 
# Chasing Forever Down

Nikki Chartier

***

Copyright © 2013 Nikki Chartier.

All rights reserved.

First edition: March 14th, 2013

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Author's note:

This book was previously published under the author's maiden name, Nikki Godwin.

# Drenaline Surf Series

Chasing Forever Down (Drenaline Surf, #1)

Rough Waters (Drenaline Surf, #2)

Always Summer (Drenaline Surf, #3)

With You Around (Drenaline Surf, #4)

For more information, visit www.nchartierbooks.net or sign up for Nikki's newsletter!

#  Dedication

For my sister, the real Enchanted Emily.

Thank you for lending so much of your magic to this story.

# Chapter One

That chandelier should crash to the floor. I'd save one of the crystals as a souvenir, a symbolic end of corporate parties. It's the same thing year after year – slinky black dresses on women too old to be wearing them, artificially whitened smiles, and the picture of Solomon Worthington, who built this building, still wrapped up in that awful bronze frame that's the color of a spray tan.

But the guy beneath Solomon is different. No one shows up at this kind of event with a crooked tie, messy hair, or wearing Converse.

And he has.

It's too late to look away. He's already seen me all starry-eyed and frozen. His shadow shrinks beneath the picture as he pulls away from the wall and advances in my direction. There's no time to bail. I wouldn't dare try. I'd most likely trip on my way out the door and go down in corporate history as the idiot who busted her ass at Town Hall.

He stops in front of me and smiles what has to be the most charming smile in the history of smiles.

"Black tie affairs should make the top ten list of reasons why people commit suicide," he says.

He tugs his tie to one side. "Noose provided."

It's a good thing I didn't run. That has to be the best line I've ever heard. I run my finger along my pearl necklace. "In a variety of styles," I agree.

"Parents drag you here?" he asks, fiddling with the knot of his tie.

I nod. They've dragged me here every year since I started high school, when I was old enough to tag along. Mom always gives me the same speech, the one that starts with, "Haley, please make a good impression. Your future depends on this."

Every successful businessman and businesswoman across the state is here in our Town Hall, and with them are their protégés aka their children. Some of them can't wait to take over that CEO position, and others are like me – looking for a way out.

"What about you? Parents?" I ask. I can't imagine why anyone would be here otherwise.

Yet he shakes his head.

"Nah. I was actually thinking of crashing the party, but it doesn't seem worth it. Let's get out of here," he says, jerking his head toward the exit.

Nothing could sound better right now...except his name. And maybe a little background info to convince me that he's not a serial killer.

"They'll never know you're gone," he says, as if he can read my silly thoughts. "We'll be back before this thing ever ends. They'll be finishing up the last bottle of champagne."

He looks over me, skimming the room quickly, like he doesn't want to be noticed. I want to ask who he's looking for, but I already know his answer will be "no one." I copy his action – looking for my parents though – and don't see a familiar face. He pulls away from the wall and walks into the hallway. I follow, hoping someone other than Solomon Worthington's portrait will see me leave...just in case.

"There's a cover band playing at The Lyric," he says.

The Lyric Theater is the oldest landmark in Fallen Elk Grove. It's the heart of downtown, just a block over from Town Hall. The city wanted to tear it down a few years ago to build shiny new buildings, but it's part of our history. The good news is that it's a very public venue and makes for many witnesses.

"Who are they covering?" I ask. I try to read his face for something other than mystery.

"The Ocean in Moonlight," he says.

He explains that The Ocean in Moonlight is a summery-feel band from Arizona, but I'm miles ahead of him. My best friend Linzi is in love with this band, their drummer Keegan in particular.

"And cover bands usually suck," I say.

He shrugs his shoulders and looks back into the adjoining room.

"Well, stay here and wait for the chandelier to fall then," he says.

It only takes about two minutes to locate my dad's car in the parking lot. I type in the security code, toss my noose of pearls onto the backseat, and exchange my heels for flip flops. I don't regret the switch, even if they do flap loudly against the sidewalk.

"So...do you have a name or is that confidential too?" I ask as we pass the ancient hardware store. I stare through the window at a wall of hammers, crowbars, and wrenches to avoid eye contact with him.

"Names are boring," he says. He seems more relaxed now without the tie. "It takes the mystery out of people, don't you think?"

He doesn't have to worry about anything taking away from his mystery. He runs his fingers through his night-sky-black hair and examines his reflection in a store window. My guess is that he was aiming for the messy-haired emo boy look, but he's got more of a beach bum shag going on instead.

Nothing else is said in our two-minute walk until we see the vertical word LYRIC glowing in red lights. He looks both ways and grabs my wrist before taking off in a run across the completely vacant street.

"I'm guessing you're from nearby since you knew about The Lyric," I say.

He'll know I'm prying for anything he'll give me, but I don't care at this point. He smiles but shakes his head.

"Nothing a little research can't tell me," he says. "Besides, it's the most historic place in the area, so it's all over the tourist websites."

That's true, but I don't believe him. Tourists call it The Lyric Theater. He called it The Lyric, which only locals do. And tourist websites? Really? What kind of guy checks out the tourist websites for a no-name town like this one?

He pulls on one of the double doors and holds it open for me. No matter how many times I've been here, I still feel tiny when I step into the auditorium. Multi-colored stage lights and splatters of glowing cell phones speckle the dark room. A mass of other teenagers huddle around the stage.

He keeps a grasp on my wrist as we push through the crowd then he moves behind me so I can have a better view of the stage. He didn't seem so tall until now. The cover band is halfway through The Ocean in Moonlight's biggest hit "Ocean Air." They sing about sitting outside all day and night, next to the ocean with someone special...then losing that person. I've always wondered if west coast ocean air is different from our east coast ocean air. Something about this song always makes me think I'm being cheated.

The girl next to us slings her hair over her face and sings every word like she may erupt if she doesn't scream her lungs out. I remind myself to smile so she won't think I'm glaring at her.

She catches my stare and yells, "What's your favorite Moonlight song?"

"Chase Forever Down!"

The bass vibrates over my vocal chords when I scream the words back to her. It keeps me from speaking when I realize that Mystery Guy screamed the same song title to her.

I spin around to look at him, but I still can't speak because the stage lights dance in his eyes – from red to pink to orange, then green to blue to yellow – and he smiles this totally perfect smile that makes my brain fizzle into hot summer ocean air. It's like he knows everything I'm feeling and thinking in this very instance.

The vibrations in the floor cease and give me an excuse to look back to the stage. I watch the drummer hit his drumsticks together three times before the next song begins.

"For a cover band, they're not so bad," Mystery Guy leans down and whispers into my ear.

I halfway glance at him and nod, but I can't turn and face him or else I may end up spilling my heart all over his white button-up. He knows my song, and not only does he know it, he _loves_ it.

"Chase Forever Down" is unlucky number thirteen on The Ocean in Moonlight's debut album, the song that was never released as a single or even played on their live DVD that Linzi made me watch all last summer. But it's always been my song, my secret anthem.

It's the only song that understands how I feel, how badly I want to escape. It embodies my daydream of running so far away that I can't even see the North Carolina state line. It's the song I plan to blast on repeat until I am away from the world of corporate parties and parents barking about business degrees and a realistic future. _Oh, that song._ It makes my heart skip beats and fuels me to make the great escape and chase my own forever down.

And just as my daydream of chasing forever starts to dwindle in my mind, the cover band's guitarist strums those first few chords, and Mystery Guy grasps my shoulder. He says the words over and over.

"This is our song! This is our song!"

The scent of hair dye and his pineapple shampoo sweeps around me. The Keegan-wannabe-drummer bangs on his drums so hard that a drumstick flies out of his hand. Everything in the air feels so right – the freedom, the rush, the fact that I'm living for something more – and the only way it could be better would be if the real The Ocean in Moonlight was playing it.

The night falls silent as the cover band shoves their last amp into the back of an SUV. Mystery Guy was the only person nice enough to stick around and help them, which left me sitting on the curb watching for the past twenty minutes. Their drummer bangs on the side of the vehicle with his drumsticks and then hands them to Mystery Guy as a souvenir. He waves goodbye to us and climbs into the backseat.

We watch until their taillights fade away. Mystery Guy pulls me up from the curb. Little is said as we walk back toward Town Hall, mostly just which Moonlight songs are our favorites. He drags a lone drumstick along the walls of the old downtown buildings. The click-pop sound bounces off the bricks and echoes against the empty night, in perfect rhythm with the town clock announcing the arrival of eleven o'clock.

He rattles his drumsticks against the stone podium at the bottom of Town Hall's cement steps. A bronze plaque details Town Hall's history and the boring facts of the Worthington family. I run my fingers over the raised letters and avoid eye contact.

"Solomon Worthington would totally tell you to ditch this place," Mystery Guy says.

I want to argue because I could see the Worthingtons sipping champagne and conversing with the townsfolk about literature, art, and politics. But deep down, maybe beneath his bronze heart, Solomon wanted something more too. Maybe he didn't want to draw blueprints. Maybe he wanted to jump into his horse-drawn carriage and chase his forever down.

"Champagne will last another thirty minutes," Mystery Guy says. He flashes a sneaky smile that tells me to run before I get sucked in too deep, but it's too late because I'm already wrapped up in his dark whirlwind of ocean air and cover bands. He gets it. And no one around here gets it.

We walk the sidewalk until we reach Bristow Park, three blocks from Town Hall. I haven't been here since sixth grade, when my best friend Chris was forced to move to Alabama because his mom was marrying her high school sweetheart who wouldn't leave his hick town behind for the east coast.

This park was so much bigger in elementary school. It doesn't feel like the massive ship we sailed. This tiny playground has zero imagination. I lie back next to Mystery Guy on the wide slide. He rambles about the stars and making wishes and good luck, and none of it makes sense, but I watch his finger trace pictures in the sky.

