by Nikki Godwin
Chapter Eight
My car’s headlights flash across the parking lot that was reserved for tonight. I hold up my VIP ticket to my window, and the security guard waves us through. The music up the street beats over the sound of my car’s engine. Linzi twists and turns, trying to adjust her pink tank top over her bikini top.
“Let me text Alston before we get out. We don’t want to walk around like losers looking for him,” she says.
We wait in the car, and Linzi’s face glows a bright shade of blue from the light of her cell phone. He replies in a matter of seconds telling us to head down the block, and he’ll meet us halfway. Pink and orange Christmas lights wrap around the palm trees, and the DJ’s bass vibrates through my flip flops. A fast-forward montage of cover bands, lead guitarist Barney, and TheKeeganLawrence flash through my mind. I have this sudden urge to crash the DJ booth and request a Moonlight song, but I doubt Mr. DJ-Wannabe-Rapper has any Moonlight tracks in his queue.
Alston waves over a crowd of people and pushes through toward us. Reed is just a few steps behind him with his cell phone to one ear and a finger in the other to drown out the noise.
“Glad you could make it,” Alston says, wrapping his arm around Linzi’s shoulder. “We’re going to show you how west coast people party.”
The breeze picks up just long enough to kick the scent of Alston’s pineapple shampoo into the wind. It’s the scent of Colby Taylor’s hair. He glances back at Reed. “Any word from A.J.?”
Reed shrugs and shakes his head. “He’s not answering his phone. It’s not like him to miss a party, though.”
For a VIP block party on the beach, this place is pretty crowded. I follow behind Alston and Linzi in that awkward tag-along kind of way while Reed makes a point to speak to everyone we pass. So much for employing the buddy system. We cut between two condominiums, and for a second, I feel like I’m in Hollywood. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the diamond-white sand and blackened nighttime water. Sky roofs provide a perfect view of the summer stars. Swimming pools in random shapes – angelfishes and sailboats – are planted behind each house, surrounded by tiki torches, palm trees, and hibiscus flowers.
“And this is home sweet home,” Alston says, more to Linzi than anyone else.
He points to the next condo down, and it’s as perfect as the ones we just cut between. Their seashell-shaped swimming pool is hidden inside a privacy fence, and I’m instantly jealous that guys who can’t be much older than myself can afford to live here. Then again, I’m sure Colby Taylor is footing the bill for them to keep their mouths shut and keep the random girls away.
Reed unlocks the back door, and we follow them inside. Their bachelor pad isn’t the trashed out dorm room I’d expected. It’s freaking immaculate, probably kept up by some highly paid foreign maid named Eliana or something else pretty and exotic. A yellow Surfer Crossing sign, like the one at Drenaline Surf, and random video games are the only things that scream out bachelor pad.
I leave my keys and cell phone on their kitchen counter, per Alston’s persuasion, and follow the guys onto the beach. I check behind Reed to make sure he really did lock the door. Theft isn’t exactly something I can afford right now. A crowd plays volleyball with a beach ball out in the sand, and another group splashes in the dark ocean. We trudge through the sand, past a blazing bonfire, until we’re far enough away from the DJ booth that I can’t feel its vibrations anymore.
We venture inside a rustic wooden beach house. Alston grabs a beer out of a red cooler, and Linzi accepts the offer for one even though she hates the taste of beer. Alston makes the rounds, clinking his beer bottle against those of others, slapping a few high fives with his other hand, and still manages to keep his arm perfectly draped over my best friend’s shoulder. Our final destination is a pool table.
“Pay up!” a blonde with nappy dreadlocks shouts out. He rubs his fingers together, and a pretty-boy brunette hands him a twenty dollar bill.
“Hey,” Alston interrupts, “I want you guys to meet someone. This is Linzi.” He nods his head toward her. “Oh, and Haley,” he adds, pointing back at me with his beer bottle.
