by T. Torrest
DOWN THE SHORE
A rock-and-roll romantic comedy.
Livia Chadwick is a photographer by day and a self-proclaimed rock slut by night.
Her dating life is a lackluster parade of evasive jerks and
her boss is an unrelenting nightmare of a human being.
What else can a girl do but rent a beach house with her girlfriends
And blow off a little steam every weekend?
But hey, she’s from Jersey. Barhopping down the shore all season is sort of mandatory.
All is going according to plan… until she meets Jack.
Jack Tanner is a contractor-turned-musician in a small-town cover band
suddenly thrust into the limelight.
He’s already had enough of the rock-and-roll lifestyle, and groupies have never been his thing.
Then again… there’s a gorgeous brunette in the audience tonight, checking him out with the most incredible green eyes he’s ever seen.
She's looking for a fling.
He's looking for forever.
It’s gonna be one helluva summer.
Set in the summer of 1995, DOWN THE SHORE takes the reader on a tour through some of the Jersey shore’s hottest hot spots over one, sleepless, flannel-clad summer.
It’s a look back to a time when the music was groundbreaking, the rock clubs were king,
and bar bands ruled the world.
READ WHEN YOU’RE IN THE MOOD FOR:
Light, sexy, funny, romantic, and nostalgic.
To Mom and Dad
I dedicated this book to you, and it’s about flipping time. You’ve both been so supportive of everything I’ve ever done, and I couldn’t be more grateful for it.
Thanks for the countless memories at the Jersey Shore. xoxo
Just a quick note about our characters:
If you read an early version of Remember When, you may notice the discrepancy with Jack’s name. Originally, he was Jack Danner, but his surname has since been changed to Tanner. No biggie, but I didn’t want to confuse anyone. Carry on.
It is highly suggested that you run this Spotify playlist while reading to enhance your experience:
DOWN THE SHORE Soundtrack
The timing hasn’t been synced with the book or anything, but almost all featured songs are included.
CHAPTER 1
(Technically) Friday, May 26, 1995
1:21 AM
Brendan Byrne Arena (backstage)
East Rutherford
I rehook my bra and pull my micro-sized concert tee back over my torso as Rider MacLaine stuffs his dick back into his jeans.
Rider’s the lead singer of Dark Forest, the awesome alternative band that opened for Pearl Jam tonight. My friend Tess and I had front row seats, enabling Rider and me to do some serious eye-fucking during the show. About midway through Pearl Jam’s set, we received The Message, like I figured we would. A security guy had come over to Tess and me with a couple of backstage passes, and I knew Rider was looking for a little more than just sight sex.
So I blew him. Sue me.
His band was phenomenal and it was the least I could do to say “thank you.” Except that I just happened to say it by taking off my shirt and wrapping my lips around his cock. And he said “you’re welcome” by pulling out and shooting his wad into his nearby sweat towel.
Kind of gentlemanly, right?
Rider’s pretty hot, but I’m not expecting to ever see him again. That’s the mistake most girls make: mooning over the posters on their walls, dreaming too hard about the rock star staring back at them. Pinning all their hopes on just that one chance to try and make the guy their own; envisioning a happily ever after with some guy who doesn't even know they exist.
If you happen to be one of those girls, I'll save you a lot of trouble right now and let you in on a little secret:
There’s no such thing as happily ever after.
“So, listen,” he starts in. “We’re leaving Jersey tonight. I’d get your number, but…”
“Rider,” I laugh out. “You think I’m expecting you to call me?” I cross my arms against my stomach, trying to contain my laughter.
That brings a smile to Rider’s face. “I guess I just thought you’d expect me to at least ask.”
The guy is gorgeous, he’s an amazing musician, he’s got a great big beautiful cock, and now I come to find that he has a conscience. A girl could do worse. But I’m not delusional enough to think that that girl will ever be me. “Don’t sweat it, Rider. All I was expecting from you was a little fun and that’s what I got. Thanks.” My eyebrows rise as I try to contain my smile.
Rider’s amused. He puts his shirt back on and says, “You’re pretty cool, uh…”
“Livia,” I finish for him.
“I knew that.”
“Sure you did.”
I roll my eyes and we both laugh.
“Hey, listen. Maybe I was just trying to be nice before, but I think you’re really cool. I actually want to call you next time I’m in town. How ‘bout that number?”
I’m flattered by the offer. But this scenario is nothing new; I’ve been here before. These rockers are probably so sick of girls trying to tame them, trying to lay some sort of claim just because the guy dropped a load in their presence. When a girl like me comes along, a girl who isn’t looking for some lifetime commitment, it’s a breath of fresh air.
“How ‘bout we just plan on maybe seeing each other next time you’re playing here. If I’m around, I’ll find you.”
He gives me a nod, then holds out his fist. “Rock on, Livia.”
I fistbump him back. “Rock on, MacLaine.”
Rider reclaims his hand and starts to walk off. “Well, I guess I’ll see ya. Thanks for the head.”
Ugh. The guy is an amazing lyricist, and that’s his parting line?
