by Nikki Godwin
“Take him to the car,” Noah says to his brother. He nods toward Benji. “We really don’t need anyone taking pictures of him right now. I’ll hold off anyone out front.”
We wait out front alone while Big Tony goes to get the car. Tank and Nat go through another exit to avoid any possible camera flashes. Fortunately, the paparazzi are gone, aside from two creepers with cameras sitting on the curb. I guess waiting around here all night for a picture of Spaceships Around Saturn leaving a club wasn’t worth it. I can’t say I blame them. Sleep sounds much better.
“Is this what it’s like?” Noah asks. He motions around us. “You know, being normal? I can’t even remember the last time I went anywhere without someone stopping me for a selfie or autograph.”
“Um, yeah, it’s pretty normal for everyone else to ignore you while you stand around and wait for a car,” I say. “Welcome to my glamorous life.”
Noah laughs and then wraps an arm around my shoulder. He hugs me close to him while we walk out toward the curb so we can jump in the car and get out of here pretty quickly. A bright red sports car rolls up to the curb, though, instead of our ride. Noah glances at it but doesn’t seem impressed.
An older guy on a cell phone makes his way toward the car. He looks to be in his mid-forties, but he’s definitely held his age well. He reminds me of the rich doctor type, a bit rugged yet clean cut, in that way that only actors or models can pull off. He’s nice-looking. I can only imagine what he looked like at our age. He probably has a trophy wife.
Noah watches the guy, maybe thinking the same things I am (except the nice-looking part), and the man catches his gaze.
“Excuse me for just a sec,” the man says into his phone. He lowers it to his chest and takes a few steps toward us. Maybe his daughter is a Spaceships Around Saturn fan. “Is there a problem here?” he asks instead.
I instantly turn to Noah, who seems as confused as I am. He simply shrugs and shakes his head.
“Then would you mind stepping back?” the man asks. “That car is worth more than you’ll ever make in your lifetime. Are you aware that you’ll be lucky to get a job with all those tattoos? No one worth working for is ever going to hire you.”
The man shakes his head in disgust before stepping back to his car and taking the keys from the valet guy. He says something into the phone about ‘punk ass teenagers’ before slamming the door.
“Who the hell does he think he is?” Noah asks.
“Dr. Richardson,” someone says from behind us.
I glance over my shoulder to see a tall guy, about six foot one or two, with surfer hair a lot like Benji’s, except it’s sandy brown instead of blonde. Even in the glow of neon lights and streetlamps, I can tell he has a beach-given tan. He’s possibly the hottest guy I’ve seen in Crescent Cove yet – no offense to SAS or their bodyguards. This guy just looks like he lives on the shoreline and soaks up the sunshine.
“Doctors are assholes, eh?” Noah says.
The guy shrugs. “He’s always an ass. His son is just like him, thinking they’re God’s gift to the world. Arrogant sons of bitches. The doc’s going to hell anyway, and I hope they don’t have mansions or yacht clubs when he gets there.”
A sea-foam green truck roars its way to the curb in front of us. I’m pretty sure the vehicle is older than I am. I wait for it to die on the spot, but it just chokes a little.
“How drunk are you?” the guy says, popping out of his driver’s side window. It’s the guy with blonde dreadlocks who I saw on The Strip.
“Not drunk enough,” the guys says. He half-waves to us before getting in his friend’s truck.
I watch them make a U-turn and disappear back into the depths of Crescent Cove. It’s sort of weird vacationing in someone’s town, seeing them live their normal lives with normal jerky doctors who live in mansions, drinking beer at their normal hangouts. And here I am standing on the curb with a celebrity, who those normal guys probably didn’t even know. It makes me smile. Maybe I wasn’t the last person alive who didn’t know what Spaceships Around Saturn looks like after all.
Chapter Seven
It’s a little after noon when Noah shows up at room 322. He’s unaccompanied by Big Tony, and I’m thankful. He hurries inside, just to be safe, kicks off his flip flops, and stretches out on my bed – flattening the pink paper with the purple owl in the process.
