Harmony Cliffs Ch. 01

Author's note: All sexual acts portrayed in this story are between characters aged 18 or older. Any resemblance to non-fictional people and events is neither intended by the author nor inferred by the text.

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy.

Chapter 1

My name is Clayton Dawes, and I'm 18 years old. By the time you read this, I'll be dead.

It was a warm April night on the California coast. Clay turned his deep brown eyes toward the night sky -- all those millions of stars and not a cloud in sight. Everything was beautiful. Just the way he wanted it.

I don't blame anyone who tried to tell me otherwise, but I know I've always been an abomination. A half-breed. I can see it every time I look in the mirror, the way my face is misshapen in these weird, ugly little ways. I don't even know how to describe it. There aren't any words to describe something that shouldn't exist.

The brisk air was something Clay would miss. If it was even possible to miss anything in the afterlife or whatever, anyway. He tried hard to smile and enjoy those last few breaths of sweet fresh air. That warm, perfect temperature blowing against his skin. Though he always hated his smile, and he hated the naturally bronze tone of his skin.

Look, I'm not killing myself because I'm ugly. I'm killing myself because I should never have been born. My Korean mom and my white dad should never have been together. Dad proved that when he ran out the way he did. And Mom... well, she knows what happened. I don't blame either one of them for doing what they did. Like I said, it had to happen. It should've happened sooner.

Clay kept on walking along that trail he knew so well. Wistfully, he thought back to all those summers when he'd walk out there with his dad. Every year, they'd pack a lunch and hike out to Harmony Cliffs together.

I've heard all about how being a half-breed makes me "special". I'm "unique". A "rare gem". Bullshit. It's all just a fancy way of saying I'm alone.

Clay kept admiring the night sky, and just for a moment, he accidentally did the one thing he swore he wouldn't do: he looked back. And there was the sleepy little town of De Lilla, only a pinprick of light a couple of miles away.

Just a teenage freak, all alone in a town so small that it probably shouldn't exist either. Not even worth the trouble of shooting up, like those nutjobs in the news.

Clay got back on track and kept walking, faintly surprised to notice how everything looked so different at night. Still, he knew the way by heart. He kept on walking down the old familiar dirt path, which led to that old familiar wooden fence.

The world is so messed up now, who'd want to be part of it? Who could possibly make it a better place? Even if I wanted to, how am I supposed to do anything when no job or college would accept me?

Clay stopped. Even in the dim moonlight, he could see that the fence's opening was blocked off. He brought his flashlight in for a closer look, and very clearly read "POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS" written in big black letters on the yellow tape.

So I'm just gonna fade away. Like I was never here. And no one will care, because I never should have been here at all.

Clay climbed over the fence. He was already going to kill himself, what's the worst that could happen? Clay took the note out of his pocket and left it under a rock by the fence, careful to make sure someone could see it.

Then he heard something.

He heard a song. He couldn't make out any words, just a melody.

Clay kept walking down the old path. He finally came upon the cliffs themselves, where he had come with his father so many times. And there was that breathtaking view of the ocean, with reflections of starlight dancing in the waves. In the back of his mind, Clay knew that he should throw himself over the cliff like he had planned to do.

Instead, Clay's feet led him down another path to the north. Down the slope carved into the cliff wall. Toward the beach. Toward that mezzo soprano voice singing the sweet lullaby.

Clay's feet grew heavy as every step sunk into the sand. His muscles went faint with exertion. His eyes strained to see anything in the darkness. He could only hear that lullaby. Yet Clay continued to drag himself toward the heavenly voice that seemed to grow louder.

Finally, Clay came upon a tide pool. And then he saw Her.

As she repeated that lilting melody, the young woman reclined in the tide pool. Her clear white skin seemed to glow in the moonlight. Her long red hair rippled around her, glistening in the water. Clay faintly registered that this was the first time he had ever seen an actual woman naked, just before she looked straight at him.

"I'm sorry, I--" Clay couldn't even finish that sentence. Nor could he look away. The young woman had coral pink lips that curved upwards into a warm smile, as if he had been expected. Her eyes were so unnaturally green that they shone in the darkness, commanding attention. She had a timeless sort of beauty, such that it would be impossible to guess what her age might be.

"Who are you?" Clay asked.