He turns his head toward me, and I watch him from the corner of my eye.

"So what do you plan on doing for forever?" he asks.

"Do you use that line on all the girls?" I keep my face toward the stars.

"Note to self," he says. "The forever line is a no-go."

He's quiet for a minute. Then he asks again. "But really, what is your forever plan?"

Summer break just started three days ago, and already I feel like I'm back in school with teachers and counselors and college recruiters asking the same future-oriented questions.

"First I have to survive senior year," I say. "Then there's college. Then the real world."

He sits up just slightly and leans back on his elbows.

"That's a cop out," he says. "That's what your parents and teachers have told you to say because you haven't decided on a major. My guess is that your parents want you to be like them, and you want anything but that."

"It doesn't matter," I say. "I'm not the one paying for college. They are."

He drops back onto the slide. "But you want to chase forever down, right?"

"Yes," I admit. "I don't know anyone else who likes that song."

I finally look over at him. The reflection of the creamy black sky zaps all color from his eyes. His jaw line moves up and down as he chews a piece of gum that I never saw him put into his mouth.

He looks over and laughs.

"So tell me about forever," he says.

I look back at the sky. Something in me questions whether I should spill my secrets to the guy with too many secrets, but he's the only person in this vast universe who seems to be on the same page I am in the book of forever. And I need to know how to escape. I'm so sure he knows.

"My grandmother had a framing shop on the beach, about an hour from here," I say.

I recount the picture frames made from driftwood and our shoreline adventures chasing after that very wood. There was an antique metal pelican perched on the picket fence outside of the shop, like a mascot for Secrets of The Sea. The store closed down after she went into the nursing home, and my mom stashed every last remnant of those summer memories into our attic after my grandmother's death.

"Your parents didn't want the store?" he asks.

"No," I say. "They had bigger and better business deals. It's not about business deals, though. I always said it'd be mine someday, but they remind me that it'll be after I'm grown...with a real degree and a real job...on my time, not theirs."

I hesitate to say any more. I never talk about Secrets of The Sea or the metal pelican or how my grandmother told me stories about where all of the wood came from – the storms that threw trees into the ocean and wooden planks rescued from pirate shipwrecks on the ocean bottom. The ones like me don't complain or talk about big dreams. We go to the colleges our parents choose, and we get a degree to decorate our future office walls with. We don't chase forever down. Our forevers are planned.

He unhooks his C-shaped cufflink and rolls up his sleeve to check the time. I find it odd that he wears a watch. He looks like the "I keep time with my cell phone" type. He sits up and exhales like he's forcing ocean winds from his throat and into the night.

"We better head back," he says.

He grabs his drumsticks from the ground and walks back to the sidewalk. He pulls a small piece of paper from his pocket, spits his gum into it, and tosses it toward the trash can. It falls short and rolls onto the grass.

"You're littering on my childhood turf," I tell him.

"Gonna arrest me now? I can post bail." He laughs and drums an inconsistent beat against the Bristow Park sign. "C'mon. Let's go."

He walks me as far as the front entrance of Town Hall. Goodbyes and well wishes float around inside, and in a matter of minutes, tipsy CEOs will pour out of these same double doors.

"Meet me tomorrow?" he asks. "The park? Twelve noon?"

That'll be after a long night of internet stalking trying to figure out this guy's name and why he won't tell me anything. The serial killer vibes are gone, but there are as many untold stories lingering in him as there are in the old driftwood frames in our attic.

"I'll be there," I say.

"Great," he says. "I'll see you then."

He descends the concrete steps and disappears amongst the cars in the parking lot. He never even looks back.

It's three A.M. when I shut down my laptop. Of all the social networking sites, all the search engines, all the information on the internet – there's nothing that remotely hints at this guy. And it doesn't help when you don't have a name to search.

There are only a thousand and one reasons why he doesn't want to be found. He's a criminal. He's wanted by the FBI. He's homeless and doesn't want anyone to know. He's an undercover agent. He's the lovechild of a corporate genius who was impregnated in high school and gave him up for adoption. At this time of the night, nothing that makes sense. I fall back onto my pillow and wait for morning's light.

The park is empty as of 11:57 A.M. It's still empty at five after twelve and ten after twelve, and as of 12:30, I realize he's not coming. Bristow Park feels as sad as it did the night Chris and I took our final voyage across the world of imagination and childhood. I run my hand over the top of the park's sign, the same spot where Mystery Guy tapped his drumsticks last night, and that's when I see it. A paper star. It's lime green and folded origami-style. It wasn't here last night, and my gut feeling says it's for me.

I recount pieces of last night for Mom when I get home, leaving out the part where I snuck off with a stranger, and drill her on the families with college-aged sons. She digs out the last edition of the "corporate yearbook" and wishes me luck on finding him. Even if he's in this book, it's five years old and may fail me. Still, this is my only option right now. As I thumb the pages, I realize the A's are unpromising, full of daughters and much older children. The B's provide the same results until page twenty-seven. _Burks_.

He's not the same disheveled emo-boy-wannabe from last night. He's well dressed. And blonde. But his face is the same, down to the cheekbones and his jaw line and the way his smile does that crooked thing where it's a little higher on the left side than the right.

I fold the corner of the page and slam the book shut. I can't get downstairs fast enough to ask my mom. She's standing at the stove when I burst into the kitchen.

"What do you know about the Burks family?" I ask.

I drop the book onto the table and flip back to their page, hoping the visual aid may help Mom with details other than what company the family owns or how big their house is. She doesn't walk over to the table, though. A reminiscent gaze sweeps her face, and she says, "Oh, they're nice people."

That tells me nothing. "What about their son, Spencer?"

She turns toward me, sad-eyed and nostalgic.

"Spence," she says. "They always called him Spence."

"It's him," I say, pointing at his picture. "This is the guy from last night."

This gets her to the table. She stares at the picture for what feels like too long, and I wait for her to say something, anything.

"Sweetie, there's no way the guy you met was Spence Burks," she finally says.

I shake my head. "I'm a thousand percent sure it was him."

Mom shakes her head back. "It's impossible, Haley. He died three years ago."

# Chapter Two

"You tried hooking up with a ghost?" Linzi's voice is completely serious coming through the earpiece of my cell phone.

"No!" I fall back onto my bed, preparing to explain it to my best friend one more time.

"He was very much alive," I assure her. "And I was not hooking up with him."

But now the mystery around Spence Burks has spread outside of my little galaxy and into the universe.

I roll over so I'll stop forming pictures of drumsticks and stars out of the texture on my ceiling. At this rate, I'll end up drawing myself into a padded room, and I know I'm not crazy.

"Can you just come over? You're the only one who actually believes me," I say.

Linzi makes it to my house in record time and manages to get past my parents without discussing the undead. She grabs the book of corporate families as soon as she gets into my bedroom and flips it directly to page twenty-seven.

"He's cute," she says. She stretches out on my bed and looks at me with that same sympathetic face Mom gave me in the kitchen. "You're positive it's him?"

"For the millionth time, yes. I'm completely sure. It was him, and he's not dead, and I'm tired of saying that," I tell her again. My frustration is about to erupt like a massive volcano.

"No twin brother?" she asks.

"Only child," I remind her.

"Damn. Guys that cute should come in twos," Linzi says.

She traces his face on the page with her index finger.

It's not about his looks, though. Yes, he was cute, and he was fun, and any girl my age would probably fall to pieces over him, but that's not why I have to find him. He understood everything I'm feeling, everything I want in life that I can't ever imagine being within my reach. And for once, I felt like it was there, that it was close enough to grab. I'm so sure he's done it, and I need to know every secret of the trade from a mastermind like him.

"I know! Separated at birth! These things happen, you know. I've seen it on talk shows," Linzi says.

She twists her hair around her finger while she thinks. Her eyes glow with excitement as the thoughts rush through her brain like paper stars realigning across a beautiful galaxy. I already dread hearing her next theory.

"What if," she begins again. "He went somewhere and something bad happened to him? Like he has amnesia and doesn't know who he is but somehow he found his way back here, like he's trying to find his past?"

I shake my head. "He knew his past. He knows what it's like to feel..."

I stop before I say the word 'trapped.'

Linzi stares at me waiting for the rest of the sentence.

I inhale and attempt to come up with something other than how he totally came back here for a reason and understands me in a way that even my BFF doesn't.

"He didn't want to be found," I say. "He was too secretive. He knows exactly who he is, and he didn't want anyone else to know he's alive."

"So he faked his death! Ohmygosh, this is so exciting," Linzi says, her voice changing from a CSI who just cracked the case to a squealing girl in .02 seconds. "So how do we find him?"

I rack my brain for any tiny piece of info he may have slipped last night, but his bases were covered well. He always had a comeback.

"I don't know. Everything was so off about him. At least we know who he is now, even if he's supposed to be dead. We can figure out who he was before he died, but I don't know how to figure out who he is now. And all I have to go on is a stupid paper star," I say.

"Let's backtrack the present, not the past," Linzi says. She stands up and grabs her keys. "C'mon. We're reliving last night."

Before we make it to Town Hall, I ask Linzi to stop at the library. It's foreign land to us, but they have an archive of newspapers, and old newspapers reveal old news. We trace back three years, to the month of April. It's not hard to find him. He's all over the front page for a week and a half. _SPENCER BURKS STILL MISSING AFTER THREE DAYS._ This headline catches my eye first. I skim the details of the article.

Florida. Spring break vacation. Storm. Tides. Lost at sea. Possible drowning. Helicopters. Search crews. Body not found.

"This is unreal," Linzi whispers.

She puts her newspaper down and scatters the others across the table. The headlines tell the story along the way, from notification that he was missing up to the day that the search and rescue mission became a recovery mission that was eventually called off.

Linzi snaps a few pictures of the newspapers with her cell phone then places them back into the archives. She waits until we're back in her car before she says anything.

