A/N: Howdy partners! It is hot as balls here in California and I just really needed to write some summertime violate, ya dig? Gray Glube dug and being the coolest girl around, she wrote this with me. (We are also writing an original novel you guys, and it is coming along!)

This is gonna be a two parter.

Love you guys!

They meet at a bonfire in June.

She's hung around somebody's neck in the sand, a bottle in her free fingers. Black bikini bottoms and a triblend grey tank top, with wet hair and hiccups. She sees him standing by the fire and smiles.

There's the red flare of fresh sunburn on her chest, and her bikini top sways in her hand while her tank top shapes her breasts and peaked nipples tightly like skin. She greets him with a sly smile and, "I hear you buy coke off Leah. I'm Violet."

And Violet sells a different sort of high.

She offers him sedation by way of baby blue valiums and lavender quaaludes, he buys one of each and saves them for later, she herself does not partake in her carefully cultivated supply, slipped from daddy's drug sample bag.

She drifts out on the dunes and plies her wares, on the rocks with Leah he sees her hours before sunrise, counting out twenty dollar bills, cigarette on her lip like she's Humphrey Bogart.

And in the hours before sunrise, headachey and still drunk he lies in the sand, next to a girl he sat behind in English whose huge breasts are bare and whose inhibitions have been leveled, watching Violet Harmon climb down from her high perch on the rocks and walk down the beach.

The girl from english gives him a lazy blowjob, drunk and toothy and Violet with her cigarette passes while swinging a fake coonskin cap by its tail, it drags over his arm and he cums in the girl from english class's hair, little feet walking by, dumping sand on his neck as she goes.

They bump into each other more than once and it becomes a thing, him buying her supply and watching her dance with a red solo cup in hand, or smoking and laughing, and on one memorable occasion he lays next to where she and Leah are pressing slippery-with-aloe-gel sunburned chests together, salty wet hair sticking to each other's faces while they make-out and do lines off each other's skin.

On the first real day of summer, she pulls him in during a circle of hookah and breathes watermelon flavored smoke, fingers hooked inside the front of his t-shirt. They don't kiss, but it's a near thing and Tate thinks about it when he sees her leading some beefy college kid off towards the parking lot, his hand in the back pocket of her shorts.

Fourth of July she touches the stain of ketchup on his mouth and sucks it off her thumb. She asks him if he wants to crash a barbeque being thrown in her part of town, in-ground pool real estate and guest house on site. He wants to see how her economic class lives. In a second floor bathroom they halve a valium, ditch the shitty rich kid party and get stunningly drunk in her own empty backyard.

Her mother is on tour and her father is at a Psychiatrist's conference on the east coast.

She strips out of her suit and swims nude, chipped red white blue manicure on the edge on the pool tapping at him and her wet, skinny body and long limbs pushing out with a wave of her hair and chlorine blue water.

On the lounger she insinuates against him, a long wet line of naked girl and yanks his board shorts to his knees. He's never been at so much of a loss as he is when he can't speak in meaningful, coherent sentences while she holds his dick steady and puts her cheek on his throat and sighs as he opens her body up around him.

Her hair smells like chemicals and her lips are chapped and her clavicles are peeling but her cunt is slippery and her tiny tits move as she practices her strokes.

Midevening he finds himself in her bed, nude and watching her brush out her hair post-shower. She sends him on his way and he thinks about the scent of her skin for the a day and a night. He wants to text her but finds his constitution lacking; he's chickenshit and he knows.

Two nights later on a run, his phone buzzes against his bicep with a text interrupting The Strokes.

beach tonight?

He can't. Larry is driving him up the coast to look at schools in the morning. UC Santa Barbara, Stanford and Berkeley.

No. Getting up early, but you can come over.

His house is in sight when she rattles him again.

cool yeah. whats your address?

Sending it over, he takes the stairs and showers, towel dries and instead of putting on a pair of basketball shorts for bed, he steps into tan chinos and ties on shoes.

Two hours later he's still upstairs alone, on top of the covers in his room, the window open.

Posts from Violet with her face smiling and squashed next to somewhat strangers blow up his Instagram feed. In one of them he can see the shadow of a boy behind her, fingers on her neck.

He comes back from touring campuses and sees her in the grocery store while he's picking up salmon fillets, back down in the dairy aisle looking at all three hundred flavors of greek yogurt with a list in her hand. He walks by and bumps her ass with the corner of his empty hand basket. She spins, furious. He's smirking until her hair shifts and there's the mark of someone's mouth on her skin.

His face slackens and her hand moves to cover it with a plastic bowl of blueberry yogurt.

"Guess you got caught up the other night, yeah?"

He walks away without an answer, makes the mistake of turning to see her face, wanting to see something on it, but she isn't even left staring after him. She's looking at her shopping list and adding things to her basket.