I shake my head at his retreating form as the inevitable regret sets in. I have to admit that I don’t necessarily have all my shit together. But then again, I’m only twenty-three. No one has their life figured out at twenty-three, am I right? Caught somewhere between my teen years and the rest of my life, I have no idea who I’m supposed to be.
But hot damn, is it so wrong to have a little fun while I try to figure it out?
I brush off my tights, straighten my miniskirt, and head back into the VIP room to check on Tess. She’s sitting on a green couch talking up the drummer, Sal, and I know that there’s no way she’s already taken care of business. Tess has always been a love ‘em and leave ‘em type of gal, so it’s a rare occasion when I see her still making small talk with her latest conquest. She’s so flipping gorgeous that most guys come pretty quickly, and she’s found that she doesn’t have much use for them after that. I swear, the girl’s life is a constant search for the guy who can hold out long enough to get her off.
So, either Sal is the magic stud who has somehow breeched that wall, or she hasn’t closed the deal with him just yet. Based on their current body language, I’m guessing the former scenario is bloody unlikely. Damn. Now I have to wait on her to get the deed done, and that means we might be here for a while. I’m no slouch, but nine times out of ten, she’s the one waiting for me to finish up, based on that whole Quick Draw McGraw situation I just mentioned. It’s already late and I’m tired, but there’s no getting around it: I know it’s my turn to play backup for my girl.
Payback’s a bitch.
I grab a beer from the bar and join them on the couch.
“So, you went to med school?” Tess asks Sal. “That’s incredible. Hey Liv, check it out. Not only is he an amazing drummer, but Sal here is also a doctor.”
Sal laughs. “No, no, no. I never graduated. I said I went to med school. I didn’t say I got my degree.”
; Those two are yukking it up as my eyes scan the room for Rider. I expected to see him back in here, trolling for his next object of prey. Not that the chase would’ve been a problem for him. Trust me, I wasn’t the only girl in that audience who wanted to get him backstage.
In my experience, I’ve found that there are two types of rockstars:
Those that nail some random groupie before calling it a night, and
Those that nail numerous random groupies before calling it a night.
I’m only mildly surprised to find that Rider falls into the first category. Good for him. I really did like the guy, and I don’t want my favorable impression of him tarnished.
In any case, that’s neither here nor there. I’m more focused on the fact that I now have to rally for the endless evening still ahead of me, and shit. I’ve got work tomorrow.
“Hey Liv. I’m beat. Ya wanna get out of here?”
Tess’s words surprise me, but I’m not about to argue. Sal looks a bit taken aback, but I don’t doubt that he’ll be able to find a second-string tight end with which to spend his evening. That he’s already made his way over to the bar to talk to another girl shows me that he doesn’t doubt it either.
Now that it’s just the two of us here on this scratchy couch, I ask Tess, “What’s going on? You and Sal not getting along?”
Tess plays with the strap of her Coach wristlet. “No, he was really nice. But I’m just not up for it tonight. We can stay and just hang out though, if you want.”
No, thank you. I’ve already made my kill for the evening. There’s really no reason to hang around. “No. I’m actually tired, too. Let’s bolt.”
Tess and I are normally partners-in-crime for this sort of thing. She’s a music lover like me, so we typically spend our weekends checking out the local bands at the nearby clubs. But when an actual band like Pearl Jam comes to town? Tess and me are all over that shit.
Tess is a bit of a rock slut like me.
That circumstance is only due to the fact that I am a born-and-bred, unapologetic lover of all things musical. Always have been, always will be.
I’m a bit obsessed with rock and roll, but that doesn’t stop me from digging all music, even the bad stuff. Rap. Country. Pop. There’s a time and place for everything. I truly get that.
And regarding the good stuff, how could I possibly dig rock without tossing a nod to the masterminds who were responsible for it? Jazzy greats like Django Reinhardt. Louis Armstrong. Miles Davis. Bluesy tunes like “The Thrill is Gone” or “Georgia on My Mind” always make me melt, and a voice like Billie Holiday’s goes down like warm maple syrup on a piping hot pancake. It’s comfort food for my ears.
Going back even further, you’ve got your masters, the guys who started the whole music revolution in the first place. Bach and Beethoven. Tchaikovsky and Chopin. And the big daddy of them all, the guy who was so cool, Eddie Van Halen named his kid after him: Wolfgang Amadeus Motherfucking Mozart. The dude kicked some serious ass.
So, truly, I can appreciate all of it.
Even with that said, Tess and I are pretty much rock-and-roll chicks above all else. And when we find ourselves confronted with a band full of hot guys who just happen to be super-talented to boot? Well, it doesn’t take much more than that to get us wrapped around their little fingers.
Or other body parts.
Just to be clear: If the band sucks… we don’t.
Normally, we’ll call dibs early on during the show, and most times, we manage to weasel our way backstage to meet our prospective partners for the evening. Tess is hot and she’s always been the type of girl to get noticed, so having her in my camp makes that possibility a little easier to invoke.
Once we get backstage, the story is always the same. We get invited into the VIP room where our sweaty, exhausted rock stars are already whooping it up and drinking their faces off with all the other hopeful girls like us.