"So he went on vacation with his family, took a swim in the ocean against the weather channel's warnings, and disappeared, pretending he drowned and was entombed in the ocean's bottom for the rest of eternity," she says to her steering wheel.

I close the curtain on all the questions screaming from the theater in my mind. I can't even begin comprehending how someone who was about to graduate high school could pull off his own death and escape like that. It'd take months of planning and preparation.

"At least we know they never found his body," I reason aloud.

That's all the backup I need to convince Linzi that this guy was in the flesh. It's the only concrete fact I have.

Linzi turns into the parking lot across from Town Hall.

"Why'd he come back?" she asks. She kills the engine.

We sit in silence for a minute before she opens her door, and the car beeps repeatedly until she removes her keys from the ignition. I wish I had an answer. No one goes through that much trouble to die unless he wants to be dead.

"Maybe he wanted to see his parents again," I say. I slam the car door shut behind me and glance up at Town Hall. "Or to see a glimpse into his old life...or just for old time's sake."

"Or maybe his new life isn't all he thought it'd be," Linzi says.

I bite my tongue to keep from denying that statement. His life has to be all he wanted it to be. He came back here just to encourage me to chase my forever down, to escape this life that I don't want for myself. If his life wasn't all he thought it'd be, he would've told me to get that business degree and become a CEO's slave. He'd have warned me about the sharks and piranhas of the real world and how they'd rip me to shreds.

We climb the large concrete steps leading to the building. Twelve hours ago, an undead guy was with me, and we were breaking out of corporate jail while my flip flops kissed the pavement. Now it feels like years ago.

"Lead the way," Linzi says.

I step ahead of her and open the door. I secretly hope he's hiding out inside talking to Solomon Worthington's portrait. The hallway feels longer than it did last night. The lights interrogate me with every step closer to the party room. The chandelier still hangs, all golden and sparkly, just how Solomon wanted it. I feel his eyes follow me from his portrait as I retrace my steps around the room.

"He was there, right under Solomon," I say, pointing across the room.

I use my finger as a guide to show Linzi the path he walked from the wall to me. I turn to face her.

"And then he used that opening line about the noose," I say.

"Charming one, isn't he?" she says.

She pulls her cell phone from her purse and traces his steps backward. She stops beneath the portrait and snaps a picture of it.

I wish that portrait could speak now. He'd tell me that I'm not crazy and that Spence Burks _was_ here last night. He'd tell me about all the parties before when Spence's parents dragged him here in a suit and tie and forced him to smile for a great first impression. If anyone could validate what happened last night, it's Solomon Worthington, and he's been dead for a century.

Linzi is disappointed when The Lyric doesn't turn up any remnant of last night's adventure either. No one remembers him...or me for that matter. Linzi pretends she wants to book the cover band for a party, but they refuse to give us their information due to "privacy regulations." I think it's really more so due to the fact that Linzi is obviously lying and terrible at it.

I stare at the bricks as we walk back toward Town Hall, envisioning the drumstick click-popping against the surface. Maybe Spence Burks really did come back from the dead for one night. And maybe I really was the only one who could see him. Maybe I am crazy because the only two people who could vouch for me – Spence and Solomon – are dead. I grab my wrist and feel for my pulse just to make sure _I'm_ still alive.

"Where'd you go after this?" Linzi asks.

"Bristow Park," I say.

I've told her this story about twenty times in the last twelve hours, but she acts like my telling her again may help trigger some big chunk of the story I had to have somehow forgotten.

I repeat every sentence from our conversation, as much as I can verbatim anyway, while I twist the little green star in between my fingers. The sun beams down on us while we lie back on the slide, and I attempt to recreate his talk of wishing on stars and good luck.

Linzi sits up and interrupts. "Remind me again why this guy was so damn awesome. He sounds boring. Talking about the stars and luck? Seriously, Haley?"

The truth is that I don't even know why he was so damn awesome. He was just fearless, open to whatever the world threw at him. He wasn't worried about his future and college and taking over his parents' business. He was free, and it's so rare to ever see someone so free in Fallen Elk Grove. He wasn't afraid to walk through the night with no destination in mind, just ending up wherever he did, chasing forever down and breathing in ocean air and littering on my childhood dreamland.

"Oh God," I say, not answering Linzi's question anywhere other than in my own mind.

I push off the slide and dash toward the trash can. I drop to my knees and run my hand over the grass hoping to find that little wad of paper.

Linzi's shadow towers over me, erasing the sunlight on the ground like a tidal wave preparing to blast away a kingdom of sandcastles.

"What are you doing? We're supposed to be retracing step by step," she says.

I grab the white paper from the shadows. "This!"

Linzi kneels down next to me, asking a million questions with her eyes that I can't answer because I don't even know the answers yet.

"He put his gum in it and threw it away last night. But he missed the garbage can and I accused him of littering and he asked if I was going to arrest him because he could post bail," I say.

My hands are too shaky to unwrap the gum-covered mystery, so Linzi does the honors. Every hope I have of ever seeing him again lies in this little piece of paper. It's like the key to the universe, and my heart jumps in hopes of it being worth something.

It's a receipt.

"Stella's Salon...722 Hawkins Road...Murfreesboro, Tennessee," Linzi says. "I can't tell what he bought through the gum."

"Spence Burks was a blonde. Last night he wasn't," I tell her.

It's another concrete fact that he was disguising himself, that he didn't want to be found or seen. But why not?

"What the hell was he doing in Tennessee? What's the deal with this guy?" Linzi asks the questions like I actually know the answers. I add them to my long mental list of things to ask him when I find him.

"We know where he was before he came here," I say. I don't know what that means really, but it's more than I knew last night.

"Too bad life isn't like TV, where you can find used gum and then hot guys from the crime lab solve all of your problems between five or six commercial breaks," Linzi says.

"Yeah, really," I say. "They'd just trace his steps backward then bring him into the station for questioning."

Linzi crumples the receipt back into a wad and jumps up from the grass. "That's it, Haley! We'll trace his steps backward. We know he was at a salon in Tennessee, so maybe the salon can tell us where he was before that. We'll just rewind the last few days of his life."

I push off the grass to stand. "We can't just go to Tennessee," I remind her.

Asking my parents if we can take a road trip to God-knows-where chasing after an undead college-aged member of the male gender would be on the same level as asking them to cancel my cell phone plan and sell my car.

"Don't they want you to look into that business program in Nashville?" Linzi asks.

She's already planning this trip in her head, and it's too late to stop her.

"Looking into colleges?" I ask.

"Totally," she says as we leave the park. "This is the only chance you'll have. Senior year is coming up, and you'll need to send off applications, so you need to make up your mind. And I'm the friend who so desperately wants to see other parts of the country. They'll buy it."

We spend the next two hours scouting colleges online and requesting brochures and welcome packets to be sent to Linzi's aunt's post office box.

"We'll pick them up on our way back into town so our parents will see how much info we collected," Linzi says.

We print out driving directions from college to college and prepare our coinciding stories for all parental units. Two hours and a few phone calls later, my dad lectures me about financial responsibility and says something about getting a few prepaid debit cards and having the oil changed first. Even when Mom pulls out her extra luggage, it doesn't fully register that we've pulled this off.

"So how are we packing?" Linzi asks from behind me.

I don't break my stare from the closet. I was actually asking myself the same thing. We have no clue where we're headed, so weather reports won't do us any good.

"Pack for summer but take jeans and a jacket just in case," I say.

As soon as Linzi's headlights fade from my driveway, I sign online again to dig deeper into Spence and the meaning behind origami stars. Apparently giving someone a jar of these stars is a good luck token, like a four-leaf clover or a rabbit's foot. I wonder what it means if you just give someone one star. Maybe it was his way of laughing in my face, like "Haley, here's one star, just to tease you because I know you'll have zero luck ever finding me again."

I twirl the star around between my fingertips. He left it behind. He talked about the stars and wishes and good luck. This stupid paper star means something to someone somewhere out there on this crazy place they call planet Earth. I tuck the star into the hidden zipper in my purse. It's going with me on this forever chasing mission. And one day, I'll make Spence Burks explain it to me...whenever we find him.

I open a new window in the browser and key in his name. Enough with paper stars. I need to know who he was. There are some things I just can't say in front of Linzi. To her, this guy is just another "dream kid" – her term for kids who have it all and could have anything they wanted in life but dream of something ridiculous...like being a supermodel or playing professional sports.

Sometimes I wonder what she says about me when I'm not around, if she calls me a dream kid and complains about my ungratefulness that my parents can afford to send me to any college of my choice. What she doesn't know about dream kids is that we don't have choices. Spence Burks knew this, and he made the ultimate choice: life or death.

The internet articles still don't tell me about the dream-kid-turned-forever-chaser I met last night. They tell me about his death, the memorial service two towns over, and the candlelight vigil held on the Florida beach when the recovery mission was finally called off. I read all the nostalgic remarks made by his classmates about how he died just short of graduating high school and starting his life. He'd already received acceptance letters to three colleges and planned to pursue a career as a lawyer. I almost wish they could see him now. Lawyers don't walk around with paper stars, and they definitely don't wear Converse.

# Chapter Three

The never-ending road turns to gravel, and I almost lose all hope just short of seeing the sign that reads _Stella's Salon, 3 Miles_. Linzi reminds me to let off the accelerator because the last thing we need is a speeding ticket from a hick town deputy, especially since our parents think we're in Nashville right now. These are the longest three miles of my life.

We pull up in front of a small white boutique with a cow pasture. There's an old red barn in the distance, and I struggle to believe that Spence Burks would show up here. Still, that gum-covered receipt says otherwise.

Linzi hesitates as to whether she should knock on the front door, but since it's a business, she invites herself in. The _ding_ above the door and a sea of cow print welcomes us. From the countertops to the curtains to the hairdryers, black and white cow patterns dominate the room. It smells like cheap hairspray, and I taste it when I inhale.

