Chasing Forever Down (Drenaline Surf Series) (9 page)

I glance around and spot a side room
– packed with surfboards. “That’s because they have a separate room for them,” I say.

The surfboard room is a freaking goldmine, and I don
’t know how long I can linger in here without drawing attention to myself and being kicked out. Linzi oohs and ahhs over the incredible surfboard designs while I try to absorb the wall of snapshots that have been taped over the paint. My eyes land on a picture of a guy showing a gash in his arm. Another one sporting bruises. Nice little battle scars are mixed in with beach parties and surf gangs. The photos paint the perfect picture of the gritty, realistic side of surf life. A yellow street sign that reads “Surfer Crossing” is nailed to the top corner of the room. And then
him –
Colby Taylor – wedged right into the mosaic of surf life snapshots.

I do the quick shoplifter glance
-around, rip the picture from the wall, and cram it into my purse. Then I spin around on my heel and pretend to be interested in a white surfboard decorated with painted pink and orange hibiscus flowers. Linzi is still wearing her starry-eyed shopper face when a girl bounces into the room and asks if we need any help.

“
We’re just looking,” Linzi says.

The girl’s bouncy smile sinks on her face with that typical
“No, leave me alone” shopper statement. My intentions for recovering the moment are strictly to get out of here so I can examine Exhibit Stolen Photo.

“
Actually, we need a few things,” I say. “Can you lead me in the direction of sunscreen, sunglasses, and flip flops?”

Operation Recovery of
Bouncy Smile is complete. She introduces herself as Kristin and leads me back into the main showroom. She could walk this store and give a sales pitch in her sleep.

“
Summer vacation?” she asks.

“
Yeah,” I say, nodding. “We didn’t come as prepared as we thought we were. This place is amazing, the surf culture and all. I could stay here forever.”

She laughs and nods along.
“I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I’ve worked here since the grand opening. I don’t surf or anything, but my boyfriend does. So surfing is my life too, if that makes any sense.”

I focus on the rack of flip flops to keep myself from saying that I totally understand because I’ve only been here a matter of days, and
my
life is surfing now too. I want to feel the sand and taste the waves and smell the surfboard wax. I want to inhale surf life every time I breathe in the west coast ocean air. I could open my own framing shop right here on the beach and rescue driftwood from the shoreline. I could make my forever here.

By the time we leave Drenaline Surf an hour later with too many flip flops, multiple bikinis, and the free rubber bracelets
Kristin threw in as a thank you, the stolen photo is about to burn a hole in my purse. I wait until we’re secure in the secrecy of my car to pull out my loot.

“
Look what I found on the wall in there,” I say, holding the photo in front of the radio’s buttons.

The background of the picture is too dark to make out where it was taken. It could be anywhere from a nightclub to a night on the beach. Everything behind him is black. He’s holding his hand out toward the camera with that thumb and pinky universal surf gesture – the shaka, Linzi informs me from her surf research – and he’s sitting next to another blonde. The other guy is holding a beer bottle.

“All of his friends are really cute. Have you noticed that?” Linzi asks. “I bet he’s the party boy.”

I study the guy’s face and burn it into my memory so I’ll recognize him if I see him at the party tonight. Any ounce of dread I felt about this VIP thing leaves my body and washes away to the bottom of the ocean for the mermaids to lock away in the treasure chests they’ve hauled away from shipwrecks.

“That would make sense. I mean, if Colby only hangs out with these four guys, he’s gotta be one of them,” I say. “Party boy fits him.”

Operation Party Boy is my mission for the night.

CHAPTER 8

My car’s headlights flash across the parking lot that was reserved for tonight. I hold up my VIP ticket to my window, and the security guard waves us through. The music up the street beats over the sound of my car’s engine. Linzi twists and turns, trying to adjust her pink tank top over her bikini top.

“Let me text Alston before we get out. We don’t want to walk around like losers looking for him,” she says.

