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TAKE THAT TIP, AND
SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!
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Wren had never been the type to look ahead, meaning she hadn't foreseen the warnings for the hurricane, that was apparently barreling towards the Outer Banks and not hesitating to wipe everything out that came in its' path.

As far as the Routledge girl was concerned, it would turn out to be nothing but a small storm. A minor inconvenience, if you will. Everyone would go through a shit-load of preparation, and everybody's time would go to waste, having seen it was just a regular old thunderstorm for Kildare Island. But as the set of cousin-practically-siblings watched the weather forecast with a group of citizens, and John B whispered a holy shit to himself, Wren knew where his head was at.

That holy shit was not a way of expressing his worry for the incoming tempest, but it was more-so a realization. They had to prepare for the storm, correct?

What an opportune excuse for DCS to not swoop on by in just a mere hour or two!

"Yeah, uh— I think we're probably gonna have to reschedule," John B explained to the woman on the phone, as Wren let out a small snicker. Convenient wasn't really the word to depict it; it was almost as if fate had fallen right into place for the southsiders, thank fuck!

A damn weight off their shoulders!

"Yep, alright— be safe, got it, thank you," the boy stammered with a very easy-to-read look, after a moment of inaudible dialogue on the other end. Shoving his phone into the pocket of his swim trunks, he looked towards the girl with a shit-eating grin. The same type of grin that meant he had succeeded— it might've been a close call, that was for sure, but that was a damn lucky coincidence.

"You're a free man that lives to see another day, Booker," she patted his back in a harsh manner, to which a chuckle left his throat.

"Hey," he countered, an airiness in his tone as they wandered through town, "You too."

Lips pressing together, because he was right, after all, she responded, "Valid point, I'll hand ya that. Now that we aren't threatened by the foster care system ruining our summer, what endeavors shall we pursue?"

"Have you heard from anyone yet, today?" John B inquired mindlessly, elatedness now running through his veins like a drug.

"Kie and JJ are working, Pope's helping Heyward with some bullshit," Lauren informed; they had told her the night before, which was how she was more aware than her cousin, "That just leaves you and I, bucko."

"I gotta prepare Cameron's boats, actually," the thought struck his mind out of the blue— he couldn't ignore the job, as annoying as it was, for it was his main source of income. Typically, Pogues wanted to associate with Kooks as little as humanely possible, even when they were in the presence of the other.

The older generation of Kooks paid well, though. That was a damn fact. Wren wondered if they pitied the kids that wore the same shoes until their socks could be seen through a hole in the material, or they downright just had the money to burn. Maybe it was a little of both.

Either way, working for a Kook was the way to go.

Realistically, south siders' main purpose in life was to accommodate to the wealthy— that had always been instilled from a young age, up. That being said, they split up, each with the intents of making a good buck to bring home and waste on shit that it shouldn't be spent on.

Contrary to popular belief, and what little information given on Wren's personality, she actually didn't half-hate serving tables at The Wreck. Considering the fact that it was practically always busy, that meant work flew on by.

That, and good tips.

Wren personally loved the tips.

Entering through the back, employee entrance, the girl used a thin, black scrunchy to pull her hair up into a tight ponytail before she clocked in. "Hey, Kie," she nonchalantly greeted as she walked by, going to grab a waist apron and ordering pad. The Carrera girl turned around with an aggravated exhale, her hand running along the back of her neck. "What's wrong?"

"Take a look," voice monotone, she flicked her hand while filling up a glass.

Doing as requested, Lauren stuck her head out of the kitchen to run her eyes along the tables— the amount of gelled-hair and floral sundresses happened to be an answer in itself as to who their lovable patrons were, for the day. Sarcasm on the 'lovable,' naturally.

Perhaps the teenager should've put two and two together. The day before a storm— really? Was she an idiot?

In fact, how had she not thought of the fact that it was a Kook's free day?

Pogues were scrambling around like field mice to prepare the OBX for Agatha to make her glorious appearance in the town, screw shit up, and then leave, only to never return again. Rich kids didn't have to make sure their doors wouldn't fly off the hinges, or their car would end up with a tree limb through its' roof.

Kiara rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "This is pathetic, Wren."