A lady who's probably my mom's age walks out of a back room with a beehive of bleached hair teetering on her head. Her apron is – no surprise – cow print.

"And what can I do for you lovely little ladies?" she asks.

Linzi snaps into CSI mode.

"I was hoping you could give me a little information. I'm trying to find someone who I believe was here within the last week," she says in her serious voice.

The lady crosses her arms.

"Well honey, if they came in here, I'll sure bet you I saw 'em. I'm Stella, and I remember every person who walks through my door. Have a seat," she says.

Stella points to the spinning chairs. "So," she says, "tell me about this guy."

I sit down but instantly lean forward in my chair. "How'd you know it was a guy?"

She waves away my ridiculous question with her hand and laughs. "Believe it or not, I've been a teenage girl before. So, spill it. Who ya looking for?"

Linzi does the unthinkable and pulls the Ziploc bag from her purse. She swore the "evidence" had to be concealed or else it could be comprised.

"This receipt is dated..." She stops midsentence and turns the bag in different directions trying to make out the date through the green gum.

"It's from last week," she says, sticking the bag back into her purse.

I fall back into the chair.

"He came in a blonde and left with jet black hair," I say, hoping this will be an uncommon enough occurrence to trigger a memory of him.

Stella buries her face into her hands.

"Oh God, yes, I know who you're talking about," she says. "Such a nice-looking young man. Most gorgeous blonde hair I've ever seen. I tell ya, people bleach and dye and spend years trying to get that sun-kissed sparkle, and if he didn't walk in with it and want to cover it up."

It's more than obvious that Stella is one of those who has spent years trying to get that sun-kissed sparkle just right. Her hair is more of a fried honey color, though.

"Did he say why he wanted to dye it?" Linzi asks.

She scribbles something in the little pink notebook she brought along for her CSI mission.

"No," Stella says. "But I told him no one would recognize him anymore, and he said that was exactly the point."

So he _was_ in disguise! He didn't want to be recognized, but that still doesn't explain why he faked his death or came back and snuck me away from a party with him. If anything, it just raises more questions.

"So you dyed his hair?" Linzi assumes.

Stella shakes her head. "Heavens no! I couldn't bring myself to destroy perfection like that. He said he wanted to go back blonde a day or so later, and I knew if he bleached it, it would be the end of that God-given..."

"His hair was black," I say, prompting her back to the point of the story. I don't have time to listen her to bask in the glory of his blondeness.

Linzi continues to scribble everything Stella says into her notebook.

"Right," Stella says. "We sprayed it black. Rinses out in one washing, looks as good as a dye job, and no damage is done."

She reaches behind her and grabs a spray paint can to show us the newest device in testing hair colors before actually dying the hair.

I use this as my chance to interrogate about more than his outward appearance.

"He didn't mention where he was headed or where he'd come from? No small talk?" I ask.

Stella seems like the small talk type, the kind who'd make you talk to her even if you didn't want to.

"Oh honey, I had to pry the words from his lips. Poor boy didn't want to talk. He was exhausted, said he'd driven all night. The only thing keeping him awake was the coffee high he was on. He brought the cup in and asked if I'd throw it away for him," she says.

Stella's eyes light up. Then her face turns pale. It reminds me of how I felt the moment Mom said that Spence had been dead for three years. If I weren't scared of giving this lady a heart attack, I'd tell her not to fear anything because she's already seen the undead and lived to tell us about it.

She jumps up from her chair, sending it into a cyclone spin when she moves, and hurries back to the room she was in when we arrived. I swap glances with Linzi and wait impatiently for Stella to return and reveal whatever sudden epiphany she just had.

Muffled words float from the back, and we hold our breath hoping to hear something that may help. Stella eases back out, her face calm again, with a teenage girl in tow. Her hair is golden brown, and I'm thankful Stella hasn't tried to bleach it too.

"This is my niece, Katie," Stella says. "She works here part-time."

Katie holds up an empty coffee cup.

"His name is Colby Taylor," she says.

She sets the cup on the countertop behind us, in between my chair and Linzi's.

Linzi pulls out her cell phone and moves toward the cup.

"Exhibit B," she says, to no one in particular, as she zooms in on the plastic logo.

Blue squiggles decorate the orange cup. The word _Jitters_ is italicized in purple. Linzi spins the cup around and studies it from all angles.

"He's a surfer in California," Katie explains. "My brother is in school on the east coast, so he keeps up with the surf community. There's a whole east coast-west coast rivalry. Colby Taylor is _the_ west coast surfer."

It's only now that I notice her summer tan and hot pink Fort Walton Beach T-shirt. If she thought for a second that I was chasing _the_ west coast surfer, she'd be in my backseat, coffee cup in hand, shouting out directions to the nearest surf competition.

"So you saved the cup because he's famous?" I ask.

Katie shakes her head.

"No," she says. "Have you not seen the guy? He's so hot, like insanely hot...like the sun hot."

Linzi raises an eyebrow in my direction. I shake my head because I know she's asking for permission to search the internet high and low for this Colby Taylor guy, even if it's just to see if he's as hot as the summer sun.

"It's a witness testimony," she says through her teeth, like Katie can't hear her anyway.

"If we start looking into him, we'll convince ourselves it's him even if it's not, and you know that," I say. "Let's follow the coffee cup, and if the trail goes cold, we'll search the surfer."

Linzi nods her head and looks back at Katie and Stella. "Do you have a computer I can use? We have to find this Jitters place."

Stella motions us to the salon's office. Linzi does a quick search for a coffee shop named Jitters. She scrolls up and down the screen a few times then looks at me.

"It's a small chain. There are only three in the country. One's in New Jersey. Another in Florida. And...Oklahoma! That's the one! He went from Oklahoma to Tennessee to North Carolina," she says.

Six hours later, night has fallen, and I drive into a black abyss looking for a coffee shop. I wish we'd invested in a GPS before we set off on this grand adventure of chasing an undead boy. Linzi tries to help by giving me street directions from her phone, but the connection must be slow because she's rattling off street names that we passed three blocks ago. I stop at a dead intersection and let her phone catch up with our current location.

"Jitters should be two blocks up," Linzi says. "3108 Locust Street."

For once her directions are correct. The purple lights draw more attention to the shop than necessary. I'd much rather be wrapped up in hotel bed sheets right now, but with Jitters all lit up in front of me, I know we have to do this. Sleep can wait just a little longer.

The atmosphere is stale inside. No late night computer junkies using up the free Wi-Fi. No scent of coffee, which is a relief because it reminds me of burnt dog food. Instead there's a strong hint of lemon in the air. A starving musician in the back corner scribbles on a notebook and fills the air with notes from a small piano. The mixture of his voice with the notes is so incredibly beautiful that I don't even want to step forward for fear of his hearing me and stopping.

He can't be any older than Spence Burks, early college-aged, with dark hair, a scruffy face, and rubber bracelets lining both his arms. I play out scenes in my mind in fast forward, imagining him playing here in this coffee shop to playing in a huge auditorium with thousands of people singing his words back to him. I imagine girls screaming for him and bursting into tears as soon as his fingers hit the keys and his voice lights up the night sky. And while I know nothing of this guy except that he's as beautiful as his voice, I know that he's a forever-chaser.

He pulls back from the piano, grabs his pencil, and sings lyrics to himself, changing words and rearranging sentences, and I don't know how long it's been since we walked through the door and became zombies in a trance before he sees us.

"I'm so sorry," he says, walking toward us. "Can I get you something? Or help you with something?"

His face floods with panic, and he grabs his abandoned apron off the counter. As he pulls it over his T-shirt, his name tag hits the floor and spins across the tile toward me. I drop down and pick up the plastic, running my index finger over his name. Tim.

"It's okay," I say, handing him the tag. "I was just looking for someone."

"Oh," he says. "I'm pretty much the only one here at this hour. I come straight from night classes. Crowd's usually dead, so I can work on my music." He motions around the empty coffee shop.

Linzi yawns behind me, reminding me that she's still in the room and as tired as I was before I heard Tim playing the piano. She pulls a chair out from a random table and sits down. She'll never make it as a CSI at this rate. Doesn't she know they never sleep?

"You always work nights?" I ask.

He nods as he readjusts his name tag on his shirt. "Nine to nine or ten to ten, depends on which classes I have. Twelve-hour shifts, three times a week. They just need someone here really, but it works out perfectly for me."

Three times a week. I pray he was working the night Spence needed coffee to drive to Stella's and change into disguise.

"This guy I'm looking for was in here sometime last week, probably late," I say. I glance around the empty room and breathe in the lemon fresh chemicals. "He's probably your age, blonde, and was headed out on a long drive, most likely just dropping in to get something to keep him awake."

Tim stares behind me, like he's looking for something that is roaming the streets outside.

"Yeah, I know the guy you're talking about," he says. He looks back at me. "He said he was driving and needed something with a lot of caffeine. He needed to make it to Tennessee without falling asleep, pushed on time or something."

The effects of today's lengthy drive flee from my body. My heart thumps, and my adrenaline surges, and knowing I've found the right coffee shop as well as the right coffee shop employee gives me a brand new sense of hope. The paper stars of the universe have aligned and brought me incredible luck.

"Where was he driving from?" I ask.

I pray that Spence was more talkative with Tim than he was with Stella. By the time he reached Stella's, he was tired and pressed on time. Besides, Stella and Tim are nothing alike. I could see Spence being friends with Tim.

Tim shrugs. "I don't know," he says, shattering my thumping heart with those few words. "He just said he'd been on the road for a few days, and he really needed to make it in time. I don't know where he was headed."

The trail has run as cold as the vanilla frappe I could go for right now. My weariness sneaks back up on me, plaguing me with heavy eyes and sudden hopelessness. I spare Tim from having to let me down any more than he unknowingly already has and don't ask any more questions.

