Rough Waters

by Nikki Godwin

  I spin around in time for Kale to grab me in what would’ve been a sneak attack had Topher not opened his mouth.

  “No, his parents showed up,” A.J. says.

  Kale’s reunion hug with me is cut short. “His parents? Like his real parents? The ones he had before he was Colby Taylor? Like when he had his birth name, before he ran away?”

  “Yeah,” A.J. answers. “All of the above.”

  Never did I think I’d see a moment when both Kale and Topher were silent. But the two Hooligans in front of me remain quiet, shocked. Finally, Kale turns toward the water and an air horn signals the next heat. Miles paddles out to the lineup.

  “I can’t believe this,” Topher mutters. “This is the biggest competition Miles has surfed in, and my brother isn’t even down here because he’s playing damage control for Colby again. Where the hell is the media?”

  I scan the area behind us, but the flock of cameras has dissipated. A few stragglers remain, snapping photos of what might be the next cover of Shaka Magazine. Maybe Miles will make the cover after Colby’s story fades from the headlines.

  I’m able to persuade Topher that Miles needs him right now, and we join Theo, Jace, and Emily back at Jace’s truck. Aside from a few cheers here and there for the good waves, we’re a somber bunch. No one speaks until Vin walks over and leans against the side of the truck.

  “What happened?” Topher asks, swapping glances between his brother and his best friend in the water.

  “We’ll talk later,” Vin says. He nods toward the ocean. “Let’s focus on Miles right now.”

  I glance back at the heat. Miles leads. The other guy needs an 8.73 to take the lead, and as Topher has said more than once lately, the swell pretty much sucks. The opposing surfer will be lucky to get a decent wave at all, much less one that can knock Miles out of the competition.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. One new message. From Vin Brooks. I shoot him a sideways glance and open the message. He needs my help. Why couldn’t that wait until this heat was over? I push off of the tailgate yet again and motion toward Vin when Topher’s eyes inquire where I’m going.

  Vin slips an arm behind me and leads me back under the Drenaline Surf tent. He’s quiet for a moment, still semi-focused on Miles’s performance. Then he looks at the sand and shakes his head.

  “Strick took Taylor home for me, so I could get back down here,” he says to the particles on the ground more than to me. “This is about to blow up in ways that I can’t even handle.”

  That’s a given. He and the guys have spent three years keeping Colby hidden from anyone who may leak his secret back to his parents – that he’s alive and well and living a new life. For three years, only one person has been able to penetrate the four-man wall built around the surf star – me – and I sure as hell didn’t leak the info to his parents. As much as I detest the person Colby Taylor has become, I still understand why he did it and I respect him for it.

  “His parents have a press conference scheduled for later tonight,” Vin says. “Crescent Inn has set up the entire thing in their lobby. That’s where all the media is now, just waiting to ask questions and get a story.”

  That’ll be one hell of a story. Surf Star Colby Taylor Faked Death. Parents Find Him Alive.

  Then I remember the text. “What do you need my help with?” I ask.

  Vin exhales and turns to me with pleading eyes. “I need you to talk to him,” he says. “He hates me, and I’m not exactly his biggest fan. Nothing I say matters at this point. But you’ve gotten through to him before. Maybe you can talk him into at least meeting up with his parents, explaining his side of things or whatever.”

  I doubt anything I say will make a dent in Colby’s mind frame. There’s not a living soul on this earth who could talk any sense into that boy right now. Everything he’s worked for, that he died for, has been stripped from him in a matter of seconds. There is absolutely nothing I can say to fix this or ease his mind or calm him down. Nothing.

  “I’ll try,” I say. “But I need a game plan and I’m taking reinforcements.”

  An hour later, after fighting competition traffic, I pull into the driveway at 2311 Dolphin Point. Dexter rushes around the side of the house, barking and jumping with excitement to see someone.

  “I can’t believe you dragged me along for this,” A.J. complains from my passenger seat.

  “Oh shut it,” I say. “You beat me to the car when I told you where I was going.”

