an extra five dollars. Figures she won’t notice the difference, from her multi-million dollar wealth. “I’m not on Tripadvisor. This is a store.”
“Well, I’ll Google review you then.”
“You do that.”
“Don’t be fooled by the sunny looks of the store’s owner. Behind those good looks hides a grouchy asshole of a man, with a grouchier, somehow more of an asshole FroYo machine.”
“Aw, you think I’m pretty?”
There’s something in the self-satisfaction as she pulls herself up short. As she makes a quick decision and doubles down. “You’ve seen yourself in a mirror, so let’s not be coy.”
“I mean, there’s only one of us here who literally gets paid because of their looks, and it ain’t me.”
Her jaw tightens and the 20 dollar bill is near slammed on the counter. “Yeah, well. That isn’t all that, most of the time.”
“Must be awful, having so much money and fame.” His tone is dry.
“I’m not trying to say that my life is awful or the worst, just - there are some side effects that aren’t great.” She nudges the cup of FroYo with the tip of her finger, like a grandmaster tapping a chess piece. Considering her next move. Apparently, the frustration cannot be reined in. “Like my manager trying to talk me out of coming here again, in case anyone sees me. I can’t go to the same place twice because people camp out there waiting. Which means I have to order everything in, which is worse for the environment, or I have to be that dick who says to Sarah oh, can you go and get me a skinny vanilla frappe? I like extra, extra whip . What if I just want to get coffee and sit on a bench?”
“Skinny vanilla frappe? I had you down as a filter kinda gal.”
She stops then, frowns at him, even though he can tell she had some more words lined up on her tongue, ready to spit at him. John B’s father, Big John, had once watched John B stamp on the porch about getting a D in Math when he’d studied, really studied, for hours and hours. Big John had watched him stomp and scream, hand curved around a beer bottle. It’s not about the Math.
It’s not about the coffee.
“I did basically grow up on filter,” Kiara says, after she’s stared at him way more intensely than the moment warrants. “My dad - he used to own The Wreck?”
“The Wreck? As in Kildare’s The Wreck?”
“Yeah, yeah. I used to sit under the counter and drink filter coffee even though I wasn’t supposed to. Then I got the Disney and voice acting gigs and we moved to LA and we had money, then. A fancy coffee machine that could do lattes and flat whites. But my dad - he held onto that shitty filter coffee. Still does, I think.”
“Told you,” JJ preens. “Filter kid.” Then, because sitting on a bench drinking coffee is kinda a low bar and maybe he feels something that could be empathy, “I love The Wreck. Best fries around.”
Kiara brightens. “Right? My dad swears it’s the oil. Says it's his secret recipe. I got take-out the other day, sent him a picture. That place is like the son he never had.”
“And you’re the eldest fuck up, right?” It’s meant as a joke or a botched attempt at flirtation, but it falls flat - he sees her gaze flick away, downwards. Her nail taps at the counter. “Your dad open up a new place in LA? The public has to be blessed by his talents, with fries like those.”
“Nah - he - well, cooks just for me and my mom, if we’re there. And whoever else is around. We moved a lot, when I was younger. Hard to start a place up if you’re gonna leave it eventually.”
Small talk is John B’s forte. JJ operates best after a joint or a couple of beers. Especially when said small talk verges into grounds he is unfamiliar or unaccustomed to. At a loss, he stares at the register instead. “That’s $8.40.”
Kiara nudges the twenty closer to him. “You can keep the change.”
“I don’t need charity, thanks.”
“Fine. You can put it towards a new FroYo machine.”
Frozone bubbles menacingly. “He can hear you,” JJ hisses. “Last time Pope insulted him, we were paddling in vanilla for weeks.”
“The Pope insulted your FroYo machine?”
“Not the Pope - Pope.” JJ picks up the twenty with very little regret and stuffs it in the register. “Everyone’s called John, it’s a curse.”
“Including you? JJ - John John? Johnny John? Just John?”
“That’s classified information.”
“What, like your daily schedule?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
“Me. Again. Which is kind of embarrassing, and you can tell me to fuck off, and I shall leave you and your shitty machine alone.”
“Stop calling him shitty.”
“Underperforming?”
“God, you sound like my school report.”
“You’re good at deflecting.”
“That’s also what my school report said.”
