Chapter Text
JJ hated it when people forced him out of his comfort zone.
Actually, no – he would never even use the words comfort zone, that was some shit John B said to him. Or more specifically, some shit Sarah said to John B that John B repeated.
Specifically, he loathed it when said comfort zones were pushed to the limits of bougie-ass Airbnbs in pretentious coastal towns when they already lived in a coastal town. Someplace made for a saltlifer through and through, one with the Kildare tide, generations of Maybanks making their living on the water.
He didn’t need to know what was up North, in Nag’s Head or Corolla or wherever the fuck Sarah was taking them beyond that. It was bad enough half of his island belonged to the Kooks of Figure Eight, all of Kildare if you asked them.
But John B promised him the best swells, beaches filled with top-tier weed and tourons. And really, JJ knew it was kinda bullshit, but there was a reason John B was voted most likely to succeed despite his long list of truancies, why he got away with a uniform consisting of an unwashed bandana and a Hawaiian shirt held together with one button. Why JJ jumped into a fight for him on the playground when they met in third grade – why he’d fight for him always.
And John B for him. That was the thing about loyalty – JJ knew as soon as John B uttered something about Pogues and family that he was going on this damn trip.
Doesn’t mean he has to like it.
It’s about two hours into the drive that JJ decides he’s had enough of Sarah’s show tunes and fuckin’ Christmas music in summer time. A Pope–Sarah chorus of ‘c’mon it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together–’ cuts short as JJ rips out the cord, bulldozing himself through the middle console to shove in his own.
Sarah blows out a furious breath, but she puts a pin in it when her phone chirps, shooting him a glare. “Can you turn down the music?” she hisses, “I can barely hear the woman.”
JJ groans and turns the volume down on his phone one notch, the aforementioned holiday music nowhere near drowned out yet, even as Pearl Jam blasts through the speakers.
“Can’t you listen to anyone that isn’t a hundred years old?” Pope complains as Eddie Vedder croons in the background.
“You’re kidding right?” JJ snorts. “This coming from the man who was just singing along to Johnny Mathis’ White Christmas?”
Sarah waves a perfectly manicured hand between them, wildly gesturing to keep turning the volume down, and finally, John B rips the cord out for a second time.
“Oh, what the fuck man–”
“Yeah, Linda?” Sarah’s voice carries over them, a flip of long blond hair as looks over her shoulder to the back seat, furiously bug-eyed. “Um, did I hear you correctly?” she smoothly code-switches into the phone, “what do you mean the credit card’s not working?”
“Maybe daddy didn’t pay it,” JJ mutters.
He ducks to avoid a lip gloss missile aimed at his head, Sarah’s cool and casual voice slipping into something strained. “Sorry, I know there’s plenty of credit. Is the reservation still ours?”
Pope’s deep brown eyes widen, beads of sweat starting to gather on his forehead. “Dude, what if we’re getting scammed,” he whisper-shouts to JJ.
“I hope we are,” JJ answers indifferently, crossing his arms. “Then we can turn the fuck around.”
John B reaches across the sleek black leather armrest to hold Sarah’s hand as she closes her eyes, taking a shaky breath. JJ looks away, watching the blur of blue and brown outside meld together, wondering when it was that John B and Sarah did the same.
That was a really fun day, when John B told JJ he was dating the Kook princess of Kildare. And whatever, it’s not like he expected John B and Pope to stay in their hometown forever, but he certainly didn’t expect John B to be following Sarah Cameron of all people to college either.
John B hasn’t said if they’re moving back now that Sarah’s graduated. And JJ’s used to avoiding questions he doesn’t want to hear the answers to.
“Linda?” Sarah exclaims into the phone. “Are you there?” There’s a pause, and Sarah nods, looking less than relieved when they say their goodbyes and she hangs up.
“She says she’ll be at her office by four o’clock, and we’ll get it squared away then.”
“We’re supposed to be checking in at four,” Pope chimes in unhelpfully.
“Yeah, Pope,” John B jumps in quickly, his voice calm, eyes pointed in the rearview mirror. “And we will. Everything is fine.”
Though they spent the rest of the drive in near silence, JJ piped in once to say he’d bet his bottom dollar there is no fuckin’ Linda–and at the time, he really, really thought he was just giving Sarah shit. He didn’t actually think four o’clock would roll around with no call back, no answer, and definitely no keys to this alleged property.
But here they are now, the truth of his words weighing heavy as they stare up at an empty building for lease.
