Surf's Up

by Carolina Valdez

  Surf's Up!

  By Carolina Valdez

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2017 Carolina Valdez

  ISBN 9781634865104

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  NOTE: Previously published by Amber Quill Press.

  * * * *

  Surf's Up!

  By Carolina Valdez

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 1

  Encinitas, California

  The early morning coastal fog had receded enough that the roof on which Raven worked was dry enough to be safe. Although the fog had rolled back from the beach, it left a few curling tendrils here and there. Beneath the thicker layer the Pacific was still gray, but where sunlight caught it the water undulated like a piece of Navajo turquoise rimmed in silver froth.

  The salty air was cool, fresh, and invigorating. He heard the occasional call of a gull, counterpoint to the incoming waves as they rushed the shore with a soft shoosh.

  Humming a chant to the morning while kneeling on padded knees, he slid another square of terracotta-colored roofing material in place and nailed it down with an electric gun. He didn’t mind the physical labor, but the roof would warm up mid-morning and before two o’clock it would be too hot to be safe. He smiled. And then I will surf.

  “Hey, boss. What’re you doin’ here?”

  Raven sat back on his heels and peered down. “Hi, Jack. Kemper twisted his ankle, so I’m filling in today so we can meet our contract deadline. Johnson’ll be here tomorrow and will stay until Kemp returns.”

  “Scary to see the chief doing grunt work. Glad to know you ain’t lost the company and we’re all out of work.”

  Raven laughed. “Not hardly. You don’t have to worry about missing any paychecks.” Condor Building and Design was not only healthy, it was expanding. With the newest contracts coming in, they were actually planning to add more office and construction staff. Pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes with a piece of torn toweling, he looked at the surfers patiently waiting for the big swell that promised a thrilling ride to shore. The swells were five and six feet today, with an occasional seven footer.

  Perfect for some great rides.

  He returned to his nailing. About one thirty, he called an end to work for the day.

  Jack wiped the sweat from his face with an old red rag. “How about a beer and Mex food?”

  “Thanks, but I’m hitting the water. Surf’s up.”

  “Forgot you’re a dude. Hell. Tried one of those goddamn boards and fell off every time. Got hit in the head once and almost drowned. Let me fish from a dock and I do jes’ fine.”

  Raven clapped him on the back and wished him luck.

  “You ever fish?” Jack asked.

  “On the Klamath River. From canoes, not docks, you chicken.”

  Jack roared with laughter, and Raven grinned.

  He didn’t add that he’d helped build those canoes. He’d grown up in northern California on an Indian reservation, fishing with other members of his tribe. As a kid, he’d also hunted for dentaliums where the river met the mighty Pacific Ocean. Those particular shells were used as decorations for native regalia and could be fashioned into souvenirs to sell.

  One day while hunting for shells he found a broken Boogie Board in a public beach’s trash can. He repaired it and taught himself to body surf by observing those who did. In time, he sold enough shells to repair a discarded surf board and mastered that water sport, too.

  Now he shook off the memories and headed toward his truck. Growing up had had its moments, but almost ninety per cent of his relatives lived in poverty. To survive on the reservation, they had raised food, eaten the animals they hunted or what they caught from the river or ocean. They earned money from selling shell jewelry. At least they didn’t panhandle on public streets like the people he’d seen on the sidewalks here.

  Every day he thanked the Spirits of his people that his father had taken his small family into the white world. An intelligent man despite humble beginnings, his dad found good work as a skilled carpenter and encouraged his oldest son to apply for a college scholarship. It was granted, and Raven was graduated with a degree in architectural engineering. Together he and his father founded the company with Raven its chief designer.

  Reaching his truck, Raven changed his boots for the freedom of beach shoes and grabbed a tuna salad sandwich and a cola in one of the small cafés on the Pacific Coast Highway. An historical marker in the parkway declared that under Spanish rule the highway had been El Camino Real—the king’s highway. Now it was a bustling four-lane road that followed the line of the sea with railroad tracks running parallel on the opposite side of the street.

  Eager to be on the water, he barely tasted his lunch, finishing it in about three bites and a chugalug swallow. He pulled his board from his truck and made his way down the cliff stairs to the hot sand. Digging the board’s point into its glinting grains so it stood upright resting against the yellowish cliff wall, he let his shirt and jeans drop to his towel as he stripped down to boy-cut surfer shorts. Under the burning rays of the sun it seemed ridiculous to pull on a tight Neoprene wetsuit, but the breezes out beyond the breakers could chill a wet body while you straddled your board for hours awaiting the next ride. It also protected you from burning the major part of your physique.

  Sunscreen on his face and hands, goggles over his eyes, and he was ready.

  Cradling the width of his heavy board between hip and armpit, he reached the dampened sand and waded into the salty water. Later it would become a warm friend, but on this first encounter the cold Pacific shocked as it always did. Dreading that coldness, he forced himself to take in a breath and duck under until he was wet all over. Coming up, he waded out knee deep, then stretched out belly down on his board and paddled out to the bone yard, the place beyond where the waves broke. He sat astride and waited.

