#outer banks smuit

[cognacdelights]

Teenage Dirtbags | 001. — Welcome To Exile

Summary: In which, an out of control teenager is sentenced to a summer in the Outer Banks to come to terms with her mother’s untimely death, and reform her rebellious, troublesome ways before she does irreversible damage. 

Author’s Note: So this is the first chapter of Teenage Dirtbags. I really hope that you enjoy. Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist and all my masterlists will be linked below if you feel like checking out my other fics. Also, I’m doing a celebration cocktail night at the moment so feel free to get involved with that!

Warnings: This series may contain mature themes/content throughout including but not limited to swearing, sexual language and/or scenes, substance abuse and mentions of death. 

Word Count: 2999.

Teenage Dirtbags Series Masterlist.

Fill The Void General Masterlist.

This gif is not mine, all credit goes to the owner.

001. — Welcome To Exile

The sweltering, mid-day sun was unforgiving as it stared, ceaselessly, down upon the unkempt, sandy shorelines of the island. It was typical for temperatures to reach an unbearable eighty-five degrees fahrenheit in the Outer Banks during the summer months, however the subtropical jet stream had brought with it an exceptionally merciless wave of blistering heat this year. The old, mercury thermometer that hung proudly beside the entrance to the ferry deck read one hundred and two degrees - or, perhaps, it was one hundred and three. The thermometer's glass had clouded over due to the extensive build up of dirt over the years and had obscured the faded markings. Whether it read one hundred and two or one hundred and three was merely a trivial discrepancy; either way, it was still miserably hot and insufferable.

As Marnie Sinclaire stepped outside onto the ivory-painted decking, the salt-laced, ocean-scented air overwhelmed her petite silhouette. It was uncomfortably thick and oppresively muggy - and the occasional oceanfront breeze was feeble, offering little relief against her fair, freckle-littered complexion. A content cluster of perspiration droplets adorned her forehead, causing her pale skin to glisten under the relentless rays of the North Carolinian sun. She could feel the prickling, burning sensation as the ultraviolet rays graced the high points of her doll-like features, and anticipated the inevitable rosy tinge that would develop in their absence. It would take some time for the dark-haired tearaway to adjust to the Mid-Atlantic climate; her blanched complexion was far more accustomed to New York's much milder conditions. 

Her piercing, indigo eyes followed the labyrinth of cracks between the wooden planks as she stepped nonchalantly towards the bustling dock. The queue before her was fast-paced, and had dwindled down in just a matter of minutes as the eclectic array of passengers disembarked the privately-run ferry. Those trapped behind her sighed haughtily, and proceeded to roll their eyes in an obnoxious display of disapproval, as Marnie continued to move painfully lackadaisically in the direction of the dock. It was her final exhibit of reluctance to spend her summer vacation on the Outer Banks islands before she officially arrived, and she was determined to savour every last millisecond of her much-loved freedom.

"Have a nice day, Miss," a greying, middle-aged member of the ferry's crew bid her a pleasant farewell. The full, hearty smile - which had been plastered across his ochre complexion since his first interaction with the auburn-haired lady at the front of the long, winding queue - remained genuine, as he proceeded to address the insufferably impatient couple next in line. He seemed to be such a cheerful, sanguine man; in fact, everybody aboard the hell-bound vessel appeared to be detestably overjoyed to be on the island - well, except for Marnie. The bitter brunette had likened the experience to being ordered to serve a life sentence in the solitary confinements of Alcatraz - cruel, painful and inhumane.

After several hesitant steps towards the silt-covered tarmac strip which somewhat resembled a road, she halted. Her wary, sapphire eyes examined the chaotic hustle and bustle for any distinguishable sign of either of her grandparents. Although, truthfully, Marnie wasn't sure she would recognise them if they were stood centimetres in front of her and brandishing a luminous, neon sign; she hadn't physically seen her grandparents since she was four years old. Her parents' hectic and manic work schedules, and the uncomfortably long travel time between the Outer Banks and New York, meant that visiting for both parties was simply not an option. Yet, here she was, contrived to make the dire eight and a half hour journey alone - with just last month's crumpled edition of Vogue to keep her company.

