Disclaimer: I do not own Summerland, nor do I own any related characters or places.

Longing to Know

Chapter 3

Pulling up to the house, Bradin parked the borrowed Cadillac Escalade on the curb. This was supposed to be the best party of the summer, but he was doubtful. Callie was off on vacation, and he was missing her like crazy, even though she'd not been gone even a whole five days. He walked toward the house, mentally telling himself that he would stay for an hour or so to make an appearance, but then he'd go home. Curfew was midnight, but he expected to be back long before that.

As he stepped inside the house, a few people he knew from the surf shop said 'hi,' and two giggly girls walked past glancing starry-eyed in his direction. Walking into the living room, with its big ceiling-to-floor windows facing the reflectively colorful ocean, he glanced around. A DJ table was set up in the far corner, and the giant speakers on either side of it blasted out a loud Black Eyed Peas song. Drinks and food were in the opposite corner, and he picked his way toward them.

A familiar-looking girl following a light brunette and a blue-streaked blonde was fighting her way from the food tables. Her black hair fell loosely down to her elbows and her trim figure was clothed in a knee-length khaki skirt and a turquoise top, covered by a red zip-up hoodie-type sweatshirt that hugged her curves attractively.

"Harley?" Bradin questioned as she stepped past, recognition finally setting in.

"Oh, hey," she half-smiled at him before telling the two girls she'd been with that she'd catch up.

"What are you doing here?" he shouted over the booming beat.

"Karen Goldstone invited me." Harley took a sip from the blue plastic cup in her hand.

"You look, uh…" Bradin paused, presently unsure of his words.

"Yeah, it's amazing what a shower and a whole load of makeup can do, right?" she asked coldly. "I bet you didn't know I even owned anything put a pair of dirty jeans."

"No, I didn't mean anythi—"

"Forget it." Harley turned away.

"I just meant that you look nice…" his voice trailed off.

"Well, thank you." She managed a smile over her shoulder, then after a pause, she added, "Go ahead and say it, I know you want to."

"Say what?"

" 'You look nice'—for a change."

Her words bit into him as she walked away, leaving him standing alone and confused. Where was this hatred coming from? He'd thought they were friends now—well, maybe not friends, but at least a little better than blood-enemies. Across the room, she dropped down onto a green couch with her two friends from earlier. She looked bored—even annoyed—as the girls on either side of her batted their eyelashes and smiled at a passing guy.

A surfer called Bucket, whom Bradin knew from the surf shop, hooked his arm, pulling him toward the kitchen. "There's this totally hot girl who's asking about you. I think you could really score, Kansas."

The 'totally hot girl' that Bucket had referred to was a tall, slim, cheerleader-type with a short ponytail of bleached-blond hair flipping crazily on the nape of her neck as she laughed. When Bradin stepped up, she turned toward him with a huge smile. Her teeth were perfect, but a few shades too white to look natural, and her face was painted almost to the point that reminded Bradin of seeing stage actors up close. The sight of her almost made him sick.

"Hi Bradin," she said in a sugary-sweet voice. "I'm Paula, but everyone calls me Skittles."

"Hi." He tried a smile, but he was sure it didn't come out quite right. His mind was still focused on Harley, despite his attempts to push her out.

"I heard you tried out for the PLH surf team. I bet you're really good, maybe we could surf together, and you could give me some pointers."

"Uh, yeah, I made sub." Bradin wanted to leave. He was tired of people setting him up with these stupid beach chicks. They could be so dumb at times. Of course they were hardly ever hard on the eyes with their skimpy bikinis and tan-oiled bodies. Erika was special case though; she was smart, funny, and pretty: everything a guy could want—everything Jay had ever dreamed of. And Callie, oh, Callie! Trying to think up a good excuse, he finally said, "Well, actually, I got a job so I don't really have that much time to surf right now."

"Oh," she said, pouting slightly in disappointment.

Seeing the disbelief in Bucket's eyes, Bradin quickly added, "But Bucket here's really good, and I'm sure he'd be happy to show you some stuff."

"Bucket?" she questioned, then seemed to see the tall light-blonde surfer behind Bradin and shimmied up to him with a smile. "Hi Bucket, I'm Skittles. Bucket—that's kinda a funny name," she laughed flirtatiously. "How'd you get it?"

Bradin embraced the chance to get away when it opened. Glancing back, he could see his friend was on Cloud 9—standing there, talking to 'Skittles' about how he'd received his nickname. As far as Bradin was concerned, those two would make a pretty good pairing; between the two of them, they might have enough brainpower to figure out how to get the wrapper off a tootsie pop. Even better yet, he could probably count on seeing them trying to figure out how many licks to the center of a tootsie pop. Bradin laughed at himself.

Despite his attempts to block Harley from his thoughts, he found her occupying every tiny corner of his head. From his place by the enormous bowl of caramel corn, he watched her: first on the couch, then as she moved with her friends to the DJ table to pick out music. She made no attempt to help choose a song; instead, she stood off to the side, glancing passively around the room every-so-often. He wondered if she was searching the crowd for him, but then, why would she? A large crowd swarmed around the table, and Bradin's view was blocked for several minutes. When they finally moved away, his eyes scanned the room for Harley. She had seemingly disappeared. Catching sight of her heading for the door, he made his move, pushing through two groups of teens and threading around countless others.

"Hey, where you going?" Bradin caught her arm gently.

"Home." At his silence, she added, "I've got a headache, so I'm going home."

"Can I give you a ride?" he offered.

"No, I…" she paused as something behind her in the crowded room caught her eye. Bradin followed her gaze and saw a well-muscled guy of about 17 or 18 stomping toward them angrily. He'd seen the guy one time before, and Bucket had pointed him out as CJ Goldstone—aka—Charles Nicholas Goldstone, Junior, II. Glancing back to Harley, he noticed she had her eyes closed and was mumbling something under her breath.

"Where do you think you're going?" CJ demanded.

Before she could answer, Bradin spoke up. "I'm taking her home."

"Really? Well I don't think so, and you can let go of my girlfriend, 'cause she's not goin' nowhere with you," he stated in Bradin's face.

Bradin released her arm, surprised by the word 'girlfriend' and intimidated by the sheer bulk of the guy.

As CJ pulled on her wrist, Harley twisted out of his grasp. "I've got work to do tomorrow. I'm going home." He grabbed her arm, and she said something in a tone too quiet for Bradin to hear.

Whatever she said seemed to work, because CJ shook his head, threw a hateful glare at Bradin, and stalked off, throwing his arm around the nearest girl. Harley stepped toward the door.

"Offer still stands," Bradin spoke up as she passed.

"Thanks, I'll take it." She smiled at him and followed him out the door.