Kiara's gaze flicks away from him, down an aisle. Sarah and Matilda appear, Matilda struggling under the weight of far too many Hawaiin shirts.
"Your shirts," Sarah gestures behind her with her fingertips. "They're awful." It's almost gleeful. "If any man wore these non-ironically, I'd have to burn him and the shirt."
"My friend loves them," JJ protests, as Matilda dumps the armful of shirts on the counter. He debates just charging a flat, bulk rate instead of having to ring each individual item.
"Then I hate your friend," Sarah decides.
"They're for a movie," Matilda explains as an aside to JJ. She picks up some shirts which have escaped to the floor, placing them atop the tower. Some more roll off the other side. "Isn't that cool? Sarah's in wardrobe." She looks politely at Kiara. "Are you in wardrobe too?"
Sarah coughs around what sounds like a laugh. Kiara makes a motion which looks like she's stamping on her friend’s foot. "I spend a lot of time in wardrobe," she decides on.
"Oh, cool," Matilda attempts to climb over the counter, as the hatch is covered in shirts. Knees herself in the face and eventually drops to a crawl to clamber through. Her hair covers her face as she pops up the other side, words obscured. "Although you do kinda look like that actress. What's her name." She looks to JJ for support. "Spiderman?"
"Tom Holland?" JJ suggests helpfully.
"No - the other one-"
"Thingy Downey."
"No - oh, my God-" Matilda drags the shirts towards her, takes the laser scanner off the hook and starts scanning with abandon. JJ sees the same shirt get scanned three times and chooses not to mention it. "Zendaya! Yeah - you kinda look like Zendaya. Which is good," Matilda hastens to reassure Kiara. "Zendaya is super hot."
Sarah's shoulders shake and it seems Kiara can't tell whether the whole interaction is a practical joke. Her eyes flicker around, whether seeking witnesses or obscured cameras or any hint of anything other.
"Uh," she stalls. "Thanks?"
"You must get that a lot," Matilda rambles, jabbing some button on the register that JJ swears clears transactions. "Not that I think you're super hot or are trying to objectify you. Not that you're not hot. You are hot. I just haven't looked. You could be hot to some people and not to others. Looks, they're all objective aren't they? Okay. I'm just going to scan these now." The scanning resumes with vigour, Matilda’s head ducked down. Beeping fills the air. "That's $260.79 please," Matilda squeaks eventually. "And I'm sorry about the - the hot thing."
Sarah pulls the black Amex card from her purse. "She's used to it," she explains in a whisper- shout. "And she is super hot."
Matilda stares at the register. "I wouldn't know. I try not to objectify those in the sisterhood."
JJ's laugh huffs out his nose. He tries to cover it by turning to face the wall, which means he catches a glimpse of his red, barely-containing-laughter face as he spins in the chipped mirror behind the counter, and Kiara's bewildered expression. Once some semblance of composure has been retrieved, he pushes Matilda out the way with his shoulder to unjam the receipt printer. He gets black ink all over his hands from the leaking cartridge - ink that will get on his face, his neck. He'll find the smudges on his sheets, on glasses at the Chateau.
Matilda methodically folds the first few shirts into bags, but then descends into the cram it in method.
It's Kiara who steps past Sarah to take the receipt from his ink stained fingers. He thinks some black changes at the exchange, a smudge on her palm. "We're shooting tomorrow, from 6," it's a low voice. One that is intended for him. But it's not like everyone else can't hear her. Sarah casts them a mildly interested look, whilst Matilda is likely too distracted by rehashing the interaction in her head. "The invitation is still open."
He can't think of anything pithy to say. "Don't forget your yoghurt."
There's an awkward moment as Sarah collects the bags of shirts, passing a couple to Kiara.
"Well," Sarah chirps. "This has been delightful. Thank you for your assistance."
"You're welcome!" Matilda makes a semblance of a comeback. "Have a beautiful day."
They watch them retreat from the store. Now they have no witnesses, JJ kicks the sticky register drawer shut so it's sat flush in its fitting. Matilda stares at the door.
"That was her, wasn't it?" Her tone is mournful.
"Who?"
"Zendaya."
"Oh, no." JJ frowns at the drawer, daring it to reopen. "But it was Kiara Carrera."
"Oh." It's even more mournful. "Oh, fuck."
