“Damn it,” A.J. says. “Strick, not Vin. I just saw Vin. Sorry. But no, Strick – he wants you to sell them. A dollar a ticket for a chance to win a custom Drenaline Surf surfboard. We try to help Shark’s dad out as much as we can. Oh, and he said to tell you just to sell tickets to guys, no girls. Strick and Alston can take care of that.”
I shake my head and keep spinning the roll from its center with my index fingers. “There’s no way,” I say.
“He said you would have them sold in no time because you’re hot and guys will buy from you…but not to tell you he said that,” A.J. blurts out.
“Reed said that?” I can’t imagine him actually thinking A.J. wouldn’t tell me.
“Uh…yeah. Strick said it. Don’t tell him I told you.”
A.J.’s stammers aren’t the truth, but I know he’s not going to tell me much more. The tickets fall in between our towels as I lie back and pull my shades over my eyes. When I talked to my mom mid-afternoon, she told me that a water pipe in the kitchen burst so they’d be in a hotel for a few days. She also said that Linzi and I needed to enjoy ourselves, so “take a few days away from this college search and sightsee, live a little.” Oh Mom. If you only knew.
But thanks to that ruptured pipe, I’ll have plenty of time to sell raffle tickets and extend my trip long enough to see Colby Taylor compete on the waves just once, if nothing else. Maybe seeing him chasing his forever down and living his dream will be enough to motivate me.
“I can help you, if you want,” A.J. offers, pulling me away from my thoughts.
“What?” I ask. I prop up on my elbows to look at A.J.
“With the tickets,” he says. “I can help you if you need me to.”
“Right,” I say. I scan the water for Topher and Miles.
A.J. sits up next to me, but I don’t face him. I see him watching me from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t know thanks to these cheap five-dollar sunglasses.
“Alright Haley, what’s up?” he asks. He leans over, staring into me to the point that I can’t ignore him. The truth is there’s so much on my mind that I can’t even sort it out.
“Can we walk?” I ask, nodding toward The Strip behind us.
A.J. is to his feet almost instantly, sliding his flip flops back on. I drop the blue tickets into my beach bag while A.J. throws both mine and Topher’s towels over his shoulder. He pops a sugar cube into his mouth from Topher’s bag then chokes and spits it out.
“I don’t know how in the hell he eats this shit. It’s like eating sand,” A.J. says when we reach the pavement.
I snatch the sugar cubes from him and secure them in my beach bag before A.J. finds a trash can to toss them into. We stroll along past the fresh fruit stand, and I dread walking past the sunglasses rack that A.J. demolished the other day. He walks around me to avoid eye contact with the vendor as we pass. I watch the sidewalk and make shapes out of the sand that washed over the pavement from the storm.
The storm is what’s bugging me. And Vin. I’ve never seen anyone so worked up over thunder, lightning, and rain. Sure, it was bad, and there was need to be concerned, but there’s more to this. Vin even said he wasn’t concerned with Colby’s life. If it’s not that, then what the hell was he worried about? He obviously cares about something – or someone.
“Do you guys always panic like that?” I ask. “When it storms?” I add for clarification.
A.J. runs his hands through his hair and pulls his sunglasses away from his eyes. It’s rare that he’s ever so serious. It’s actually scary.
“Vin panics,” he says. “We used to, all of us, but Vin won’t sleep. He doesn’t do anything until he locates Colby. And then he flips the fuck out on him and they don’t speak for a few days until Strick or Alston smoothes it over.”
He continues along The Strip, kicking at clumps of sand and watching them burst apart as they come in contact with the toe of his flip flop. I replay last night in my head – Vin not leaving the couch. Vin watching the water. Vin standing up in the Jeep because he had to have the perfect view. Vin’s unanswered phone calls. Vin flipping out on Topher for no apparent reason when he called. And Vin walking away in the rain, alone, after he said, ‘Fuck you,’ and threw his phone into Reed’s backseat. Why did he tell me to get out while I can? Out from what?
I take a deep breath. “Is he scared something will happen like…like Shark?”
“Kind of,” A.J. says. He steps off the sidewalk onto the sand and watches the ocean, wave after wave toppling over the sand and washing up toward the tourists and locals alike.