We wait in the car, and Linzi’s face glows a bright shade of blue from the light of her cell phone. He replies in a matter of seconds telling us to head down the block, and he’ll meet us halfway. Pink and orange Christmas lights wrap around the palm trees, and the DJ’s bass vibrates through my flip flops. A fast-forward montage of cover bands, lead guitarist Barney, and TheKeeganLawrence flash through my mind. I have this sudden urge to crash the DJ booth and request a Moonlight song, but I doubt Mr. DJ-Wannabe-Rapper has any Moonlight tracks in his queue.

Alston waves over a crowd of people and pushes through toward us. Reed is just a few steps behind him with his cell phone to one ear and a finger in the other to drown out the noise.

“
Glad you could make it,” Alston says, wrapping his arm around Linzi’s shoulder. “We’re going to show you how west coast people party.”

The breeze picks up just long enough to kick the scent of Alston’s pineapple shampoo into the wind. It’s the scent of Colby Taylor’s hair. He glances back at Reed.
“Any word from A.J.?”

Reed shrugs and shakes his head.
“He’s not answering his phone. It’s not like him to miss a party, though.”

For a VIP block party on the beach, this place is pretty crowded. I follow behind Alston and Linzi in that awkward tag-along kind of way while Reed makes a point to speak to everyone we pass. So much for employing the buddy system. We cut between two condominiums, and for a second, I feel like I’m in
Hollywood. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the diamond-white sand and blackened nighttime water. Sky roofs provide a perfect view of the summer stars. Swimming pools in random shapes – angelfishes and sailboats – are planted behind each house, surrounded by tiki torches, palm trees, and hibiscus flowers.

“
And this is home sweet home,” Alston says, more to Linzi than anyone else.

He points to the next condo down, and it’s as perfect as the ones we just cut between. Their seashell-shaped swimming pool is hidden inside a privacy fence, and I’m instantly jealous that guys who can’t be much older than myself can afford to live here. Then again, I’m sure Colby Taylor is footing the bill for them to keep their mouths shut and keep the random girls away.

Reed unlocks the back door, and we follow them inside. Their bachelor pad isn’t the trashed out dorm room I’d expected. It’s freaking immaculate, probably kept up by some highly paid foreign maid named Eliana or something else pretty and exotic. A yellow Surfer Crossing sign, like the one at Drenaline Surf, and random video games are the only things that scream out bachelor pad.

I leave my keys and cell phone on their kitchen counter, per Alston’s persuasion, and follow the guys onto the beach. I check behind Reed to make sure he really did lock the door. Theft isn’t exactly something I can afford right now. A crowd plays volleyball with a beach ball out in the sand, and another group splashes in the dark ocean. We trudge through the sand, past a blazing bonfire, until we’re far enough away from the DJ booth that I can’t feel its vibrations anymore.

We venture inside a rustic wooden beach house. Alston grabs a beer out of a red cooler, and Linzi accepts the offer for one even though she hates the taste of beer. Alston makes the rounds, clinking his beer bottle against those of others, slapping a few high fives with his other hand, and still manages to keep his arm perfectly draped over my best friend’s shoulder. Our final destination is a pool table.

“
Pay up!” a blonde with nappy dreadlocks shouts out. He rubs his fingers together, and a pretty-boy brunette hands him a twenty dollar bill.

“
Hey,” Alston interrupts, “I want you guys to meet someone. This is Linzi.” He nods his head toward her. “Oh, and Haley,” he adds, pointing back at me with his beer bottle.

I begin to drown in self-pity at the realization that I’ve become the afterthought known as
“Oh, and Haley,” but Alston begins rattling off names, and I try to keep up just in case I need to know them later.

“
That’s Miles, one of the best surfers I know,” he says, nodding to the dreadlocked blonde. “And Dominic,” he says, beer bottle nodding to the brunette.

“
I’m
the
best surfer he knows though,” Dominic says.

Linzi looks to me, but the lump in my throat keeps me from coming up with any Colby Taylor conversation starters. I think Linzi is too scared to blow this with Alston wrapped around her finger…and the rest of her body, for that matter.