She did not answer, but instead stood up and walked to the very edge of the tide pool. The strange beauty seemed to project such a comforting air that Clay didn't feel the least bit ashamed or afraid as he walked toward her sweet smile and her open arms.

She held him. Embraced him. Kissed him. Clay couldn't feel her heart beating or her breath pulsing or her blood rushing, he could only feel her warmth. He pressed the kiss deeper. He probed her mouth with his tongue. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck, and was rewarded with a gentle sigh. All the while, he held her waist tight against him while slowly running a hand down her back. Down to the curve of her waist. And as he moved that hand down to squeeze her round, firm backside, he heard a satisfied gasp right next to his ear.

Clay could feel the divine warmth of her hands somewhere on the back of his head, guiding him down. He left a trail of kisses on her flawless ivory skin, finding bliss in every moment his flesh touched hers. She guided him between her breasts, such perfect handfuls that it seemed like they were made to be fondled. They even had clear pink nipples that protruded straight outward, as if begging for his touch.

She arched her back as he took hold of those wonderful breasts, doing his best to gently massage them toward the point of those erect tips. He heard her soft moans, felt her flesh quiver, tasted her skin, felt her long fingers dig into his hair as he kissed ever downward along her smooth belly. Clay was always so afraid that his first time would be awkward and embarrassing, but all of his anxieties were forgotten as she urged him ever further toward those slender thighs.

Her pussy was entirely smooth, with lips that blossomed outward as if to welcome Clay inside. He dove right in. Clay had no idea how to move his head or his tongue or his lips, so he frantically moved every which way in the desperate hope that he was pleasing her. Her cries of pleasure and the bucking movement of her hips spurned him on.

The both of them seemed to be floating adrift as she pulled herself around to face away from Clay. She straddled him, with her gleaming wet pussy pressed into his face. He could faintly feel his pants being unzipped, just before he felt a warm and radiant grip around his hard member. It was throbbing, aching for attention.

"Ah! Be careful." he whispered. "No one's... ever... ooh."

He felt a warm, moist sensation all over the head of his cock. His length was only average, but he was good and thick around (or so he had read online), and every last bit of him was erect and pulsing. Clay felt himself grow even harder -- painfully, blissfully so -- as she slowly and deliberately took his manhood into her mouth, all the way down to the hilt.

At the sensation of her warm lips moving up and down his length, Clay grabbed her ass tighter, pulling that moist shaven pussy to his mouth. Clay moaned and gasped into her, all while lapping up every last drop of sweet pleasure she could produce. He felt surrounded by the tremors of rapture spreading through her thighs.

Clay had no idea how long they were caught up in each other like that, tangled in a circle of bliss. He tried to fight through the building tension in his loins, working harder to dig with his tongue deeper and deeper as she felt her mouth move faster and faster. He didn't even come up for breath. His nose was flooded with her scent, his mouth was covered in her sex, and he never came up for breath.

He felt light. Clay felt spasms all through his body.

***

Clay coughed violently as his eyes flew open.

"Easy, easy" said a female voice. Was that an accent? It was hard to tell over the sound of his own coughing.

"Everything's okay," the voice reassured him. "Just try to breathe normally. There you go."

As Clay's vision cleared, he registered that he was on his back, looking up at the night sky. It felt like there was sand beneath him.

"Please, try not to move," said the voice. He could hear a subtle kind of Latina accent there. "How are you feeling?"

Clay had finally regained enough of his senses to see a woman kneeling beside him. A cop, judging from the uniform. Definitely a Latina woman, maybe in her early thirties. Clay tried to take a normal breath and immediately groaned out loud.

"Chest pains?" she asked. He nodded. "CPR will do that to you. It's okay. Does it feel like anything's broken?"

"I... I don't know," Clay rasped out.

"There's an ambulance on the way," the cop told him. Sure enough, there were sirens growing louder. "We'll get you all checked out. Can you tell me your name?"

He gave a few labored breaths. "Clayton," he rasped. "Clayton Dawes. Clay."

"I'm Detec -- I'm Deputy Munoz. De Lilla Police. Do you live around here?" she asked. He shook his head. "Then maybe you could tell me what you're doing here. Did you see the yellow tape?" Clay shook his head again. "Well, there's a reason it's there. You walked into a possible murder scene."

