Chasing Forever Down (Drenaline Surf Series)

by Godwin, Nikki

  I wish I knew the lead guitarist’s name. Linzi never mentions him, as he’s not TheKeeganLawrence, but he’s into the song. He’s head banging, even though the song isn’t heavy enough for it, and his perfectly gelled hair slings sweat all over the front row of the crowd. While he’s not singing into the microphone, his lips move along with every word of the song. I’m waiting for him to snap a guitar string because he’s playing with so much heart. As one chord bleeds into the next, from one song to another, he never stops. He’s a real forever chasing rock star.

  The last lines of “Ocean Air” echo in the room, and the guitar fades into a hum. The lead singer apologizes for not being able to hang out after the show like they usually do. He says something about the summer tour kicking off, a long night of driving to the next town, and I think he’s thanking everyone for coming. But it’s impossible to hear anything over the beer-drenched people next to me shouting in each other’s faces about whose house they’re going to go to after the show.

  Linzi is drunk on adrenaline and excitement, and she rambles about how incredible they were live and how disappointed she is that she can’t meet them. My thoughts are focused on those orange flyers, though. The concert itself was lackluster. After the way Linzi raved about Keegan for so long, I expected more. He just didn’t compare to the cover band’s drummer. That guy was so into the music that he couldn’t keep hold of his drumsticks...the same drumsticks he gave to Spence after the show...after he helped them load their equipment...

  “We have to go! Now!” I shout the words, hoping Linzi can hear over the crowd, and I grab her arm.

  She asks ten questions in a row as I push through toward the back of the room, but we can’t stop now. They’ll have a stage crew. They don’t need help, and they don’t need nearly as much time to pack up equipment. We stop under the orange owl, and I swallow the dry midnight air. Linzi asks what we’re doing and if I’m crazy, and for the first time, I think I might be.

  “Haley, slow down,” she says. “Just stop.”

  So I do. I look around and try to guess where a band would be loading their equipment after a show. Both side parking lots are full of cars and people leaving, and we’re dead center in front of the night club which means…

  “Around back!” I say. “We have to get behind this building. Go! Now!” I point to the left parking lot, which is slightly more vacant than the right, and Linzi does as she’s told, looking for the fastest route around Night Owl.

  “Lead guitarist,” I say, trying to convince myself that I have a game plan and that it might actually work. “What’s his name?”

  “Barney,” Linzi replies.

  “What?” I stop between two cars and look back at her.

  “Jason Barnes,” she says.

  I nod. “Okay, Jason. I can remember that.”

  I keep walking but Linzi protests from behind me.

  “You can’t call him that,” she insists. “He’ll know you’re not a fan. Any real Moonlight fan knows that he’s Barney, not Jason Barnes. He’s been Barney since he was in high school. Even teachers called him Barney. And their bassist, he’s not Dustin. He’s Redd, two Ds. You have to know these things. Please don’t call him Jason. I’ll die of embarrassment,” she says, in typical overly dramatic Linzi fashion.

  Surrender consumes me. It’s not like we’ll really find these guys anyway. “Okay. Fine. Barney. He’s Barney.”

  I question this grand decision of mine as we come upon what looks like a back alleyway, dark and quiet and right out of a real episode of CSI. It screams out crime scene, and I literally scream when a guy’s voice asks me what I’m doing there.

  “Whoa! Hey! It’s safe!” the guy yells at me.

  Linzi’s fingernails dig into my arm. My mind tells me to run, but my legs don’t respond, and just as my heart thumps as loudly as a bass drum, the broken streetlight behind him flickers just enough light to see his face – goatee first – and I breathe. It’s TheJasonBarnes, better known as Barney.

  “You shouldn’t be back here,” he says.

  Obviously. “Yeah, I know, it’s just – my best friend is a huge fan, and we came all the way from North Carolina, and she just really wanted to meet you guys.” I feel like this is the biggest lie ever, and it really couldn’t be more true.

  “Okay, cool,” he says.

  He’s so laid back, even in a dark alley with stalker fangirls at midnight. He motions around the building, and Linzi’s nervous breathing quivers behind me.

