Rebel punk, Oscar Bradley, discovers that his party friend, Max, is the prince of Kingsport's Irish Mob; fierce rivals of the biker gang that's served as Oscar's surrogate family. With Max quickly pulling him deeper into his luxurious but deadly wor...
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Within hours of Oscar's stitches having been removed, they'd been ushered onto the family's private jet—the very one Oscar and Max had their sushi date night on. And a few hours after that, along with a short drive, they were lounging under a big umbrella, on the pale sands of a beautiful, sunny beach, in a place that Oscar couldn't remember how to pronounce.
"How're you feeling?" Max asked, ducking back into the shade and sitting down next to Oscar. He set a huge, fruity-colored drink, with its own little umbrella and neon blue straw, down for the punk as well. Max wasn't really feeling great himself, but he was trying to not let his sour mood be that apparent. "That's non-alcoholic, by the way, but the barista assured me it was good," he added, sipping on his own drink.
Oscar took a sip as he stared out at the pristine bluish green water, the kind that he'd only ever seen in pictures or on shows like Bro-Island. The drink was tart and sweet, not bad for a kids drink.
The mafia prince sighed. "Look, I'm sorry for being short these last few days...er, week," he said as he squinted at the sparkling waves. "It's not that I didn't—or don't—wanna enjoy this vacation with you or anything, it's just...you know..."
Oscar propped his arm on his knee as he leaned back in the lounge. "What do ya want me to say...?" The punk wondered as he lowered his sunglasses enough that he could see over the top of them. "It's fine, don't worry about it," Oscar said with a grin before pushing his glasses back up and taking another sip. "Just... ya know. Try to enjoy your vacation... maybe?"
That grin of Oscar's made impossible for Max not to smirk. He took a purposely loud sip from his straw, chasing it with a commercial-worthy "Ahhh..." before adding, "Bet." Setting down his drink, Max stood up. "Come on. I wanna go rent some Sea-Doos..."
"A see-what?"
But Oscar's curiosity was already hooked, and he left his comfortable lounger and the shade behind as he followed Max down the beach to a pier with what Oscar could only describe as...
"They have water motorcycles?!"
Max's smile couldn't have gotten any bigger, though he didn't answer Oscar until after he'd spoken to the attendant and finished their short transaction. Then he strode up to the punk, lifting his hand to put a rubbery elastic around Oz's wrist with a short cord and a set of keys dangling from it. "They're called jet skis, but yes. Water motorcycles," Max laughed. "And keep this on. I'm serious. Otherwise you'll be swimming a marathon to catch the thing after the first time you fall off."
Oscar smiled, unable to contain the level of excitement rushing through his veins, as he got onto a jet ski for the first time. After the guy running the rentals gave him some first-time pointers with the little English he knew, they were off. For Oscar it was the oddest mix of familiarity, it was like his bike and at the same time nothing like it at all. The ability to race across the water the same way he raced down a street, to mix his love for speed with his love for water, was the best hands down.
