1. DESPERATE

CHAPTER ONE

KENDALL’S POV

DESPERATE

The cigarette burns slowly between my fingers while I scroll through my checking account that contains exactly enough money to make me laugh and cry at the same time, especially in this cursed current economy.

$417.62.

I stare at the number for several seconds, wishing I had the mental power to manipulate it’s content for a larger amount.

“Stop looking at it.”

I glance sideways at Maya, who is leaning against the brick wall behind the diner with her own cigarette dangling lazily between two fingers. Her dark sunglasses are pushed onto the top of her head with her waitress apron bunched around her waist. Her expression confirms she has been watching me torture myself for the last five minutes.

“I’m not looking at anything.”

“You've been staring at your phone forever. I bet you didn’t hear a word I said about my dumbass ex-boyfriend,”

“He drunk-texted you again. I’m listening,” I counter, letting my phone rest on my lap.

Maya snorts but nevertheless goes on a rant about her ex who wouldn’t leave her alone. Yeah, Jack is a real piece of work.

The back alley behind Bellamy's Diner isn't exactly picturesque, but in the middle of summer, even the ugly parts of town have a certain charm to them. Heat shimmers above the asphalt, cicadas buzzing somewhere beyond the row of old buildings, and the salty breeze drifting in from the ocean carries its familiar scent while the multitudes of tourists spill on the Main Street.

Bellamy's sits right in the middle of everything. It is exactly the kind of diner that looks like it was built specifically for I*******m. You know, chrome-trimmed booths with red vinyl seats and that touch of a quaintness mixed with the bright summer feeling. Huge milkshakes are served in ridiculous glass jars with pancakes stacked high enough to photograph. Then there are the neon signs glowing against the windows once the sun goes down.

Every summer, the rich descend on our little coastal town. They come with yachts and designer luggage and enough money to make the rest of us feel like we're living in two completely different countries despite standing on the same street.

And Bellamy's is one of their favorite stops. Influencers love it. Celebrities love it. And the rich kids love pretending they discovered it. Like some gold in a sea of dust. It’s honestly ridiculous. But then again, it does keep the town running.

Every few minutes during summer, someone walks through those doors holding a phone in front of their face, filming themselves ordering the strawberry pancakes or posing beside the neon GOOD FOOD, BAD DECISIONS sign.

Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy pretend they hate it and I would occasionally catch them grimacing but I know they absolutely love it. Who wouldn’t? Especially when the cashflow is pretty great?

Business usually triples between June and August. And so does my paycheck. Unfortunately, my problems seem to have discovered summer too.

My phone vibrates and I don't even need to look at the screen to know who it is. Just another creditor reminding me the due date of loan repayment. I lock my phone and shove it facedown on my thigh.

Maya watches me, “Same number?”

“Different one.”

“Block it.”

“I've blocked seventeen numbers.” I admit, It’s a dangerous thing especially when Stiller knows where I live.

“Then block eighteen.”

“They'll just call from another.”

“Okay.” She takes a drag from her cigarette. “Then change your name and move to Canada.”

I laugh despite myself. It's a small laugh, but it feels good. For a few seconds, I let myself lean my head against the warm brick wall and close my eyes. The sun is bright enough to make everything feel deceptively beautiful.

That's the problem with summer. Everything always looks like it is going to be okay. The ocean is blue and the tourists are happy. We never run out of customers and whenever one looks out at the ocean, you can see the dreamy life with boats drifting across the harbor like white specks against the horizon. And if you stand in the right place, at the right angle, you can almost convince yourself that your life is perfect too.

The moment is cut short when my phone buzzes with an unknown number and once again, I don't answer.

“Your stalker?” Maya asks.

“Debt collector.”

“Same thing.” She shrugs non-chalantly.

I shove the phone into my pocket but I don't tell her how bad it actually is. Not all of it, anyway. I don't bother telling her that there are three different bills sitting on our kitchen counter that I have been moving around every morning so my mother won't see them. Or that the electricity company has already sent us a final notice.