“What is…” He reaches under himself and grabs the paper. “The spring break bucket list?”
I want to dive across the bed and snatch it from him, but it’s too late. He’s already skimming the list, his eyes moving faster than I want them to.
“Ahhh,” he says, shaking the paper at me. “This whole hanging out with me thing – all part of the master plan to check off number three, right? I’m the ‘meet a celebrity’ guy.”
“Give me that,” I say, reaching across the bed for the list.
He jerks his arm back, and I topple onto him. He keeps his arm at a good length, so I can’t reach it, and hooks his other arm around me, so I can’t really wiggle my way toward it.
“You know, I kind of like this whole you squirming on top of me thing. It’s a bit sexy,” he says, laughing at my struggle. “Maybe we can add that to the list.”
I pull myself free from his grasp and plant myself on what was formerly Erin’s bed. Then I give him my bitch glare, as best I can anyway. It’s hard to pull off when his ‘I’m playing innocent’ grin makes me want to laugh.
“Seriously,” he says, sitting up on my bed. “What’s the story? I won’t laugh. I promise.”
I’d much rather have him know the truth than to think he’s a pawn in my bucket of games, so I tell him everything. I tell him about Hilary and how we had our falling out. I tell him about everyone but Erin taking her side, and I even admit that I don’t blame them. Hilary was going to LA with or without me. It was the better spring break trip. I can’t say I’d have chosen my side either, regardless who was right. They had to be on her side at least until spring break was over, but I’m sure they’re bonding and making the greatest memories of their high school careers without me.
“Erin heard about this place and said it was big on tourists and that we could maybe do our list here,” I tell him. “Then we got here and realized how tiny and boring it was. The joke was on us, I guess.”
Noah shakes his head and moves over to Erin’s bed next to me. He examines the list again. “You know what? The joke is on Hilary,” he says. “One, because she lost you which is a damn shame, and two, you’re here with Noah Winters of Spaceships Around Saturn, and anyone she meets for item number three won’t even come close to me.”
I’ll give him that. She could meet freaking Justin Timberlake, and I’d still have the edge over her because I’m on Saturn, which might be better than LA in the long run.
“We’re going to cross off your list,” he tells me. “I’m in. Let’s do it. We’ll narrow down what you have left, and we’ll go on an adventure. You don’t need Hilary or your no-good friends or Erin and her broken ankle. You can do it without them. You’ve got me.”
I partially want to melt right here on the hotel bed, but I also want to be rational because I know we can’t pull this off. Even with his money and connections, there’s no way to accomplish this list in a week. We didn’t even expect to complete it in LA. It just gave us a map.
“There’s no way,” I tell him. “There are things on that list that are impossible, especially here. In LA, maybe, but Crescent Nowhere Cove? Not happening.”
Noah places the list on the bed and turns toward me. He isn’t buying it. It’s written all over his face that he doesn’t believe a word that’s coming out of my mouth.
“The hardest thing on that list to pull off in Crescent ‘Nowhere’ Cove is meeting a celebrity, and I’m pretty sure you’ve met a few of them,” he says.
He crosses his arms over his chest, and I swear, for a split second, he reminds me of Nat with the prissy attitude. I instantly burst out laughing.<
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“Well, I’m glad that was funny to you,” he says, completely oblivious to why I’m even laughing. “Are we doing this list or not?”
If nothing else, I’ll do this list just so I can take photos of myself doing the items with him instead of my friends. And then I’ll post them all over my social media accounts so they’ll be forced to look at them. Immature? Maybe. Do I care? No. I just hate having to withhold photos until after this week is over. I can’t be the one who unleashes the big Saturn vacation secret.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
This bucket list adventure with Noah would be a lot more fun if we didn’t have Big Tony tagging along three steps behind us everywhere we go. I understand why he’s here, but the lack of privacy is annoying, and more so, I’m not so keen on having a bodyguard around for some of these items. I feel like we’re breaking the law with a cop. Not cool.