  Colby’s truck sits in the driveway, surfboards sticking out of the bed. For a second, I worry about them being stolen, especially in the midst of this news outbreak, but I doubt Colby Taylor gives a damn about a few boards that he can most likely have replaced in a few hours. I get out of the car and walk around to the back patio.

  A.J. peers into the window. “Looks like all the lights are out,” he says. “Hang on. I’ve got a key. That motherfucker had one made for me after I broke his window.”

  He fiddles with the keys for a second before finding the right one for Colby’s patio door. He slides it back, pushes the curtain aside, and steps into the beach mansion. I follow him inside and flip on the closest light switch.

  “Well, he didn’t trash the place,” A.J. says. “Taylor, you here?”

  A nearly-full Gatorade bottle sits on the kitchen counter. “It’s still cold,” I say, wrapping my hand around it. “He was just here.”

  I put the bottle back in the refrigerator and follow A.J.’s voice as he searches the house. But nowhere in this three-story mansion do we find Colby.

  “He couldn’t have gotten far on foot,” I say. “Maybe he went for a run to clear his head. You know he’s health-conscious and all that. Should we wait?”

  A.J. nods and sits on the couch. “We’ll give him thirty minutes. If he doesn’t show, we’ll send out a search party.”

  I wonder if the Guinness record book has a record for the most search parties held for one person. If we started with his initial disappearance three years ago and counted every time the guys had to search for him when he went missing around here, I’m sure he would hold the title.

  I settle onto the couch with A.J. and grab the remote from the side table. I may not know Colby as well as Vin thinks I do, but I’m certain he’s subscribed to SurfTube. I tab through the menu until the channel pops up. I’m almost scared to click it.

  Mrs. Burks fills Colby’s HD flat-screen. She dabs her eyes with tissues, careful not to smudge her makeup. “I just want to bring my boy home,” she says to the lenses.

  “What a crock of shit,” A.J. says. “She came here to get her fifteen minutes of fame. She’s probably pissed as fuck because her son let her believe he was dead just so he could get the hell away from her. Taylor’s a crazy fuck up, but I don’t blame him.”

  We spend thirty minutes watching the footage from earlier today at the beach. A red marquee bar at the bottom of the screen announces the time for the press conference with Colby’s parents. No one mentions the local competition or that Miles Garrett won his heat and advanced to tomorrow’s finals.

  The blast of my cell phone startles me. Topher’s name pops up on the screen.

  “Where are you?” he shouts through the earpiece, without so much as a ‘hey’ when I answer.

  “Colby’s house. Where are you? What’s all that noise?” I ask.

  “Crescent Inn,” he hollers out. “This place is a madhouse! Kale is with me. We’re here to report the situation.”

  I crack up at his choice of words. I’m sure his big brother sent him there with that very mission, to “report the situation.” I decide to humor him.

  “So what’s the situation?” I ask, turning on the speaker phone so A.J. can hear.

  “Well, all the surf media is here. We’ve got blue lights outside, security guards inside. It’s insane. Oh, and we’ve got two emotional, camera-hungry parents. What have you got?” he asks.

  A.J. turns off the TV, and I report our not-so-good situation.

&nb
sp; “We’ve got one missing surfer.”

  Chapter Three

  While Crescent Inn hosts the press conference of the year, I drive toward the lesser-known parts of Crescent Cove – past the Azalea Living Center and down to the fancy pier that tourists are unaware exists. The sun grows lazy and tucks itself in between the waves for a good night’s rest. Colby’s silhouette forms between two tiki torches.

  “What are you going to say to him?”A.J. asks as our shoes hit the wooden floor of the pier.

  As I walk the plank to my death, I wish I was creative enough for famous last words. Sadly, mine would be something clichéd about chasing dreams and Colby Taylor. So I shrug instead of responding.

  With each step closer to the enemy, I wish I had a paper star just to throw it in his face. Literally. How this jackass was the one to inspire me to dream bigger and chase after what I want is beyond me. He’s a cracked shell of a dreamer, and I’m sure there’s no beautiful pearl inside.

