Chasing Forever Down (Drenaline Surf Series)

by Godwin, Nikki

  I shake my head. “Never really been the jet ski type.”

  “No problem,” he says, slashing the idea of jet skiing off his mental list of sales pitches. “Sailing is pretty awesome. We have some great locations out past the cove that are really cool, and there’s parasailing which has really gained some popularity over the last few years, mostly with thrill chasers.”

  He guides us through the store, pointing to different spots as he rattles off every water-related beach activity he can possibly make a profit from.

  I keep shaking my head. “Nothing too wild. We have to make it home in one piece,” I remind him.

  He laughs, and his smile is so cute that I actually feel guilty for my ulterior motives for being here in the first place. He really does strike me as a nice guy. No wonder he’s the first and easiest to get past; he seems too genuine to ever say ‘no’ to anyone.

  “I’m starting to think maybe you’re one of those close-to-the-shore kind of girls. So where is home exactly?” he asks, stopping just short of the front counter. He turns back and looks at us.

  My chest tightens as I inhale. “North Carolina,” I say.

  “Wow,” he says, looking at the floor. “That’s a long way. What brings you to a tiny beach spot like the cove?”

  “Paper stars.”

  The plastic jar on the counter behind him is full of them, sparkling like the lit up palm trees outside. It’s like all the colors along The Strip have been swept up and sealed in this jar, from the pink and orange sunset to the blazing red sun to the glittery white sand to the ocean blue water, all bleeding into each other in the form of paper stars. I’m no expert in the business of paper stars, but seeing that they’re signed with the initials CT makes my heart flop from my chest and onto the squeaky clean floor of Strickland’s Boating.

  “Paper stars?” Reed asks.

  I come back down to earth and look to the hidden seahorse in my purse for salvation. Solomon comes through because the words flow out of my mouth instantly. “Sorry,” I say. “Those just look awesome. It’s like every color of the beach wrapped up in a jar.”

  My hands are on either side of the jar in a matter of seconds, holding it in the air and shaking it to bounce the stars into new alignments. I set it back on the countertop and look at Linzi. She digs a dollar bill out of her purse and hands it to Reed, then helps herself to an initialed star. Hot pink. I’m not surprised.

  Reed laughs. “You won’t believe how many of those things we go through,” he says. He reaches over and takes my dollar. I want to hand him a few twenties and take the whole jar, but I settle on just one shiny orange CT star.

  “And how did you get so lucky as to score all these autographed stars?” I ask.

  My body tenses with half-fear and half-hopefulness. Maybe he won’t realize I’m totally baiting him and hoping to reel in some form of information about his west coast friend.

  Reed rocks back and forth on the heels of his shoes. “Uh, well, you know, connections and all. The surf shop is next door, and uh, Alston! Hey man, I was starting to think maybe you’d been kidnapped by a mermaid colony or something.”

  “Couldn’t get that lucky,” a guy says from behind us.

  Linzi and I turn around simultaneously to look at the guy who just walked through the door. He’s tall and shirtless and drenched with ocean and sand. If there’s a cliché for sexy Asian beach bums, he looks it, but damn – he’s hot.

  A golden retriever runs across the room, his paws scraping against the floor. He drops a chewed up hot pink Frisbee next to Linzi.

  “Awww,” she coos. She bends down and runs her hands through his fur. “He’s so cute! What’s his name?”

  “Dexter,” Reed says. “Alston’s had him out on the beach all day.”

  He bends over and picks up the Frisbee then walks around the counter to the sliding glass door. He hurls the Frisbee into the early night, and Dexter chases after it as quickly as he ran through Strickland’s Boating.

  Reed is probably thanking his own lucky paper stars for Alston walking through the door. There’s no way to bring up the CT stars again without looking too pushy. If he knows anything about Spence-Burks-turned-Colby-Taylor, he’ll know the North Carolina link could be dangerous. And my excitement over paper stars didn’t help. He picks up his cell phone from behind the register and makes mention of Alston not coming back until closing time.

  This is his hint that we need to leave, and just in case I didn’t catch his hint, he adds more. “So yeah, if you change your mind about jet skiing or sailing or anything, hit me up,” he says. I wonder if all of his business deals end with what sounds like a pick up line.

  “Or…” Alston says, stepping closer to Linzi with a suave player boy attitude, “you guys could come to this party tomorrow night. VIP kind of thing.”

  He reaches over the countertop and grabs two VIP tickets for us. He scribbles his cell phone number on the back and makes sure he hands that one to Linzi, who is practically drooling on the floor.

  Operation Find The Bouncers is halfway complete. Nice guy – check. Player – check.

  “We’ll so be there,” Linzi says.

  She goes through a quickie informal introduction with Alston, and he doesn’t flood with panic when she mentions being from North Carolina. If anything, he seems infatuated, and I fear that Linzi may be useless from this moment forward. So much for CSI work. I doubt we’ll see that little pink notebook again.