"But he did ask if he could put up tour flyers," Tim says. He points to the corkboard near the door. "The orange one. He said some friends of his were just starting their summer tour, and they had a show in this area later in the summer. They'd asked him to put some up on his way through."

Linzi nearly topples over in her chair. She's up and over to the board quicker than I could have been already standing. She jerks the orange paper from the board, and her dropped jaw and huge eyes can only mean one thing – The Ocean in Moonlight.

# Chapter Four

Jitters is booming this morning. Linzi insisted on coffee before we hit the road to Arizona. I insisted on Jitters, and I didn't bother denying it when she said I only wanted to see "the hot coffee shop guy" again.

"And one vanilla frappe," Tim says from across the counter.

I watch the bracelets on his arm as he reaches across the counter. The words _Live to Ride_ are engraved in red and black rubber, but he pulls his arm back before I can read the rest. I wonder about the untold stories behind his bracelets, if he'd leave a rubber bracelet behind just like Spence left the paper star.

I drop a few bills into the plastic tip jar as Tim tells us the best route back to the interstate. He wishes us a safe trip, and I hope this frappe wakes me up soon because the lack of a good night's sleep mixed with road tripping has me barely running.

"Hand me the keys," Linzi says in the parking lot. "I'll drive a while. You need more sleep."

I wait until after the vanilla frappe brain freeze to let the passenger seat back. Linzi says it's just interstate for the next few hours and puts The Ocean in Moonlight's CD into the player. Billboards fly by my window for miles and miles until even Tim's coffee can't keep me awake.

The yellow sign at the gas station stings my eyes. Linzi slips back into the driver's seat and cranks up. She watches the fuel hand rise and tells me it's about time I woke up. We're near the state line, about to leave New Mexico and enter Arizona.

"Switch," I tell her as I unhook my seatbelt. I can't believe I slept that long. Or that I'm actually still kind of tired.

We run inside for a restroom stop and more caffeine, then trade seats, and I drill her on directions to this night club because I'm certain she'll be asleep or just waking up by the time we get there.

"It's called Night Owl. I searched for images of it earlier. The O is actually an owl," she says.

As tired as she is, she can't stop rambling about The Ocean in Moonlight, guessing which songs they'll perform and giving me play by play of the fantasies she's played out in her head all day while I slept, like her meeting the Moonlight guys and becoming Keegan's roadie girlfriend. She falls asleep just after telling me about how she'd take pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower with him, if they let her go overseas on a tour with them. I just want to make it to Night Owl. Paris can wait.

I still don't know how a Moonlight concert is going to give me answers. But they know Spence. They gave him flyers. Maybe they'll give us some answers. I feel like I've made a full circle – from the cover band back around to the real band – and while I know no one can rock out to a Moonlight song on drums like Keegan can, I actually wish I was back in Fallen Elk Grove at The Lyric listening to the cover band. If my chase for forever ends, it will be at Night Owl. I hope they'll at least play my song.

The orange owl stares at me, reading me, questioning me, and I start questioning myself all over again. Then I question why I'm letting an owl in the form of neon lights lead to this kind of stress. Linzi pulls me through the crowd, but our chances of nearing the stage are slim to none. We're in Moonlight territory with Moonlight fans who have been with the band since before the days "Ocean Air" dominated radio stations.

"Do you think we'll get to meet them?" Linzi asks.

Her eyes sparkle with glimmers of hope and stage lights, and I don't want to burst her bubble of excitement.

I shrug my shoulders. "You never know," I say, hoping the opening act's bass drowns out my doubtfulness.

I do hope we get to meet them, though. I just have to figure out a good icebreaker to ask them about their undead friend with flyers.

We only advance about three feet forward before a barricade of drunken college idiots block us from closing in on Linzi's band. Between the puddles of spilled beer and flying legs of crowd surfers, I find myself regretting this even more. If it wasn't Linzi's dream band, I would have already hauled myself to the back of the room. Instead, I remain standing, staring at the picture of an ocean with a full moon on Keegan's drum, willing him with my mind to come on stage and make this worth it.

And my luck hasn't run out just yet. Their lead singer emerges on stage and introduces them, like they really need an introduction. Their lead guitarist plays a few chords, and the chaos begins. Everyone around us jumps up and down and shouts out lyrics. I regret my decision to wear flip flops tonight. But Linzi is right there with the crowd, here in Moonlight territory, screaming the words and slinging her hair and telling me how _OhMyGod! That is TheKeeganLawrence!_

I want to close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else. Back inside The Lyric watching a Moonlight cover band. Watching the stage lights reflect off the face of undead Spence Burks. I want to be surrounded by forever chasers, and no one in this room fits that description. The Ocean in Moonlight doesn't even fit. Keegan is steady and calm. The bassist has a half-drunken sway going on. The random violinist who makes this band sound different looks about he's as bored as he'd be playing in a symphony orchestra. I seriously hope they're just tired or partied too hard during their pre-tour celebrations.

"Haley!" Linzi screams into my ear. "This is your song!"

At least I think she was trying to tell me this was my song. The bass vibrates through my flip flops, and when I attempt to speak, I feel it buzz in my throat, and I know she can't hear me anyway. "Chase Forever Down" blares, sizzling through my veins from the floor up, and it's not the bass that's making the room buzz. It's the lead guitar.

I wish I knew the lead guitarist's name. Linzi never mentions him, as he's not TheKeeganLawrence, but he's into the song. He's head banging, even though the song isn't heavy enough for it, and his perfectly gelled hair slings sweat all over the front row of the crowd. While he's not singing into the microphone, his lips move along with every word of the song. I'm waiting for him to snap a guitar string because he's playing with so much heart. As one chord bleeds into the next, from one song to another, he never stops. He's a real forever chasing rock star.

The last lines of "Ocean Air" echo in the room, and the guitar fades into a hum. The lead singer apologizes for not being able to hang out after the show like they usually do. He says something about the summer tour kicking off, a long night of driving to the next town, and I think he's thanking everyone for coming. But it's impossible to hear anything over the beer-drenched people next to me shouting in each other's faces about whose house they're going to go to after the show.

Linzi is drunk on adrenaline and excitement, and she rambles about how incredible they were live and how disappointed she is that she can't meet them. My thoughts are focused on those orange flyers, though. The concert itself was lackluster. After the way Linzi raved about Keegan for so long, I expected more. He just didn't compare to the cover band's drummer. That guy was so into the music that he couldn't keep hold of his drumsticks...the same drumsticks he gave to Spence after the show...after he helped them load their equipment...

"We have to go! Now!" I shout the words, hoping Linzi can hear over the crowd, and I grab her arm.

She asks ten questions in a row as I push through toward the back of the room, but we can't stop now. They'll have a stage crew. They don't need help, and they don't need nearly as much time to pack up equipment. We stop under the orange owl, and I swallow the dry midnight air. Linzi asks what we're doing and if I'm crazy, and for the first time, I think I might be.

"Haley, slow down," she says. "Just stop."

So I do. I look around and try to guess where a band would be loading their equipment after a show. Both side parking lots are full of cars and people leaving, and we're dead center in front of the night club which means...

"Around back!" I say. "We have to get behind this building. Go! Now!"

I point to the left parking lot, which is slightly more vacant than the right, and Linzi does as she's told, looking for the fastest route around Night Owl.

"Lead guitarist," I say, trying to convince myself that I have a game plan and that it might actually work. "What's his name?"

"Barney," Linzi replies.

"What?" I stop between two cars and look back at her.

"Jason Barnes," she says.

I nod. "Okay, Jason. I can remember that."

I keep walking but Linzi protests from behind me.

"You can't call him that," she insists. "He'll know you're not a fan. Any real Moonlight fan knows that he's Barney, not Jason Barnes. He's been Barney since he was in high school. Even teachers called him Barney. And their bassist, he's not Dustin. He's Redd, two Ds. You have to know these things. Please don't call him Jason. I'll _die_ of embarrassment," she says, in typical overly dramatic Linzi fashion.

Surrender consumes me. It's not like we'll really find these guys anyway.

"Okay. Fine. Barney. He's Barney," I agree.

I question this grand decision of mine as we come upon what looks like a back alleyway, dark and quiet and right out of a real episode of CSI. It screams out crime scene, and I literally scream when a guy's voice asks me what I'm doing there.

"Whoa! Hey! It's safe!" the guy yells at me.

Linzi's fingernails dig into my arm. My mind tells me to run, but my legs don't respond, and just as my heart thumps as loudly as a bass drum, the broken streetlight behind him flickers just enough light to see his face – goatee first – and I breathe. It's TheJasonBarnes, better known as Barney.

"You shouldn't be back here," he says.

Obviously. "Yeah, I know, it's just – my best friend is a huge fan, and we came all the way from North Carolina, and she just really wanted to meet you guys." I feel like this is the biggest lie ever, and it really couldn't be more true.

"Okay, cool," he says.

He's so laid back, even in a dark alley with stalker fangirls at midnight. He motions around the building, and Linzi's nervous breathing quivers behind me.

A long black tour bus is parked behind Night Owl, the same picture on its side that was on Keegan's drum. The silver words _The Ocean in Moonlight_ are surreal, sparkling in front of me like a million silver paper stars. Their crew packs amps, guitars, and mic stands into the storage compartments as Barney calls for Redd and Keegan to come over and meet us. Linzi begins to pour her heart out while simultaneously trying not to come across as a Moonlight stalker. Redd laughs at something she says, and Keegan nods along, his dark dreadlocks bouncing with every shake of his head.

"North Carolina, huh?" Barney asks.

I look over my shoulder and know this is my only chance, so I send up a prayer to the God of Paper Stars and go for it.