JJ can’t help but laugh as he peers through the glass, scanning over the scaffolding and paint cans. “This is just great.” He shakes his head. “I guess we’re sleepin’ on the beach tonight.”
“What do you care?” Sarah retorts, the tight lines of her face about to break as John B swoops in with a supportive arm around her waist. “You wanted to stay in that lean-to that was on the beach anyway.”
“Yeah and if I would’ve booked it, I wouldn’t have gotten fuckin’ scammed by Linda.”
“Look, I’ll make sure you get your money back.”
JJ scoffs. “Yeah, you will.”
“JJ,” John B warns, “chill.”
“Whatever.” JJ waves a hand, the dull headache from the car starting to pound against his skull in the rhythm of fuckin’ Jingle Bells. “I need caffeine.”
JJ beelines from the group leaving Sarah to her panic, John B to calm said panic, and Pope to his doom and gloom we’re on the streets shit. It’s not too difficult to figure out where he’s going as he strides up the sidewalk, since there appears to be one main drag. An entirely new definition of small compared to Kildare, John B’s promises as empty as the sprawl of vacant land. There’s not many people out and about, but every single one of them stares as he walks by. He guesses because he’s about three decades younger than the youngest person here. He doesn't even get how this tiny-ass place for geriatrics could possibly be pushing him out of his damn comfort zone.
That is, until he reaches the coffee shop.
He’d really only seen places like this from a distance on Figure Eight, but for god’s sake never actually stepped in one. There’s not a soul in the place, cushy velvet couches sitting by large picture windows, sprawling plants in the sill. Pristine marble tables, shelves holding incense and vintage-looking books with splintered binding. Picture frames with quotes he doesn’t quite understand, but thinks pretty much chalk up to damn the man. Mugs with the female figure, artwork consisting of string and fabric everywhere. A blackboard with whimsical writing: Organic. Vegan. Oat milk. Matcha.
How any of that relates to coffee is beyond him, but according to his phone, it’s just the one in town. And that’s the only thing keeping him from running for the hills.
“Hello?” he calls out, rather annoyed as he verifies that the sign on the door definitely says open, impatience already spiking his pulse at the lack of employees. Maybe it’s the splitting headache, or maybe he’s just a little on edge still from this whole entire shit show, but there’s barely a beat of silence before he’s calling out again, much louder. “What’s a man gotta do to get service in here?”
It’s probably because the average age is 60 in this place, but he’s entirely unprepared when a girl in her twenties finally appears from around the back. Dark curls swept up in a bun like a crown atop her head, a soft headband doing little to hold back the loose pieces over stormy eyes, dark and deep. Her lips are pressed in a line, perfectly pink and unamused at his entrance.
She doesn’t apologize. In fact, she’s looking at him like she thinks he should.
“Uh, is the place open or…?” he starts, unable to bite back the sarcasm.
“Yeah,” she draws out slowly, obviously annoyed as she motions to the door. “I was in the back and–”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
Her brows draw together in two little lines. “I was stocking supplies – do you see anyone in here?”
“Do you?”
“Oh my god,” she mutters, running a hand down her face. “Lord help me through the touron season.”
He busts out a laugh. “A touron? Lady, I’m the furthest thing from–”
“What can I get you?” she cuts in abruptly. “We have a new lavender chai latte, a special on a cuban–”
“Nah, not that shit,” he dismisses. “I just want a black coffee.”
She’s still for a moment, watching as he scans the menu and scoffs. How he involuntarily crinkles his nose when his eyes land on the gluten-free cupcakes by the register.
“Oh, I see.” She crosses her arms with a smug smile. “You’re one of those people who act like this is all pretentious, when actually, you’re the one who thinks they’re above it all.”
“Yeah, well, ya got the first part right.”
She rolls her eyes, turning towards the back counter. “Dark roast then? Medium? Pour over? French press?”
“Jesus christ, whatever.” He waves a hand, all the foreign words swimming in his throbbing brain. “Just black coffee.”
She starts the machine and turns to reach for the last cup on the overhead shelf, long legs in cutoff shorts stretching as she stands on her Converse-clad toes. Her cream crochet halter top pulls up to reveal a sliver of smooth bronze with a dolphin tattoo on the right side, a bikini tan line drawn across her bare back.
He’s barely aware of the machine whirring to a quiet, coffee pouring into a cup, before she’s whipping around and catching his stare. She doesn't say anything, just sets down his cup in front of him with more force than necessary, a smile on her face that’s too wide to be genuine.