  A long black tour bus is parked behind Night Owl, the same picture on its side that was on Keegan’s drum. The silver words The Ocean in Moonlight are surreal, sparkling in front of me like a million silver paper stars. Their crew packs amps, guitars, and mic stands into the storage compartments as Barney calls for Redd and Keegan to come over and meet us. Linzi begins to pour her heart out while simultaneously trying not to come across as a Moonlight stalker. Redd laughs at something she says, and Keegan nods along, his dark dreadlocks bouncing with every shake of his head.

  “North Carolina, huh?” Barney asks.

  I look over my shoulder and know this is my only chance, so I send up a prayer to the God of Paper Stars and go for it.

  “Yeah, North Carolina,” I say. “But we actually saw the tour flyer in a coffee shop in Oklahoma. Road trip.”

  “Ah cool,” he says, nodding along. “Where you headed?”

  “Well…I’m not really sure. I’m trying to meet up with the guy who put the flyer up in Oklahoma, but I don’t know if I’m headed the right way,” I say.

  “You’ve made it this far,” Barney says. That’s totally not the response I wanted. “How awesome is that? You saw that in Oklahoma and ended up here.”

  I keep smiling and swapping glances between his face and the broken streetlight back down the alleyway.

  “We have a show there later this summer,” Barney continues on. “We sent flyers with him about a week ago. He puts them up for us anytime he’s in any of the areas, on his way to events, you know, coast to coast. He hits a lot of great concert towns along the way.”

  Pretending to know what he’s talking about is the only option now. “I bet that’s awesome promotion for you,” I say.

  “Oh yeah, especially during summer tours. It’s great having a guy in his position support us, telling people to go to our shows or pick up our new album. California loves us as much as Arizona does,” Barney says, rubbing his goatee like he’s reminiscing.

  “Awesome,” I say again. He probably thinks I don’t know any other words.

  Linzi bounces back over to us, waving back to Keegan and Redd, and she waves Keegan’s autographed drumsticks in the air like SOS flares.

  “So what’s the best route out of here?” I ask Barney.

  “Well…” he pauses and looks around. “Back down the alley, through the parking lot, and back to the front of Night Owl, for starters.”

  “She totally means interstate,” Linzi explains, talking with her drumsticks like they’re her new arms.

  Barney laughs. “I know. I was kidding. It’s about six hours straight across to the coast, I-10 the whole way. Then take the exit to Crescent Cove. Just watch the road signs, takes you straight there.”

  The ocean floods me with relief. I can taste the Pacific salt water and ocean air, and I haven’t even crossed the California state line.

  “You freaking rock!” I say, channeling Linzi’s personality more than my own.

  He shrugs and nods. “Yeah, I try.”

  Linzi twirls in circles, knocking her drumsticks together. I press my luck one last time.

  “How will I find him when I get there?” I ask.

  Barney laughs and shakes his head, like this is the silliest question ever asked. “Oh, you’ll see him when you get there. Don’t worry. Drive safe!” he says. He hands me a guitar pick and walks back toward the tour bus.

  “Six hours?” Linzi asks as we walk farther and farther away from the broken streetlight. “That’s a long
drive. This adrenaline is going to wear off,” she reminds me.

  “I can drive. You can sleep. I’ll sleep when we get there,” I say.

  We stop for gasoline at the state line, and I stock up on Mountain Dew for the rest of this across-California drive. Linzi drifts off not long after we enter Cali, and I play “Chase Forever Down” on repeat until it feels like background music because I’m too tired to focus on it. Six hours feels like sixteen hours, but when I see the sign that says Crescent Cove is five miles away, the adrenaline rush kicks in just one more time.

  The sun peeks at us over the horizon as I take the Crescent Cove exit, but the sunrise hasn’t welcomed the morning with its orange-pink ice cream sherbet colors. Everything is still blue. The sky. The ocean. The lights on the billboard.

  The billboard! I slam the brakes and pull off the highway, sending my sleeping best friend flying forward like a rock from a slingshot.

