Down the Shore

by T. Torrest

  Vix says, “I can’t believe you still remember our dance to this song.”

  I fire back with, “We were such idiots.”

  The two of us are subjected to an onslaught of awesome, cheesy, retro tunes as we make our way down to Sea Bright. It makes our slow pace easier to bear.

  When we hit the second toll booth, Vix throws a handful of uncounted pennies into the basket. She takes off before the “go” light turns green, in the midst of the chinkachinkachink sound of the change counter maddeningly trying to calculate what has to be forty coins. The “didn’t pay” buzzer sounds and Vix drops a hand low out the window to give the finger.

  “What was that for?” I ask.

  “It’s for when I get that picture of the back of my car sent to us with the fine. I want to see if you can see me doing it.”

  That cracks me up.

  “Besides, they deserve the bird for being wrong. I mean, I paid, didn’t I?”

  I shake my head. “Yeah... with pennies, you freak.”

  “Shut up.”

  The logjam of cars breaks up after the toll—thank God—and we pick up a bit of speed. We drive along, singing or chatting until Vix finally states the obvious. “See? We’re already having fun. Isn’t this better than waiting on Fonzie?”

  I can’t suppress a snicker at my sister’s latest slam on Mitch. Vix has referred to him as everything from Easy Rider to Evel Knievel in the three months since I started dating him. Yes, he has a motorcycle. It’s a pale yellow Harley and he looks fricking hot on the thing.

  “Fonzie. That’s a new one.”

  Vix laughs. “Yeah, but it’s a good one. And you know it.” She punctuates her statement with a self-congratulatory pat on the back before adding, “Besides, would you rather I go back to calling him ‘Jackass’?”

  I haven’t heard from the guy since Tuesday, but thought for sure that he’d want to see me over the weekend. He always waits until the last possible minute to call with weekend plans, which is a little unsettling. It always manages to make me feel like he’s waiting for something better to come up. I can’t help feeling sometimes like I’m his consolation prize for bigger plans gone awry.

  I don’t normally put up with such crap from a guy, but it’s just that he is so damned good-looking. He’s been trying to break into acting the past few years, and let me tell you, this guy has the goods to make that happen.

  And yet, after three months, I still have no idea where we are.

  Nor do I care.

  Basically, I suck at dating.

  Not that Mitch is super relationship material, but he’s a guy from my real life. Let’s just say a pizza delivery guy with thespian aspirations doesn’t get my panties in a twist (or around my ankles) in quite the same way a musician does.

  Sex isn’t why he’s been sticking around anyway. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because he likes all those free headshots I’ve been supplying him with.

  I know that it’s not the greatest relationship, but he’s the only prospect at the present moment and he’s not really a bad guy. Well, he’s a little bad. But I liken it to the Eating-Too-Much-Halloween-Candy variety of bad, not the Crying-On-Oprah’s-Couch kind of bad.

  After all, it’s not like I’m head over heels in love with the guy or anything. We’re just having a little fun.

  On the days that he actually makes plans to see me.

  Which are becoming increasingly infrequent as of late.

  “Subtle, Vix. I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from calling my boyfriend a jackass.” I stick my hand out of the car and let it surf along a wave of air as I concede, “Even though he is one.”

  Looking out at the speedblur of pines parading past my window at sixty-five miles an hour, I’m thinking about the turn of events over the past few weeks. “I’m pretty sure it’s over between me and Mitch anyway.”

  Fonzie has jumped the shark.

  Vix doesn’t offer any commentary, and I’m sort of relieved about it.

  I pause long enough to grab the Bic off the dashboard and light a cigarette. I’m expecting my sister to ream me out for smoking in our brand new Sebring but she wiggles two fingers at me, so I light one for her, too.

  She takes a long pull and asks, “Have you talked to Mom or Dad at all? I haven’t heard from them since last week.”

  Our parents are off on another excursion. Dad’s band will roadtrip to play at rock festivals pretty regularly throughout the fall and spring, but once summer hits, they’re gone all the time.

  I guess some people would refer to my father as a struggling musician. But when you’ve been struggling for over thirty years, I don’t know that that term is the best way to assess his lifestyle.