*
It's widely known that JJ has the willpower of a seven year old, at best. Old enough to have some semblance of morality (or a reflection of it), but young enough to disregard the consequences.
He has ADHD, okay? It's an official medical condition.
All it takes is a Whatsapp message in the group named SURF'S UP, containing the majority of the Kildare surfers under the age of 40 (they had to ban Jim for his inappropriate use of emojis and adjust accordingly).
swell at agnes today. fucking film shoot. far left still okay.
It's a Wednesday, so it's just him and the fellow hardcores who can duck out of their jobs. He has to abandon the Twinkie on the side of the road and battle his way down a sand dune with his board clattering against his side as he struggles through calf-deep sand. There is a parking lot, the other side of the beach, but it's cordoned off and filled with various trailers. He thinks he can see the brightly coloured trailer belonging to Heyward's side hustle of barbeque.
There are some people with radios on what he guesses is the periphery of the area covered by the film permit. They squint at him as he abandons his towel in the sand and sits to secure his ankle cuff on.
He raises a hand to his forehead and salutes them lazily. "Morning, boys. Mighty fine day for it, wouldn't you say?"
They frown at him in unison, like they're trying to decide whether he's an undercover paparazzi. Not that there's many places to hide a full ass camera and lens in the neon pelican board shorts. His shirt is abandoned on top of the towel; he stretches his arms across his chest, behind his back.
"You take care now, boys," he gives them a wink. Mostly because there's still something twisted in his brain which makes him loathe authority and want to get under their skin. "Let me know if you need any backup, hm?"
The closer one, the smaller but burlier of the two, scowls. "Don't go outside the marked area," he barks, unforgiving. "We have a permit."
JJ shades his eyes from the sun and looks out to the water. "Can't see any marks in that water there, my friend. Did you use waterproof paint?"
"Stay between the flags," the burly man explains, looking increasingly like he may garrot JJ with said flags.
"Why thank you, darling. I'll bear that in mind. You boys have fun out here. Don't let that sun boil your blood."
It feels like there are eyes on his back as he jogs into the sea. His board hits the water at waist depth, then when he's completely out of depth he paddles, hands scooping water over his bare back to acclimatise. It's a familiar chill, not worth second guessing or faltering over.
"JJ!" Someone, already bobbing on their board, waves at him. JJ squints against the sun for a closer look, thinks it's his cousin Ricky. "You just missed a bunch - but they're in fits and starts, so won't be long."
JJ paddles towards him, his board bumping over the swell of waves that will break closer to shore. The noses of their boards bump. JJ pulls himself up to sit astride, knees and calves in the water. Drags damp fingers through mostly dry hair.
"They're breaking better their end," Ricky's chin jerks towards the occupied end of the beach. "It looks like they're filming something to do with surfing, but I swear I saw a horse earlier."
"That's just because you want to ride romantically down a beach." JJ allows himself to look over. As though Kiara is going to be watching him, a relative speck in the distance, rather than on her actual job. He debates going in and going back to the store. Is at war with himself over which course of action is more pathetic.
"They've put out a call for extras for some scene tomorrow, something in the water." Ricky looks like he's trying not to be too impressed with the idea. "Could be fun."
"Is it paid?"
"Don't think so. Unconfirmed."
"Then why bother?"
Ricky shrugs. "See yourself on the big screen. See that Kiara in a bikini."
Something feels weird in his stomach. "Just buy a ticket for the film for that. Or wait until it's on Netflix and watch it for free on my account like you usually do, you dick."
"John B's account," Ricky corrects him.
"I pay him utilities! And you're fucking with my algorithm. Go binge-watch Desperate Housewives on someone else's account."
"No one else's password is Netflix123. Oh - wave!"
It's a scramble to get orientated towards the shore, then many furtive looks over his shoulder. His arms windmill as he paddles, pulling himself through the water. Then the rush. The swell of the wave beneath him, the sideways skim of his board. The effort to pull himself to standing, which always feels like it won't work, like his arms will give out, but also like muscle memory. Knees bent to absorb the impact.
He belly-flops into the water 20 yards from the shore, to bypass the long paddle back out to optimum depth. His board stutters to a stop on the end of the coiled leash, pulling at his ankle. He stares at the blue sky on his back for a moment before retrieving his board and beginning the process all over again.