  “Damn Haley!” she screams, now awake and tugging on her tightened seatbelt.

  She mumbles that I’m trying to kill her, but all I can do is point to the sign above us. The blue-white lights reflect off the canvas, illuminating the thousands of silver stars and the giant words Welcome to Crescent Cove! Home of surf star, Colby Taylor!

  “Oh. My. God.” Linzi speaks the words I can’t say.

  I pick my jaw up off the steering wheel and shake my head. There he is, plastered across a giant sign holding a black surfboard decorated with stars and tiny crescent moons. He’s blonde and chiseled and tan and alive.

  I look to Linzi, hoping she’ll understand my speechless best friend code. And she does. She throws her head back against the seat, shaking her head and sending her blonde locks whipping across her face.

  “The girl from the ‘boro was right,” she says. “He’s not Spencer Burks anymore. He’s Colby Taylor. He really is the west coast surfer!”

  She motions up at the billboard. “We could’ve been here two days ago!”

  “Then you wouldn’t have Keegan Lawrence’s drumsticks,” I say.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Haley, it’ll be dark in a few hours. You can sleep then,” Linzi says.

  She hits the alarm button on the hotel’s clock, sending shrill beeps through the air and over my eardrums. The red numbers say it’s nearly five o’clock.

  Linzi sighs. “I’m starving, and you know, it wasn’t my bright idea to drive across the state of California at midnight.” She falls back onto her bed, holding her stomach as if dying from starvation.

  I surrender. “Let me take a shower. Look into nearby restaurants and get directions.”

  I throw myself together in record time. Linzi chooses a pizzeria within walking distance of the Crescent Inn.

  This morning’s shock, awe, and exhaustion kept me from fully taking in the California scenery, but now I can’t miss the sand, the ocean, the palm trees, and the overdone theme of crescent moons and stars on every corner.

  The Crescent Cove Bakery, directly across from the hotel, advertises their crescent-shaped cheese biscuits in the window. Strings and Starlight, a guitar shop and obvious local hangout, is next door to the hotel. We dodge a sea of skateboarders in route to Isaiah’s Pizzeria and Pasta.

  I don’t even know where to start now that we’re here. Yeah, Barney was right. We found who we were looking for – now we actually have to find him, as in the breathing human form of him. My gut tells me this is hopeless, that I’m chasing after the impossible, and all I’ll have left are memories and paper stars. I need more than that. I need freedom. I need dream chasing. I need to know all of his secrets and how I can find that escape too.

  Our waiter leads us to a back booth with green leather seats. Black and white pictures adorn the walls. The photo next to our table is an old surf shack, wooden and rustic, right in the sand next to the ocean with surfboards leaning against the outside. I glance at the table behind us. Their picture is the original Crescent Cove billboard – old school paint job without the forever-chasing surfer. I take another look at the surf shack photo and accept it as a sign that we’re going to find him. This table was meant for us.

  “Where do we start?” Linzi asks over the menu.

  “Appetizers?” I assume.

  “No,” she says. She lowers her menu, leans over the table, and whispers, “Colby Taylor.”

  I shrug. That’s a great question. “I don’t know. Maybe we can ask around?”

  I grab my menu and scan the pasta list, trying to convince myself that I’m as starved as Linzi when all I’m really concerned with is finding the guy on the billboard.

  “Can I start you ladies out with an appetizer?” Our waiter holds his head in that awkward tilted way that male models do in magazines when they’re trying to show off their awesome jaw lines or high cheekbones.

  Linzi flips into super flirty mode and tells him how we’re not from here and that she’s not familiar with some of their appetizers. He suggests garlic knots, and she orders a plate of them without even asking what they are.

  He brings us a plate full of what looks like knots made of bread. They’re drenched in garlic sauce and taste incredible yet they’re so strong that we don’t order anything past the appetizer. Linzi digs through her purse for gum while mumbling something about not having to worry about vampires. I stick one of those prepaid cards into the booklet with our ticket and wait for him to pick it up. My dad doesn’t realize how genius these preloaded cards are. At least this way there won’t be a statement in the mail showing I was in California.

