The Sound (35 page)

Did I tell you I saw Will?
Megan asks, interrupting my rueful reverie.
He was asking about you. I told him you were dating the hottest guy on the planet who is also in a band and
who also happened to SAVE YOUR LIFE. He had nothing to say after that. Mwahahahahaha.

And I spoke to your mum at the checkout yesterday and she held up the queue for like half an hour just so she could tell me how much she loved Jesse. You know, if it’s possible, your
mum loves him even more than you do.

I smile. My mum just left a week ago, after three weeks of staying by my side, first in the hospital and then at the Tripps’ house, staring at me as if I was about to take my last breath
at any moment. I understood why. I don’t think she will ever get over the wake-up call she received from the BBC at two a.m. asking her to comment on her daughter’s almost death at the
hands of the Nantucket Nanny Killer.

My mum loves Jesse because I almost died three times that night – in the fire, at the hands of Mr Thorne and from an asthma attack – and Jesse saved me each time.

He saw the fishing line in the back of the jeep as I drove away in Mr Thorne’s car. And then, when Carrie called him to ask where I was, Jesse put two and two together. The same instinct
that flared for me, fired in him too. He joined the dots and made the connection on even less than I had to go on. He knew Mr Thorne wasn’t a fisherman, had never fished Nantucket Sound
before, had never bought tackle at Miller’s or anywhere else for that matter. Jesse knows all the boats on the water and all their owners. It didn’t add up.

He made the policeman drive after us, even though the paramedic was still waving the paperwork in his face. He was the one who made the policeman pull over, who found my inhaler on the side of
the road beside an empty car. He was the one who ran through the woods, calling my name, out-sprinting the policeman. The one who fought Mr Thorne, laying him out with a punch to the head and a
kick to the ribs (which he wishes now had been harder). The one who pressed the inhaler to my lips, who carried me back, who held my hand, who saved me.

Yeah, my mum loves him (but not as much as I do) and I’ve promised I’ll bring him back with me for Christmas.

The door opens and Jesse appears. He’s freshly showered. My room is in the basement of the Tripps’ townhouse in a posh part of Boston. I have my own entrance, a bathroom and a
bedroom the size of a football pitch. Best thing is that Jesse (who is now officially a HERO according to the newspapers, and my mum . . . and Carrie) is free to come and go as he pleases.

He pleases a lot.

He walks over to the bed where I am lying, wearing only a towel slung loosely around his waist, his hair tousled and wet and pushed back out of his eyes, and his expression is fully intent and
purposeful. Inside me a meteor shower begins. The lust parade that started the night of near death has since tripled in intensity and is yet to tail off. In fact, it seems to have no end. The
floats just get wilder, bigger, crazier and more flamboyant with every passing day.

Jesse sits down beside me. He brushes my hair aside and leans in to kiss away the bruises on my neck. I shiver, my eyes darting to his chest. That Abercrombie chest which I can feast my eyes on
now unashamedly.

The laptop pings. Another message. I turn my head reluctantly from the view beside me.

Did you shag THE ONE yet?
Megan demands. (Jesse got his own title too.)

For the first time in my life, I insert a smiling emoticon.

Then I close my laptop and turn back to Jesse.

Olivia Weed, you are brilliant and beautiful and have a golden future ahead of you. Thank you so much for sharing so freely your experiences, and for the cardigan insult. That
was so awesome I had to include it. And words cannot express my thanks to you for teaching me the word
skanktron
.

Julia Weed, just as gorgeous as your older sister, thanks for letting me test this book on you.

Michael Natenzon – I’m still reeling from my fact-finding mission and the fantastic (and fantastically graphic) stories you shared. Thanks for your patience in explaining bases to
me, the rules of drinking games, and the delicate lines between being a player and being a slut.

Lauren Tracey – for your friendship, wit, editing eye and conspiracy theories. I love you!

Jenny Homer – for the English versions of
skanktron
and
hooking up
.

Nic Jones (www.navigatornic.co.uk) – on whom Ren is partly based – for your courage in following your dream to become a music journalist and for sharing the journey and, not least,
for collaborating with me on the Spotify soundtracks.

Jess Dalzell – for the inside scoop on Nantucket, especially its beaches.

My parents for letting me nanny in Nantucket when I was just seventeen. I promise this is all fiction (well, most of it).

The wonderful Aussie bloggers Braiden (Book Probe Reviews) and Brodie whose names I borrowed. See, I didn’t kill you off! But there’s still time. I might write a sequel. Maybe the
Tripp siblings could grow up and become an intrepid crime-fighting duo.

Alula, my gorgeous little girl, who told me when I was writing this that
life is just about being happy
. Wise words, my darling. Writing makes me so happy. But not as happy as you
do.

John, who thankfully read a very early draft of this and corrected my guitar knowledge (or lack of). I wouldn’t be able to write such hot lead boys if I didn’t have you to base them
on.

Rachel Glitz, for making sure I said
ass
instead of
arse
and
mom
instead of
mum
, and for her detailed breakdown of the US legal system.

Amanda, my fabulous agent, for selling this before it was even finished and my publishers for buying it before it was even finished. I appreciate your faith.

Venetia, my wonderful UK editor, thank you so much for everything (Pan Macmillan are very lucky), and thanks too to Tracy and Paul at Simon & Schuster in the UK.