  He glances toward us when we approach. Then he shakes his head and looks back toward the bleeding sunset as it meets the sea. I sit next to him. A.J. stands guard behind us.

  “A bit public for someone who’s running from everything, don’t you think?” I ask, motioning around the pier.

  “Nice,” Colby says. “I figured you were here to talk sense into me, but I can appreciate smartass comments. Vin sent you, right? Because he hates me as much as I hate him and he knows I won’t listen to him, correct? So he sends his girlfriend to be the middleman. Save the speech.”

  He makes my insides burn with anger and some weird sort of passion. He’s like a damn Pink song – commercial, popular, and radio-friendly one moment but ripping your world apart with raunchy lyrics and world-hate the next.

  “I get it, okay?” I say. “You and Vin don’t click. That’s cool. But maybe this really is a blessing in disguise. Maybe you can spin this as your chance to break free from all the secrets and lies. What can they really do to you? You’re not the same eighteen-year-old kid who ran away. They can’t hurt you.”

  Colby just shakes his head instead of speaking. Then he laughs condescendingly, like I’m the biggest idiot in the world and he can’t believe he’s even letting me breathe his oxygen.

  “You don’t get it,” he finally says. “This isn’t about me. It’s never been about me. It’s about them and what they wanted then and what they want now. There’s no ‘talking it out’ and moving forward with them. They’re here to ruin me.”

  I hate to tell him, but he’s done a damn good job of ruining himself without their help. I’ll never understand it. He has everything he ever wanted, the life he dreamed of, and his parents have absolutely zero control over him. He needs to man up and fight for himself just like he did all those years ago when he walked into Drenaline Surf and bought a surfboard from Shark.

  “You know what?” I ask. “I think you’re a coward. You’re too scared to face them. You ran before, so you’re doing what feels natural. Instead of owning up to it, you just run.”

  I push myself up from the pier, and A.J. bulks up next to me. I try not to crack a smile because A.J. is barely five-foot-seven and not exactly ripped, but he could still take on Colby or anyone else who dared to mess with me. I spin on the heel of my flip flop, lock my arm around A.J.’s, and stomp away with a fierceness that I left back in North Carolina in the form of Linzi.

  Refusing to look back, I get in the car, crank up, and pull away from the pier. It’d give Colby too much satisfaction to know that he’s completely under my skin and crawling around like algae engulfing a sunken ship.

  “You were right,” A.J. says from the passenger seat. “About his parents, you know? They can’t do anything to him now. He ran away, and they found him years later. He has a new life now, one without them, and they’re going to have to play his game now or lose him for good.”

  I nod but keep my eyes on the dashboard. It makes sense that his parents have no hold over him now. He’s untouchable. Or is he? I can’t help but wonder if maybe Colby is right. Maybe they are here to ruin him. I’m just not sure how they’ll do it.

  An hour later, at the condo, Topher tells me via phone that the press conference has been postponed for another hour and that he’s tired of waiting around. Kale says something in the background about it all being a publicity stunt and how unfair it is that this crap stole Miles’s thunder today. Topher informs me that Drenaline Surf closed for the day, but Vin is still at the store handling phone calls and dodging media interrogations.

  “I swear, I’m about to leave,” Topher says through the speaker. “Nothing’s happening, and I want to go celebrate with Miles, so I’m going to bail out. Don’t tell my brother, okay?”

  “Your secret’s safe. Go celebrate. I’ll keep tabs on the media frenzy,” I say.

  I plug my phone into the charger and make my way from the guest house into the condo. A.J. and Reed stand solemnly in the kitchen as A.J. reenacts the scene from the pier and how I apparently “totally let Colby have it.”

  “I think we should go to the press conference,” I interrupt. “Topher just left, and I have a bad gut feeling about it.”

  But A.J. shakes his head. “No. That’s one party I’m not crashing,” he says. “Colby may be a fuck up, and yeah, he’s going about this all wrong, but he’s my cash flow.”

