by Nikki Godwin
“What?” he counters. He holds up the cigarette. “This? It’s a stress thing. I don’t smoke on a regular basis. I’m just overwhelmed. I don’t know what I’m doing. Hell, Vin knew what he was doing and still left.”
Vin left because he’s a coward and wouldn’t ask for help. I bite my tongue so I don’t slip up and say it out loud. It may be true, but I’m the last person who needs to say it. I have the ex-girlfriend strike against me, and dating his brother definitely wouldn’t help my case.
“You’re not Vin, though,” I say, pushing myself off of the tailgate. Colby’s truck pulls into the parking lot, and I fixate my eyes on him but continue talking to Jace. “We’ll get through this. You have A.J. and Topher and me all here to help you learn how to run this place.”
Jace takes a drag and exhales smoke. I leave him alone with his nicotine and make my way toward Colby’s truck. The blonde surfer doesn’t bother to exit his vehicle, so I open the driver’s side door when I reach him.
“Don’t tell me you’re backing out on us,” I say, hoping and praying he isn’t because I don’t know Jace well enough to carry on a conversation for over an hour’s worth of driving.
Colby shakes his head. “Just looking at these documents my lawyer e-mailed to me,” he says. “I honestly can’t believe my parents are trying to sue me. I knew they’d be pissed or hurt or both, but I never thought this would end up being a money thing if they found out where I was.”
I glance around the parking lot to make sure no one is nearby to hear us. “Have you gotten any closer to finding out who leaked them the info about you?” I ask.
He shakes his head again and locks his phone. “I don’t even know where to start,” he says. “My parents are playing it cool, like they just happened to see me on a sports channel or something, which I know isn’t the truth. Someone tipped them off, and everything in me says that it was someone connected to Drenaline Surf, so I don’t trust any of them, especially now with all the changes around here.”
Colby will never admit it if he misses Vin, but at least with Vin, he knew what to expect. He knew what he was walking into each time he entered Drenaline Surf. It may have been like fire and gasoline, but at least it was expected.
We walk back over to Jace’s truck, where I claim the passenger seat, and Colby gives Jace half-truths about what his lawyer has been telling him. Jace doesn’t seem to pick up on the fact that Colby isn’t very trusting of him yet, which is a good thing. We can’t afford any more tension than what’s already here.
“First day on the job and you get to hang out with Damage Control and her Damaged Goods,” Colby says. “Do you feel like the boss yet?”
“Not quite but maybe we’re getting there. Hold on,” Jace says just before cranking up his truck. “Joe’s calling me.”
He steps outside, looks at the store for a moment, and then nods his head, although Joe can’t see him from here. I wonder if there’s been a change of plans. I don’t really want to go to the outskirts of Sunrise Valley to see an empty lot and floor plans, but at the same time, I don’t want to be in the actual store today. Topher and Emily are both working. That would lead to awkward moments with him and excited squealing from her, and none of that fits my agenda for telling people about Topher and me.
Jace opens his door and rests his arm against the doorframe. “Logan’s going with us,” he says. “Joe thinks it’s a good idea, and Logan really doesn’t have anything else to do since he’s not working in the store.”
Colby groans, channeling some kind of growling sea creature from the dinosaur age. I don’t call him out on it because that sound defines exactly what I feel upon hearing Logan’s name. Couldn’t they have sent Miles and his crutches instead? At least we could just feed him to shut him up. Logan is a perfect stranger to us.
“Why all the hostility?” Jace asks, fighting a smile. “I mean, he’s one of us, right? Drenaline Surf family? I mean, of all people, I expected the two of you to be more accepting of him than the rest of us.”
That’s what stings. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that Jace is right – we are outsiders who should understand – or if it’s the fact that Jace just referenced us, indirectly of course, as the outsiders of the Drenaline Surf family. Colby and I aren’t from here. We’re from the east coast, just like Logan. We haven’t been born into this surf culture family. Even Vin, who hates the ocean and hates surfing and hates everything about the Californian hang-ten lifestyle, belongs here more than we do.