He's sour with unearned jealousy at the beach that night, pulling hard cider from a plastic cup at the edge of the party. A girl named Cory from his U.S. History class finds him there, kicks balsawood making room and sits. Her black hair is tied up in a disastrous bun and her pupils are mariana's trench.

"Sup, party pooper?"

She reaches to clink their cups and he sips. "Nothing. So, where are you going this fall?"

Cory brushes at dried sand on her feet, straightens her legs to flick it out of the creases in her shorts. "The school of hard knocks," she says, laughing, "Nah, gonna start full time at my dad's chop shop."

Violet is streaks of yellow and orange next to the fire, palm flipped up to deliver little white somethings to the surrounding crowd.

Tate digs holes for his and Cory's drinks and kisses her, his mouth hurried and hers lax, bronze hands not coming up to pull at him until he gets a hand between her legs.

A condom hits him in the ear.

"Don't forget to wrap it up."

"Thanks Vee!" Cory shouts back, laughing, mirth on every line of her mouth. Tate almost throws it back, but Cory tugs him back down into the sand, "You should ask her to come over here. Harmon is my girl type."

He's watching Violet's slow retreat back to the fire, her heels kicking up sand. Cory's watching too, the pair of them awed into silence. Her eyes cut and she notices the scowl splitting his mouth, the mirrored opposite of her own expression.

Another second of pause and she extricates her limbs from Tate's, pushes up onto her feet, "Don't be such a Moody Judy," she says, standing over him, the button of her shorts open. There's nothing of disappointment on Cory's face, just a hard buzz and an easy smile, "Come back to the group, have another drink. Get your dick wet."

He rolls on the beach to watch her leave too, his few wet fingers gathering sand. She meets Violet by the ice chest and dips her back for a theatrical kiss right out of the movies. From where he's planted, he can hear Violet's answering laugh. They do shots off each other's shoulder blades and then disappear.

Tate finishes his beer and goes home.

His dreams are an unsettling twisting of hand exchanging pills and tan limbs like barbie doll parts, naked girl breasts and bikinis floating in the surf.

August is too warm for tank tops even at night. The girls wear string bikinis without shorts or nothing at all if it's late enough and if they're full enough on whiskey.

Everyone smells like liquor and sunscreen and salt. Some of their crowd has already left, across the country looking for off campus housing before Fall semester starts. The group has dwindled but they still roar, pushed back into an enclave? of rocks away from the tourists.

One of the rich kids from his high school has set up the beach tonight, inflatable pools blown up and out near the waves, filled not with water but with pillows and blankets, expensive duvets from his parent's guest house. People have already tracked sand into more than a few and lost condom wrappers and cups play the part of flower petals on the makeshift pre-matrimonial beds, but it's dark out and the moon is full and they party with constellations overhead.

He looks up and across the fire pit is Violet Harmon staring back at him in a teal striped bikini with an open henley, she grins and he thinks she looks like a gremlin.

A few weeks with little more than a hello, and he's hungry.

"Wanna split something with me?"

He considers the offer and finally shakes his head in the affirmative, she wiggles across the sand to his towel and nudges into his side. Her tongue pushes into his mouth with his half inside, he eats it like candy.

"Don't you wanna know what it is?"

"What is it?"

"Love potion."

He laughs suddenly and knocks his shoulder into hers, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, smartass. Pretty soon you'll be kissing me," her mouth is close again, rasping on his day old scruff, and then she's up and away, running on four limbs through the sand until she gets her feet under her, he chases her down to the waves.

She dives into an empty inflatable with akimbo limbs, eyes on the stars and he climbs in between her bare legs, feels the dampness of the ocean on her bikini bottoms and the sand on her skin.

Violet puts up her arms and stretches like a cat, her stomach kissing up against his, the grit of the beach there but not gross. She smiles, pretend-sleepy, rolling shoulders and hips with her eyes open and waiting for his prodded response.

Tate smoothes big hands up her sides and kisses bows and arrows under the cinched bottoms of her bikini tops. The drug hits like a sudden, kicked up dust storm. The whole world spins and then it is just Violet and the rabbit fast hop of her heart under his mouth when he's moved aside her top, pulled loose the strings that hold everything together. Fabric parts into pieces lost in pillows and she sighs, like some big wait is over.

Mouth at her neck, she murmurs out of a smile and pushes down his shorts with one foot. He lifts his head to see her, "What?"

"Told you, this was a love potion," she says, "I can hear the I Love Yous in your hands, your mouth, let them the fuck out already."

Tate blinks, ducks to kiss her, but she's pushing his head down, legs clipping over his shoulders, holding him there. He flattens out his tongue and she grunts. It's sweat and sweet ness and she wants to hold his hands, but he needs them, to open her hips up further, to press inside with one finger, then two.