"Yeah, North Carolina," I say. "But we actually saw the tour flyer in a coffee shop in Oklahoma. Road trip."

"Ah cool," he says, nodding along. "Where you headed?"

"Well...I'm not really sure. I'm trying to meet up with the guy who put the flyer up in Oklahoma, but I don't know if I'm headed the right way," I say.

"You've made it this far," Barney says. That's totally not the response I wanted. "How awesome is that? You saw that in Oklahoma and ended up here."

I keep smiling and swapping glances between his face and the broken streetlight back down the alleyway.

"We have a show there later this summer," Barney continues on. "We sent flyers with him about a week ago. He puts them up for us anytime he's in any of the areas, on his way to events, you know, coast to coast. He hits a lot of great concert towns along the way."

Pretending to know what he's talking about is the only option now. "I bet that's awesome promotion for you," I say.

"Oh yeah, especially during summer tours. It's great having a guy in his position support us, telling people to go to our shows or pick up our new album. California loves us as much as Arizona does," Barney says, rubbing his goatee like he's reminiscing.

"Awesome," I say again.

He probably thinks I don't know any other words.

Linzi bounces back over to us, waving back to Keegan and Redd, and she waves Keegan's autographed drumsticks in the air like SOS flares.

"So what's the best route out of here?" I ask Barney.

"Well..." he pauses and looks around. "Back down the alley, through the parking lot, and back to the front of Night Owl, for starters."

"She totally means interstate," Linzi explains, talking with her drumsticks like they're her new arms.

Barney laughs. "I know. I was kidding. It's about six hours straight across to the coast, I-10 the whole way. Then take the exit to Crescent Cove. Just watch the road signs, takes you straight there."

The ocean floods me with relief. I can taste the Pacific salt water and ocean air, and I haven't even crossed the California state line.

"You freaking rock!" I say, channeling Linzi's personality more than my own.

He shrugs and nods. "Yeah, I try."

Linzi twirls in circles, knocking her drumsticks together. I press my luck one last time.

"How will I find him when I get there?" I ask.

Barney laughs and shakes his head, like this is the silliest question ever asked. "Oh, you'll see him when you get there. Don't worry. Drive safe!" he says. He hands me a guitar pick and walks back toward the tour bus.

"Six hours?" Linzi asks as we walk farther and farther away from the broken streetlight. "That's a long drive. This adrenaline is going to wear off," she reminds me.

"I can drive. You can sleep. I'll sleep when we get there," I say.

We stop for gasoline at the state line, and I stock up on Mountain Dew for the rest of this across-California drive. Linzi drifts off not long after we enter Cali, and I play "Chase Forever Down" on repeat until it feels like background music because I'm too tired to focus on it. Six hours feels like sixteen hours, but when I see the sign that says Crescent Cove is five miles away, the adrenaline rush kicks in just one more time.

The sun peeks at us over the horizon as I take the Crescent Cove exit, but the sunrise hasn't welcomed the morning with its orange-pink ice cream sherbet colors. Everything is still blue. The sky. The ocean. The lights on the billboard.

The billboard! I slam the brakes and pull off the highway, sending my sleeping best friend flying forward like a rock from a slingshot.

"Damn Haley!" she screams, now awake and tugging on her tightened seatbelt.

She mumbles that I'm trying to kill her, but all I can do is point to the sign above us. The blue-white lights reflect off the canvas, illuminating the thousands of silver stars and the giant words _Welcome to Crescent Cove! Home of surf star, Colby Taylor!_

"Oh. My. God." Linzi speaks the words I can't say.

I pick my jaw up off the steering wheel and shake my head. There he is, plastered across a giant sign holding a black surfboard decorated with stars and tiny crescent moons. He's blonde and chiseled and tan and alive.

I look to Linzi, hoping she'll understand my speechless best friend code. And she does. She throws her head back against the seat, shaking her head and sending her blonde locks whipping across her face.

"The girl from the 'boro was right," she says. "He's not Spencer Burks anymore. He's Colby Taylor. He really is _the_ west coast surfer!"

She motions up at the billboard. "We could've been here two days ago!"

"Then you wouldn't have Keegan Lawrence's drumsticks," I say.

# Chapter Five

"Haley, it'll be dark in a few hours. You can sleep then," Linzi says.

She hits the alarm button on the hotel's clock, sending shrill beeps through the air and over my eardrums. The red numbers say it's nearly five o'clock.

Linzi sighs. "I'm starving, and you know, it wasn't my bright idea to drive across the state of California at midnight."

She falls back onto her bed, holding her stomach as if dying from starvation.

I surrender. "Let me take a shower. Look into nearby restaurants and get directions."

I throw myself together in record time. Linzi chooses a pizzeria within walking distance of the Crescent Inn.

This morning's shock, awe, and exhaustion kept me from fully taking in the California scenery, but now I can't miss the sand, the ocean, the palm trees, and the overdone theme of crescent moons and stars on every corner.

The Crescent Cove Bakery, directly across from the hotel, advertises their crescent-shaped cheese biscuits in the window. Strings and Starlight, a guitar shop and obvious local hangout, is next door to the hotel. We dodge a sea of skateboarders in route to Isaiah's Pizzeria and Pasta.

I don't even know where to start now that we're here. Yeah, Barney was right. We found who we were looking for – now we actually have to _find_ him, as in the breathing human form of him. My gut tells me this is hopeless, that I'm chasing after the impossible, and all I'll have left are memories and paper stars. I need more than that. I need freedom. I need dream chasing. I need to know all of his secrets and how I can find that escape too.

Our waiter leads us to a back booth with green leather seats. Black and white pictures adorn the walls. The photo next to our table is an old surf shack, wooden and rustic, right in the sand next to the ocean with surfboards leaning against the outside. I glance at the table behind us. Their picture is the original Crescent Cove billboard – old school paint job without the forever-chasing surfer. I take another look at the surf shack photo and accept it as a sign that we're going to find him. This table was meant for us.

"Where do we start?" Linzi asks over the menu.

"Appetizers?" I assume.

"No," she says. She lowers her menu, leans over the table, and whispers, "Colby Taylor."

I shrug. That's a great question. "I don't know. Maybe we can ask around?"

I grab my menu and scan the pasta list, trying to convince myself that I'm as starved as Linzi when all I'm really concerned with is finding the guy on the billboard.

"Can I start you ladies out with an appetizer?" Our waiter holds his head in that awkward tilted way that male models do in magazines when they're trying to show off their awesome jaw lines or high cheekbones.

Linzi flips into super flirty mode and tells him how we're not from here and that she's not familiar with some of their appetizers. He suggests garlic knots, and she orders a plate of them without even asking what they are.

He brings us a plate full of what looks like knots made of bread. They're drenched in garlic sauce and taste incredible yet they're so strong that we don't order anything past the appetizer. Linzi digs through her purse for gum while mumbling something about not having to worry about vampires. I stick one of those prepaid cards into the booklet with our ticket and wait for him to pick it up. My dad doesn't realize how genius these preloaded cards are. At least this way there won't be a statement in the mail showing I was in California.

"Here he comes," Linzi whispers. She clears her throat and smiles at our waiter. "You guys are crazy busy for a Thursday night. I guess business picks up when you've got a local celebrity, huh?"

"Business is pretty steady. It doesn't hurt. I'll give you that." He picks up the booklet and walks back to the cash register.

Linzi presses a little further when he returns. "So does Colby Taylor come here often?"

He doubles over in laughter, and I don't know if it's sarcastic or if he's making fun of us. He shakes his head a few times, not really in response to Linzi, and spits out what I think was supposed to be "Have a good night." He walks off, whispers something to a waitress, points in our direction, and they both laugh all the way back into the kitchen.

Linzi waits until we're outside before erupting like a raged volcano.

"The nerve of that guy! He's just jealous. He's a freaking inlander. That's all it is," she says.

"He's a what?" I ask, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

"An inlander," Linzi repeats. "You know, in land, not on the beach? He's a cute guy who _could_ get a lot of girls, but girls come here looking for hot surfers on the beach. He's stuck on land in a stupid pizzeria serving garlic knots."

We walk back toward the Crescent Inn while Linzi rants and attempts to throw in some beach lingo I've never heard of, but she is right about one thing. If we want to find the west coast surfer, we have to go where the surfers hang out.

"C'mon," I tell her. We detour past the hotel, straight into the parking garage. "Let's hit The Strip."

The Ocean in Moonlight was right about west coast ocean air. It floods my lungs as soon as my flip flops hit the sidewalk of The Strip. The water is bluer, the sand is whiter, and the sky is more pink and orange than it ever is on the east coast. Clear Christmas lights twist around the palm trees, sparkling like stars falling on the beach. Everything smells like cotton candy and summertime.

Linzi zooms past the snowcone stand and dives into a rack of shell jewelry.

"Haley, how cute is this?" she asks, pointing to basically everything.

"Typical beach souvenirs," I say. If I glanced around right now, I'd only count a handful of people out here _not_ wearing some type of shell.

Linzi grabs an oversized purple hibiscus flower ring as well as a purple shell necklace, putting them on while she waits for the vendor to count out her change. I, however, refuse to fall into the tourist trap and buy pointless, overpriced beach-themed items just because we're in California.

"Are you sure? We have all colors," the man behind the vendor booth tells me.

His bright red lei contrasts against his dark skin, and I have half a mind to tell him to go back to Hawaii, even if his smile is welcoming and friendly.

"C'mon," Linzi adds. "Everyone buys shell jewelry. I mean, I bet even Colby Taylor wears shell necklaces from here, right?" She looks back at Mr. Hawaii, hoping to entice me and score information in the same breath.

And the man laughs. He freaking laughs!

"Oh, silly girls," he says, shaking his head and instantly giving up the battle of convincing Haley Sullivan to buy shell jewelry.