Masking up her frustrations, Lauren only shrugged as the girls walked out of the kitchen, before rubbing her fingers together. Money. "I've come to embrace it, dearest Kie."

"Yeah, well embrace that," the curly brunette's eyes went even colder than they already were as they glared in the direction of who had just waltzed into the restaurant, "Wherever they sit, that table's yours."

"How generous," the Routledge's expression turned sour. It was only her second day back— she couldn't have a break, now could she?

Of course not.

Smoothing out her black tank top before going to wait on the table (barely able to contain her bubbling excitement, of course), she hastily reached for a black pen on the counter. Kiara sent a thin-lipped grin her way, as a way of sending her condolences, but also mocking her.

"Welcome to The Wreck," Lauren announced to the customers, who shot their eyes up from the menus. The voice was different than what they had heard during their past few times eating there, but nevertheless, one each of the girls had recognized, even just a little bit. "You know my name— what do you want to drink?"

Cocking her head slightly, the blonde's eyes widened, surprised at Wren Routledge, making her debut back on the island as their waitress, "No shit," the Cameron girl piped up, lips parting as she looked to her friends, "I thought you were gone."

She really couldn't catch a break with the family she hated the most.

"Again," another one, a strawberry-blonde named Scarlett, chimed in— she had always been a bit more sour with her wording as opposed to Sarah, to which Wren could strongly relate but not appreciate. "Didn't think you'd come back this time."

"I asked you if you wanted anything to drink."

"Sorry," Scarlett's teeth gritted, holding back from laughing with her friends, "Welcome back," she proceeded on, folding up her menu and crossing her hands over it, "I'll just have a water."

Continuing on to take their orders, Kiara watched out of the corner of her eye, as the event casually unfolded. It was pure luck that the girl had come in at the perfect time; knowing herself, she wouldn't of been able to keep her cool around Sarah and her prissy friends. Most Kooks, whatever, but Sarah made the bad-mouth in her shine, extra bright. It wasn't pretty.

Nothing all that noteworthy had occurred for a good while; Wren intended to be on her best behavior, especially for it being her first day back on the job. She couldn't stir up trouble just yet— as much as she could help it, anyway.

"Do you guys need boxes, or anything?" the sixteen-year-old gestured to their barely-touched meals, happy to be wrapping up with them for the day.

"No, we're good," Sarah nodded.

"Her food was burnt," Scarlett let out, speaking for Sarah as she did nothing but sit there. "It's been coming out like that, the past few times we've been here."

Lauren's head shook gently, doing her best to not let the information go in through one ear and out the other. "Then why wouldn't you tell me earlier so I could switch it out?"

Sarah began to talk, waving her hands frantically, "No, really, it's f—"

"Sarah." the redhead temporarily silenced her.

"I'd say the princess can speak for herself. M' I right?" Wren's voice was quiet, wanting to do anything but cause a scene, "What do you expect me to do if I don't hear about it? I'm not a mindreader."

Pulling out her wallet, Scarlett was still looking to cause a fuss; it was almost as though she wanted to get under her skin, as a welcome home present! "I've heard how you... waitresses... rely on tips. Best not to argue then— don't wanna make your tip fifteen percent, now do we?"

"Of course you've only 'heard.' It's not like you've ever had to work a minute in your life," Wren thought out loud, pointing her ballpoint pens towards the Kook.

"Ten percent."

Bending over— over their food that was a total waste— Lauren was tired of it. Nothing had changed, lord behold. Not that she had expected it to, but it sure was a friendly reminder, "You can take that tip and shove it up your ass, for all I care. I don't need your money."

Signing the check they had been given, the rich girl's eyebrows drew together as she handed Wren the credit card. How was she supposed to respond to that? Sarah, on the other hand, sat uncomfortably on the other side, tapping her foot endlessly against the floor, making the table shake faintly.

Storming behind the bar to the cash register, she stuck the card into the slot— it was a damn wonder she had not thrown her fist into something yet.

More specifically, Scarlett's jaw. Or even Sarah Cameron's. She'd do, just as well.

Wren could picture it perfectly, and the satisfaction would be all too much to handle. To put it simply, the day would make a great turnaround if that were the case. Maybe later— maybe.