The Strip isn’t any more exciting than it was when I bought a bracelet and scarf while Erin whined on the sidelines. Still, Noah insists that we use what’s available to us, and The Strip is more than available. He skims most of the vendors before deciding to stop at Strickland’s Boating.
The store itself is entirely out of place. It’s massive with its own back parking lot and storage unit. The surf shop next door doesn’t blend any better. I feel sorry for all the mom-and-pop stands along the sidewalk now. I don’t know how these people even make a living with corporate units like this exploding out of The Strip.
Floor-to-ceiling windows decorate the front of the building. They’re strategically decorated with flyers advertising rental prices for jet skis, sailboats, and other water equipment. Noah pushes through the entrance door, and we’re welcomed by any and everything a boater could possibly want or need. Maybe these Strickland people were on to something. It’s pretty much the perfect location for this sort of place.
A guy meets us halfway across the room, knocking his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. Does everyone around here have surfer hair?
“Can I help you guys with anything?” he asks.
I start to tell him no, but Noah dives in head first asking about what there is to do around here. The guy – Reed, according to his name tag – rattles off what is probably a typical sales pitch about what they can offer and what deals they have going on.
My eyes focus on the huge black and white photo of a Great White shark behind the sales counter. What a buzzkill! Why anyone would get in the ocean after seeing that is beyond me. Is he not aware that it’s bad for business? I walk closer to get a better look at it. A silver logo on the bottom corner reads Jake McAllister Photography. Well, Jake McAllister, you are one brave freaking soul.
I hurry back over to Noah, hook my arm around his, and nonchalantly try to hint that we need to get out of here. I don’t care how famous he is – I’m not getting in the ocean. Reed hands him a brochure and tells us that if we change our minds to swing back by because he’ll hook us up. Oh, I’m sure he will.
“Not one for jet skiing?” Noah asks when we step outside onto the sidewalk. “Do you know how many of these things we could check off on a jet ski?”
I don’t even answer that question. I didn’t realize I was such a shoreline girl, but maybe I am. I just know I can’t step foot in the ocean while the Great White is embedded in my brain.
“Moving on,” Noah says, defeated. “Surf shop. You may not want to go in here, but I never get to go places like this. Besides, the wave demands we go in.”
An aqua wave shoots from the roof of Drenaline Surf, dangling over the store. A silver surfboard, painted like a shark with the Drenaline Surf logo, is positioned in the center of the wave over the arched entranceway.
“Nice,” Noah says, looking at the wave frozen above us. “I already like this place.”
Living in California my entire life, I’ve seen my fair share of surf shops. I’ve seen everything from Quiksilver to the family-owned stores. Drenaline Surf doesn’t really impress me. The main room has the basics – surf gear and accessories, sunglasses, clothing, beach towels, souvenirs, and jewelry. The room to the side has a ton of surfboards. Typical.
“Hey, welcome to Drenaline Surf,” the guy behind the counter calls out. More shark photography decorates the wall behind him. “If you need any help, just let me know.”
At least he’s not eager or pushy. He pretty much ignores us and goes back to talking to his friends, but I’m more interested in who his friends are than buying Drenaline Surf merch. Two guys stand on the opposite side of the cash register – the blonde with dreadlocks and the guy he picked up from Lights Out last night. This must be a super tiny town.
“I wasn’t even that drunk,” the guy from last night says. “I think they’re just looking for a reason to fire me. They hate me anyway.”
“So you have all week off?” the guy behind the counter asks. “You should just go work part time with Jace. He’d get you on at the music store, and you’d make more part time than you do full time lifeguarding anyway.”
“Yeah, because you’re always suspended,” the blonde says. “Fuck them. Let’s go surf.”
“Language!” the guy behind the counter shouts. He looks over at me. “I’m so sorry. My friends are idiots.”
His friends immediately look my way, about the same time Noah looks toward them. There’s an awkward pause, and I hate it. But then…
“You’re the dude from last night,” the other guy says. “The one Dr. Richardson was giving hell, right?”
Noah nods, and the guy from last night introduces himself as Theo. Then he introduces his friends – Miles, the dreadlocked blonde, and Topher, the guy working at Drenaline Surf.