***

When the EMTs arrived, they could immediately see that Clay was completely dry. Having ruled out near-drowning, things moved quickly. They asked their questions, read their machines, poked him, prodded him, and moved him into various positions. Despite their best efforts to find anything wrong -- even so much as a broken rib -- Clay appeared to be in fine shape. So the EMTs packed up their ambulance and left Clay with the deputy.

"Come on," said Munoz. "I'll take you home. We can talk on the way."

"Thanks," muttered Clay. "For... y'know, saving my life." Clay and Munoz started walking together, with Clay close at her side.

"You want to tell me what happened?" she asked.

Clay kept quiet and shook his head.

"Then maybe you can tell me where you were last night, between eleven and one AM."

"Home. Sleeping."

"Can anyone confirm that? Your parents, maybe?"

"My mom works late," Clay replied. "Out of town. And my dad -- why are you asking?"

"That's about the time when Aaron Prescott was killed," explained Munoz. "He was drowned, at the same pool where I found you. Did you know him?"

"The name sounds kinda familiar," admitted Clay. "If I ever met him, I don't remember."

"So, what were you doing there?"

"Just... just walking," answered Clay. "I was just walking out here. That's not a crime, is it?"

Munoz stopped him. She had a hard sort of face with high, sharp cheekbones -- the kind of stern yet beautiful face that was made for giving hard stares. Clay did his pitiful best not to look guilty as Munoz took a folded piece of paper out of her pocket. Even in the dim starlight, Clay immediately recognized it.

"I know you came here to try and kill yourself," she accused. "Or at least that's how you wanted it to look. And yet here you are."

Clay looked askance. He kept quiet.

"Clay," she continued, "tell me what happened."

Clay finally sighed and shook his head: a signal that he knew he was going to sound crazy.

"I heard a song," he admitted.

"A song," she repeated, in that flat tone of voice that said "keep going."

"I heard someone singing," Clay explained, pointing to the cliffs. "Loud enough that I could hear it from up there. I followed the voice, and she was there."

"Who?"

"I dunno. A girl. Red hair, green eyes. Maybe in her twenties, I think? And she--" Clay trailed off.

"Go on."

"She..." Clay struggled to find the right words. "She made me feel... loved. Wanted. Attractive. Like she wanted me to be there."

"What did she say?" asked Munoz.

"Nothing," he answered. "I could just sort of... feel it, you know? From how she looked and how she acted. She never had to say anything."

"And what did she do?"

"I don't remember, it's... it's all a blur."

There was a pause as Munoz took that in. She kept a straight face, somehow. And just when it seemed like Munoz was going to ask another question, she instead told him "Let's get you back home."

As Clay and Munoz walked up the slope and back to the path, she turned to him.

"What's that song?" she asked.

"What song?"

"The one you were humming, just now," she answered.

Clay didn't even realize that he was humming anything until she pointed it out. "Oh, yeah," Clay acknowledged. Clay did not have much of a singing voice by anyone's standards, but he still sang a bit more of the lilting lullaby he had heard earlier.

"Like that?"

"Yeah," answered Munoz. "What is that?"

"It's the song I heard. That I was telling you about."

"Hm. Catchy." Without another word, Munoz kept walking with Clay back to her patrol car.

***

Police Chief Michael Cobb had been playing video poker on his phone all day. It was better than giving any attention to whatever paperwork was on his desk, and probably just as productive. But then there was a knock on his office door.

"Come in!" he called out, and there was Deputy Eliza Munoz. He tried not to stare at her slender build and mocha complexion. She tried not to blanch at the pencil mustache on his pale, doughy face.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"I did," answered Cobb, gesturing for her to enter. "You've been working the Prescott case long enough. What have you found?"

"Something happened at the scene last night, sir," Munoz reported. "I found a local boy unconscious. Very nearly dead. Luckily, he survived without any apparent complications and I sent him home."

"What did he have on Prescott?"

"Nothing, sir," admitted Munoz.

"So we still have nothing to prove that Aaron Prescott was murdered."

"Chief," insisted Munoz, "he didn't leave a note. And he had no motivation to commit suicide that anyone can find."

"So we may never know why he killed himself," replied Cobb. "Tragic, especially since Prescott was such a pillar of this community."

