3. Bodie
Bodie
“Hey, I said I’m not interested!” I snap, turning and unleashing on Henry even before that I’ve seen that it’s actually him.
But somehow I just knew it would be. And I’m proven right too.
There’s something about the way that Henry is looking at me, a kind of brooding, slightly dark edge… it’s hard to place exactly what it is, but it makes me think that I can’t trust him. And given my recent record with men, that’s probably a good instinct to have right now.
“You felt like you were being watched in there,” Henry says, stepping forward once pace so that he’s close but not so close that I’m going to back away from him.
Not yet, anyway. “You received a message. It panicked you. Now if I saw that, you’d better bet that if anyone else was watching, they saw it too. ”
“What’s your point?” I ask, kicking the dust beneath me. “Come on, Mr. Super-spy, tell me.”
“Right. Okay. Seeing as you’re asking so nicely,” Henry answers, clenching his jaw.
“My point is that you’re quite clearly scared.
And I mean genuinely afraid. The way you reacted to the message too…
that was real. You’re involved in something that’s way out of your comfort zone.
You want out. But whoever you’re dealing with, and I’m going to guess it’s a man, won’t let you out. Tell me where I’m telling lies…”
I scrunch my face up and look to the night sky above me.
Henry’s good. And he knows it too. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to trust him.
No way. I learned my lesson with Vince. I’ve lived my life doing my thing, trusting my own instincts and making my own way.
The biggest mistake I ever made was getting with a good looking asshole like Vince, thinking that he’d let me live my life and come and go as I please.
So while Henry might be good at observing me from across a bar, that’s nowhere near a good enough reason to bring him into my life and potentially increasing my chances of getting caught by Vince or one of his thugs.
“I’m waiting…” Henry says, standing tall and strong. “I’ve got a beer back inside that I’d love to get back to. But if you want my help, and I’d strongly suggest you take me up on my offer, then that beer can wait for another night.”
Henry thinks he’s so smart. The hint of sarcasm in his voice is really not a good look either. I don’t know if he thinks he’s being funny, but it’s certainly not washing with me. If anything, Henry’s smart-guy attitude is making me even less likely to entertain the idea of him helping me.
Don’t give him what he wants.
You don’t need him.
Trust your instincts…
“ Nah , you’re good,” I say, deciding that the best option is to go it alone. “I got spooked. It was no big deal. I’m fine. So…”
“So?”
“So that’ll be us done then,” I say, doing my best to stop my eyes scanning over Henry’s admittedly very impressive upper body. Damn, he’s wearing his t-shirt well. Urgh . Whatever. “Have a nice life.”
“And you, boy,” Henry says, shaking his head and turning to walk back inside the bar. “Just don’t say I didn’t offer.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t!” I reply, suddenly getting very irritated with this big, gruff, smug stranger.
With that, I turn and walk toward my van—not too fast, not too slow, just at a normal pace.
The last thing I want to do is make Henry think that I’m genuinely nervous or scared.
The truth, of course, is that I’m frankly pretty damn terrified.
I don’t know how convincing I was just now, but I’ve got a feeling that the quicker I get myself out of town, the better.
It’s me, Poot, and Shred.
The dream team.
No room for anyone else sticking their beak in and trying to play the savior. Not this time. And not ever.
I’m going to drive the van back to my overnight parking spot, get a couple of hours sleep, and then head out onto the road again before dawn.
Henry might not be in the same league as Vince, but I’m not going to stick around and find out either. It’s time for me to move on, head north, and leave all these asshole men behind me… for good .
“Okay, you’ve got this,” I say, my hands wrapped around the wheel, my destiny in my own hands.
Shred’s engine hums as I pull away from the bar, the gravel crunching under the tires, my hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
The night air is cool, slipping through the slightly open window, but my heart’s still racing from that run-in with Henry.
Smug jerk.
Smug, big, handsome jerk.
Thinks he can read me like an open book, telling me I’m scared, like I don’t already know. I don’t need his help. I’ve got Shred, Poot, and my own damn instincts. That’s enough. It’s always been enough.
“What does he think he is… some kind of Daddy?” I scoff, shaking my head and letting out a snort of derision. “No way.”
The road stretches dark ahead, the beach a shadowy line to my left, waves whispering in the distance. I try to focus on the drive, but my mind’s a mess, spinning back to before Vince, before everything got so screwed up. Back when life was just me, the surf, and the open road…
I was nineteen when I ditched my parents’ college dreams and hit the coast with Shred, my surfboard strapped to the roof. And it was glorious.
I’d wake up to sunrise sessions, paddling out with other drifters, laughing as we chased monster waves.
Nights were bonfires, cheap beers, and stories swapped with whoever washed up on the shore.
I’d sketch the ocean in my notebook, Poot tucked in my bag, my Little side happy with a juice box and the freedom to just be .
No rules, no expectations.
Just vibes.
I was untouchable, riding life like a perfect wave, never wiping out.
It was the kind of life that I always dreamed of but never actually thought I’d get to live when I was stuck in school trying to act like I gave a crap about algebra or whatever the heck Mr. Leary was talking about in his double math class.
But on the water, living free, that was just perfection. I never needed to fake it. Not ever.