  Music always played a huge role in our lives. Mom is a dancer—ballerina, not pole—and she teaches classes to the local kids in the basement of our house. She’d converted the space into a respectable studio a million years ago, and has a decent business going.

  Between my father’s music, my mother’s dancing, and my photography, we’re a pretty artistic bunch. The three of us have no idea where Vix came from. She’s a personal assistant for D’Artagnan Maybury, CEO of Manhattan Media. Real white-collar, blueblood kind of shit. The people at her company would have a fricking conniption if they knew about any of the hippie nonsense she’s been surrounded with since birth.

  “Yeah,” I answer Vix, playing with the frayed edge of my CBGB cami. “I talked to Mom for a couple minutes yesterday. They’re in Vermont, I think, but they’re coming back home because Dad’s got a Brownstone wedding this weekend. They want us to come over for dinner on Monday.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “Well, if Mom’s doing the cooking, it just might be.”

  Vix doesn’t miss a beat as she slams a fist into my arm and shouts, “Punchbuggy!”

  “Oww!” I yelp, and then even though there are no other VWs in our vicinity, I punch her back.

  “Cheater!”

  “You started it.”

  “I saw a Beetle! Those are the rules.” She twists her right arm and peeks down her shoulder for an impromptu inspection. “If you gave me a bruise, I’m gonna kill you.”

  Vix is the furthest thing from a bad-ass, so I know her well enough to recognize when she’s only barking.

  And man, does she like to bark.

  CHAPTER 3

  Friday, May 26, 1995

  9:43 PM

  The Tradewinds

  Sea Bright

  We pull into the lot at The Tradewinds and do a quick mirror-check before heading for the door. Bypassing the long line out front, Vix gives me a wink as we head right for Clipboard Guy at the front of the line.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, trying to ignore the grumbles from the awaiting club-goers we’re presently trying to cut in front of.

  “You’ll see,” is all she offers before turning to Clipboard Guy. “Chadwick? We’re on the list.”

  Clipboard Guy is on a power trip, because he makes a big show of scanning down the list of names in his hand before granting access with an authoritative and entirely-too-serious nod of his head.

  We file into the blue glow of the club and head for the bar as I ask, “Was he kidding?”

  Vix lets out a snort and answers, “I hope so.”

  The place is packed as usual and my God, it’s loud as hell already. We have to fight for every step as we inch our way to the bar. The Tradewinds is a huge club. High, curved ceilings and insulated for sound by the long bars that line the perimeter.

  Vix reaches behind her and grabs a belt-loop of my jeans, ensuring we won’t lose each other in the sea of people. The room is so crowded and the main band isn’t even supposed to go on for another hour. But all the locals—mostly women—have already turned out in full force to catch a glimpse of the almost-famous Jersey boys.

  As I squeeze past a rowdy group of surfer guys, I yell to Vix, “How the heck are we on The List? I thought you said we were coming to see Thunderjug.”
/>   I hadn’t originally wanted to get out of bed tonight, but once Vix mentioned who the band was going to be, I jumped all over it. Thunderjug is a name I actually know. They’re a newish band on the scene—local guys from up near home if I’m not mistaken—that currently have a hit song playing on the New York stations. It’s always exciting to catch a band on their way up. Even if “Backyard” turns out to be a one-hit-wonder, it’s still one hell of a song and will be enough to hold my interest through the night, waiting to hear it.

  “Ronnie is friends with one of the guitarists.”

  “Ronnie? He knows these guys? No way. How cool is that?”

  Our friend Ron Somers used to work at The Sharper Image a few stores down from me at The Studio. He and I hit it off pretty early on and used to do lunch together every now and then. He’s gorgeous in an All-American kind of way: Colossal bod, straw-blond hair, and a misleading, apple-pie smile that could charm the skirt off a choir girl.

  A total player in every sense of the word.

  Vix is trying to carve out a space at the crowded bar. She manages to wedge in the middle of a group of girls who are all drinking Zima. I bypass the eyeroll and ask, “How does he know them? He never told me that!”