  Patience paid its dividends as he floated. He finally caught a big wave and stood—hanging five—whooping as happiness filled him and the ocean caught his board and swept unerringly to the shore, where it died.

  With the sun on his face and his board gliding on the green liquid, he felt like king of the sea. Gone were any other concerns in his life. He caught the curl of a cruncher or two, imagining he rode the dangerously huge ones found off the coasts of Hawaii and Australia.

  Traffic was heavy on the water today. There were near collisions, and one
dork dressed in ragged Hawaiian baggies had difficulty steering his way through the crowd. He almost collided with Raven, who yelled, “Watch it!” before eating it to avoid a wipe out.

  Another guy riding in all the way picked up his board and said, “That guy’s gonna get someone hurt.”

  “Or himself. He leaves alcohol breath big as a cruncher in his wake,” a young woman in a bikini pretty close to revealing all, said.

  “It’s stupid to surf drunk,” Raven added. The massive strength of the sea was uncontrolled, unkind, and deadly. “Inebriation out here’s as dangerous as it is while you’re behind the wheel of a car or on a motorcycle.”

  As the afternoon wore on, Raven’s arms and legs grew heavier and his teeth chattered from the cold. He realized most of the surfers had left the water for the night. The earth was turning its way to nightfall and the moon’s gravity was doing its job, too. Ebbtide had begun, and in his pursuit of pleasure he’d also drifted out of the surfing area. Not wanting to encounter the rocks along this part of the shore, he paddled into a small cove and stepped off his board.

  He noticed a battered older board bobbing in the surf, so he retrieved it lest it hurt someone or be lost.

  Pulling his goggles up to his forehead, he hefted his board to his hip and pulled up sharply as his toe caught on something and almost threw him to the ground.

  What the hell?

  He’d almost stumbled over a colorful cloth bundle in his path. On closer look, it was the guy dressed in the tattered Hawaiian baggies. He’d obviously emptied his stomach several times and was now in a stupor, asleep face down in the wet sand.

  Alarm shot through Raven. If the dork was sleeping off a drunk, the morning’s incoming tide might drown him.

  Chapter 2

  A quick survey of the beach told him they were probably alone. Raven dug his board upright in the damp sand next to the rescued board. A paramedic friend had once warned him that some people would fake needing help only to rise up, knock you out and rob you. So he approached the guy in the bright baggies with care. Reaching at arm’s length, he shook his bare shoulder.

  “You gotta wake up, surfer dude. Tide’s going out now, but tomorrow you’ll drown during the incoming if you stay like this.”

  With a groan, the stranger turned his head to the side and spit out sand. “Oh, sh…shit.”

  “Yeah. That’s about the size of it,” Raven said in agreement. Coming closer, he saw they were probably close in age.

  The man’s attempt to push up to his knees failed. He crumpled back down, forehead touching sand, moaning. When he tried again, Raven leaned down to slide his arm under the man’s arm and across a chest of solid muscle. Together they were successful, although Raven turned his head away from the alcohol-fumed breath. This wasn’t beer, it was serious liquor.

  “Whew! You smell like a distillery. It’s disgusting. You gotta stop drinking if you want to ride the waves.”

  “Yezzer.” Baggies missed his forehead and jabbed one eye as he saluted his rescuer.

  Raven maneuvered the guy to a sitting position with his back against some rocks. “I take it that’s your board?”

  The stranger waved a hand as if acknowledging ownership.

  “After I move them up the beach a ways, I’ll see if we can get you on your feet.”

  He carried the boards out of the cove and left them there, grateful the beach was almost deserted, and no one was near enough to steal them before he could come back with the drunk dork. There was a shower not far from the boards, and they both needed one.

  “What’s your name?” he asked when he returned.

  “Red…wood…woodypecker.”

  Raven stifled a laugh.

  The guy’s long hair was as black as Raven’s, so Red seemed a misnomer. He used it anyway. “Okay, Red, up you go.”

  It was slow, but with Raven’s arm around the surfer’s waist and his around Raven’s neck they reached the shower. Still holding him because he thought the guy would collapse if he let him go, they stepped on the big cement square that had a drain and kept them out of the sand. Raven turned the faucet handle.

  “G’dammit! Tha’s cold!”

  It did feel like ice water. “Tough,” Raven said under his breath. “You shouldn’t be drunk.” Then, louder, “Use your hands to get the sand off your face. That’s it. Good. Now hold onto the shower pole while I get out of my wetsuit.” As he peeled it off and rinsed it and his body, his rescue giggled.

  Raven turned to find Red pointing to Raven’s crotch, a lolling grin across his face.

  “Bet yer peckerz teeny as mine’z.” He started to pull his shorts down.