"Marnie, is that you?" the sweet, honey-like voice of an elderly lady captured Marnie's attention. Her face was weathered - presumably due to the sheer amount of time she had spent under the constant and relentless gaze of the Mid-Atlantic sun, and the lack of adequate ultraviolet protection. Nevertheless, a cordial, welcoming beam still upturned the corners of her retreating lips. Her silver-tinted locks brushed against her cardigan-covered shoulders, and the dried-out ends curled upwards in a natural kink. The two front wisps had been tucked behind her pearl-baring ears, secured into place by the over-sized, diamonte-encrusted sunglasses that sat atop the crown of her head. She bared resemblance to Marnie's mother slightly; she had the same piercing, ashen eyes and high, prominent cheek bones that were decorated by a natural flush of rouge.

"Grams?" Marnie responded in a casual manner, although the answer was undoubtedly, blatantly obvious. An unidentifiable pang of emotion filled her stomach at the sight of her estranged grandmother, twisting and turning her insides in a sickly, tornado-like whirl. It was such a bittersweet reunion for the grandmother and granddaughter; Marnie had craved a reconnection with her mother's side of the family ever since her untimely death almost three years ago, however, she had always anticipated that it would be on her terms and not at the hands of her at-a-loss father. 

"Doesn't she look just like Della, Graham?" her grandmother cooed in her saccharine tone, as she took in the petite, fair-skinned beauty before her. It was almost as if she had been transported back twenty years prior, to when her own daughter was sixteen years old and had the whole island in the palm of her hands. Neither Marnie, her grandmother, nor her grandfather could deny that Marnie was a doppelganger of her mother. From the infamous, prominent cheek bones, to the luscious, peach-tinted lips, to the lustrous, cinnamon waves - she was a complete carbon copy of Della Baker-Sinclaire. To Marnie this was both a blessing and a curse; whilst being gifted with her mother's charmingly beauteous looks came with it's obvious perks, every time Marnie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror she was reminded of the devastating tragedy that utterly devoured her life. That took a toll on her, as it would anybody in her position. 

"The spitting image," her grandfather agreed, taking a second to indulge in marvelling at his one and only granddaughter. A solemn expression etched itself into his dappled, ageing features as he remembered his late daughter in all of her unprecedented beauty. His sparse, silver eyebrows furrowed together in objection as his sunken, chartreuse eyes fixated on the silver, metallic ring protruding from Marnie's septum. "What's that in your nose?" he questioned almost immediately, the tone of his voice exuding absolute disapproval. There it was, what could have been a beautifully sentimental moment between a granddaughter and her estranged grandparents ruined, all because of a two dollar metal ring extruding from her septum.

"My septum piercing," Marnie's voice was impassive, and lacked emotion as she answered her grandfather - a vacant, deadpan expression occupying her doll-like features. The sporadic, coastal gust picked up ever so slightly, brushing the out of control teenag's tangled, chestnut locks across her pale face. The gentle wisps tickled against her reddening complexion, forcing the unruly brunette to turn against the direction of the much-appreciated draught. 

"Did your father consent to you mutilating your face like that?" her grandmother interrogated. A disapproving glare contorted her haggard features, as her intense, oyster eyes clouded over with the unmistakable fog of condemnation. Despite her typically gentle and innocent nature, her grandmother could be a ruthless and malevolent woman at times. Raised solely by the word of the bible, Eileen Baker stood by the preaches of the lord to determine what was right and what was wrong in life. You would be damned to oppose the word of the bible, particularly in the eyes of Eileen; it was the law of the land in the Baker household.

"He almost had a heart attack when he found out," her granddaughter admitted with an apathetic shrug of her petite, denim-covered shoulders. Although she remained nonchalant and dismissive, Marnie was cautious of her grandmother's reaction. Her mother had told her many a story of her unruly, teenage escapades on the Outer Banks islands, and how they were to the utmost discontent of her grandmother. Obtaining a ticket back to her concrete sanctuary was a game of tactic and strategy - divulging further details of how she had actually pierced her septum herself, during a booze-fuelled weekend across the river, would condemn her to the island for the rest of eternity. That was simply a life Marnie could not fathom, nor was she even willing to bear. 