He tosses some money on the counter and waves the change away, picking up his open cup of coffee as he surveys the room for a stand. “Where the hell are the stirrers – the lids ‘n shit?”
“Trying to reduce single-use plastic.”
“It’s hot coffee to go,” he retorts incredulously, “how the hell do you expect people to drink this without a lid?”
“Well, y’see, you simply hold the cup to your mouth–” She demonstrates for emphasis. “Tip it back, just a little, and–”
“Okay, ya know what–”
“I think you’ll survive with your open-top coffee, and hey, guess what? Maybe the planet will too.”
“Oh, I see.” It’s his turn now to cross his arms, to toss her a knowing smirk. “You’re one of those people that claim to be all earthy ‘n shit when really, you’re just judgmental.”
“Okay, time to go! You have your coffee.” She waves toward the exit as she paints her plastic, sugar–sweet smile back on. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No thanks,” he says gruffly with a rap of his knuckles to the counter. “Keep it up though, you may still have time to turn your Yelp review around.”
“I’d rather eat the two stars, thanks.”
“Funny you think you’re getting that many.”
“Please,” she scoffs, looking his ripped cargos and cutoff t-shirt up and down, “you’ve never written a Yelp review in your life.”
“You don’t know that.” Except that she did, and he hadn’t. “You treat all your customers like this?”
“Only assholes that come in screaming and bitch about every single thing in the place.”
“Okay, well, look out for the legal papers to be served when I get second-degree burns from this open cup.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” she bites back. “Buh-bye now!”
She’s still glaring at him through the window after he exits. Making sure he’s really going away, probably. He mimics her disgustingly sweet smile, tossing her an overenthusiastic wave over his shoulder. He doesn’t even give her the satisfaction of responding, turning away immediately and winding back down the one, lonely street. A missed opportunity to see her flipping him the bird, if he learned anything from the last 10 minutes.
When he arrives at the bar and grill, the others are gathered around an outdoor table on the patio, Sarah punching furiously on her laptop, Pope rambling on the phone as they comb the tiny town for places to stay. JJ steers away from the chaos, setting his coffee down next to John B, who seems to be doing nothing, though JJ imagines he thinks he’s moral support.
In the middle of her incessant searching, Sarah absently reaches for his coffee and takes a sip.
“JJ! Damn, where did you get this?”
He shrugs. “Up the road. The barista was kind of a dick. Hot though,” he adds, imagining deep bronze and a dolphin-tattooed hip. Wild curls spilling from a headband, those perfect lips as she basically cursed him out.
Sarah rolls her eyes, but she takes another drink. “Well, this coffee is amazing.”
“How would you know? You’re always dousing yours in sugar and cream ‘n shit.”
“Exactly,” Sarah exclaims with a wave of her hand as if it’s obvious. “If it’s really good coffee, you don’t need to drown out the taste.” Her phone ringing cuts off their conversation, and she hops off the bench to answer just a few feet away.
“JJ.“ John B turns to him with a low voice, whipping out his wallet. “I need you to go get another one of these for Sarah.”
“Why can’t you go?” he complains. “She’s your girlfriend, and that barista–”
“Is hot, you said so yourself,” John B finishes. “Isn’t that usually reason enough for you?”
“Yeah, but she’s fuckin’ crazy, called me an asshole and–”
“JJ,” John B scolds, an eyebrow raised through his flop of caramel hair, “were you being an asshole?”
“No,” he growls defensively. “I simply asked what I had to do to get some service, then politely requested a black coffee with a lid. She went off about the planet and tourons and – well, whatever.” He dismisses John B with a flick of his wrist. “Point is, get it yourself.”
“I can’t leave her.” John B motions to Sarah down the road, sounding near tears as pieces of her conversation filter through the breeze, the latest hotel clearly out of rooms. “She thinks this is all her fault.”
“Well, it is her fau–”
“JJ. Just go. Now.”
JJ sighs something long and suffering, snatching up his coffee for the trip back before Sarah drinks it all. God, it’s annoying when she’s right, the liquid smooth and far more pleasing than any Folgers shit he’s ever had.
This time when he walks in, the floral incense knocking him out along with the low folk music, she’s there at the front. Her service smile fades when she registers the customer.
“We’re closed.”
“The hell do you mean you’re closed,” he barks. “I was just here and the sign still says ‘open’.”
“We’re out of supplies.” She smiles with a cock of her head. “No lids.”