Ricky retires after a few more waves. JJ's fingers wrinkle. He can feel the heat of the sun on his shoulders and back of his neck.
It's like he's at grade school again. He wants to snatch looks at the filming, but doesn't at the same time. It's hard to lose himself in the sea and the waves with the commotion happening on the beach. There are various jet skis in the sea, one having to snap away from him as he crests the wave towards them. JJ's thankful that the driver saw him; he's only had one collision with a jet ski so far, and his skull is no match for the metal body.
He has to fall back early as well, earning himself a mouthful of saltwater that invades his mouth and nose. He can only splutter as he surfaces, spitting saltwater, arms hooked over his board for buoyancy. The jet skier has settled ten yards away, bobbing in his orange lifejacket.
"You okay, dude?" The man checks. "I didn't see you there."
JJ waves a hand, digging an elbow into his board for stability so he can wipe at his face with the other hand. "Peachy," he manages eventually. "Always wanted to be shredded into shark bait."
Life preserver man's eyes flit to the shore, then back to JJ. "You want a ride back in?"
It's been an unproductive morning, as far as surfing conquests could go. The end time is usually dictated by whenever he feels less stressed. But today, he feels distinctly more stressed than when he entered the sea.
The man grabs his elbow to help heave him onto the jet ski. JJ tries to convince himself that it's no weirder than sharing the bike with Pope or John B. He has handles at the back he can grab hold of, along with trying to wrestle his board into submission. They meander their way slowly to the shore, the engine humming loudly.
"I've got some shots of you," the guy calls over the engine noise. There's a camera mounted on the front of the machine, covered in a waterproof contraption. "I'll see if I can get clearance to send them to you. You're a damned better surfer than that Rafael."
"He looks like the type who wouldn't go in the water in case he messed up his hair."
There's a snort. "You're not wrong. We're supposed to be shooting on the water today, but he's not showed so far. Rumour is he can't even surf."
"Wouldn't be surprised."
"Me either. But I'm still getting paid, whether we shoot the scenes or not. Maybe even paid more, if shooting is extended. All works in my favour."
They pull up shortly at the depth JJ presumes the jet ski has to remain at. He clambers off, trying not to knock his new friend over the head with his board. The cameraman has to duck as it is.
JJ is waist-deep in water, a hand on the board to stop it escaping. "Thanks for the lift."
The man waves his hand. "Don't mention it. Most exciting thing to happen all day."
It's a slow trudge back to the beach, dragging his board behind him. It gets shoved into his knees by a wave, he tugs on the leash to snap it out of the way. He's the wrong side of the two burlies but they watch him without comment, likely having seen the jet ski incident.
"Evening, ladies," he greets as he passes by. "Thank you for your service on this fine, fine day."
The sand sticks to his damp legs as he sits on the half unfolded towel, retrieving his phone from the very safe hiding space of under the towel. Matilda has sent various messages about Frozone and being unable to unlock the store, culminating in having to climb through the window. The last message is her with a mug of tea and a thumbs up.
JJ is just typing brb suing for breaking and entering (btw does our insurance cover that) when someone politely clears their throat nearby. He has to shade his eyes from the sun to look at them.
"I'm on the right side of the divide," he defends immediately.
It's a guy wearing a yellow shirt and red board shorts, like his only point of reference about beaches is Baywatch. "No, you're good." Then, "can you surf?"
JJ looks at his board, the sea, then up again. "Nah. This board is just to help my swimming technique."
There's a radio in the man's hand which squawks indignantly. He silences it with the press of a button. "We can pay you $300 in cash to do some surfing scenes."
"$400."
"Done." Which means JJ should have gone higher. "You will need to do some hair and makeup and sign a disclaimer and some other stuff. We could do with you today, maybe tomorrow. If you're free."
There's a sense that not many people say no to this man. It makes JJ want to say no out of principle. He likes to be obstructive. "$600," and then in a move that would impress Matilda, "and I get to wear some of my store's merch or some extras do or something."
The man's eyes narrow. "Get some merch down here and we'll see what we can do."
Which is how JJ ends up in some sort of trailer, sitting on a trash bag so the canvas seat doesn't get wet. He points out that the makeup is going to run in the water. Says no as one picks up a pair of scissors and approaches his hair.
"Eyeliner would help," one proposes. "They have different coloured eyes, but we can make it look better."