I begin to drown in self-pity at the realization that I’ve become the afterthought known as “Oh, and Haley,” but Alston begins rattling off names, and I try to keep up just in case I need to know them later.
“That’s Miles, one of the best surfers I know,” he says, nodding to the dreadlocked blonde. “And Dominic,” he says, beer bottle nodding to the brunette.
“I’m the best surfer he knows though,” Dominic says.
Linzi looks to me, but the lump in my throat keeps me from coming up with any Colby Taylor conversation starters. I think Linzi is too scared to blow this with Alston wrapped around her finger…and the rest of her body, for that matter.
“The hell you are,” a voice says from behind me. He dives past me, onto the pool table, and pops up like he would on a surfboard. He nails a perfect surfer stance, then waves the shaka sign with both hands. “Everyone knows Shark was the best…now it’s me.”
He jumps down and extends his arm for a handshake. “I’m Topher,” he says. “Hooligan number three.” His messy brown hair curls at the ends, and I bet it’s even wilder when it’s wet. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, and I almost feel like I should know him.
“Haley,” I reply.
Alston speaks up before Topher can say anything else. “These guys are from Horn Island, the next town over,” he says. “They’re in a surf gang – West Coast Hooligans. The name fits pretty well if you ask me.”
Dominic slams his beer bottle down on the pool table. “No one asked you,” he says. “I need another beer.” He picks up the empty bottle, grabs Topher’s arm, and pulls him away on the quest for more beer.
As soon as they’re out of sight, Alston moves around the pool table and grabs a stick. “Play with me?” he asks Linzi, raising both eyebrows up and down.
Linzi twirls her hair around her index finger, the purple flower spinning in and out of strings of blonde. “I don’t really play pool.”
He glances back at Miles then struts toward Linzi. “Make you a bet. You win and you get a kiss.”
“And if I lose?” she asks.
Alston leans into her face. “Then I get the kiss.”
Miles clears his throat. “I think I need another beer.” He glances over at me. “Walk with me?”
I more than gladly accept the offer. The beer quest sounds much better than this gag fest I’m watching. He pushes through the crowd toward the kitchen, steadily glancing over his shoulder to make sure I’m still behind. It’s hard to lose his messy dreadlocks in the crowd.
He grabs a fresh beer. “You surf?” he asks.
I shake my head. I don’t know the first thing about surfing other than Colby Taylor does it, and I have to find him again in this lifetime. I don’t tell this to Miles, though. I will not be surfer stalkerazzi.
“I’ve been at it for a decade,” he says. He takes a swig from his cup. “I was eight when I started. Topher actually taught me how to pop up on a board.”
The fuzzy hopefuls inside of me tingle with excitement. “So you hang out with local surfers?” I pray this isn’t too obvious. I feel like he can see through me like sea glass and know all the secrets buried within.
“Just the Hooligans. We stay on our turf and fuck up any kook who tries getting in our waters,” he says.
Kook. I know that word. Linzi rattled it off during her cram session on surf lingo. She said I needed to know these things so I wouldn’t feel like an idiot later when I actually talked to a surfer. She was right. I don’t remember what a kook is, and I feel like an idiot. The screen door slings open behind me, and I turn to see Reed. I never saw him disappear earlier.
“Miles, you seen A.J.?” he asks.
Of course not. No one has seen this A.J. guy all night. Reed pulls his cell phone from his pocket before blending back into the mass of drunken idiots. If A.J. is the
party boy of the century, he has to be around here somewhere. So far Operation Party Boy has been a failure, mainly due to my forgetfulness to search for him.
I tell Miles that I’m going to get some fresh air and push through the screen door. The tiki torches along the beach map out the party grounds, so I follow them along the beach and listen for anything that may get me a step closer to the surf star while I scan every face in the crowd for the party boy known as A.J.