Colby clears his throat, but he’s probably choking down another groan and trying to hide it.
“We don’t know his story,” he says. “No one knows the first thing about Logan Riley. How can we trust him with Shark’s legacy when he’s just a name that pops up every now and then and wins the Sunrise Valley Tournament?”
“He hasn’t made an effort to know anyone here,” I add, hoping to back Colby’s case. “Colby made a point to meet people when he arrived. Linzi and I did the same thing last summer. Have you seen Logan around? Do you ever see him inside the store? I’ve seen him like three times since he got here.”
Jace shrugs his shoulders and gets back into his truck. “Maybe he doesn’t have a story, you know?” he asks. “Not everyone is tabloid-worthy. I’m just saying.”
As much as I want to glance behind me and see the fury carved into Colby’s face, I don’t dare turn around. Instead, I look out the window toward Drenaline Surf. Within a few seconds, the back door of the office opens, and Joe points at Jace’s truck. Logan smiles his modelesque smile before shaking hands with Joe and walking our way.
He wears a light blue polo shirt and khaki cargo shorts. His summer tan is darker than I remember, and natural highlights streak his hair. He looks so clean-cut and magazine-cover-worthy. This boy isn’t tabloid fodder. Unfortunately, my sidekick in the backseat is.
Colby slides over behind Jace to let Logan sit behind me. Neither of them speak when Logan enters the vehicle. Jace looks at me, like he’s waiting for me to break the ice, but when I remain frozen as well, he takes it upon himself to turn around and attempt introductions.
“I’m sure you already know who we are, but I’m Jace Hudson, Vin’s replacement,” Jace says.
The words feel all too real when he speaks them. Vin’s replacement. This is Drenaline Surf now. Jace is the boss. Logan is one of us. And I actually relate to Colby more than I do the rest of the ‘Drenaline Surf family’ right now. I definitely didn’t see that coming last summer.
“This is Haley Sullivan. She’s handling public relations for Drenaline Surf, and I doubt Mr. Taylor needs any sort of introduction,” Jace continues. The smirk on his face is reminiscent of the icy chills and thick tension between Vin and Colby. Maybe nothing’s actually changed at all.
On the hour and a half drive to the edge of Sunrise Valley, Jace talks about the music store, its lack of business, and how fortunate he was to be able to step into another job so quickly, even if he’s sad that Vin left us. He asks Logan the obligatory questions about where he grew up, what his family is like, and how he likes Crescent Cove while Colby and I remain silent. I don’t care if I’m an outsider. This is awkward, and I don’t want to participate.
“Merge right. Drive zero point two miles. Turn right,” the robotic lady announces from the GPS.
I angle myself toward the window to take in the coastline outside of Sunrise Valley. The early afternoon sunshine bursts in yellow streaks across the ocean, like watercolors floating over a canvas and trying to shift into a perfect position before drying to the surface. Jet skis zip through the waves, and bikini-clad girls tan on the beach. It’s like summertime never ends here.
“Okay, I think this is the street,” Jace says, pulling my attention back to the mission at hand.
We make a turn onto Coastline Boulevard, but I’m certain this isn’t the same street I rode along with Alston just weeks ago before paying Topher’s entry fee. There was nothing but sand and sea and a ton of cars.
&n
bsp; “This can’t be right,” I say, staring at the massive building that stretches down the entire block.
It’s the length of three or four football fields with a second level and floor-to-ceiling windows. A huge dome wraps around from one end of the building to the other, hiding whatever may be behind the building. And that’s when I see the sign.
Future Home of Liquid Spirit Surf Shop and Wave Park
Colby exhales harshly. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he says. “Liquid Spirit is opening a wave park? How unethical is that?”
For the first time since we left Crescent Cove, I turn in my seat to face him. “What are wave parks exactly?” I ask.
“Artificial waves,” Colby says. “They generate actual waves but in a pool or natural lagoon rather than in the ocean. It’s like having full control over a swell, creating any kind of wave you want. You want tubes? You got tubes. You want double overhead? Okay. You want small waves and offshore winds for airs, you got it. It’s manipulation of our sport.”