I wish I could pull the photo montage out of his mind and see it for myself, to know what A.J. is thinking about. Maybe he’s remembering Shark’s memorial, everyone in a circle in the water on their surfboards with Shark’s dad speaking about his son’s love for the ocean and how he’d always be a part of it now. Or maybe he’s remembering Vin standing on the pier watching them pour Shark’s ashes into the sea, not stepping foot into the same water that claimed his best friend’s life. I feel like I can see it myself just from hearing Reed talk about it last night after we got back to the condo, while everyone else watched the weather.
“Colby already died,” A.J. says so quietly I have to ease closer to him to hear. “Back in Florida, that spring break trip. Who’s to say he won’t do it again? What if he gets bored with this life or decides he’d rather be someone else again? Every storm is a chance for him to bail.”
His words slice through me like Reed’s Jeep sliced through the orange barricade. And everything somehow makes sense. The secrets, the disguise, the lies, the bodyguards. If Colby decides to just up and leave this life for a new one as well, it’d leave these four guys completely screwed. Vin is the only one of them to realize it.
“Strick says he won’t do it, that he isn’t that kind of person, but Vin doesn’t trust him,” A.J. continues. “And really, Vin has a point. Colby Taylor’s name is on the mortgage. We live the high life because we keep him hidden. Shark’s store keeps going because Colby’s name is all over it. He’s our lifeline, Haley. And he could cut it off at any time.”
My throat runs dry, but I couldn’t speak even if I knew the words to say. All it takes is a storm. All it takes is one night, one moment, and he could be gone. He could hop a train or hail a taxi or just ride his board across the ocean. Then Reed and Alston would move back in with their parents, and A.J. would...be homeless.
“Where does Vin live?” I ask, pushing away the thought of A.J. in a cardboard box holding up a ‘Will work for food’ sign.
“Horn Island, same apartment he’s been in since he got kicked out,” A.J. says. “I crash on his couch sometimes when I’m out that way. Or whenever he bails me out. Colby offered him better, but he won’t take it. Vin does just fine on his own.”
A.J. nods down the sidewalk, and I follow along down The Strip. He doesn’t say much else, and I don’t dare ask. I don’t need clarification. His point was made quite clearly. If Colby’s secret is ever revealed, their lives will crash and burn right in front of them. And the only threat is someone from Colby’s other life. Their only threat...is me.
My mind flashes through scenes from their would-be future – moving boxes, Drenaline Surf shutting down, and A.J. living on the streets – and I know the answer is simple.
I can never see Colby Taylor again.
CHAPTER 14
It’s like a scene from a cruise commercial – white sandy beaches, bright blue water, sun shining, and palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze. A perfectly beautiful California morning. And I absolutely hate it.
The truth is it’s anything but beautiful. I jerk the curtain shut, twisting Solomon around in the fabric, but the sunshine pours through. It’s the first morning since the corporate jail party that I’ve woken up without the goal of chasing down Colby Taylor. But that doesn’t mean it’s not on my mind. A splash of Solomon’s blue reflection spills across the floor, and it makes me smile for half a second. Even from in between the cur
tains, he’s watching over me.
I don’t ask him for guidance, though. I already know he’d tell me to put on my best smile and my rubber Drenaline Surf bracelet and make the most of these last few days in Crescent Cove. I’ve worked too hard to buy time here, and I can’t waste what I have, even if I’m not on a mission to see Colby and learn the secrets of how to chase my forever down. I wonder if he’s ever regretted it, if there’s something he’d have done differently. But that’s something I’ll never get to ask him. I slip on my ocean blue bracelet and trace the embossed letters of Drenaline Surf with my finger. If I ever see coffee shop Tim again, I’m so giving him one of these to add to the collection of bracelets he had growing down his arm.
Reed pulls up behind Strickland’s Boating, one hand on the steering wheel and the other gripping his latte. I’m glad he agreed to an early morning coffee run with me because after thinking of Tim’s arm of bracelets, I could almost taste the chilled vanilla frappe from that morning at Jitters. I drop my empty cup in the trash can behind the register and flip the closed sign to open on my way out onto The Strip. I’ve never been much of a salesperson, but I figure if Vin can persuade someone to buy cheap hair dye spray, I can definitely sell one-dollar chances for a high-dollar custom surfboard.