As the woman wields a pencil and seems intent on stabbing him through the eye, JJ jerks backwards. "No, no, thank you. I like my eyes intact."
"Your skin's too tan," the other critiques.
The door opens and the newcomer announces, "I can take it from here. Got the best point of reference. JJ - you're with me."
It doesn't actually involve moving. JJsquints at Sarah suspiciously in the mirror. Then she makes him stand up and starts adding shadows to his abs to make them look more defined.
"This is demeaning," he protests. "Isn't this all going to wash off anyway?"
"Stand still," Sarah commands, "or you'll look like you have a hernia instead of being super ripped."
"Aren't they just going to be from a distance?" The makeup is cold, makes him flinch.
"They'll do loads of shots, probably close ups too. From behind, the side, neck down. This director also has a thing about feet." They both look down at his, covered in sand. "I hope you keep on top of your nail care."
"I don't think I'm getting paid enough for this."
"Wait, you guys get paid?" JJ jerks around at the voice. Sarah sighs loudly as the twisting motion undoubtedly interrupts her artwork. Kiara Carrera is in a beach wrap, loose on her hips. The turquoise bikini renders the return of lasagne brain, unable to form a coherent thought.
"Stand still," Sarah snaps. "Kie, don't distract him."
"I think it's gonna take a little more than some colouring in to make him pass for Rafe."
"Well, if brother dear hadn't lied about everything on his CV, I wouldn't have to colour it in."
"JJ's broader," Kiara critiques, as if he's not present.
"Not much we can do about that," Sarah digs cold fingers into his side to twist him back into the light. "Not much to hide when he's topless."
"He needs that tattoo."
"I know, I know. I have transfers."
"Rafe?" JJ questions.
"Cameron Rafael," Sarah's tone is bored. "Aka brother dearest."
"Legit?"
"Unfortunately."
"Well, shit."
"Uh huh."
"I'm doing his surfing shots?"
"You catch on quickly," Sarah's tone is scathing. "Now stay there, I need to get the shitting transfers. Do not sit down, or it'll smudge."
"Film's a fucked up incestuous family," JJ decides, as Sarah slams through the door, still muttering.
Kiara smiles thinly, settling into a spare chair. "Oh, you have no idea." She peers into one of the mirrors, wiping a fingertip under her eye, checking her face for flaws that don't exist. "When I said drop in on filming, I imagined more a guided tour, not you becoming a body double."
He doesn't know how to say he's been on the other side of the beach for three hours already without sounding like the world's most love-sick or creepy man. "Well," he hedges, "this way I get paid as well, so win-win."
There's something in her face, tight and controlled. "It can be harsh, filming. Especially physical scenes. There's a lot of waiting around for the light or doing the same scene over and over. Can get very boring, very fast."
JJ considers this. He also considers saying it'll be worth it if I get to make you laugh. Doesn't. "It's still more than I make in a day at the store though, so."
Kiara looks at him in the mirror. Her eyebrows slant towards each other. But the door bangs open and Sarah bustles in, flanked by various people with radios.
"Look - I told you - just need the tattoo and we're good to go," Sarah tells the men. Then, "JJ - shoulder." She has to hold a wet cloth to the transfer. Rivulets of water trickle down his back to the waistband of his board shorts.
"Put these on," one radioed man commands, throwing a pair of swimshorts at him. JJ catches them out of reflex. "See you in five."
JJ looks at Kiara. "This is fucked up."
She finally turns from the mirror, unfolding out of the canvas chair. "Baby, this is show business."
It's not half as bad as he thought it would be. It's a lot of standing around in the shallows or trying to hear what the director is shouting through a microphone on shore. Mostly he just fucks around in the sea, catching waves and trying not to get distracted by the overhead drone and the jet skis.
A runner hands him a bottle of water during a break as a preliminary review of the footage is taken. JJ says "thanks," and grins, which must look more feral than he intended because she squeaks and runs away.
"Don't scare the crew," a voice admonishes. Kiara is a vision as she picks her way across the sand.
Sarah follows her, wasting no time in jabbing at his shoulder and inspecting the transfer.
"I only smiled," JJ defends, wondering if he's in an alternate universe. Because he's pretty sure he can hear a chorus of fans behind the chain link fence screaming Kiara and yet here she is, reaching out for his water bottle.