“The hell you are,” a voice says from behind me. He dives past me, onto the pool table, and pops up like he would on a surfboard. He nails a perfect surfer stance, then waves the shaka sign with both hands. “Everyone knows Shark was the best…now it’s me.”

He jumps down and extends his arm for a handshake.
“I’m Topher,” he says. “Hooligan number three.” His messy brown hair curls at the ends, and I bet it’s even wilder when it’s wet. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, and I almost feel like I should know him.

“
Haley,” I reply.

Alston speaks up before Topher can say anything else.
“These guys are from Horn Island, the next town over,” he says. “They’re in a surf gang – West Coast Hooligans. The name fits pretty well if you ask me.”

Dominic slams his beer bottle down on the pool table.
“No one asked you,” he says. “I need another beer.” He picks up the empty bottle, grabs Topher’s arm, and pulls him away on the quest for more beer.

As soon as they’re out of sight, Alston moves around the pool table and grabs a stick.
“Play with me?” he asks Linzi, raising both eyebrows up and down.

Linzi twirls her hair around her index finger, the purple flower spinning in and out of strings of blonde.
“I don’t really play pool.”

He glances back at Miles then struts toward Linzi.
“Make you a bet. You win and you get a kiss.”

“
And if I lose?” she asks.

Alston leans into her face.
“Then I get the kiss.”

Miles clears his throat.
“I think
I
need another beer.” He glances over at me. “Walk with me?”

I more than gladly accept the offer. The beer quest sounds much better than this gag fest I’m watching. He pushes through the crowd toward the kitchen, steadily glancing over his shoulder to make sure I’m still behind. It’s hard to lose his messy dreadlocks in the crowd.

He grabs a fresh beer. “You surf?” he asks.

I shake my head. I don’t know the first thing about surfing other than Colby Taylor does it, and I have to find him again in this lifetime. I don’t tell this to Miles
, though. I will not be surfer stalkerazzi.

“
I’ve been at it for a decade,” he says. He takes a swig from his cup. “I was eight when I started. Topher actually taught me how to pop up on a board.”

The fuzzy hopefuls inside of me tingle with excitement.
“So you hang out with local surfers?” I pray this isn’t too obvious. I feel like he can see through me like sea glass and know all the secrets buried within.

“
Just the Hooligans. We stay on our turf and fuck up any kook who tries getting in our waters,” he says.

Kook. I know that word. Linzi rattled it off during her cram session on surf lingo. She said I needed to know these things so I wouldn’t feel like an idiot later when I actually talked to a surfer. She was right. I don’t remember what a kook is, and I feel like an idiot.
The screen door slings open behind me, and I turn to see Reed. I never saw him disappear earlier.

“
Miles, you seen A.J.?” he asks.

Of course not. No one has seen this A.J. guy all night. Reed pulls his cell phone from his pocket before blending back into the mass of drunken idiots. If A.J. is the party boy of the century, he has to be around here somewhere. So far Operation Party Boy has been a failure, mainly due to my forgetfulness to search for him.

I tell Miles that I’m going to get some fresh air and push through the screen door. The tiki torches along the beach map out the party grounds, so I follow them along the beach and listen for anything that may get me a step closer to the surf star while I scan every face in the crowd for the party boy known as A.J.

A girl talks too loudly about her boyfriend’s cheating habits.
I move along before the guy next to her completes his overly-graphic tale of the previous night’s sexual exploits. I keep walking until the tiki torches burn to black, and a local surfer rants about that “stupid kid” who dropped in on him – whatever that means. I’m failing at this surf lingo deal.

Amidst the conversations, there’s n
ot a single mention of Colby Taylor or a sighting of Stolen Photo Boy. This not-so-VIP party sucks. I surrender to the torches and turn back, walking in the direction from which I came, hoping that somewhere along this returning walk I’ll see something other than the same drunken teenagers I saw on the way down.