But I don’t have Vin’s smart mouth to bark with, his height to intimidate with, or his iceberg eyes to terrify with. A group of guys are two stands down, looking at T-shirts, and they fit the stereotype for beach bums with their shaggy hair, tan lines, and brightly colored swim trunks. I can’t stomach the reminder of dream-chasing surfers. Not yet. Not alone. And definitely not this early in the morning.
So I settle on the two boys at the hot dog stand. Only pre-pubescent boys eat hot dogs at eight A.M. They can’t be older than twelve or thirteen, and I’m sure they at least have a dollar to spare. I push my hair behind my shoulders, resorting to total Linzi mode – cleavage and all – then lick my lips since I didn’t bother with lip gloss.
And it totally works. My simple pitch of, “Hey! Drenaline Surf is raffling off a custom surfboard at the competition this weekend. A dollar a ticket, you can’t beat that,” sends me straight to total victory and Shark’s surf shop is four whole dollars richer. Only 996 tickets to go.
I don’t even try to hide my goofy accomplished smile. I tuck the four dollars into a side pocket of my beach bag and head down the sidewalk of The Strip – smile, tickets, and newly found confidence in tow. Topher waves at me from twenty feet away, and I feel totally prepared for his sugar cube high, even combined with that bottle of Ocean Blast Energy in his hand.
But even with the tiny adrenaline rush from my success, my heart spirals into the pit of my stomach when I see Vin and Miles with him. From that smirky look on Vin’s face, I’m more than sure he witnessed my ticket selling, and he’d rather die than keep his mouth shut about it.
“I hope you don’t have plans for the rest of the summer,” Vin says. He stops directly in front of Drenaline Surf and folds his arms across his chest.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“That’s how long it’ll take you to sell those tickets at the rate you’re going. Seriously, Haley? Twelve-year-old boys?” He shakes his head, and every point on his spiky black hair pokes holes in my confidence. But he did call me by my name for once. Maybe that counts for something.
Topher takes a gulp of his energy drink and licks his lips. “I’ll help you,” he says.
“The hell you will,” Vin interjects. “She can sell those on her own.”
He grabs Topher’s arm and drags him off down the sidewalk, leaving me standing under Drenaline Surf’s giant wave with Miles and his nappy blonde dreadlocks.
Miles shrugs his shoulders. “Looks like I’m gonna be helping you instead. C’mon, I’ll show you where the real deal surfers hang out.”
I climb into the passenger seat of Miles’ old truck. Gatorade bottles and candy wrappers litter the floorboards. He throws a handful of the trash behind the seat.
“Sorry for the mess,” he says. He pushes his sunglasses up into his crazy wild hair. “The guys taken you down to Horn Island yet?”
”No,” I say, shaking my head.
I’ve wondered what Horn Island looks like since the first time I heard mention of it. It sounds magical and sparkling, full of enchanted mermaid girls and sexy surfer boys and more palm trees than Crescent Cove has moon décor.
”It ain’t much to see,” Miles says as if he heard my daydreamy thoughts.
The truck roars to life but chokes a few times on the way out of the parking lot. He fumbles with the radio stations and makes small talk about the east coast and how much he would hate living in a non-surf city. After spending time in the cove, I really think I’ll hate living in a non-surf city when I return home.
Ten minutes of interstate later, Miles takes an exit that loops around an old apartment complex. Weather stains eat away at the pale yellow paint, and a pit bull is chained up outside of one of the doors. There’s a window with bars over it, like a prison window, and I can’t help wondering how many drug deals go down daily here. So far, Horn Island is looking pretty ghetto.
Miles catches my stare. “Vin lives there,” he says, pointing back to the rotting apartment complex from hell.
“Are you kidding?” I ask. The hell with being dependent on Colby Taylor. I’d rather be dependent than live in Horn Island’s version of Alcatraz.
“No joke,” Miles says. “He’s lived there since he got kicked out a few years ago. Only place he could afford at the time. I don’t know why the hell he stays there now, though.”