I turn and keep walking, hoping no one else witnessed our humiliation yet again. Obviously we're tourists. We're on The Strip buying shell jewelry, asking about the local celeb, and reeking of garlic knots. The laughter isn't necessary.

The heat in my cheeks cools down enough for me to pick my head up, and just as I'm swearing to Linzi that I'll never be the souvenir buying tourist, I see him – blue and sparkling like the ocean water – and I know he's going home with me tonight.

I'm sold before the leather-skinned woman ever finishes her sales pitch. "Legends say dreamcatchers trap the demons, but suncatchers let in the good light, bringing in good spirits to watch over you," she explains, holding an orange angelfish suncatcher in the air for the falling sun to seep through.

If anyone needs good spirits watching over them, it's Linzi and me. I run my fingers over the blue glass seahorse, and even as Linzi swears the purple whale is cuter, I know this is the one for me – my good spirit, my bright light, my sea creature to watch over me during this journey.

Linzi snatches up the purple whale.

"She's too cute," she says. "What can I name her? Something Hawaiian maybe? Leila? Oh, or I could go with Stella."

How typical of Linzi to name an inanimate object. But as she rambles names off into the salty air, I realize she has a point, and all spirits deserve a name. Anyone who watches over me on this crazy forever-chasing journey especially deserves a name. And there's only one name that fits – the one who watched from the very beginning.

"Solomon," I say. I stop and make sure he's wedged tightly into my purse so he can't be broken between The Strip and the hotel.

Linzi twirls in a circle, catching falling rays through the purple glass in her hand.

"Then I shall name her Sofia. Solomon and Sofia, our spirit guides and happy lights," she says.

She hugs the glass whale close to her chest and spins in circles. I laugh hard enough to forget about the Hawaiian vendor and the laughing waiter and everyone else around us who thinks we're just tourists playing stalkerazzi with the local surf king.

I laugh my way right into a clumsy collision with a pissed off twenty-something with spiky black hair and icy blue eyes. And by icy, I don't mean that dreamy see-through blue. I mean literal ice, like the bottom portion of an iceberg that you can't see, but you know it's out there and dangerous, and the fact that you can't see it coming makes it all the more frightening.

"I'm so sorry," I say, stepping back away from him.

He says, "My bad," simultaneously with my apology, but he doesn't move. He hovers over me, his height more intimidating than it probably should be. The iceberg fright sends chills through my veins. _Please, God, don't let him mug me while I'm 2000 miles away from home and lying to my parents._

"Are your highlights natural?" he asks.

I try not to stare at him with one of those "What the hell?" looks, but I know it's splattered across my face. Then I silently curse Linzi's perfectly blonde hair and my own genetics for making me a brunette who gets asked the stupid questions like if my highlights are natural.

"What's it matter?" I ask.

I try to channel Linzi's nonchalant vibes, like how she drops Colby Taylor's name into conversation like it's an everyday thing, but my voice isn't nearly as silky smooth and believable as hers.

He holds up a can of spray paint, and I wonder how I didn't see him holding it this whole time. The top is a bronzy color, like Solomon Worthington's picture frame. The words _Honey Gold_ are a dead giveaway that this isn't spray paint.

"This," he says, shaking the can. "It's the future of hair dye. It's a hell of a lot cheaper than salon highlights. It holds longer, and it's easy to use, great for do-it-yourself touch ups."

I know where I've seen this stuff – Stella's. But her spray can had a black lid. That exact can transformed the west coast surfer into an emo rocker boy for one night of faking existence. _Rinses out in one washing and looks as good as a dye job._ Who is this guy kidding?

"Nice try," I finally say. "I've seen this stuff. You're right. It's cheap and easy and a total rip off. All I need is the sunshine."

I flip my hair over my shoulder and attempt to push past him.

"Hey!" he shouts out.

His iceberg eyes freeze me in my tracks. He shakes his head.

"Just thought I'd try and help you out. You don't have to go all psycho bitch about it," he says.

Linzi links her arm with mine. "Highlight of my summer: meeting a con artist on the beach," she says.

She lowers her voice. "Let's go. He's probably got some creepy con artist name like Spike or Rocky or something."

"It's Vin," he says, making it obvious to Linzi that her discretion is anything but discreet.

"Oh," Linzi says. "Like Vin Diesel?"

She loosens her arm from mine. Now all she's thinking is ocean air and hot summer sun and Vin Diesel, and I'm thinking miles from home, con artists, and icebergs! We should've just stayed on the east coast with our stale Atlantic air.

"No," he says. "Like VIN number. When you steal a car, it's the first thing you dispose of. Scrape it off or whatever you gotta do to make the vehicle untraceable."

He leans in, a smirk painted on his face, like he's about to tell us a life-changing secret. The spikes of his hair look like black daggers ready to pierce through me if he comes any closer. He's kind of crazy beautiful in a terrifying way.

"I tried getting out of that business," he says so quietly that I have strain my ears to hear him. "But going from carjacking to a salesman ain't so easy, especially when people act like you."

His finger twirls around a strand of my hair. My fingers tighten around his forearm, and every muscle from his wrist to his shoulder constricts as I sling his arm away from me. He laughs this criminal laugh and steps away. The summer sun beats against my skin from behind his silhouette.

"See ya, Sunshine," he says before disappearing into the crowd of tourists.

Linzi and I finish each other's sentences as we remind ourselves and each other that we're still implying the buddy system, regardless of the fact that it's just the two of us.

"And we always need to be back at the hotel before dark," Linzi says as we approach a hot dog stand. "We can chase Colby Taylor during the daylight. I mean, he's not out surfing at night anyway. The boy's gotta sleep."

She orders a small lemonade from the vendor, and my eyes catch a slew of surfers emerging from the orange glaze on the ocean. A red sun falls behind them. Darkness will soon blacken the ocean, and the surfers of Crescent Cove will call it a night.

I tug on Linzi's arm and motion toward the guys dragging surfboards onto the shore. She takes her lemonade from the vendor without looking up at him and focuses on the guys. We step away from the hot dog stand, lost in our own little surfer zone, while Linzi singles them out as not being Colby Taylor.

"Brunette. Brunette. Too short. Out of shape. Red head. He's not with them," she says.

Our eyes follow them anyway as they move up the beach, kicking up the sand around their feet.

"You'd think Colby Taylor would hang out with surfers, right?" I ask her.

She's not given a chance to answer me. A half-grunt half-laugh comes from the man behind us. He leans over the counter of his hot dog stand.

"You won't see Taylor out here 'cause he don't come out here," he barks. "All you tourists are the same, teenage girls walking the beach half naked like he's going to surf out of nowhere and sweep you off your feet. Ain't gonna happen!"

Linzi chokes on a swig of lemonade, then clears her throat. She pulls the plastic lid off of her cup, banishing it and the straw to the sand beneath us. She throws her head back, chugs a huge gulp, and storms back to the hot dog stand, stomping her flip flops with purpose the entire walk over. No one but Linzi could pull off a threatening flip flop walk over the course of six feet.

"She didn't ask you," she says to the man.

"Hey now," he says. "You came to my beach, to my stand, breathing my air, and if I want to tell you that you don't stand a chance with him, I'll tell you...because you don't."

Linzi pulls her arm back, and in a perfect maneuver, she slings her lemonade in the man's face, drenching his salt-and-pepper hair, his wrinkled sun-damaged face, and his mustard-stained shirt. And with the intensity in which she'd approached his stand, she stomps away.

We seek refuge in between a black booth and a skate shop. I lean against the skate shop's side wall, under graffiti that reads SK8 4 LIFE! Anger burns my face, but I refuse to let any tears fall. These stupid locals aren't worth it. Linzi paces in front of me, ranting too loudly about how people have no right to act the way they do around here.

"We didn't even ask him," I say. "If I'd asked for his expertise in Colby Taylor, then sure, blast me and make me look like an idiot. But I didn't say a damn word to him!"

The girl inside the black booth steps out and looks at us. Her yellow shirt has the name of rock band _Sebastian's Shadow_ wrapped around her body multiple times, alternating between pink and purple writing. Her black skinny jeans and zebra print Converse don't fit into the beach scene. Her heavy eyeliner matches the little black heart drawn outside of the corner of her eye. She's probably laughing at us in her head. I bet she could care less about surfers.

Linzi throws her hands into the air.

"This place is full of jackasses and con artists and hardly a surfer in sight," she shouts out.

"You looking for Colby Taylor?" the girl asks.

My eyes follow the sound of her voice but zone in on the turquoise letters of her booth. _Emily's Enchanters._ She must be Emily.

"Actually, yeah, we are," I say.

I walk around the booth and realize that even the rocker chick's booth is decorated with stars and moons...full moons, unlike everywhere else here in the cove. The inside walls of her booth are lined with hand sewn voodoo dolls, though. At least they look like voodoo dolls. Enchanters is definitely a better phrase for business.

"But," Linzi interjects, "if you're just going to laugh at us and tell us how stupid we are, then no, we're not looking for him."

"Chill," the girl says, climbing over the wooden edge and back into her booth. "I was actually going to tell you where to start."

# Chapter Six

"Colby Taylor doesn't get out much," Emily says. "When he does, we just pretend not to notice him."

I wonder how often that is. Does he stroll down The Strip like a local? Do the tourists stare and take pictures and chase him down for autographs? Even if he wasn't a local celebrity, I don't know how people could pretend not to notice him. He has an aura about him that shines brighter than the California sun.

"And all the outsiders ask about him," Emily continues. "Doesn't matter if they're from a town over or the east coast. Anyone who doesn't live in the cove asks about Colby Taylor. And you can guess what the locals do."

"Laugh," Linzi says, slinging her hair over her shoulder. "They freaking laugh and make us look like idiots."

She folds her arms over her chest and shakes her head.

Emily laughs, and her drawn-on heart scrunches up in the corner of her eye.