She takes a big gulp. JJ tries not to think about the exchange of spit taking place. "It's unfair." Then, she knocks the bottle against his wrist. "Look. Reusable."
"She cleared Walmart out," Sarah complains.
The smug look fades somewhat. "Sometimes you have to work with what you've got. But they keep the water cooler, less pollutants, everyone has a bottle and can get unlimited refills. Good for the environment and the staff."
"Oh wow," his hands brushes hers as he takes the bottle back. Takes a gulp of his own. He thinks her eyes are on his throat; his mouth. "Someone get this girl a Nobel peace prize."
There's a sharp grin, a ready retort. If only Rafe or whatever his name actually is hadn't chosen that moment to drop his arm around Kiara's shoulders. Kiara shrugs him off just as quickly as he emerges, but she steps away from JJ. Sarah makes a noise in her throat.
"Kie, baby," he has the movie star looks and enigma and voice. "We're back on in five. You good to go?"
"Yes." It's clipped, short. She doesn't look at Rafe nor Sarah nor JJ. "You better not forget that line again."
"You can always help me run lines, babe. Any day of the week. You're good at that. Good at lines."
JJ is not entirely sure that he gets the insinuation, but he gets the tone. The purr. The edge of a wheedle. It makes him tense. Sarah jabs a nail into his shoulder.
"Ow, fuck," he protests.
"Oh, sorry," it's without remorse. Then, "I gotta fix you up. To make up."
It's mostly to escape having to jab his own eyeballs out from secondhand awkwardness. Sarah storms across the parking lot and into a different trailer than earlier. He only just clocks the name on the door as he pushes through it. "Isn't this like, an invasion of privacy?"
He didn't even know he knew what Kiara Carrera smelt like, but the trailer smelling of coconut and chocolate is exactly what he imagined. He endeavours to keep the nostril flaring to a minimum.
"She's a multi-million dollar actress," Sarah dismisses. "Privacy isn't really a thing." JJ stands in the middle of the room as Sarah throws herself onto a plush rug on the floor and starts scrolling aggressively through her phone. She looks up after a minute. "Sit, sit."
"I thought my abs needed more contouring or some shit."
"I just needed to get out of there before I throttled either one of them. Or both." At JJ's look, Sarah sighs. "He's no good for her. I know that. But he is good for her career. And she keeps getting cast opposite him."
"Ah."
"I kinda thought she maybe liked you." Sarah sighs heavily. "The whole recycling thing, the store thing. She's not been that… alive, in ages. Keeps talking about your FroYo as though that's what she really wants."
There is sometimes an ocean in his stomach. The water level is low when times are good. Or the waves can crash against his abdomen, creep up his throat and threaten to drown him. "Seems unlikely, that."
Sarah tips her head back onto the rug. "Yeah, well."
JJ decides it's probably time to cut his losses. Of which his dignity is a big one. But it's not like his dignity is a closely guarded secret, at the best of times. "You think I'm done, for today? Maybe forever?"
Sarah looks at him, then. Standing in some board shorts that had to bej sewn up hastily because he ripped them down the ass. Dripping water and trailing sand into Kiara Carrera's trailer. "Hang on," she says, with something verging on sympathy. "I'll go check."
Ten minutes later, he strides out the area some fucker sold for a likely under valued permit, and gets the fuck out of there.
*
Kiara turns up at All A'Board wearing one of the store's sweatshirts and carrying two coffees.
JJ is stocking something behind the counter when she walks in. Matilda clears her throat extensively with decreasing subtlety. Finally says, "JJ!" He looks at her, then to where she's gesticulating towards.
"Hey." It's hesitant, like she's extending her hand to a feral dog.
"Hey."
"I will go and - count surfboards." Matilda crawls under the counter and scarpers, half-running away.
They both watch her go.
"You left," Kiara says.
"You seemed busy."
"I hoped to give you a tour, show you the recycling bins." He doesn't know what to say to that. She places one of the cups on the counter and inches it towards him. "I got you coffee."
It's not about the coffee.
There are hundreds of decisions in any one day. Some that can determine the course of your week, your month. Some which can be the butterfly's wings in your life. Trigger a whole chain reaction. Cause and effect.
It's not about the coffee.
He thinks he should say no.
"How about we find a bench?"
Her responding smile is going to haunt his dreams.