A girl talks too loudly about her boyfriend’s cheating habits. I move along before the guy next to her completes his overly-graphic tale of the previous night’s sexual exploits. I keep walking until the tiki torches burn to black, and a local surfer rants about that “stupid kid” who dropped in on him – whatever that means. I’m failing at this surf lingo deal.
Amidst the conversations, there’s not a single mention of Colby Taylor or a sighting of Stolen Photo Boy. This not-so-VIP party sucks. I surrender to the torches and turn back, walking in the direction from which I came, hoping that somewhere along this returning walk I’ll see something other than the same drunken teenagers I saw on the way down.
“Hey!”
I freeze and look for the voice. He waves over the bonfire he’s sitting beside. It’s Topher. He puts his fingers to his temples, like he’s trying to channel the ocean spirits telepathically, then screams out, “Haley!”
He slides over to make room for me on the cooler beneath him. He throws an arm around my shoulder and introduces me as “Reed’s friend” then pops a sugar cube into his mouth. He washes it down with a swig from the bottle of Ocean Blast Energy in his hand. I can’t imagine this guy needing an energy drink anytime, much less this late into the night.
Two girls across from us discuss in detail who is a better surfer – Miles or Dominic – and I dig my toes into the sand while I bite my lip. I refuse to be laughed at again for mentioning the west coast surfer, so I wait to see if anyone else throws his name into the great debate. In a conversation about the best surfer, you’d think he’d at least get an honorable mention. But nothing. Nothing at all. This night is hopeless, and I’ve yet to find the party boy. I seriously think he found a better party tonight. I don’t blame him for staying there either.
Dropping Reed’s name helps me escape the bonfire, but I’m not really going to find him. I breathe in the west coast air, trying to convince myself that this night is worth it, even while I’m certain that Linzi is breathing in the scent of Alston’s pineapple shampoo right now. I stretch my legs out on the shore, letting the waves rush up over them and sprinkle sand on me. I plan to sit here until someone finds me or the ocean decides to wash me away. The stars play hide-and-seek behind the milky clouds, dancing over the ocean, until I’m discovered by a chewed up hot pink Frisbee.
Dexter. He’s too happy to have found companionship for me to ignore him. I grab the Frisbee, dog slobber and all, and hurl it across the shore, watching him leap through the sand and splash into the water.
He hauls it back to me, covered in sand, and I throw it again, watching it sail through the night like a hot pink UFO. With every crash landing on earth, Dexter drags the spaceship back to me, and I continue to throw it until the thuds of the Frisbee blend into the thuds from the DJ’s bass, and everything around me becomes one. No surfers. No party boys from pictures. No best friends making out with the enemy. Just me, the ocean, and the moonlight. And, well, Dexter.
And the stampede. Is this how a west coast beach party ends? With everyone running down the beach? I stand up and push Dexter back from the insanity, trying to make sense of some of the drunken words running past me.
Between “OhMyGah!” from the girls and “Let’s kill him!” from the guys, I have no clue what’s happening or if I should stay planted on the shore or if I should follow the wild pack of hormones and beer into the great unknown.
In the blur of craziness, one thing pops out – blonde dreadlocks.
“Miles!” I call out, hoping he hears me.
He stops and looks over then tells Dominic to go ahead. He jogs over to me, bends down to pet Dexter, and looks back up at me.
“What the hell?” I ask. I point to the entire block party of people running down the shoreline.
The crowd blends into one large mass now, what seems like half a mile down the beach. Cars crank up and shine headlights around one spot in the cove. The waves crash against the rocks in the glow of all the headlights.
“There’s an east coaster down in the cove,” Miles says. “Shit’s about to get fucked up crazy. You coming?”
Well, that really explains things. “Not yet. Go ahead,” I tell him, motioning toward the crowd.
He doesn’t need any more permission than that because he’s gone, running faster than most of the others, headed to the cove. I watch him until he fades into the crowd. Dexter’s bark draws me back in.
“Reed!” I jump back when I see him standing next to me.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry…for scaring you. What’s happening?”