  Raven grabbed his hands and stopped him. “Whoa there, Mr. Hawaii. This is a public beach. You’re right, though. Cold’ll shrink a man’s dick every time.”

  What in hell brought that on? A horny drunk…what a joke. I’ve yet to see anyone this drunk able to get it up much less act on it.

  “Here, we’ll share my towel. You don’t seem to have one.” That done, Raven lifted the ragtag board with a sigh as he reminded himself not to be critical. After all, he’d learned to surf on just such a board. He’d even been drunk a few times when he was young and rebelling against the life his family lived on the rez.

  “Come on. I’ll put these in my truck and take you home. You’re in no shape to drive.”

  The man pulled back. “Don’ go with strangerz. ʼSnot safe.” He lifted his head and looked at Raven.

  For the first time, Raven was aware of eyes as dark as his own studying him from a face framed by wet hair that was long and black. His skin was as tan as Raven’s, his arms covered with colorful tattoos of birds and trees. He recognized condors with their black wings spread wide, their vulture necks pink as a turkey’s, their heads crowned with white feathers. Nestled among the trees were beautiful black-and-white woodpeckers with scarlet head feathers. California redheaded woodpeckers…that must be where he’d gotten his nickname. If it was a nickname.

  As he observed him, something about the guy struck a long ago chord in Raven. If there was something there, it was too nebulous to lock down.

  “No’ a stranger, ‘sokay,” the drunk said. He staggered to a grouping of rocks and pulled hard on something there until he fell on his butt in the gray sand as a large plastic bag came free from its hiding place. Clutching it to his chest, he walked a crooked line to the truck, opened the door, and fell half in, half out.

  Raven chuckled at the sight. Guilt followed because there was nothing funny about something that could destroy both liver and brain.

  Not a stranger? He had no clue what that meant, but there was no way he could leave someone this comically vulnerable out in the open.

  “Up you go.” He swung the man’s legs in, buckled him up and shut the door. When they were both buckled in, Raven turned the key and the motor burst to life. “Where to?”

  His passenger shook his head.

  So Raven put it a different way. “Where do you live?”

  “Los’ job. Streets.”

  Raven rested his head on his hands on the steering wheel. Oh, that’s just great. He’s homeless. What am I going to do with him? If I take him to the police station they’ll put him in a cell until he sobers up, and come morning they’ll toss him out on the street. That’s not a solution. But if I take him home, he might kill me in my bed tonight or just rob me blind.

  The other man murmured something.

  “What?” Raven asked again, expecting the name of ka shelter where he could take him.

  The surfer repeated it, his tongue less slurred but slower now as it maneuvered the difficult syllables.

  Goose flesh popped up on Raven’s arms.

  He’d spoken in Karuk, the language of the downriver people.

  And he’d said Raven’s Indian name.

  Now he said his own.

  “No’ a stranger. Friend. Safe,” he added.

  Raven’s head felt glued to his hands. There was no longer anything hu
morous in this situation. Hunter had called him Shark Killer.

  “Condor Hunter?” Raven asked, repeating it in the same tongue when he could get his throat working again.

  “ʼS’right.”

  Now the comment about their dicks made sense. It referenced the exploration of their bodies as boys coming into puberty, discovering some amazing things about their dicks and balls.

  “Shee…it,” he muttered under his breath as the import of that hit him in the gut. If you were from a California reservation, you were tribesmen—family—until death. So, at least for the time being, Raven was stuck with this man.

  Red nodded. “Shee…it,” he repeated.

  Raven put the truck in reverse and peeled out of the parking lot in a brief fit of frustration. Thank Holona, his people’s goddess of life, that the condos which he’d designed, built, and lived in provided an outdoor elevator. It was a plus when you needed to transport boards…and an inebriated tribal brother clutching his only belongings in a plastic bag…to the top floor.

  Oh, crap, crap, crap. Raven pounded one fist on the steering wheel.

  His floors were hardwood, covered with colorful handwoven rugs here and there, so he made Hunter strip down to his skin so he wouldn’t drip on the floors. He stripped, too, trying not to notice if Hunter was looking at his naked body and seeing his shrunken dick while he shivered in the evening chill.

  He gathered their wet clothes and unlocked his door. Inside, he dumped them in the washing machine. He would run the load tomorrow. Just now they needed the water for a different task.

  In the bathroom, he held Hunter up under the pounding stream of warm shower water he’d started. Although they were almost the same height, Hunter soon had his head on Raven’s broad shoulder.

  Raven stiffened when he felt the heel of a hand slide down his water-slick belly and fingers fondle his dick.

  “ˋMember? Jerkin’ off. My s…spunk won distanz.”

  Raven’s dick stirred as any man’s would if touched, especially by a man, he convinced himself. He grabbed the groping hand. “Stop that, Hunter. Yes, I remember. But we were kids then. We’re adults now.”