"Well, there will be no more of that, young lady. You must ask our permission before you do anything," the ageing lady enforced her regime, an earnest glint occupying the cobalt speckles of her smokey eyes. She was resolute in straightening out her wayward granddaughter, just as she had with her own rebellion-filled daughter. It was her expectation that a bit of tough love and discipline would do the trick - however, the incessant niggling suspicion at the back of her mind urged her to prepare for an all out battle with the doe-eyed hellcat. 

Marnie merely responded with a sickly-sweet smile of compliance. You had to choose your combats wisely with a woman like Eileen Baker if you were to ever reign supreme; it was an insignificant surrender to aid in a much more momentous war. At this moment in time, the element of surprise was her only weapon. Her grandparents would be expecting resistance, defiance and contention - anything but a submission. Giving in to their demands so effortlessly was a certified means of coercing them into loosening their restraints. Perhaps it would even compel them to question why she had been exiled to the Outer Banks in the first place. Well, she could only hope.

The tearaway teen had counted thirty seven steps until they had reached her grandparents' battered and bruised pickup truck. It was parked perfectly parallel to the sand-covered stone curb, a mere stones throw away from the main dock. It was an old make; the wheel alloys were scuffed and scraped to glory, and the North Carolina sun had faded the chipped, maroon paint over time. An almost invisible line of dints graced the side of the trailer - which Marnie only noticed when she struggled to haul her over-packed, stuffed-to-the-brim duffle bag over the side. She was thankful that her grandfather had opted to lift the offensively-bright fuchsia suitcase she had also dragged down the coast with her as she knew exactly how much that weighed. Whilst boarding her bus in Brooklyn, the driver had informed her that her suitcase was drastically over the permitted twenty kilogram weight limit and had issued her with a twenty five dollar fee to cover the extra weight of her case. 

Clambering into the passenger side of the pickup truck, Marnie fished around in the pocket of her over-sized, denim jacket for her headphones. The wires were knotted together after being carelessly shoved into the unzipped pouch of the acid-washed jean. It took her a few frustrating seconds to free the entangled wires, but, nevertheless, it was a victory. Placing the buds in her pierced ears, Marnie turned her attention towards the window; a pattern of splatters decorated the glass, indicating that the truck hadn't been cleaned in some time. However, her luminous, cerulean eyes could still peer out and admire the picturesque scenery. In actual fact, the battery on Marnie's phone had died several hours previously and there was a steady wave of absolute silence blasting through the old, well-used wires. It was merely a successful ploy to deter her grandparents from launching into the impending lecture on her reckless and impulsive behaviour. She was sure to receive the reprimanding speech at some point, but for the duration of the journey to her grandparents' house she desired to be alone with her thoughts. 

The drive across the island was considerably longer than Marnie had expected. Her idea of the Outer Banks islands was a series of small islands which you could walk the length and breadth of in a matter of half an hour, where everybody lived in wooden, beach-front huts - but she couldn't have been more wrong. Of course, there were your standard, shanty shacks that lined the shoreline, but there were also rows upon rows of enormous, architectural properties with beautifully landscaped gardens and extravagant yachts docked on their private jetties. It was almost as if the island had been split in two; it was a contradictory clashing of a vacational haven for the financially privileged and the mundane existence for the menial working class. Her grandparents lived on the cusp of both extremes - owning a newly-built house with a small plot of land. Nevertheless, they hadn't quite met the highbrow criteria for acceptance into the island's country club. Despite his retirement, Marnie's grandfather was a working man at heart and had spent the majority of his life earning a living as a commercial fisherman in the local waters. Her family very much belonged to the working class side of the island and were very much proud of their humble beginnings. 