His eyes are in the distance, watching the locals gather around. The crowd looks bigger from here, like everyone from the party called their other friends to come down and watch the excitement too.
“East coaster in the cove – that’s what Miles said. What does that mean?” I ask, trying to redirect Reed’s attention.
“Oh God. No. Already? Seriously?” He rambles on, repeating himself, and pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “Yeah, I need a unit sent out to twenty-three eleven Dolphin Point.”
He’s quiet for a second before saying the reason. “Trespassing.”
Linzi and Alston come from between two condos. Linzi has stripped off her tank top and is sporting her purple bikini top. They’re both soaked and smell of chlorine.
“I realize there’s a party going on,” Reed says into the phone, “but this has nothing to do with the party. Someone is trespassing on private property after making threats to the person who lives there.”
“What the hell?” Alston asks, grabbing Reed’s arm and jerking him around to see his face. “You’re kidding, right? Riley’s people are here?”
Reed puts his finger over his mouth, but it doesn’t silence Alston. Alston rips the cell phone from Reed’s hand and begins shouting. “Twenty-three! Eleven! Dolphin! Point! You better get a damn unit out here now!”
He ends the call immediately and slams the phone back against Reed’s chest. My heart races too fast for me to speak, and Linzi’s eyes bulge from their sockets.
“What the hell?” she screams out at Alston, pulling him away from Reed. “What’s going on? All this east coaster Riley trespassing in the cove stuff? Explain something. Now!”
Alston twists his fist into the palm of his other hand and heads down the beach like a madman. His eyes are wild and fuming. He doesn’t speak.
“Logan Riley,” Reed says, walking quickly behind Alston. “He’s the Colby Taylor of the east coast. His guys have been sending threats for a month.”
Linzi trips in the sand and stops walking long enough to rip off her flip flops and carry them along the beach with us. She does this goofy fairy hop through the sand, trying to listen to Reed and check on Alston simultaneously.
“Threats? What kind of threats? To who?” she asks, running all of her words together.
“Who do you think!?” Alston screams out. He stops in the sand and looks at Reed. “They’re going to have his windows busted out before the law ever gets there! You can’t play Mr. Nice Guy all the damn time!”
Reed grabs Alston by the shoulders. “And you can’t curse out the cops!”
I grab Reed’s arms from behind him, and the small of his back collides with my chest. He didn’t seem so tall before, but standing behind him with my arms locked to his, feeling the tension in his muscles, I’m actually scared. I don’t let go, even after his body relaxes.
The four of us remain here in the sand. Alston paces, Linzi fights tears, and Reed and I stay twisted
together like washed up seaweed. Sirens blare in the distance and blend into the hollering in the cove.
“I’m sorry,” Alston says. He walks over to Linzi and hugs her against him, kissing her forehead and apologizing repeatedly.
Reed pulls from my grip and looks back at me. He smiles, and I let go, but I don’t move. I feel like I need to be within two inches of his body until we leave the beach just in case he feels the need to bulk up and throw punches at Alston.
“Riley’s people come out here to scope out the west coast competition,” Reed explains. “And his guys have been sending threats for a while. Nothing’s come of them, but this whole east coast/west coast thing is bound to blow up someday.”
Alston’s madman temper has faded into the night, and Linzi seems to have accepted his apologies.
“You see the cove?” Alston asks, pointing to the rocks down the beach. “It’s crescent shaped. The rocks are awesome to jump off of. That’s private property…belongs to the guy who lives in that beach house.”
All I can see is what’s showing in the glow of the streetlights and blue lights, but even the blur of people on the beach can’t hide the house. It’s tripled the size of the condos next to us and looks mega-expensive even from here. How did I not see it before? How could I miss Colby Taylor’s house?
“Private property,” Reed says. “If someone’s out there who shouldn’t be, I’m putting in a call, especially an east coaster.”