Then Vince showed up, all tanned skin and cocky grins, shredding waves like he owned the ocean.
And even now, I can’t deny just how good he looked on the waves—I even heard that he could have gone pro but apparently the surf authorities had it out for him, which actually makes total sense now that I’ve seen way beyond the initial attraction.
I met Vince at a surf comp in Santa Cruz, his board slicing through a ten-footer like it was nothing. He bought me a beer after, said he liked my fire, my “don’t take crap” attitude.
And I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.
Vince just seemed like my kind of guy—free-spirited, fearless, someone who’d roll with my nomadic life. If only I knew then what I knew now. Even thinking back to it makes me mad.
But, honestly, the warning signs were there, blinking like neon, if I’d just paid attention…
The way he’d dodge questions about his “business,” always vague about where his cash came from. The late-night calls he’d take outside, his voice low, sharp. How he’d get this hard edge in his eyes when I pushed back on his plans, like my freedom bugged him.
Once, he grabbed my wrist too tight when I said I was heading to a different beach without him. “You don’t just leave me, Bodie,” he’d said, laughing it off, but his grip lingered.
Argh . I should’ve bolted then. No questions, no second chances, I should have gone and not looked back.
Instead, I stayed, thinking I could handle him, that my Little side could coexist with his charm.
Big mistake. By the time I found that ledger in his condo—names, shipments, numbers that screamed cartel —he’d already used Shred for one of his deals, tainting my safe space.
Vince knew I was a Little, knew I needed my romper and Poot to feel safe, and he used it, mocking my “kid stuff” when I tried to leave, despite having always said that he was total cool with it. “You’re mine, Bodie,” he’d said. “Run, and I’ll find you.”
I see it now: he was never charming, just a snake in board shorts, coiling tighter every day, ready to bite down and infect me with his venom when I stepped out of line and tried to do my own thing.
“Wait… what the hell?” I gasp.
A horn blares, yanking me back to the road. Headlights blind me as a truck swerves, the driver yelling something I can’t hear.
Shit!
Shred’s veering toward the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires. My heart slams against my ribs as I wrench the wheel, pulling back onto the pavement.
“Get it together, Bodie,” I mutter, my breath shaky. The truck roars past, its taillights fading, leaving me alone with my pounding pulse.
Too close. Way too close.
I can’t afford to lose it, not now, not with Vince’s message— I know you’re in Sunny Ferns —burning in my brain.
I force myself to breathe, slow and deep, focusing on the road.
The overnight parking spot’s just ahead, a quiet stretch near the beach where I can crash for a few hours before hitting the road north.
Shred’s gas gauge is still screaming red, but I’ll deal with that at dawn. Right now, I need sleep, a moment to feel safe, even if it’s just me and Poot pretending everything’s okay.
I pull into the lot, the ocean’s murmur soothing as I kill the engine.
The spot’s empty, just a few dunes and a lone streetlamp casting a weak glow.
Perfect .
I climb into the back of Shred, where I’ve got my makeshift bed—a pile of blankets, a foam mat, and a couple of pillows I’ve hauled coast to coast.
Poot’s waiting, his walrus tusks proud as ever, and I grab him, hugging him tight.
“We’re okay, buddy,” I whisper, my voice wobbling. My Little side aches, craving the comfort of my romper, a juice box, something to make the world small and soft again.
I dig out my portable cassette player, a relic I’ve had since I was a kid, and pop in my favorite tape of Little nursery rhymes. The tinny notes of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” fill the van, and I snuggle under the blankets, Poot pressed against my chest.
The music’s supposed to calm me, to pull me into that safe space where I can be Little Bodie, not Scared Bodie. I close my eyes, picturing waves, not Vince’s green eyes or Henry’s smug smirk. Sleep’s so close, tugging at me, promising a few hours of peace.
Then gravel crunches outside, sharp and loud.
My eyes snap open, heart leaping into my throat.
A low rumble cuts through the nursery rhymes—a car engine, idling nearby.
No, no, no.
Please no. This can’t be happening…
I hold my breath, clutching Poot so tight his tusk digs into my palm. The cassette player hums on oblivious as I ease up, crawling to the rear window.
I peel back the curtain, just a sliver, and peek out…
A black truck’s parked twenty feet away, its headlights off, engine still running. In the driver’s seat, a man sits, his face half-lit by the streetlamp.
He’s big, bearded, with a baseball cap pulled low, staring straight at Shred.
My stomach drops. He’s not moving, just watching, his silhouette ominous, like a predator sizing up prey.
Vince’s men.
The thought hits like ice water. Did he really find me? Was his message no bluff? Or is this just some random asshole, some creep who picked the wrong night to park here?
I duck down, my breathing hard and fast, my heart thumping.
“What do I do, Poot?” I whisper, my voice barely a sound.
Call the cops? No, they’ll ask questions, and if Vince’s got connections, that could make things worse.
Drive away? Shred’s got no gas to spare.
Stay put and hope he leaves? What if he doesn’t? My mind races, but every option feels like a trap.
I’m alone, in the dark, with a strange man outside and Vince’s threat looping in my head: You’ll pay.
The truck’s engine revs, low and menacing, and I freeze, hugging Poot, wishing for once I hadn’t told Henry to get lost. Because right now, I need any help I can get…