Jace taps his brakes and pulls into the tiny empty lot at the end of Liquid Spirit’s mega-shop. A black SUV waits for us. I recognize the guy as soon as he steps out of the vehicle. Vin was talking to him about how professional the Drenaline Surf staff was the night we arrived home from the impromptu carnival visit.
“I have some bad news,” the man says, “but I have a feeling you’ve already seen it.” He motions his arm out toward the monstrosity next to our lot.
He walks forward with his hand out. “Miller Brighton,” he introduces himself. “Nice to meet you, although it’s not exactly what we’d all hoped for.”
“Jace Hudson,” Jace says. “This is Haley Sullivan, our PR rep, and two of our surfers – Colby Taylor and Logan Riley.”
Mr. Brighton loosens his tie and turns toward me. “We meet again,” he says. “Although, you brought a much more somber bunch with you this time around.”
He shields his eyes from the blistering sun and stares across the lot at the competition. He looks about as defeated as I feel.
“Well, I think it goes without saying, but I don’t think we should build a second store here,” he says. “They’re moving fast to build a name for themselves, and being anywhere in this vicinity is detrimental to a smaller store.”
Jace sighs. “Agreed. I guess plans for a second store are out,” he says. “So much for growth and expansion.”
“Don’t rule it out just yet,” Mr. Brighton says. “There’s a place near Horn Island that may be more ideal for you guys. It’s an old mechanic shop, but I think a transformation could happen. If you’re up for it, we can drive back and I’ll show you the place.”
“Might as well,” I say. I hate that we wasted our entire morning driving up here in awkward conversation for absolutely nothing. “Let’s go. I already hate the sight of Liquid Spirit.”
Chapter Three
“Liquid Spirit’s mission is to bring the sport and culture of surfing to new levels and new communities,” Logan says from the backseat. “Surfing is not only a sport but an art form of expression, a discovery of individuality, and an enthusiasm for adventure. We want to create an environment where those with a passionate spirit can grow and conquer their dreams.”
“Generic,” Colby says. “That could be a mission statement for any surf company on the planet. They want to spread surf culture, get more eyes on our sport, and cash in. More visibility means more cash flow.”
If Liquid Spirit wants visibility, they’re definitely going to get it. It’s not like anyone can really un-see the massive store and its giant dome-covered wave pool. As much as I hate it, I know they’ll thrive. Kids who’ve never surfed before will test the wave pool first. Parents who don’t want to let their kids into the vast ocean will feel safer here. It’s a monitored, controlled environment. Surfers will flock to the pool during bad weather weeks, and those who aren’t against it ethically will use the control to master air reverses or how to maintain their speed in the tube. It’s a breeding ground for a new generation of non-surfers to become the next big names in the sport.
Logan continues his informative speech with measurements of the wave pool – nearly 1,100 feet in length and 400 feet in width – and how convenient Liquid Spirit is for all of your surfing and beach-going needs. The wave pool alone will keep them in business. That’s a never-ending need for surfboards, wax, fins, wetsuits, and surf leashes.
Jace shakes his head but never looks away from the highway. “Who do they think they are? Hurley? There’s no way they can be the next big name in surf sponsorship and products,” he says. “Who’s footing the bill for all of this? They literally just came out of nowhere. They didn’t grow and finally make it big.”
I glance out the window and try to place myself back on the beach at the Sunrise Valley Tournament. What was that guy’s name who wanted to sign Topher? They offered him mega-money, more than he’d ever make with Drenaline Surf.
“There’s no CEO listed on their site,” Logan says. “But there’s a contact number if you want to call them.”
Jace laughs, just barely. “No, thanks,” he says, finally seeming to be back on our side. “I wonder if they knew we were looking into a lot on that street. If they’ve already made a move to try and sign Topher, they’re obviously aware of who we are.”