  “Here he comes,” Linzi whispers. She clears her throat and smiles at our waiter. “You guys are crazy busy for a Thursday night. I guess business picks up when you’ve got a local celebrity, huh?”

  “Business is pretty steady. It doesn’t hurt. I’ll give you that.” He picks up the booklet and walks back to the cash register.

  Linzi presses a little further when he returns. “So does Colby Taylor come here often?”

  He doubles over in laughter, and I don’t know if it’s sarcastic or if he’s making fun of us. He shakes his head a few times, not really in response to Linzi, and spits out what I think was supposed to be “Have a good night.” He walks off, whispers something to a waitress, points in our direction, and they both laugh all the way back into the kitchen.

  Linzi waits until we’re outside before erupting like a raged volcano. “The nerve of that guy! He’s just jealous. He’s a freaking inlander. That’s all it is,” she says.

  “He’s a what?” I ask, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “An inlander,” Linzi repeats. “You know, in land, not on the beach? He’s a cute guy who could get a lot of girls, but girls come here looking for hot surfers on the beach. He’s stuck on land in a stupid pizzeria serving garlic knots.”

  We walk back toward the Crescent Inn while Linzi rants and attempts to throw in some beach lingo I’ve never heard of, but she is right about one thing. If we want to find the west coast surfer, we have to go where the surfers hang out.

  “C’mon,” I tell her. We detour past the hotel, straight into the parking garage. “Let’s hit The Strip.”

  The Ocean in Moonlight was right about west coast ocean air. It floods my lungs as soon as my flip flops hit the sidewalk of The Strip. The water is bluer, the sand is whiter, and the sky is more pink and orange than it ever is on the east coast. Clear Christmas lights twist around the palm trees, sparkling like stars falling on the beach. Everything smells like cotton candy and summertime.

  Linzi zooms past the snowcone stand and dives into a rack of shell jewelry. “Haley, how cute is this?” she asks, pointing to basically everything.

  “Typical beach souvenirs,” I say. If I glanced around right now, I’d only count a handful of people out here not wearing some type of shell.

  Linzi grabs an oversized purple hibiscus flower ring as well as a purple shell necklace, putting them on while she waits for the vendor to count out her change. I, however, refuse to fall into the tour
ist trap and buy pointless, overpriced beach-themed items just because we’re in California.

  “Are you sure? We have all colors,” the man behind the vendor booth tells me. His bright red lei contrasts against his dark skin, and I have half a mind to tell him to go back to Hawaii, even if his smile is welcoming and friendly.

  “C’mon,” Linzi adds. “Everyone buys shell jewelry. I mean, I bet even Colby Taylor wears shell necklaces from here, right?” She looks back at Mr. Hawaii, hoping to entice me and score information in the same breath.

  And the man laughs. He freaking laughs! “Oh, silly girls,” he says, shaking his head and instantly giving up the battle of convincing Haley Sullivan to buy shell jewelry.

  I turn and keep walking, hoping no one else witnessed our humiliation yet again. Obviously we’re tourists. We’re on The Strip buying shell jewelry, asking about the local celeb, and reeking of garlic knots. The laughter isn’t necessary.

  The heat in my cheeks cools down enough for me to pick my head up, and just as I’m swearing to Linzi that I’ll never be the souvenir buying tourist, I see him – blue and sparkling like the ocean water – and I know he’s going home with me tonight.

  I’m sold before the leather-skinned woman ever finishes her sales pitch. “Legends say dreamcatchers trap the demons, but suncatchers let in the good light, bringing in good spirits to watch over you,” she explains, holding an orange angelfish suncatcher in the air for the falling sun to seep through.

  If anyone needs good spirits watching over them, it’s Linzi and me. I run my fingers over the blue glass seahorse, and even as Linzi swears the purple whale is cuter, I know this is the one for me – my good spirit, my bright light, my sea creature to watch over me during this journey.

  Linzi snatches up the purple whale. “She’s too cute. What can I name her? Something Hawaiian maybe? Leila? Oh, or I could go with Stella.”