Giving In: The Sandy Cove Series (Book 1) by M.R. Joseph Page A

back to them, watching as Harlow continues to laugh at Elton Joel’s come-on’s.
    “Nothing,” I say, feeling offended he would even ask me such a question. It doesn’t bother me she’s talking to him, why should it? I can just smell a load a crap a mile away, and Elton Joel is full of it.
    “Girls seem to be having fun and making new friends. Good for them. You see some of the chicks in here? We should be doing the same stuff, instead of sitting here with our dicks in our hands.”
    Porter just shakes his head.
    “I’m fine. I need another beer.” He signals a waitress to come to our table.
    The lights dip, and Max’s band takes the stage. The kid is so damn talented, and the girls have never seen him play. This was the perfect opportunity for them to watch Max and the band, but as they began to play, the girls’ interests appear to be on other things. The guy flies move to the beat along with the girls, and by the looks of it, the girls like the music, but could give a shit less that it’s Max up there.
    Max plays his heart out, singing backup on some vocals. The crowd pushes towards the stage, some dancing, and some even gyrating to the beat of the music. Hands up, swaying back and forth, beer bottles raised, with some patrons singing along to the covers the band performs. I stay in our booth because we have a pretty perfect view of the stage from where we are. The waitress keeps the beers coming, and we throw them back like they’re bottled water.
    The band continues to play, and I’ve been trying to keep an eye out for Harlow, but I don’t see her. Porter looks like he’s going out of his mind for some reason, and my head, my poor big head goes from one shoulder to another, searching for her, wondering if she’s ok with Elton Joel. And now I spot her.
    Her sundress-clad ass rubbing up against Elton Joel’s khaki panted front.
    Fuck me.
    Harlow’s arm is draped around his neck from behind, she reaches up running her fingers through his hair. His lips graze her bare shoulder, his one arm resting across her belly, pulling her in closer. Their rhythm matched, step by step, never seeming out of sync. She eases her head to the side so he can have better access to her neck, as he plants a row of kisses from behind her ear, down the length of her neck. Harlow’s eyes are closed, her hair swinging from side to side to the charge of the electric bass. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. I taste the coppery-flavored blood, feeling the sting of it. I wonder why watching her move makes me angry. Her moving with him, against him.
    I’m willing myself to turn around, to look away, but this girl is stepping outside her shell. She seems free, moving her body in ways I have never seen. The fluency of her arms and legs, the way she dips her knees down, gracefully messy with the sway of her hips, grinding into him as she rises up again.
    She moves like a swan, not like the stiff, too-large-of-a-vocabulary girl, who tolerates me.
    The night we were together, she moved like a hungry tiger, feral and cold, waiting for the kill. Tonight, her body is relaxed, no weight of the world bearing down on it. It’s just freeing her to move without worry, without stress, just to be a sexual object, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one fucking bit.
    My knee won’t stop shaking. My head is foggy from the beer. My body, tense and ready to strike at a moment’s notice, and that time may be now.
    As the beat of the music pulses through the air, and the sound of drums beating within my ears, I see Elton Joel’s hand snake from around her waist. It languidly makes its way down to her thigh, and she doesn’t seem to notice or care. He inches her dress up when he reaches the hem. Her hand is still resting on the back of his neck. His fingers make their way to her inner thigh, while he licks the side of her neck. Her eyes are still shut, and her lower lip is sucked in, as she is enjoying whatever it is he’s doing to her. When I