This story is told from Katie's point of view. For the other side of this experience--told through Jacky's eyes--check out "
Angel's Landing (Jacky's POV)
" by Jackhawk. We're writing from opposite ends of the same story, so be sure to follow both for the full experience.
Opening my eyes to the sound of waves crashing
, my little tent rustles around me as the morning breeze creeps in, salty and cold. I pull my shirt tighter around my thighs--this old white button-down is the only thing I have that still feels clean. It belonged to someone once, a man who'd wanted something in return; they all do.
I sit up slowly, muscles sore from sleeping on sand, and stare out past the flap of the tent to where the sky is starting to shift. Feeling the crust of salt on my skin, the itch of yesterday's sweat. Hating the feeling of being dirty, I didn't grow up like this.
Back then, I had a mom who brushed my hair and a dad who called me his little angel, kissed my forehead goodnight, and lifted me up like I was the most precious thing in the world... but that was before. Before the accident, before the light went out of our house and the bottle moved in. Before my dad's grief twisted into something monstrous--before the nights got scary, and the touches stopped being innocent.
I left the morning of my eighteenth birthday, stuffing what little I had into a backpack that still smelled faintly like laundry sheets. I didn't look back. Just stuck out my thumb on the highway, hoping the world would be kinder than the man who used to tuck me in...
It wasn't.
You learn quickly out here. You use what you've got. Learn to look hungry but not helpless, sexy but not cheap. A look, a laugh, a touch--they're currency, just like cash. Some know how to play the game better.
But I'm learning.
My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon, when I managed to charm a sack lunch off some surfer kid who called me "baby" like he was offering the world. He wasn't as bad as some, though.
At first, it was always the older ones--truckers with potbellies and sour coffee breath, hands that shook with desperation. The kind you smile at because you have to. Because they're the ones who stop. The ones who don't ask if you're okay--they just ask how far you're willing to go.
But I'm learning.
The cute ones will give you things too, if you look at them the right way. If you let the strap of your tank top fall just a little too far down your shoulder. If you let your tongue peek out when you laugh. You don't have to fuck them. Sometimes, you just have to let them imagine you might.
Sometimes, though... you kind of want to. Like with the surfer.
God, he was beautiful.
He caught me watching him wax his board--broad back golden under the sun, salt-slicked curls falling into his eyes, abs tight and cut like they were carved from the sand itself. He smirked at me like he already knew he had me.
"Hey, sunshine," he said, stopping just a few feet away. He gave me a once-over. "Did you eat today?"
I didn't answer. He pulled out a sandwich from a paper wrapper, paused, then tore it in half, taking his half and wrapped the rest back up, and tossed it to me.
"Here," he added, almost like an afterthought. "It's turkey."
I caught it clumsily and unwrapped it slowly. The first bite hit like a punch to the chest--I hadn't realized how hungry I was.
"Just waiting for someone?" he asked casually, like we were two strangers at a bus stop.
"Yeah," I said. A lie, but one I could sit inside comfortably.
He dropped to the sand across from me, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on my mouth as I ate.
"Bet I could make you moan just like that," he said when I licked a smear of mayo off my thumb. I raised an eyebrow and smiled.
"Only one way to find out," I whispered.
Taking my hand, he pulled me into the old lifeguard stand behind us--sun-faded, half-collapsed, but still standing.
Pressing me against the wall, he kissed me like he needed it more than air. His hands slid under my shirt, fingers rough but careful, gasping as he found the soft, slick heat between my thighs.
"You're soaked," he murmured against my neck, voice thick with hunger.
My legs parted for him, bare toes curling. His fingers teased me open, slow and delicious, stroking me until my knees trembled and I was grinding down against his hand like I didn't care about anything else.
Opening my shirt, his mouth found my nipple, sucking it until it peaked, and I moaned--sharp and raw.
"God, you're perfect," he whispered. "You like that, baby?"
I nodded, unable to speak, my body humming with every filthy, perfect flick of his fingers. He worked me harder, faster, curling deep until I came, soaking his hand and my thighs.
Spinning me around gently, he pressed my chest to the wall and pushed my panties down my thighs. I braced myself against the peeling wood, breath catching as I felt him behind me--hard and eager.
Guiding himself against me, he let his tip slide through my slickness, teasing, until my hips arched back toward him on instinct. I gave in the second he felt me open for him, pushing into me in one thick, primal thrust that made me cry out. His soft edges vanished in that moment. Gripping my hips tight, he pulled me back onto him, every stroke raw and deep and wild.
"Oh, fuck," he growled, forehead resting against the back of my shoulder, pace quickening. "You feel too good..."
I moaned as each thrust knocked the air from my lungs--fast and filthy and desperate. He fucked me like he needed it. I felt him start to lose control, his hands trembling, breath ragged.
"Fuck--" he gasped.
Tightening his grip, he spilled inside me in hot pulses that left us both breathless. He stayed there, buried deep for a moment, then eased out with a low groan, leaving behind a slippery heat. His fingers grazed my thighs, moving to my hips as he pulled my panties back up, adjusting them with a gentleness that nearly undid me again.
I turned to face him, cheeks flushed, still catching my breath.
He smiled--a little crooked and dazed--then tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear like we were something real, just for a second.
Pulling back, fixing himself, he headed for the door and walked away like it was nothing.
It wasn't love, but it was more than pity.
"See you next time," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared, leaving the rest of his lunch behind.
The sound of waves pulled me back to the present. The sun had climbed higher, slanting golden light through the edges of my tent.
A month.
A whole month since I left, surviving night by night until I ended up here--this crumbling tent behind the forgotten lifeguard station. A month of flashing quick smiles at men just long enough to get what I needed--but never long enough to let them think they owned me.
Nobody owns me. Not anymore.
I tried to back out of the tent but my foot caught in the sleeping bag--of course it did. I muttered a low "damn" as I struggled to free myself without eating shit. No luck.
One desperate tug and gravity won. I fell out ass-first, landing with a dull thud on the wooden slats, legs splayed, shirt riding up, panties flashing. The morning air hit my bare thighs and I groaned--half from the sting, half from sheer embarrassment.
My head tilted back, and yep, someone saw.
Six feet above me, sitting on a bench, he sipped his latte like a goddamn scene out of a rich-old-man fantasy. I could tell he liked the show.
He looked like power--tall, silver hair slicked back with just enough rebellious wave to hint he didn't give a damn about age. Everything about him screamed dangerous money. Older, sure, but not soft.
I pushed my long dark curls out of my face--it was a lost cause, tangled wild from sleep--then sat back on my ass, brushing sand off my legs. My shirt barely reached mid-thigh, soft against skin.
But embarrassment? Not anymore. Not really. And the way he was looking at me--like I was some puzzle he was halfway through solving? I smirked.