As the beat-up, old pickup truck pulled into the paved driveway, Marnie caught a fleeting glimpse of a boy stood on her grandparents' porch. Through the dust-coated windshield, she could make out his vague silhouette; he stood approximately six foot tall and had broad, square shoulders. His arms appeared to be sculpted and muscular, showcasing the signature, subtle bulging around his biceps and triceps. A washed-out, salmon snapback sat comfortably atop his head, as the remnants of his untamed, dark curls peeked beneath the brim of his hat. His jawline wasn't particularly defined, but Marnie could make out it's squared-off outline from the glaring rays that penetrated the shelter of the porch. 

"John B, what can I do for you?" her grandfather's deep, assertive voice projected towards their house. His tone was inquisitive as he proceeded towards the two-story build, the cluster of keys to his beloved pickup truck clasped firmly in the palm of his calloused, well-worked hand. A concerned, yet quizzical, expression graced his wrinkled features - mimicking his intrigued inflection. 

"Mr Heyward sent me with your groceries," the boy - who Marnie's grandfather had identified as John B - answered neutrally, holding up the unbranded, plastic carrier bags of groceries he had been tasked with delivering. His muscles tensed under the strain of lifting the hefty bags, the contours of his muscles being ever more evident as his bronzed complexion glistered celestially under the harsh light of the subtropical sun. He was a polarising contrast to the boys in Brooklyn, especially the boys that Marnie had acquainted herself with. Her male friends tended to be worryingly pasty, ridiculously gangly, and often came with one type of serious drug addiction or another. 

"Thank you, son," her grandfather acknowledged the boy before him, retrieving the several bags of essential groceries. The greying, olive-skinned man took a few moments to inspect the neatly-packed groceries - confirming that he had indeed received the entirety of the goods he ordered. A satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his dry lips, flashing an appreciative grin at the young Routledge boy. "You let Mr Heyward know that I'll square it with him when I see him, won't you?"

"Of course, Mr Baker," John B nodded politely, before proceeding to make his way down the painted, wooden porch steps. His off-white Converse padded lightly against the painted, cedar wood steps, as he adjusted his salmon snapback. The boy flashed a cordial smile at both Marnie and her grandmother as he passed them by, and nodded once again in a polite acknowledgement of both ladies. He may have been raised by his single father, but John B had been raised right. His father was a stickler for manners; if there was one thing he would instil in his only son, other than his intimate knowledge of the local waters, it was good manners. 

"Oh, John B," the sugary, dulcet voice of Mrs Baker attracted the wavy-haired boys attention once again, compelling him to turn on the heels of his worn-in, off-white sneakers, "this is our granddaughter, Marnie. She's staying with us for the summer." In response to her grandmother's sudden introduction, Marnie plastered an evidently forced, caustic smile across her fair features. She raised her dainty palm in an impassive manner, and waved almost sarcastically at the sun-kissed boy before her. It was her grandmother's improvised attempt to make her granddaughter feel more at home on the island - introducing her to the local kids would aid her in making friends, and having friends would make the place more bearable for the New York native. Well, so her grandmother thought. 

"Uh, hey," he spoke a little uneasy, unsure what to make of the situation that was abruptly unfolding in front of him. His dark, umber eyes peered downwards at the girl before him; her glossy, mahogany wisps cascaded down her back - yet to be touched by the moisture-sucking salt suspended in the ocean's playful waves, and her light, blemish-less skin exhibited a healthy glow. Her doe-like, ultramarine orbs reflected the suns rays, yet still managed to hold an unidentifiable darkness within their malachite speckles. She was, undoubtedly, beautiful - as insinuated by her model-like features and svelte, athletic figure. "Me and my friends are having a get together at the boneyard later, you should drop by."

Marnie's cold, callous eyes followed her grandmother’s nimble silhouette, watching intently as the short, silver-haired lady leisurely strolled up the ivory-painted porch steps and towards the front door. Sure she was out of earshot, the fair-skinned girl relaxed her prominent features from their strained contortion, "no need to roll out the welcome wagon, I'll be gone by this time next week. You won't even remember I existed by the end of summer." 

"Suit yourself,” John B responded with an apathetic, slightly confused shrug of his broad, shirt-clad shoulders. 

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