Page 63 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

The muffled crash of surf slamming into rock isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the persistent buzzing as my phone vibrates in the cupholder. Gia probably. I was supposed to meet her and the rest of my friends—I check the clock on the dash—five minutes ago.

When I glance at the screen, it’s Rory calling instead.

I sigh and answer. “ Beep . You’ve reached Wren Kensington. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you in an hour. Or in three days.”

My older sister huffs. “Since you hardly ever pick up, I listen to your voicemail almost every time I call you. You never set up a personalized message, Wren. It just reads off your number in a robotic voice.”

“How was I supposed to know that? I never call myself.”

Her exhale is pure exasperation.

Poor Rory. She’s one of those annoyingly perfect people you can’t even resent for being perfect because they’re also kind and thoughtful, and she got stuck with me as a younger sibling.

Rory is sophisticated and dependable, and I’m … well, I’m detoured next to a bluff because it’s been a boring Thursday so far.

“Where are you, Wren?” Rory asks wearily.

“Driving to get ice cream with friends.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re driving.”

I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. “I pulled over to talk to you. I can’t hear anything in the convertible.”

Rather than commend me on my responsibility, Rory wonders, “What’s ice cream code for?”

“Want me to bring you back a scoop of cookie dough?” I offer innocently.

Another sigh from my sister. “Hanson invited us out on his boat tomorrow. We’re leaving Scarlett and Crew’s place at eight a.m. Mom wanted me to tell you, and you weren’t replying to my texts.”

“Eight?” I groan. “It’s summer , Rory.”

“Come home and argue with Mom and Dad about it,” Rory states. “Don’t eat too much ice cream .”

She hangs up before I can refute her heavy skepticism.

To be fair, she’s right. Ice cream isn’t on tonight’s itinerary.

I huff, tossing my phone on the passenger seat before stepping out of my car.

Briny wind whips through my hair, blowing strands across my face and obstructing my vision with a snarl of pink.

Dyeing the bottom half of my blonde hair felt like a fun idea last week, but I’m already sick of it.

Maybe I can squeeze in a trip to the salon after going out on Aunt Scarlett’s parents’ yacht in the morning.

My dress gets dropped on top of my phone. After a second of deliberation, I decide to leave my sandals behind too. They’re my favorite pair, and I don’t want to hike back up to retrieve them.

The rough asphalt feels strange beneath my bare feet. Cool, thanks to the branches shading this section of street, and scratchy. The cheerful pink from my latest pedicure is bright against the drab gray backdrop.

The road ends, transitioning to trampled grass. At least I know I’m probably in the right place based on the amount of foot traffic. The lifeguard made this spot sound like a local secret, but the worn path looks like it was recently trod by a traveling circus. Can’t be that secret.

Leafy green foliage surrounds both sides of the path and stretches high, creating a labyrinth effect. So far, the path ahead is perfectly straight. I can’t see the ocean yet, but I can hear it. Taste it, the tang of salt in the air coating my face and hair with stickiness.

My steps slow when I hear voices ahead.

I wasn’t expecting company, based on the lack of other cars where I parked, and I’m suddenly very aware I’m alone, wearing nothing except a swimsuit, with no phone. Even for me, that’s reckless.

A dozen feet ahead, the path veers left. I approach the curve carefully, a surge of adrenaline ratcheting my heart rate up to a rapid, concerning rhythm.

One of the voices sounds female, which reassures me a little.

And there is one woman, I discover, rounding the bend, but the rest are all men.

Boys really. I’d guess they’re close to my age, in high school or possibly college.

Their faces are unfamiliar. Their standard uniform is board shorts and baggy, sleeveless tees. A few are shirtless. Most are smoking.

Locals.

A guy with shaggy blond hair spots me first. He smiles, eyes scanning my exposed skin appreciatively, but there’s nothing lascivious in his expression. My instincts aren’t screaming, Run .

Other heads turn my way. I spot curiosity and surprise, but no creepiness. In my experience, the most dangerous people tend to appear innocuous at first. These guys might be unkempt and stoned—sweet smoke swirls in the air—but not threatening.

“Hey.” Shaggy speaks first, raising a hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun as he squints at me.

“Hey,” I reply, scanning the small clearing they’re standing in and spotting the start of stone that must lead to the rocky outcrop I’m planning to leap from.

