The continuation of an epic unfinished surf novel! Catch up on the prologue here!
Branno sat slumped into a semicircle vinyl booth, head down, not paying attention to the brunette across the sticky Formica table. A pitcher of half-finished margarita hovered silently between them next to the memory of chips, guacamole and a wet California burrito. She was talking about something. Justin Bieber’s new music video? An emoji misunderstanding among her group of friends? He didn’t know or care because he was scrolling through Instagram and had stopped on a picture that was good. The best of the day and maybe even week. A perfect, quivering pair of tits framed just right against a messy, flowery bedspread with a rose gold iPhone 6s off to the side. Hers, no doubt.
He couldn’t see a face, the boys did a good job cutting it out, but she was for sure super wasted. Maybe even mouth breathing. He chuckled. They used to show the face too but then someone threatened a lawsuit, or some shit, so they all decided better just to focus on bits anyone cared about.
The multi-colored glass star lights twinkled above the table and a mariachi cover of Sweet Child O’ Mine floated through the air. It smelled like onions.
He and his two friends had started the account @canznthingz a few months ago as a laugh, each taking and posting photos of chicks they had brought home and in various states of blacked out undress. It was private, just for other friends, but had become something of a surf industry sensation. A bro over at SRF N TRF had even done a run of t-shirts and hats with their logo, a drunk chicken with pink panties around her ankles and a paper bag over her head.
Its popularity, though, brought problems. Someone showed someone showed one of the girls and she had gotten all lame and told someone who told someone who told Hedgy that her dad was a judge or prosecutor. Nothing came of it but now they were careful. Or more careful.
He chuckled again.
“You think that’s funny?” the brunette asked and her voice sounded hopeful.
“Ummmm, yeah babe.” He responded, knocked back into the present, and looked up for the second time since they’d been there. “Yeah. Super funny.”
She was cute enough. Maybe a six but her rig might even be a seven plus. He’d have to get through that baggy H & M sweater to know for sure. It said PEACE OFF.
She sighed, relieved, “Oh good. I thought I was boring you there for a minute.”
“Fucken needy girls…” he thought but whatever. All girls were needy some just pretended better than others that they weren’t. “Yeah funny. Rad…” he said and then put on a smokier voice. “Hey, babe, why don’t you finish that margie and then let’s go back to my place.”
He wanted to get on with his night and if he could smash this early it’d be sick because he had a thing later.
“But I was just telling you about that hot yoga class that I’ve got to go to after this and how drunk yoga should be, like, a thing too and, like…” she answered.
Fucken needy girls.
“Yeah yeah cool. Hot yoga… “ he cut her off before he had to listen to any more. “…Drunk yoga. Funny. I’ve gotta bounce anyhow. Fouled Anchors is doing a pop-up tonight and I told the bros that I’d rally soooo…”he looks over the shoulder for their waitress, or any waitress, “…rad.”
“Ummmmm, cool?” She responded, slightly confused at his instant cooling.
“…But AGENDA. You’re going, yeah?” he asked changing tact in direct response to her confusion, “I’ll be in booth F30 starting tomorrow and you should come by or whatever. It’d be cool.” It was never cool to completely jettison a six to possible seven plus.
Her face brightened. “Yeah, I’ll totally be there! I’m working the DESTROYR booth early but will defs swing by after.”
He nodded turning the temperature down, slightly, once again. “Sick.”
The waitress finally found him even though he’d had his hand in the air for an eternity and brought the bill, laying it down on the table. “Gracias” he said, ironically, though he was not sure how Mexicans did irony and shoved a twenty into the vinyl booklet. He looked at the brunette. She fished a twenty out of her Tory Burch handbag and put it on the table too. He shoved it into the vinyl booklet alongside his own. Forty dollars meant an 8% tip but whatever. The service was shit. A mariachi cover of Free Bird had just kicked on.
“Cool then…” he said hauling himself out of the booth. “See you tomorrow.”
He walked toward the door, brushing past too many succulents, without looking back to see what expression dressed her face. It wouldn’t matter. She was his now, hot yoga notwithstanding. It was just a matter of when.