“You don’t have any lids.”
“Cups then.”
“I know you have more,” he replies hotly, motioning to the back. “You said yourself you were stocking supplies.”
“Look, I don’t know what to tell you,” she shoots back. “The place is closed.”
“Fine!” He waves her off. “I didn’t want your hippie, lavender-cuban-whatever the fuck anyway.”
“Fine!” she snaps. “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the–”
He’s storming back down to the restaurant before the wood can even slam shut behind him, more incensed than ever. Who the fuck does this woman think she is with her perfect ass and dolphin tattoo, she is so–
“JJ! Where’s the coffee?” John B questions, throwing his arms up.
“Don’t ask,” JJ mutters, dropping down on the bench.
Suddenly, Sarah’s clambering down the street towards the table, Olympic runner arms outstretched with a wide, victorious smile. “Guys!” she breathes out when she reaches them, “I found us a place!”
“Is it the beach lean-to? Because–”
“No,” she shuts him down, “it’s on the other side of town, but it’s ours for the whole stay!”
“Do we need to actually drive by this…” He snatches up her phone, the browser still open. “Carlton House? Make sure it’s actually real?”
“Carlton House!” The waitress shakes her head with a laugh as she walks into their conversation and sets down their drinks. “Oh, it’s real! Trust me.”
“See, everything is fine,” John B assures, pulling Sarah into his side. “I knew you’d handle it, babe.”
Sarah squeals and tiny-claps. “Vacation, back on! Shots on me!”
JJ has to admit, the day suddenly gets a lot less annoying once the tiny town is swallowed in dusk and he’s downed a couple shots of whiskey.
He probably should’ve known better, though. That the damn comfort zone gods would test him right as he’s trying to relax into vacation mode.
Somehow, when he goes inside to buy his round of shots, he hears a voice above everyone else in the murmur of the crowd, and he immediately recognizes that tone. He scans the room, his pulse skyrocketing when his fears are confirmed, eyes landing on familiar curls, unrestrained now as she throws her head back in laughter. The damn dolphin tattoo still mocking him in the sliver of skin beneath her halter top, cutoff shorts and forever bronze in all their glory.
He’s not sure which is more annoying: that she’s here to wreck his calm or that he can’t stop staring. He should probably just order his shots and leave before she notices and they both end up getting thrown out of this bar. But fuck it, he’s feeling bold and more than a little warm. He tells himself it’s from the shots, from the anger at their earlier encounters. But whatever his reasons, he can’t seem to help himself.
“Refused to serve me so you could hit the bar, huh? Nice.”
She follows the low voice whispered by her shoulder, momentarily shocked, before she registers the owner. She whips back around with a dismissive flick of her hand, nearly pelting him in the face. “Oh, fuck off–”
“No, I'm dead serious,” he insists, angling himself in front of her, “it’s masterful really, something I would do. Not helping your Yelp status though, closing at random times.”
The group of people surrounding her stand-up table fall silent, watching the trainwreck shortly before they uncomfortably wander off, something about darts and shuffleboard. He assumes she’ll follow, but she doesn’t. Just crosses her arms, sharpening her glare.
A casual flick of her cigarette, his camo shorts narrowly escaping ash. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe I’ll call the better business–”
She snorts. “Yeah, you go ahead and do that.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s a small town, we close early sometimes if it’s dead.”
“Thought it was ‘cause you were out of cups.”
“We are out of–”
“Save it,” he bites.
“Oh, you want me to go open the store and show you?”
“Yeah, actually, that would–”
She groans loudly, looking him up and down, her nose crinkling in disgust. “What are you even doing? Don’t you have other people you can annoy?”
As if on cue, Sarah exits the bathroom, her eyes landing right on them before he can even send a prayer to the heavens that she doesn’t notice. Glazed hazel eyes light up, her words wine-loose and loud as she rushes over.
“JJ! You made a friend.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call her a–”
Sarah lowers her voice leaning in, eyes comically wide. “He never makes friends.” She straightens with an easy chuckle, holding out her hand. “I’m Sarah.”
“I’m Kiara,” hot barista girl answers, taking a hold of Sarah’s hand. “The friend from the coffee shop,” she adds with a smirk.
Kiara. It’s so soft for her stony stare, light within darkened amber. He says it over and over in his mind like a melody, one of those addictive hooks you can’t get out of your head.