“Spring break or vacation?” Theo asks.
“Spring break,” Noah answers quickly. I think it’s obvious that these guys have no clue who he is, and Noah tends to enjoy that. “Anything cool happening around here?”
Theo shrugs. “Crescent Cove is boring as hell,” he says. “We’re headed back to Horn Island. We just came to see Topher, but as usual, nothing’s happening here.”
“You know, Dr. Richardson’s yacht club party is tomorrow night,” Miles adds. “It’s one of those big shot things – doctors, lawyers, rich dudes. Basically a bunch of assholes get together and celebrate owning the city. You should crash it.”
It surprises me that no one interjects or tries to convince us otherwise. Instead, Theo invites us to go back to Horn Island with them, and much to my surprise, Noah accepts.
Big Tony follows Miles and Theo back to Horn Island, questioning Noah repeatedly about if this is a good idea. The bodyguard seems way more concerned about these ‘surf thugs’ than Noah does, though.
“You know how you have those cities where, if you turn left, you’re in the rich downtown areas but if you turn right, you’re in the ghetto?” I ask, peering out the window. “That’s about the different in Crescent Cove and Horn Island. The cove is rich, and this place is the ghetto.”
Noah laughs but defends Horn Island by calling it ‘real,’ unlike the rest of his world. If he wanted real, I could’ve taken him back to my house – with high school drama, busy parents, and a ‘fend for yourself’ lifestyle.
“I think these guys will be okay,” Noah says, reassuring Big Tony more than anyone else. “They don’t even know who I am. It’s almost like pre-Saturn.”
Earlier this morning, before we headed out to The Strip, Noah told me that Big Tony wouldn’t get in our way. He’s the newest member of the security team, and he’s the least thrilled to be here. Noah’s theory is that he’s only here for the money. Noah says he’s okay with that, but I think he secretly wishes his bodyguard was more like Tank or Tate’s Jersey-bred bodyguard Axel. As long as Big Tony doesn’t crash my plans this week, I really don’t care if he’s here or not.
We follow the locals into a parking lot near the beach. A boating ramp sits off to the side. A concrete-ish building with showers and bathrooms (that I’d prefer to never use) is planted next to the si
dewalk. A mural is painted on the side wall. Sorry, Horn Island, but that dark red painted sunset doesn’t do much to brighten up this place.
This place definitely isn’t a tourist attraction either. Two people – literally two beings – sit on the beach. They glance back upon hearing car doors. The girl is probably close to my age. She wears a halter bikini top and high-waisted swim shorts, like a pinup girl from the 40s or 50s. She’s sort of classy rock star, if I had to label her style. The guy with her has a deep tan, long black hair, and a smile bigger than Horn Island should have to offer. He’s cute in a Taylor-Lautner-before-the-werewolf-days kind of way.
The girl jumps up and rushes toward us all too happily, and I wonder for a second if she recognizes Noah…until she leaps into Miles’s arms and completely ignores his newfound friends. Noah seems rather pleased that she ran to the dreadlocked blonde instead of him, like it’s the rarest and most amazing thing in the world.
“So, um, that’s Emily,” Theo says. “She’s Miles’s girlfriend, obviously, and that guy down there is Kale. He’s a friend of ours.”
Emily glances at us and whispers something to Miles. If she has any clue at all, she’s playing it super cool. Noah steps aside and talks to Big Tony alone, while Theo tells me that he and his friends surf here and no one bothers them because they “beat the fuck outta anyone who tries.” For some reason, it doesn’t shock me at all.
After officially meeting everyone and learning about their surf gang, the West Coast Hooligans, I’m pretty certain we’ve found the right people to hang with.
“They’re not as bad as they look,” Emily explains. “The term ‘surf gang’ is a bit much too. They’re just territorial.”
The boys crack open a few beers from Kale’s cooler and engage Noah in conversation about the best alcohols and how Theo is suspended from work for showing up with a hangover. Noah chugs a beer, probably celebrating the fact that he actually talked Big Tony into leaving us here alone. That in itself is a small victory.
