Night Beach Read Online Free Page A

Kane’s
not
really
asking
because
he’s
turning
the
    heater
off
as
he
speaks.
‘Friggin’
boiling.’

    If
you
didn’t
know
Kane,
you
wouldn’t
call
him
hot.
He’s
got
the
surfer
body,
a
top
heavy
    V
on
short
powerful
legs,
and
it’s
wrapped
in
a
good
tan,
but
he’s
also
got
thick
blond
    hair
on
his
chest
and
forearms
and
legs.
It
marks
him,
makes
him
more
masculine
than
    surfing’s
poster
boys
–
the
slim
boyish
ones
who
are
smooth-‐skinned
and
fashion
    conscious,
the
ones
girls
lust
over.

    What
Kane
has,
though,
is
intensity
–
compressed
ambition.
He’s
always
had
it
and
it
    makes
people
notice
him.
Today,
it
seems
to
be
stronger
and
not
so
controlled,
like
he’s
    changed
to
a
higher
octane
fuel
and
isn’t
sure
how
to
handle
the
power.
    I’m
so
aware
of
him
–
all
the
heat
and
energy
his
skin
is
giving
off
–
I
don’t
think
I’ve
    been
this
near
him
since
Christmas.

    I
think
about
Greg
Hill
getting
punched
so
hard
he
was
knocked
off
his
board.
Greg
is
a
    big
man.
Kane
threw
that
punch
while
he
was
sitting
on
a
surfboard
in
the
water
–
    hardly
a
stable
surface.
So
how
did
he
do
it?
The
answer
is
locked
up
in
the
before.
The
    memory
that’s
as
hard
to
hold
as
smoke.

    I
lean
back
against
my
seat.
The
cold
is
deep
inside
me
now,
soaked
into
my
bones;
the
    only
thing
that
will
get
rid
of
it
is
a
hot
shower,
warm
clothes
and
a
coffee.
I’m
    exhausted.

    And
I
feel
really
down.
Like
crying.
Down,
down,
down.
And
stupid.
Stupid
and
young
    and
not
special.
This
situation
is
beyond
desperate.
I
haven’t
got
a
chance.
    ‘What
was
it
like?’
I
say,
the
words
sounding
like
they’ve
been
ripped
from
my
throat.

    He
glances
across
at
me,
flicking
his
head
to
show
he
didn’t
hear.

    It’s
a
strain
to
speak
up.
‘What
was
it
–’
He
turns
the
radio
down
and
then
I’m
too
loud
    and
shrill,
‘–
like
over
there?’
    ‘Hot.’

    He
turns
right
and
coasts
down
a
hill.
We
just
miss
the
lights
onto
Bayside
Road
and
he
    pulls
up
first
in
line.
I
think
that
he’s
being
a
smartarse.
He
can
stick
it.

    But
then
he
adds,
‘Surf
was
good,
hey.
Sweet
as.
Really
warm
water,
clean.
Beautiful.
    Had
some
bigger
days,
too,
up
to
about
six
foot.
We
chartered
a
boat,
went
to
this
empty
    place
which
was
–’
he
breaks
off,
frowning.

    ‘What?’
I
ask.
    Kane
ignores
me.
There’s
this
expression
on
his
face:
a
grimace
of
pain,
his
lips
pulled
    back
to
bare
his
teeth.
Then
he
shakes
his
head
and
the
moment
passes,
but
I’m
left
    feeling
like
I’m
the
one
who’s
just
been
on
a
plane
for
twenty
hours.

    Kane
looks
at
me.
He
seems
different
with
his
hair
shaved
short
like
that:
tougher,
older.
    When
I
last
saw
him
it
was
thick
and
wiry.
You
notice
his
eyes
more
now,
the
way
they
    bore
into
you.
Against
his
dark
skin
they
are
a
luminous
sea
green.
    ‘Yeah,
it
was
good.’
He
gives
me
a
secretive
smile.
‘Freaky.’
    I
shrug.
‘Crazy
waves?’

    ‘Crazy
waves,
crazy
people.
Yeah,
all
of
that.’

    There’s
something
cagey
about
him.
    I
try
again.
‘What
else?’
    He
glances
across
at
me
with
his
eyebrows
raised
as
though
he’s
forgotten
what
we’re
    talking
about.
But
I
can
see
that
he
wants
me
to
shut
up.
    Then,
when
we’re
almost
at
the
Heights’
shops,
Kane
says,
    ‘Well,
Abbie,
you
don’t
want
to
know
how
it
was.
I
don’t
want
to
know,
and
I
was
there.’
    He
laughs,
like
he’s
just
got
a
joke
ages
after
it’s
been
told,
but
the
joke’s