“Oh my god!” Sarah screeches, shaking JJ out of his stupor. A wide smile stretches on her lips as she hops up and down. “The barista girl! You’re right, she is hot!”
Kiara turns to JJ coolly, a smug tug at the corner of her lips, but JJ cuts in before he can hear her comeback. “Don’t listen to her – she’s clearly blasted out of her mind.” He shoots daggers at Sarah, muttering under his breath. “Can you shut up?”
But Sarah doesn’t even register his words, just shakes her head in slow motion. “You said she was hot, but kind of a dick.” She cocks her head, studying Kiara with a punch-drunk smile. “But she seems so nice, JJ!”
“Nah–” Kiara laughs, bright and blinding white across sunswept cheeks. “He’s right. I am kind of a dick.”
“Okay.” JJ chuckles uncomfortably, snagging Sarah’s arm. “Well, I’m sure Kiara has to get back to–”
“Take a shot with us!” Sarah’s voice carries over him, wriggling out of his grasp as she slings an arm around Kiara. “It’s JJ’s turn to buy!”
“Aw, JJ,” Kiara coos, turning to him with her hand over her chest. “That is so sweet.”
“Mhm,” he grits through his teeth. “It’s whiskey. Don’t know if you can hang – it’s not, like, vegan and watered down with elderflower ‘n shit.”
“Pretty sure you’re the one who can’t hang with me.” She huffs out a laugh. “Couldn’t even handle drinking coffee out of an open cup.”
He leans in, his cheeks growing hot. “Okay, well I guess we’ll go shot for shot and find out.”
“I guess we will.”
“What just happened here?” Sarah interjects, her eyes darting between them in confusion.
“Your new buddy Kiara here thinks she’s going to outdrink me.”
“You have no idea what you’re up against.” Kiara laughs dismissively. “You tourons–”
“For the last time, I’m not a fuckin’ touron.”
“So you live here?”
“No, thank god.”
“Then you are, you’re a–”
“Guys?”
“Okay, let’s go,” JJ barks over Sarah, motioning Kiara to the bar. “I wanna win quick so I can start the real fun.”
The heat that ignited the second he heard her laughter – hell, maybe even the second she rounded the corner at that damn coffee shop – scorches hotter than ever as he holds her stare. The bottom of their shot glasses clink the table in unison before they toss the first shot back, then the next, the next–
The whiskey’s smooth, but it burns – it’s all burning – his whole body alight as he locks into the wildfire erupting within deep amber, the flush flooding across her chest, the flames rising to alarming heights.
Somewhere down the line, John B and Pope have meandered in, and they're cheering along with Sarah, egging them on ‘til there’s a winner. JJ barely notices them, forcing a hardened glare to match hers, even though he’s beyond dizzy, spinning – spiraling in whiskey and sea salt, some kind of peach shampoo. Hurled insults, her hair over her eyes, stuck to her lip, her mouth and fuck–
By the time the lights start flickering overhead, he’s aware of how close they’ve migrated towards one another. And he’s afraid if she steps one inch closer in that goddamn halter top full of holes, he might succumb to the lick of flames and just–
“We’re closing,” the bartender calls out repeatedly, finding a new variation each time of telling everyone to fuck off as the crowd murmurs and blinks under the strain of the light.
“Oh, thank god,” she sneers, “you look like you’re about to yak.”
“Stone sober,” JJ answers evenly, forcing a frost over the flames as he gives her the once over. “You’re the one that can barely stand.”
“Pff–” She waves her hand, straightening as if to prove a point. “I could go all night, but I guess I’ll accept a draw.”
“Oh, no ya don’t.” He laughs humorlessly. “JJ Maybank doesn’t do draws, we gotta finish this.”
“God help me, he’s entered third person,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes. “I gotta go find my ride now anyway, so–”
“We’ll give you a lift!” Sarah chimes in excitedly. “Pope’s good to drive, right, Popey?”
Pope shrugs, but he hasn’t touched a drink in hours, brown eyes straight and steady as he twirls the keys.
“No, it’s fine,” Kiara assures. “I don’t live near here.”
“We aren’t staying around here either!” Sarah’s voice is still a liquor-driven shrill. “Whereabouts are you?”
“Well, it’s way across town. A complex at Fifth and Orange.”
“Fifth and Orange,” Sarah repeats slowly, contemplating. “Okay so that’s like…”
“Carlton House,” JJ finishes flatly with the image from Sarah’s phone flashing, still spinning in the Kiara loop, playing in his head over and over– “You live at Carlton House.”