“Country club is in the other direction, princess,” another guy calls out, prompting scattered laughter among the group.

My molars grind. Not because I’m bothered by his childish comment. More annoyed he can tell I don’t live in Montauk based on my appearance and one word. What about a lavender one-piece says rich ?

“I’m not lost,” I state, then continue toward the ledge.

More wild growth surrounds it, aside from an opening a few feet wide that’s been cut or kept open by use.

Once I’m through it, I’ll be out of sight.

It shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes to swim back to shore, then walk to my car.

I’ll be late to meet everyone, but none of them will be surprised by my tardiness.

My mom refers to my schedule as its own time zone.

“That’s a dead end,” Shaggy calls out.

“ That’s ”—I hook a thumb over one shoulder toward the opening—“why I’m here.”

Watching shock blanch across a few faces is somewhat satisfying.

“If she wants to jump, let her,” the woman says.

I think she’s older than me, but it’s hard to tell for sure. Her face is scrubbed free of any makeup, freckled nose pink from too much sun recently.

I’m not sure if I should be grateful for her intervention. Her tone is dismissive, more I don’t give a shit than You go, girl! Be independent .

Whatever. I don’t need—or want—permission.

I turn back toward the opening, right as two more guys trample through the shrubbery, coming from the direction I’m headed in.

I spare the newcomers a quick glance. One’s shorter, stocky, and smiling. And the other … the other requires a longer look.

Most people are easy to read. A cursory scan is usually enough to form a solid opinion. Since Third, I’ve become almost obsessive about it, trying to train myself not to miss whatever I missed with him.

But this guy? Every time I tell myself to look away, to stop staring, I notice something else. His appearance filters in slowly, each new observation catching my attention all over again.

He’s wearing a pair of green swim trunks, so saturated with water that they’re still dripping. A few tattoos are scattered across his bare chest, a couple more on his left arm. I can’t decipher shapes from this distance or what’s hanging from the silver chain around his neck.

His face is especially captivating, a contrast of precise angles and imperfections.

A white scar splits the center of his chin.

There’s a bump on the bridge of his straight nose, like it’s been broken at least once before.

His eyebrows are dark, angry slashes, interrupting a carefully controlled expression.

I force my eyes to look away, annoyed by my own fascination.

He’s hot. So what? So was the lifeguard I flirted with this morning who told me about this spot.

“Cap!” Shaggy shouts, loud enough for anyone in a mile radius to hear.

Shaggy and the entire group he’s part of have gravitated closer to the new arrivals. Like they were waiting for them. Which, I realize, watching a towel get tossed to the shorter guy, was exactly what they were doing.

Shaggy’s talking to the guy I was staring at—Cap—who has his head bent to listen.

Turns out, the guy wrapping a towel around his waist isn’t that short. Cap is just really tall.

With a shake of my head, I pick up my pace across the clearing.

No more distractions.

Since I left my phone behind, I have no idea how long the walk up here took.

I still have a decent drive to the bar where I’m supposed to meet my friends.

If I take too long to show and I’m not answering my cell, someone might call the house.

If Rory—or worse, one of my parents—answers, I’ll wind up grounded for the foreseeable future.

“Wait.”

I’m not in the habit of taking orders. Actually, if you ask anyone who knows me, they’d tell you I lack basic listening skills. By choice.

But something about the smooth command—maybe how I know who said it, even before I turn around—makes me pause.

When I spin on my heel, they’re all watching. Shaggy looks concerned. The fellow female appears peeved I’m still in near proximity. Most of the guys are checking out my cleavage.

Not him . He’s focused on my face, a lofty, irritated expression on his.

“What, Cap ?” I ask, then smirk and glance at the towel-wearing guy slouched beside him. “Is your buddy Bottle?”

His buddy grins.

Cap doesn’t. He crosses his arms, biceps bulging in a way that’s intimidating and, unfortunately, a little impressive. He has the lean build of a swimmer—broad shoulders and a tapered waist—but the confrontational stance of a boxer.

“That’s a fifteen-foot drop,” Shaggy states. “Then a couple hundred meters to swim back to shore.”

“I know.”

I didn’t know that. All I knew about this place was its general location. But I’m sure as hell not going to admit that.

Well, if it were just Shaggy here, I might have. He gives off friendly golden-retriever energy. But the scowling, tattooed Cap, who’s radiating disapproval and can’t appreciate a joke? No chance.