His pelvis bounces with help from their own private beach bed, the ecstatic gasp she gives when he finds the hot nub of her clit in the near dark, and it strikes him all of a sudden that they're just two big kids in a much more fun play pen then the ones toddlers gets left in, he laughs and she rubs her thighs against the stubble of his chin and cheeks, breathless and reaching out for a grip on the squeaky plastic, her own hair, his shoulders.

His face is wet and she looks down at him with an open mouth and drowsy eyed expression that tells him she's high and horny and yeah, maybe just a little in love with him.

Her hand reaches and tugs, there's sand on her fingers and he grimaces she, wipes it off with careful fingers, "I'm gonna put it in." Her voice is baby-ish and inappropriate for having his dick in her hand but he nods all the same, lets his fingers slip from her cunt and spread her open.

There's the happy hug of her insides and her ass moving in circles and her sharp winged hips searching up and up, feet on his calves and arms thrown out, eyes on his face and the stars. He keeps her from flying too far away with his arms around hers, palms cupping the back of her shoulders and yanking up her hips, holding her jaw and lifting her face so he can kiss it, hard and furious like the surf.

Violet twists and bites his ear and he hisses. "Why are you so mean to me?" he says, lifting up and away, on his knees so he can pull her waist and strike deeper. Her back arches into an almost bridge, heels over his shoulders and his lips on her ankle bone. She hammers into him with hands planted on the floor of the inflatable, the ground uneven under her palms.

When they finish, he's folded back down to cover her and they're kissing, mouths open to exchange sounds on climax. Her toes knead at his sides for a little while after, his fingers are in her hair and on her cheek.

The drugs are still working, they backfloat on a calm sea of inebriation.

Violet pushes him over, but stays close, reels up a wadded blanket from the bottom of the pool. She settles underneath it and yawns, "I fucking knew you loved me, you pussy" she says, and they sleep.

In the bright early morning he thinks she's abandoned him but watching the waves, he sees her tread water, naked and golden and she shimmies into cut-offs and her henley, bikini swaying against her bare legs, in her loose fingered grip like a ragtag bouquet. He watches and says nothing expecting her to say something first, but she smiles and walks up the beach like she's found him sleeping.

Profoundly he feels the chill of summer almost ending all at once.

Naked and alone he wonders why he didn't say something.

Summer does end, finally, ends with graduation parties and then with the arrival of cardboard boxes that he unfolds and packs his life away into. He's forgone the final barbeque of free drugs and sand in his shorts, he's got a pre-orientation thing, pre-move in rule seminar thing, and early escape from suburban L.A thing he's been looking forward to as the radio static of life changing settled in.

On his way out of the neighborhood he catches sight of Violet Harmon washing her new car, cut-off jeans and a no sided shirt on, ankles sudsy and he turns back to look at the road when she's turning to wave at him.

His sunglasses are sticking to his eye sockets from the balmy last gasp of summertime and he feels like James Dean or Marlon Brando, too cool for school and leaving the girl who likes him behind with a smirk and big black ray-ban aviator stare that isn't long enough to last her while he's away.

Her feed blows up his phone with pictures of the last hurrah. Her and everyone else he knows, bikinis and shorts and tans and beer bottle sandcastles, he falls asleep on his bare twin mattress and eats microwave mac and cheese at three in the morning.

The days roll by and he forgets and moons over the girl from summer in equal measures. His course load isn't as heavy as it could be but he finds himself staying late at track practices, doing extra vaults and hurdles while falling under the watchful gazes of college coeds. He's a freshman, Fresh Man for some of the more cock hungry juniors. Steadily he breaks in his twin mattress and gets taken out to eat in groups of four or five at three am. There's the intensive rigmarole of midterm cramming and team projects, the inescapable dark hole of hangovers and eight in the morning lecture halls, and the sticky fumbling in dark rooms while roommates drown out moving springs and fake orgasms with iPods blasting top forty pop songs.

He compares the four girls he fucks while away at school to Violet Harmon.

All of them slip him a condom first, one won't even get completely naked, hides her best attributes under a tight tank and tighter bra, one has a vomit colored flower tattoo on the meat of her thigh that distracts him badly if he sees it, one pukes in his naked lap, the last one was slim and shy and pretty and had the same long hair as Violet, but in the end he found himself unable to coax her properly into the role he wanted her for.

He's back over Thanksgiving break. It doesn't feel real. He wants the beach but the days are too cold now and when he drives by her house on three seperate occasions her car isn't parked in the drive anyway.

He makes it through midterms with four A's and two B's. His scholarship status intact and his athletic achievements earning him laurels laced with free booze and easy pussy make the ache in his bones, homesickness and something else, lost love and equally poetic yearnings, dissipate into so much exhaustion.