We pass a run-down liquor store with dark green paint and half-working neon signs. My hope for Horn Island falters. There are no mermaids nor magic here. The buildings bleed together outside my window, classic downtown scenery…without any class.
Miles pulls into a parking lot near a boating ramp. The side wall is painted with a graffiti mural. A red sunset bleeds behind a jagged blue-painted wave. This painting is probably the most color Horn Island has seen in a while.
Miles points down to the ocean. “That way,” he says.
He grabs his green and silver surfboard out of the bed of his truck, and I follow him with my bag full of tickets, which will fail me if I need a weapon against any surf thugs.
A guy with an incredible natural tan and long black hair meets us halfway across the clumpy sand. It’s thick and dark and sucks on my flip flops like quicksand. The cove’s sand must’ve been imported from that magical land I’d dreamed up earlier. It’s not the same sand as Horn Island.
“Hell yeah! About time you got a new girl. She’s damn hotter than Kristin,” the guy says. He bypasses Miles, drops his blue surfboard, and grabs me in a hug. What ever happened to handshakes and personal space?
“I’m Kale,” he says when he pulls away.
“And she’s Haley,” Miles says for me. “She’s not my new girl either. I’m helping her sell tickets for Drenaline…and giving her a break from Vin.”
“Ohhhhh,” Kale says, retrieving his surfboard from the grungy sand. “Vin Brooks finally has a girl? That’s reason enough to get drunk and celebrate.”
I open my mouth to protest, but the two guys who Kale had been hanging out with near the shoreline circle us. My words would be lost had I spoken them. I stand here awkwardly waiting for the talking to cease, but I refuse to keep quiet when one guy says it’s about time Vin got laid.
“I’m not dating Vin!” I shout over their voices.
I want to tell them I’m not dating him or sleeping with him or anything else their dirty minds might’ve conjured up, but I don’t.
“I’m just selling tickets because Reed asked me to, and I’m not dating Reed either,” I say instead.
That’s all it takes to send them back to the murky green water. I step over clusters of seaweed and cringe at the foamy white bubbles lingering on the waves that have washed ashore. Even the beach is ghetto here. I can’t imagine the West Coast Hooligan
s ever having to fight someone off of their surfing turf. I wouldn’t want to step in this water, much less surf in it.
“These are the rest of the Hooligans,” Miles says, pointing to the guys ahead of us.
“And I’m the honorary Hooligan,” Kale says. “Dominic won’t let me be official.”
The tall brunette in front of me spins around. “Fuck Dominic. I think four to one should be enough to let you be whoever the hell you want to be,” he says. “I’m Jace, by the way.”
I like this Jace guy already. He doesn’t like Dominic, and he’s the only one who didn’t assume I was sleeping with Vin.
Jace turns back to the slimy water and yells “Sapphire!” He dashes into the oncoming waves and paddles out toward the big wave that’s about to roll in.
Now I see why the Hooligans are so territorial. Horn Island has rocks – jagged, broken cliff kind of rocks – like the ones down in the cove near surf star’s beach house. But these rocks are bigger, edgier, and outright intimidating. And the waves, wow. They slam against the rocks and fall back into the ocean, collapsing in a huge splash and slinging themselves ashore in the most monstrous waves I’ve ever seen.
“So yeah,” Miles interrupts my awe. “Jace is Vin’s age. Grew up with him and Shark. And the other guy is Theo. He lifeguards down at the cove. That’s all of us, though. Horn Island’s West Coast Hooligans.”
Another shout of the word “Sapphire!” echoes behind us.
I look to Miles, who laughs and instantly explains. “It’s how we call dibs on a wave, like calling shotgun. It’s our code word, just to say that I saw it first and I’m riding it home.”
Miles motions for me to walk with him, leaving Jace, Theo, and Kale to the waves. He leaves his surfboard in Hooligan territory. He kicks a left over Dr. Pepper can along the shoreline, daring the waves to snatch it away. I don’t speak until we’re out of earshot of the other guys. Miles hasn’t done anything to help me with selling these tickets, but maybe he’ll enlighten me with some Horn Island secrets. The Dr. Pepper can dings against the toe of his flip flop and lands with a thunk on the wet sand.
Chasing Forever Down (Drenaline Surf Series) Page 12