  “Apparently, he grew up with the guy.”

  “So, Monty and Tom know him, too?” Monty and Tom are other childhood friends of Ron’s from his hometown of Norman. We’ve known those guys for a few years now. It’s not like we hang out together every other minute, but we know that crowd pretty well. “Don’t you think it’s weird that we haven’t met this mysterious musical friend of theirs yet?”

  “Maybe because they know you’d jump him the second you met him?” she shoots back.

  “That is not necessarily a given. I’ve only ever heard one of their songs.”

  “Yeah, but if this Jack character is chummy with Ron, you know damn well he’s probably hot.”

  That is undeniable information. Ron has some good-looking buddies. I’ve watched that Norman Crew turn a few heads over the years. All the better to pick up women, I suppose, which is Ron’s most impressive talent. If he and I hadn’t friend-zoned so early on, Tess wouldn’t have had the chance to sleep with him before I could. He still tries to talk her into bed whenever they meet, and sometimes, she’ll actually relent. But it’s mostly treated as a joke between them. I find it a little disturbing, although with my ridiculous track record, I’m not exactly the best person to offer criticism.

  Ron is officially off-limits for life now, because for all the guys she and I have both been with, we never do the overlapping hookup thing. It doesn’t stop him from hitting on me like the world-class flirt that he is, however.

  And lookee here. Speak of the devil and he appears.

  “Ladies! How are you two gorgeous gals this evening?”

  Ron throws his arms around the both of us as we wait for our drinks. “What’s up, Somers,” I greet him, giving him a kiss on his cheek. He grabs my ass and I give him a shove.

  Vix goes to kiss him hello, first warning him, “Hands to yourself, Somers. You touch me, you die.”

  He laughs, that charming grin belying the cad attached to it. “You got that wrong, baby. I touch you, and you’ll die.”

  “I probably would. Most likely from gonorrhea.”

  “Ouch!” He puts a hand to his chest and feigns a broken heart, which just makes us laugh. Our drinks are delivered, and Ron holds his bottle of Corona out to clink our vodka cranberries.

  Just then, I spot Tom on the other side of the bar and give him a wave—he’s in the process of chatting up a redhead, but pauses in his quest to wave back—before I catch a glimpse of Monty standing next to him, looking bored. Tom gives him a nudge to alert him to our presence, and when he turns in our direction, his posture takes on a relieved vibe. He immediately wends his way through the crowd toward us.

  “Hello, ladies! Thank God you’re here. If I had to play wingman to another Fat Friend, Tommy would owe me more than this weak drink he tried to bribe me with.” Monty gives a scan to our surrounding area and asks, “Flying solo tonight, Liv? No Brando?”

  I’m just surrounded by comedians.

  In spite of the lame jab, I laugh and kiss him hello. “No. No Brando tonight.” I don’t add that there’ll probably be no Mitch any other night in the future, either. “No Walter tonight?”

  Walter is Monty’s boyfriend. It’s almost blasphemous for me to ask about him in the same sentence as Mitch, because those two are pretty serious. Mitch and I most definitely are not. Walter is a caterer, so he usually works nights—sometimes during the week, but almost always on the weekends. We normally only get to see the two of them together during our daytime visits.

  “No,” Monty deflates. “No Walter yet again. But he’d love to see you two. Why don’t you spend the night at the cottage and I’ll have him cook you some breakfast in the morning?”

  Monty’s “cottage” is actually a humongous stone mansion complete with wraparound porch that sits on a solid acre of prime, beach-block property. I have to admit, the idea of crashing at Monty’s gorgeous house sounds pretty damned good to me. Vix and I will have an entire summer to spend crammed into the same bed down at our little Manasquan hovel. Tonight, we can kick off the summer in style.

  I look to Vix for her opinion on the matter, and she simply offers a wide-eyed shrug. Why not? “Sure, Mont. That sounds great. Thanks!”

  Ron tears his eyes from my sister’s cleavage and adds, “Perfect. You two can share my bed.”