  Since when did A.J. get any sense about him? Shouldn’t Reed be the one shaking his head and telling us how messy this is? Reed should be pulling A.J. back, telling him how Deputy Pittman is probably working security and that he’ll be cuffed at the door just for showing his face. Yet Reed’s the one holding his keys and waiting by the door like we’re wasting precious seconds.

  “You can be the getaway,” Reed says. “Haley and I will go in and get the scoop.”

  I’m not sure who’s been poisoning Reed’s drinking water since I’ve been gone, but I’m not even going to question it. I nod in agreement because I need to be at that press conference. I need to hear what these people have to say. I need to know that they really do just want their son back.

  There’s no time for second guesses. I grab A.J.’s arm, rush outside with Reed, and claim shotgun in his Jeep. When we get to the hotel, Reed and I get out at the door. There isn’t a parking space anywhere within three blocks of Crescent Inn, so A.J. says he’ll circle around and keep an eye out for us.

  The hotel lobby glows in hues of orange. I see nothing but the backs of reporters and cameramen. Even with a microphone, we’d be lucky to hear a word through all the shuffling around us.

  Reed cranes his neck and pushes up on his toes to see over the crowd. Then he shrugs and shakes his head. “I can’t see anything from back here,” he says. “But I have an idea.”

  I latch onto his arm and hold on as he fights back through the security officers in the entrance. We step back into the parking lot as nightfall wraps around the building. Topher wasn’t kidding. This is just a big publicity stunt. They can’t hold off much longer.

  “This way,” Reed says, pointing around the building. “There’s a fire escape that we can use to get inside. We’ll be on the concierge level. We can take the elevator down.”

  He shakes the metal just slightly to make sure it’s sturdy before stepping onto it. He climbs up a few steps and then comes back down.

  “It’s solid. You go up first. I’ll follow, you know, just in case I need to catch you,” he says.

  I hesitate for just a second but grasp onto the metal and pull myself onto the ladder. The burning curiosity forces me up until I reach solid landing on metal steps. Reed follows closely behind, and we ascend the stairs until Reed finds the entrance to the concierge level on the fourteenth floor.

  “This isn’t like you,” I say as he helps me inside. “This is something A.J. would do. Maybe Alston. But you? You should be the one sitting at the condo waiting for A.J. to call from lockup.”

  Reed laughs but says nothing as he leads the way to the elevator. We step inside, and he presses
the button for the first floor rather than the lobby.

  “Have you ever noticed how hotels don’t have thirteenth floors?” he asks, nodding to the keypad of floor numbers. “It’s supposed to be bad luck.”

  The numbers decrease one by one as we descend toward the first floor.

  “You weren’t the only one who made some changes after last summer,” Reed says. “I guess I realized how much I wasn’t living. I mean, I’m not on A.J.’s level or anything, but I’ve been hanging out with some new friends, and it’s been good.”

  The feeling in my stomach is all too familiar. It’s the feeling I had last summer when Reed introduced me to A.J. in the middle of Strickland’s Boating, telling me that he would be my right-hand man for the day.

  I don’t know why Reed would need new friends. Our friends are enough. A.J. may not be the best behaved, and yeah, the West Coast Hooligans aren’t exactly the most upstanding citizens, but our friends are the best.

  “You should come with me sometime,” Reed says as the elevator door dings and pops open. “I surf with them. I hadn’t surfed in a long time. I’m not all serious about it like Topher or anything, but I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it.”

  I force myself to smile. “I have enough surfer drama in my life,” I say, remembering why we’re even here. “I don’t need any more wave riders.”

  With that, I brush past Reed and hope he’ll drop the topic. I don’t want to meet his new friends. I want my old friends and nothing more. It may be immature or stupid, but I don’t want new people hanging out with us. I’m fully aware that I’m an outsider who somehow worked her way in, just like Colby did back in the day, but the fact of it is, we’re on the inside now. I’m finally here in California for good. I don’t want anyone messing up what I worked so hard to build. Colby Taylor may be the fuck up of all surfers, but damn it, I understand where he’s coming from because I’m right there with him.

  “Where are we headed?” Reed asks. “We can take the stairs to the lobby. We might be able to squeeze in closer to the front.”