"Sir, no one seems to know who he was."

Cobb got up and walked around his desk to face Munoz. "Deputy, I know you're new here. And I've heard you were a fine detective in SoCal--"

"San Francisco, sir," Munoz corrected. "Northern California."

"Right. And by the way, what brought you to our little town, again?"

"Personal matters, sir."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning, sir, that it's none of your damn business."

"Hm. Well, now that you're here, do you have any plans of graduating from the bottom of the totem pole anytime soon?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you would do well to remember that Aaron Prescott built this town."

"I was told that his wife and her family built this town, sir."

"And Prescott kept it running. Not that it makes a difference, now that he's dead. Everything -- and everyone -- he ever owned will go to his wife, and her family already had half the town bought and paid for."

"That sounds to me like a motive."

"It's a reason to keep your mouth shut," Cobb warned her. "Munoz, I don't care who got you kicked off your old job, and I don't care how you destroy your own career. But you'll do nothing that will reflect poorly on me or this station. And you sure as hell won't do anything to threaten the stability of this town. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Munoz curtly replied.

Cobb went back to sit behind his desk. "And Harmony Cliffs has to be reopened," he ordered.

"Chief, a man just died there, and then a teenager tried to kill himself the night after. Something's going on out there."

"I'll talk with the sheriff about it. We can put up signs with prevention hotline numbers or something. We can only do so much to stop people from attempting suicide, but Harmony Cliffs must stay open."

"Sir--"

"Deputy," interrupted Cobb, "summer is almost here. And we depend on tourism dollars almost as much as we depend on the Prescotts. There's nothing more that we can do about this for right now. So close the case, get the cliffs back open, and get it done quietly. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Munoz gave a stiff nod and left the office. Cobb went back to his video poker, certain that this would all blow over. This was still De Lilla, for God's sake. Nothing ever happened here.

***

There were just over 250 students going to De Lilla High School. With a student population that small, divided into three lunch shifts, it was surprisingly easy for Clay to sit and eat his lunch alone. He lost his patience for small talk somewhere back in middle school -- just the same old kids with the same old friends talking about the same old gossip everyone had already heard from someone else.

So Clay sat alone in the corner, instead of saying for the millionth time that he had no idea what he was doing after graduation and he wasn't going to prom with anyone. Then he heard the treads of some very familiar wheels.

"Hi," said Becca Wells.

"Hey," replied Clay.

"Anyone sitting here?"

Clay gestured that the seat was hers to take. He knew better than to ask if she needed any help. Instead, he watched as Becca shuffled the chairs around and wheeled her own chair into place. Becca always liked to get around with her own two arms instead of a battery-powered chair. She may have looked like some skinny little girl, but everyone knew she was all muscle. Clay had personally seen all the playground hurt she laid down at arm wrestling over the years.

"It's been a while," said Becca, between bites of her sandwich.

"Yeah," Clay agreed. "Lot going on." Clay gestured over to where Trenton Phelps was sitting, right at the center of a crowd too big to miss. But she pretended not to notice.

"I know. I'm really sorry about your dad."

"Thanks."

"You want to talk about it?"

"I'm... I'm still trying to figure it out," Clay admitted. They ate their lunch in awkward silence.

Instead of addressing the elephant in the room, he added, "Oh! I still have your mom's book. I'll get it to you when I can."

"Oh, right. Wasn't that Greek mythology paper like a month ago?"

"Yeah, but I kept reading for myself. And then... well..."

"Your dad did a shitty thing," Becca finished. "It's okay, you can say it."

Clay wasn't in the mood for a lecture about how none of this was his fault, so he sighed and played along. "Yeah. He did." The awkward silence continued.

Finally, Clay set down his lunch. "What's going on?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" asked Becca.

"With you and Trenton. Why aren't you sitting with him?"

At a look from Becca, Clay retreated and said "I'm sorry."

"For what?" asked Becca, with an arched eyebrow.

"I shouldn't have asked."

Becca put her elbow on the table and propped her chin up, brushing her long, chestnut hair out of the way as she did so. "So why did you ask?"

"I... uh... I mean..." Clay kept on stammering, completely unaware of the playful glint in Becca's silver-green eyes. "Look, you know I worry about you," he finally spat out.