The key is to get their attention early. Separate yourself from the crowd.
While the rest of the girls are hanging all over the guys and trying to get them to leave the room, Tess and I tend to use a different tact. We’ll normally grab a bottle of champagne and make a big production of opening it, laughing our heads off as we try to get it uncorked, bending and twisting and “fighting” over which one of us is going to get the honors. It’s a performance we’ve played out a million times. With all the commotion, we’ll manage to draw a bit of attention, and by the time the cork pops, all eyes are on us. Works every time.
I mean, if we actually went through the trouble to get our asses backstage, the guys have just presumably played an amazing show. They’re not looking to leave the room yet; they’re looking to celebrate. So, Tess and I try to make it pretty clear that we’re there to just hang out and party, toast their success, help them blow off a little steam.
They appreciate that.
After a little while, once I’ve got my target winnowed out and he’s got a few drinks in him, it doesn’t take long for him to make his move. That’s when I know he’s ready to leave for a more, ah... private party.
And I never disappoint. I’m not one of those cock-teases, crushing on some rock star from afar, pouting when our first kiss doesn’t have him falling madly in love and proposing to me right there on the spot. Hell, sometimes we don’t even have a first kiss before the guy is unbuttoning his fly.
And I am totally cool with that.
I already have a boyfriend anyway.
Well, sort of. I’ve been dating this guy Mitch for a while. Only like three months or so, and it’s well established that we’re not exclusive.
“So, how’d it go with Rider?” Tess asks once we’re outside.
“Okay, I guess. He was really nice.”
“Was his dick nice?”
That makes me laugh. “Yeah. We became pretty close friends almost immediately.”
“Details.”
“Blowjob.”
“Rock on.”
And that’s really all I need to tell her about the encounter. I could go into the whole story, but it’s not like Tess needs to live vicariously through me. She’s had plenty of encounters of her own.
Just not tonight. Oh well.
We get into the car and Tess immediately blasts the radio. We’d listened to Pearl Jam the whole way here, but since we’re new fans of Dark Forest, we change out the CD for the one we bought at the concession stand at the arena.
It really was a good night.
As I hear the rumbling strains of “Turning Point” blaring out of the speakers, I hold up my palm to my friend. She smacks it for a high five and then we head home.
CHAPTER 2
Friday, May 26, 1995
8:42 PM
Our Car
Garden State Parkway
My sister Vix is at the wheel as usual. She cuts through some back streets and empties the vehicle onto Route 3, then takes the onramp for the Garden State Parkway, coming to a near stop almost immediately. Typical.
The original plan was to head down to our beach house early tomorrow morning in order to avoid the Parkway clusterfuck. On a weekend, the traffic going to the beach is bad enough. But on a holiday weekend? It would be quicker to crawl. I’ve spent enough hours on this road to know that by now.
The problem is that my sister got a bug in her brain about hitting The Tradewinds to check out a band, and we had to hit the road a day earlier than we’d originally intended. Vix is my polar opposite when it comes to hooking up with random rock stars, but she does enjoy hearing their music. So do I, normally, and The Tradewinds is a really cool rock club. But I was out pretty late with Tess last night, and because I had to put in a full day’s work only a few short hours later, I’m not sure I have it in me.
I have a job I really like, but I don’t know yet if it’s going to be my career. I love taking pictures, so the work itself is okay, but my boss pretty much sucks ass most of the time. If it weren’t for her, the actual job would be pretty cool. Even st
ill, I don’t really love being stuck inside a windowless studio all day long, trying to get all those cranky kids to smile pretty for the camera. Taking family portraits for a living isn’t necessarily the most inspiring venture, as one could hardly call the finished products art. My creativity isn’t being sparked under such oppressive circumstances.
That’s why I take every opportunity to bring my camera out into the real world as much as possible. I’m no photojournalist and TIME Magazine won’t be beating down my door anytime soon, but I find I’m most inspired when I can take pictures of the things that, well, inspire me.
Inspiration is important.
I have this great Minolta Maxxum 400 with interchangeable lenses that I use for work, but I was forced to bring a more compact 35 mm to the concert last night. The cheapo-cam is a far cry nicer than the pink Le Clic I had in high school, but not the ideal device for taking the most optimal shots. It was, however, the only thing I was able to smuggle past the security guards. I’m pretty sure I managed to get some good photos, and am just dying to see what I ended up with. Fridays at The Studio are normally our “darkroom days,” and I originally thought I’d be able to spend a little more private time with the members of Dark Forest while I developed the pix this morning. But Shana had other ideas, and instead, I spent my entire day cleaning out the storeroom until I eventually dragged myself home, exhausted.
I’d initially been looking forward to a date with my bed and then maybe one later on with my “boyfriend,” but when Mitch didn’t call, I figured I’d suck it up and salvage my Friday.
Because I’m riding shotgun, I assume the required DJ duties, flipping through random stations until I come across an “Eighties Weekend” on WPLJ. Vix shoots me a knowing look when Madonna’s “Lucky Star” comes on. I immediately break into as much of a dance routine as I can manage in the passenger seat, then we both start laughing.