  Vix gives him the finger, but I’ve long since given up on trying to engage in battle with the guy. I turn my attentions back to my drink, and as I raise the glass to my lips, Monty’s eyes go buggy. “Holy shit. Just what is the deal with your fingernails tonight, girlfriend?”

  I completely forgot about my new nail polish, and splay my free hand between us to display my almost-black painted digits. “You like? It’s called ‘Vamp.’ There’s a lipstick to match, but I thought that would be a little much.” I overstress an eyelash flutter. “Apparently, it’s all the rage in Hollywood, dahling.”

  “I think you should’ve gone with the matching lipstick,” Ron cuts in. “Show off that gorgeous Barrymore mouth of yours.”

  Ever since Drew Barrymore dyed her hair brown for “The Amy Fisher Story,” the comparisons have been coming rapid-fire. I see the resemblance, but I don’t think it’s that close. At least he doesn’t call me “Blowjob Mouth” anymore.

  I wave him off, taking note of the color for myself. “It’s really dark, though, huh?”

  Monty grabs my hand for a closer inspection. “Well, I guess it’s supposed to be, Vampira. Vix, did you authorize this?”

  Everyone knows that Vix is twelve minutes older than me chronologically. This fact always makes for hilarious commentary on my maturity level. Not.

  Vix takes a quick gander at my hands and shakes her head. “Do you think for one minute that I would have let her out of the house with that color on her fingers had I seen it ahead of time? Liv, that polish is hideous.”

  Great. I know she’s only busting my chops, but I strike back anyway. “Well, gee Vix, thanks a lot. It’s not all that bad, is it?”

  Ron’s lip curls into a smirk. “Not at all. In fact, I think those fingertips would look fantastic wrapped around my cock.”

  By the time Tommy finally decides to join us, we’re ready for another drink, so he takes the honors while I take the opportunity to eye up my three friends. I wonder what they put in the water up there in Norman, because almost every guy I know from there is huge.

  It’s pretty weird that we didn’t know these guys back in our high school days. I mean, we went to St. Nicetius, which is in their hometown. But the rivalry between the private school kids versus the public school kids created a turf war of Warriors proportions. We simply just did not mingle with the townies. I’m sure the locals all thought we were snobs, because a lot of the kids we went to school with came from some crazy money. Not me
and Vix, though.

  We hang around shooting the breeze for a while until the DJ signs off, and we know showtime is mere seconds away.

  Tommy comes back with a full round, prompting Ron to ask, “Whadja hit the lottery?” as everyone raises their glasses and bottles to clink out a toast.

  Finally, some ponytail guy comes onstage and announces, “Girls and boys... Thunderjug.”

  The lights flash. The crowd cheers. The music starts.

  And that’s when I get my first look at Jack.

  Zowee.

  CHAPTER 4

  Friday, May 26, 1995

  11:04 PM

  The Tradewinds

  Sea Bright

  There are four guys onstage, but Jack is an immediate standout. Tall, but not lanky. Almost-black mane cut just right, hanging a little in front of his face, revealing only a fantastic smile of pure white teeth. His black T-shirt is grazing across a sculpted chest; his long white sleeves are hugging a set of powerful arms. He takes his right hand off the strings for a quick second to brush the hair out of his eyes... and I mouth a silent “Wow” to no one in particular.

  Vix catches my reaction and raises her eyebrows questioningly.

  I let out a huge exhale, turn toward her, and say, “I am going to ride that man like he was Secretariat.”

  My sister shakes her head and laughs out, “I knew it! I told you!”

  I laugh back, “You knew? Who are you, Dionne Warwick?” before turning my attention toward the music once more.

  Thunderjug is totally owning “Higher Ground” right now. They’re playing the Chili Peppers version, although Stevie’s is just as awesome. My heart is pumping right along with the kicking bass line, and I’m actually feeling a little dizzy looking at the guy who’s belting it out. I want to floss my teeth with the threads from his ripped jeans. I want him to use the leather cuffs from around his wrists to bind me to his bed. I want to feel the chunky silver rings on his fingers knotting into my hair.

  I haven’t had this much of a physical reaction to a guy’s appearance since the first time Jordan Catalano leaned against a locker… only this is much, much worse.