  She waves her VIP ticket in the air as soon as we’re out of view of Strickland’s Boating, and just as she danced with Sofia the suncatcher earlier, she twirls in circles along The Strip on the way to the car. While she spins, I keep watch for con artists.

  “Will you stop stressing? We’ve got this,” Linzi says. She pulls the hotel bed covers over her and falls onto her pillow. “We’re totally in. We just have to stay there.”

  She says good night and turns off the lamp before I can go into my spill about how staying there is the problem. I turn over in my bed and face the window, watching as glimmers of moonlight turn blue as they shine through Solomon. He twirls closely to an air vent, his blue gleams twisting like vines up the walls. I can only hope those vines are lucky ones.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Crescent Cove Bakery overkills the crescent moon theme, but their cheese biscuits make up for it. Linzi’s pink CSI notebook rests on the table next to her frosted donut. She scribbles our shopping list for the morning onto a blank page: sunglasses, sunscreen, bikinis, more flip flops, and beach towels. Then she slides a pack of tourist brochures she swiped from the hotel across the table to me.

  I flip through them, ignoring the shopping attractions and repeated ads for Strickland’s Boating. “Hey, here we go, Crescent Cove history,” I say, flattening the brochure on the table.

  I keep my voice low as I read the contents to Linzi, from how Crescent Cove was a small town with little tourist activity and only known for its old carnival (which is now shut down and the grounds are believed to be haunted) until present day – surf town and home of recent surf star Colby Taylor.

  “Finally, the good part,” Linzi says. She bites into her donut and attempts to tell me with a full mouth to “read on.”

  “He’s the first surfer to be sponsored by Drenaline Surf,” I say.

  I turn to the back of the brochure and see him posed in front of the local surf shop holding a blue and orange surfboard. My own adrenaline pumps up and surges through me like a monster wave crashing against the shore. I fold the brochure and stick it in my purse. I can’t read on. The thought of someone leaving my world and chasing after something as awesome as being a big name surfer makes me long for an escape even more than I already do. I literally feel my bones aching for that freedom.

  I take a deep breath and break off a piece of cheese biscuit. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” I ask, trying to focus on anything but surfing.

  “Shop for necessities, more research on the surfer, then party with his friends?�
�� Linzi wiggles her eyebrows as she says ‘friends.’ It’s not hard to figure out where her mind is.

  “Reed and Alston,” I say, trying to wrap my mind around what will happen tonight, what I’ll say, how I’ll get a step closer to the reason I’m even here in Crescent Cove Bakery eating cheese biscuits.

  “Oh, Alston!” Linzi exclaims, clasping her hands over her heart and falling back against the booth. “Beautiful, beautiful Alston.”

  My instincts want to warn her not to get too close because we’re not going to be here forever, not to mention his player reputation. But my mind decides against it because she’s way too excited and infatuated. She might as well have some fun while she’s out here trying to help me uncover sunken treasure and buried secrets.

  “Let’s go, Juliet,” I say. “Time to shop.”

  Linzi suggests we start on the other end of The Strip and work our way back up to Strickland’s Boating. The vendor booths are clones of the next, the same beach wear and T-shirts with a random fresh fruit shack wedged in the middle. We avoid the mob of little kids begging their parents to buy them inflatable water toys and floats. Linzi manages to dodge a huge inflated dolphin without even dropping a shopping bag.

  Even with the surf craze and Colby Taylor billboard, the heavy surf culture of Crescent Cove doesn’t become a reality until we stop at the entrance of Drenaline Surf. An aqua wave projects from the roof, hanging over the top of the store.

  “That’s insane,” I say, pointing up at the frozen wave. It glistens like the ocean in the sunlight.

  “So is the surfboard. This place is amazing,” Linzi says.

  A silver surfboard with the Drenaline Surf logo is centered under the wave, the body of the surfboard painted like that of a shark, complete with a black eyeball and jagged white teeth. I can’t move from the arched entranceway. This store is the closest I’ve come to seeing his life, seeing what he disappeared for – what he died for. My stomach flips and flops like a washed up fish as Linzi tugs my arm and pulls me through the doorway.

  The inside is the same ocean blue color as the outside of the building, and the walls are decorated with huge black and white photos of sharks, just like the one in Strickland’s Boating. The main showroom is well organized by item – surf gear, surf accessories, sunglasses and clothing, beach towels, souvenirs, and jewelry racks ranging from expensive shell necklaces to cheap rubber bracelets. There’s an entire corner dedicated to shark tooth necklaces and all else shark-related, which makes sense given the shark decor. Shouldn’t sharks and surfers be mortal enemies?

  Linzi’s attention must be shark-focused too because she’s looking at the necklaces before I can say anything. A poster-sized photo of a Great White hangs above us, demanding my attention. The pictures all have one thing in common – the silver logo for Jake McAllister Photography.

  “For a surf shop, you’d think they’d have surfboards,” Linzi says, turning from the shark teeth to me.

  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.