Kiara came up from behind, seemingly in a much lighter mood, as opposed to the other. "What— exactly— did you say about the money again?" her thumb traced her chin, pretending to be in deep thought.

"Screw you, Kie."

———

Next best thing to caving a Kook's face in?

Surfing.

Brownie points, if it happened to be during hurricane season. Hurricane season = the most perfect conditions. Lauren determined, based on the sign in front of them, they were actually in the midst of one:

BEACH CLOSED

DUE TO HURRICANE

If they were caught, there'd be hell to pay. More specifically, hell they couldn't afford to pay. Wren Routledge was in debt with the Kildare cops more than she cared to admit, but she would tell you with ease, if you happened to inquire about it to her. She wore those felonies proudly, like golden medals; each with an in depth story that she could recite as if it were just the day prior.

Long story short, they just downright shouldn't get caught.

It wasn't like they would, anyway. Police didn't really patrol the waters in severe weather, and this storm seemed to qualify and be no exception. Going into the marsh during a monsoon was dumb, but the ocean was even dumber. For basically everyone, the thought wouldn't even be weighed as an option.

For the Pogues, however; it was.

Lauren was genuinely shocked that JJ wasn't begging at their doorsteps to go. Maybe he got stuck at work late (he'd be at the chateau sooner or later, that night), or maybe he was out of the loop, high on green. Either being the case, they weren't waiting around any longer.

Pope somehow got dragged along with the set of cousins, but nobody was necessarily complaining. Surfing the surge was a great activity, and an even better group activity! The more, the merrier!

Turning his head, the Heyward boy revealed his doubt. "Those aren't surfable waves, guys."

Correction: it was Wren's initial idea. John B had just went along with it; willingly, of course. How could he not? If his cousin was up for adventure, then sign him up, too!

"Ahh, says who?" the Routledge boy asked, a sense of spontaneity washing over him like a wave, shoving Pope lightly. Without waiting around for anyone else to try and talk some sense into him, he darted towards the wild, rampant ocean.

The Heyward boy stood still, still, not entirely convinced. "If we get caught, Wren—"

"You think cops are gonna risk their lives in a storm?" Lauren theorized, asking the golden question. Maybe they weren't the stereotypical Kooks, but they sure were on the higher end of the food chain. Police officers got paid good— that didn't need to be said twice. Getting paid good entailed that they did the bare minimum, and searching the surge for any pesky teens didn't exactly seem like the 'bare minimum' to them. "Come on!" she then called out, running out to the water.

It had been a damn minute since she had caught some good ass waves.

Concentrating, but also not needing to, a small grin formed across her features, teeth gritted as if it'd benefit her balance. She had always been a good surfer without question, but revisiting it after all that time felt unfathomable.

"Sage!" John B soon yelled, but not too loudly, and just loud enough to grasp her attention. Sitting on the board, she paddled over slowly, riding out the waves that were not as drastic, due to being close to shore. Her cousin's eyes fixated out to the darkening sea, she couldn't help but look as well, before asking what had been wrong.

Well shit.

Not only was it a boat; it was a pretty fuckin' nice one, at that. On top of that, it seemed as though nobody was on it— it just bobbed in the waves, going further out from the shore with each second that passed by. "Who's could that even be?"

"Try everyone on figure eight," Lauren proposed, straightening out the strap to her bikini top as she spoke in vindication.

It was true, truth be told.

Nobody residing on the cut had nearly enough figures under their belts to secure a beauty like that. All of their boats had been junked at one point, and they took an endless amount of time and energy to fix it up, just to the point of mobility. That, or they just had cheap boats— the Pogue, for instance, had been a Routledge family heirloom. Big John went out to the marsh with his buddies in his youth, and now John B had been doing the same, carrying on the legacy.

"Someone didn't strap her up right," she shook her head, thinking back to how John B took care of the Cameron's, "They don't pay you enough, dude. With risks like that," she gestured quickly to the boat, which had left their vision, "...They could be losing a fifty g boat, easy."

"They can afford to lose fifty," the Routledge boy surmised, shaking his head in denial.

"Good point."

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