I don't tell her that the catering business hasn't had enough orders to cover its ingredient costs in months and that my mother's medication is running out again. Or that I spent half of last night calculating which prescription we could afford to refill this week and which one could possibly wait. I definitely don't tell her about the envelope hidden underneath my mattress. The one containing the last acceptance letter from the ballet company I should have joined two years ago.

I still haven't thrown it away and I have no fucking idea why. Maybe because throwing it away would mean admitting that I really did give up everything. Everything about the life I had imagined.

Even culinary school.

I was supposed to be finishing my training by now, maybe working in some beautiful restaurant somewhere, learning how to build menus and make something of myself. Instead, I'm twenty-six years old, working six days a week at a diner and spending my free time trying to keep my mother's catering business from collapsing.

I glance down at my phone again.

$417.62.

That's all I have left. And somehow that number is supposed to cover groceries, my mother's next prescription, the electric bill, and whatever disaster decides to arrive next.

Maya nudges my knee with hers, “You're doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” I ask, frowning a little.

“The disappearing thing.” She adds in between a draft of smoke, “You know, the think where your eyes go somewhere else.”

I force a smile. “I'm fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're a terrible liar and you know it, honey,”

“I'm an excellent liar.”

“You once told Mrs. Bellamy you were allergic to onions because you didn't want to chop them.”

“Maybe I’m just emotionally allergic to onions.” I counter, taking a drag from my almost burnt-out cigarette.

She laughs while I smile. For a moment, we're just two girls smoking behind a diner on a summer afternoon, pretending our lives aren't complicated.

Then Maya's phone lights up and when she looks at it, her smile is enough to tell she probably got a notification of another rich person vacationing here who might have tagged Bellamy’s diner again. She turns her phone towards me and of course I’m right. I could barely pin a name to whoever that is but I’m certain it’s an influencer. Maya scrolls past a picture of a yacht.

Then another and finally to a group of women standing outside the marina but here widened eyes make me curious.

“Who is that?” I ask.

“That's Alessia Romano.”

“And?” I shake my head, complete confusion running in my head.

“She has nine million followers.”

“Congratulations to Alessia.” I mutter sarcastically.

“She is hosting a party on Saturday here in town.” She announces, “On a yacht. You know, the biggest one here,”

I give her a look, “And?”

Maya grins, taking another drag from her cigarette, “And I'm working it.”

“You mean escorting?” I point out, trying not stifle my own amusement. Maya doesn’t hate the word escort. Hell, she could care less what people think; especially those that don’t contribute to her bank account. Her words.

“Serving drinks.” She shrugs, with a  cheeky smile dancing on her face.

“Those are two very different things.”

“Not at these parties, they are not,” She says it casually, but I know what she means.

Maya has been doing it for two summers now. Wealthy people come to town, rent enormous houses, throw ridiculous parties, and hire pretty girls like Maya to keep the champagne flowing and the guests entertained.

Sometimes she comes home with five hundred dollars for one night. Sometimes more. I've always told her I don't want to know exactly what happens at those parties and she has always told me I ask too many questions for someone who doesn't really want to know. To be fair, those stories are what make me forget my own complicated life, even for a few minutes.

She looks at me now, “You should come.”

I laugh, “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a job.”

“You're off Saturday.”

“How do you know that?”

“I checked the schedule and hello, we both work here,”

“Maya.” I groan.

“Come on.”

“No.” I tap the cigarette, the ash falling on the ground.

“You could make good money.”

I look down at the cigarette between my fingers. Good money. Those two words have a way of getting through every defense I have. Maya sees it and her smile fades slightly.

“Seriously, Ken. You could use it.”

I don't answer. Mostly because she's right. I could really use it. And beneath all of that is the uncomfortable truth I don't want to admit. I’m running out of options dangerously fast.

Maya bumps her shoulder against mine, “Just one night.”

I stare toward the end of the alley where a slice of blue ocean is visible between the buildings.

One night.

How bad could it possibly be?