That’s what scares me. We’re trying to branch out, but we only have four surfers signed to us, and Colby’s the most famous of them all – and it’s not always the good kind of fame with him. What are we doing to grow Drenaline Surf? We can’t afford a stadium store with a wave pool. If Liquid Spirit builds a name for itself and decides to open small branches down the coastline, Drenaline Surf could easily go under.
“If they’re looking to step on the competition, a wave pool is a pretty genius way to go about it,” Logan says, sending a sharp pain throughout my body.
“Genius? You think that’s genius?” Colby snaps.
Oh, here it goes.
“It’s a disgrace to our sport,” Colby says, matter-of-factly. “Surfing is about being out there, among the waves, waiting for a perfect set to roll through. It’s about the uncertainty. It’s about the adrenaline rush. Will you land that air? Will you make it out of the tube? It’s about how the water feels splashing against your face, how the sun feels beating against your skin. It’s a moment in time. It’s uncontrollable and unpredictable. That’s what makes it perfect.”
My fingers dig into the seat to keep me from turning around to see his face. It’d be dangerous right now to see that kind of passion burning behind his eyes. He sounds just like the guy I met at a boring corporate party in North Carolina. He sounds like the dreamer I chased across the country. He sounds like the kind of guy Shark McAllister would have taken under his wing and made into the best surfer on the west coast.
“No, I get that,” Logan says. “But this is also a sport. It’s for competition. There is no better training ground than a controlled wave. You can learn to master things that the ocean may not let you learn as quickly. There’s less chance for injury. John John Florence may be incredible, but how often is he out with injuries?”
The ocean blurs next to us, just a long strip of greenish-blue haze pouring itself alongside the highway. I’m glad Topher stayed behind today. I’m not sure what stance he takes regarding wave pools, but with Logan name-dropping John John Florence, Topher would’ve probably eaten him like a Great White on a seal.
“That argument isn’t even valid,” Colby counters. “John John injures himself going for broke in real waves of consequence. And he’s mastered it in the ocean. Pipeline is his backyard.”
“Well, not everyone is fortunate enough to grow up next to the ocean with places like Pipeline in their backyards,” Logan smarts back.
Colby scoffs. “We’re from North Carolina,” he says. “Haley and I are just as east coast as you are, if not more.”
Jace reaches for the volume on the radio, says something about loving this song, and drowns out any chan
ce Logan had to make a comeback.
“It’s not as big as the lot near Sunrise Valley,” Mr. Brighton says as he searches for the correct key to this old building. “But I think it has potential to be something, with the right touch, that is.”
I step back and take in the old mechanic shop. Mallard Brothers Automotive is painted in scratchy, faded letters over the entrance. The pastel blue paint remains only in remnants. A thick layer of dust clouds the windows, much like the back bedroom of Shark’s house.
When we step inside, I can’t help but wonder how long this place has been out of service. It has probably been on the market for a while, and no one bothers to keep it up. It looks as though someone came in, pushed a broom around to pretend it’d been cleaned, and then vanished without actually doing any real work. Dust particles glisten in the air around us, exposed by the sunlight trying to force its way through the dirty windows.
“Well, it needs some work,” Logan says from behind me.
“You think?” Colby counters. He brushes past me and turns to face us. “This place is too small. There’s no way to fit Drenaline Surf’s typical inventory in here.”
“He’s right,” I say, walking beyond Colby to look further into the building. “Even if you could fit everything, it’d just stretch back outside of the cashier’s view. You’re opening the store up to a lot of easy theft.”
Jace sighs louder than necessary, but he knows we’re right. The layout of this building won’t work without overhauling the entire thing – not to mention that it needs a deep scrub because there’s still car oil residue on the concrete flooring.
“Okay, so what if we don’t do things like the original Drenaline Surf?” Jace asks. He walks past me, studying the layout and building plans in his head. “What if we take that wall down and move it back, so we can make a board showroom over here?”
He points to the open space out to the left that was probably once a small lobby or waiting area. I can’t imagine much else other than a vending machine, a few chairs, and a bedside table fitting in there.