"Think of it this way," Emily says, leaning against a small table behind her. She bumps into a stack of booklets and reorganizes them as she speaks. "Colby Taylor is the like hottest night club around, minus the strippers and STDs. Obviously everyone wants to get in, but you can't get in the door because of..."

Linzi and I stand silently, watching the words _Sebastian's Shadow_ twist back and forth as Emily moves. She looks back at us, waiting for us to finish her sentence.

"The bouncers," Emily says, like people compare surfers to night clubs in conversation all the time. "He has four of them, and no one has ever gotten through. A few have tried, but all have failed."

She picks up one of her Enchanters. His head and arms are white and red striped, and he's dressed in all black, like a ninja. She smiles at him and continues talking, more to the doll than us.

"The first two aren't so bad, the nice guy and the player," she says. "But no one has ever made it past the party boy. He's a little crazy anyway."

Linzi looks around the booth and leans against the wooden railing.

"What about the fourth one?" she asks

"Jerkoff mechanic," Emily says. "You'll never make it to him, but be glad. Even Colby Taylor isn't worth having to deal with that guy. At least that's what I've heard. I've never had the pleasure of dealing with him myself."

She may be from the cove, but there's a lot she doesn't know. She doesn't know how Colby talks about his forever and looks at the stars and rocks out to cover bands. She only knows the west coast surfer side of him. I'll deal with the jerkoff mechanic. It'll be worth it.

But even with this new information, I feel like we haven't moved forward since we left Night Owl.

"Okay, so these four guys," I say to Emily. "Where do we find them?"

Emily places her ninja-dressed doll back onto her table. She stares at him momentarily, like she's having a great debate in her own mind as to whether she's doing the right thing by letting me in on the Crescent Cove secret and she's hoping he'll give her a sign to let her know it's okay.

"Strickland's Boating," she says, finally looking up and past me. The red sunset bounces off her brown eyes in a starved vampire kind of way. "Ask for Reed. No, don't. He'll be working. It's two shops down."

Linzi inhales a squeak of excitement, and I grab her arm to keep her from running down to The Strip until she finds this Reed guy.

"Hold on," I say. I pull her away, hoping Emily won't hear. "Look, if what's she's saying is legit, I'm doing the talking. Your approach hasn't worked so far, and we cannot blow this."

"Okay, okay," Linzi says. "The reins are yours. I'm just along for the ride."

Emily clears her throat, and I throw her a glance over my shoulder. I pull Linzi back toward the booth with me.

"One more question," I say. "Why are you even telling us this? Isn't that against some kind of Crescent Cove law or something?"

She laughs. "You're different. One, you're not dressed like a slut. Two, you're not squealing over how hot he is, and three, you're not decked out in shell jewelry."

Emily glances at Linzi, who does her best to hide the big purple flower sprouting from her index finger, then glances back at me.

"You better hurry if you're going to catch Mr. Nice Guy before they close. You have about twenty minutes," Emily says.

"Saying 'thank you' doesn't feel like enough," I say.

"Well..." Emily glances at the wall of dolls behind her. "Girl's got a cell phone bill to pay."

Linzi steps back, shaking her head. Her eyes widen, as if she's seen the ghost of Spence Burks lurking in the enchanted booth.

"No, we can't," she says.

She pulls Sofia from her bag and unwraps the tissue paper from around the glass whale.

"This is my spirit guide, my bright light who sends me good vibes and blocks out the demons," she panics. "We can't buy voodoo dolls."

"Oh God," Emily says, throwing her arms into the air. "For the millionth time in my life, they are not voodoo dolls. They're Enchanters – dark little creatures who are diverse and beautiful and find beauty in tragedy and just need love."

She watches Linzi rewrap the whale in tissue paper then turns around and scans her back shelf of dolls. She grabs two of them off the third row from the top. They're dressed in purple and match Sofia the suncatcher.

"Do you have a favorite band?" Emily asks Linzi.

Linzi looks up from her bag. "The Ocean in Moonlight."

Emily turns her back to us, scribbles something into one of her booklets, and spins back around.

"This is Holly and her twin brother Alex," she says, holding up the two tiny dolls. "Alex is a recovering heroin addict, which he resorted to after the hiatus of his favorite band, The Ocean in Moonlight."

She lays the booklet flat on the wooden rail and points to where she's written in the band's name. "His sister, Holly, was a groupie. She's street smart, a total music junkie."

Linzi picks up the dolls, neither taller than six inches. Holly's dress is frayed, and Alex is wearing a silver bracelet. Emily explains that the fraying is due to crowd-surfing and rocking out on a nightly basis, and Alex's bracelet is his "I'm with the band" souvenir. Linzi is sold even faster than I thought she'd be, and I wonder if Emily is slightly enchanted herself.

"And for you," Emily says, turning to me. "Zombie Asylum – my first rock band."

She hands me the five dolls, insisting they must stay together. I question why this special set is so right for me, and Emily has already thought up a great sales pitch.

"Nicholas is the heartthrob of the band. He's the bassist, and he's the most unattainable. The way I see it, he's like Colby Taylor. You have to get through his four bouncers just like you'd have to get through Nicholas's four band mates. Take care of them?" she asks before handing me a booklet containing each band member's story.

I nod and tuck the rock band into my bag, along with Solomon the glass seahorse. I hate how I've allowed myself to be sucked into the silly souvenir buying only halfway down The Strip. Emily wishes us luck once more, and I thank her again because luck is something I need more than voodoo dolls now.

Strickland's Boating reminds me of a beach house with its floor-to-ceiling windows. Rental prices for jet skis and sailboats printed on bright yellow flyers plaster the glass door. I can't focus on anything around me when we step inside. It's a boater's heaven – life jackets, fishing poles, snorkeling and scuba kits, and endless rows of T-shirts and sweatshirts with the Strickland's Boating logo.

He's standing behind the counter, under a giant black and white photo of a Great White shark that would look even more incredible in a driftwood frame. His shaggy brown hair falls over his eyes, and he shakes his bangs to one side when he looks up at us. He meets us halfway across the floor, and even before seeing his name tag, I know this is Reed.

"What can I help you ladies with?" he asks, shaking his bangs again and revealing his hazel eyes.

He's unbelievably cute in his own way, like how every girl in school lusts after the gorgeous pitcher and one day you accidentally bump into the third baseman and his dreamy green eyes on the way to your locker and wonder why no one chases after him as well.

"Well," I say. "We've been in town less than twenty-four hours, and I've already lost count of how many times people have recommended this place."

Linzi shoots me an impressed smile, and by the smile on Reed's face, I think he totally bought it.

"It's a little late for spring break, so I'm guessing senior trip? Or summer vacation?" he asks.

"Vay-cay," Linzi says. "A much needed one at that."

She smiles and slips into the background, and I'm actually impressed she's keeping her mouth shut.

Reed motions around the store. "We've got just about any and everything you might want to do on the beach. Most popular thing is probably jet skiing," he suggests.

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 Seven

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 Eight

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 not 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.

"Hey!"

I freeze and look for the voice. He waves over the bonfire he's sitting beside. It's Topher. He puts his fingers to his temples, like he's trying to channel the ocean spirits telepathically, then screams out, "Haley!"

He slides over to make room for me on the cooler beneath him. He throws an arm around my shoulder and introduces me as "Reed's friend" then pops a sugar cube into his mouth. He washes it down with a swig from the bottle of Ocean Blast Energy in his hand. I can't imagine this guy needing an energy drink anytime, much less this late into the night.

Two girls across from us discuss in detail who is a better surfer – Miles or Dominic – and I dig my toes into the sand while I bite my lip. I refuse to be laughed at again for mentioning the west coast surfer, so I wait to see if anyone else throws his name into the great debate. In a conversation about the best surfer, you'd think he'd at least get an honorable mention. But nothing. Nothing at all. This night is hopeless, and I've yet to find the party boy. I seriously think he found a better party tonight. I don't blame him for staying there either.

Dropping Reed's name helps me escape the bonfire, but I'm not really going to find him. I breathe in the west coast air, trying to convince myself that this night is worth it, even while I'm certain that Linzi is breathing in the scent of Alston's pineapple shampoo right now. I stretch my legs out on the shore, letting the waves rush up over them and sprinkle sand on me. I plan to sit here until someone finds me or the ocean decides to wash me away. The stars play hide-and-seek behind the milky clouds, dancing over the ocean, until I'm discovered by a chewed up hot pink Frisbee.

Dexter. He's too happy to have found companionship for me to ignore him. I grab the Frisbee, dog slobber and all, and hurl it across the shore, watching him leap through the sand and splash into the water.

He hauls it back to me, covered in sand, and I throw it again, watching it sail through the night like a hot pink UFO. With every crash landing on earth, Dexter drags the spaceship back to me, and I continue to throw it until the thuds of the Frisbee blend into the thuds from the DJ's bass, and everything around me becomes one. No surfers. No party boys from pictures. No best friends making out with the enemy. Just me, the ocean, and the moonlight. And, well, Dexter.

And the stampede. Is this how a west coast beach party ends? With everyone running down the beach? I stand up and push Dexter back from the insanity, trying to make sense of some of the drunken words running past me.

Between "OhMyGah!" from the girls and "Let's kill him!" from the guys, I have no clue what's happening or if I should stay planted on the shore or if I should follow the wild pack of hormones and beer into the great unknown.

In the blur of craziness, one thing pops out – blonde dreadlocks.

"Miles!" I call out, hoping he hears me.

He stops and looks over then tells Dominic to go ahead. He jogs over to me, bends down to pet Dexter, and looks back up at me.

"What the hell?" I ask. I point to the entire block party of people running down the shoreline.

The crowd blends into one large mass now, what seems like half a mile down the beach. Cars crank up and shine headlights around one spot in the cove. The waves crash against the rocks in the glow of all the headlights.

"There's an east coaster down in the cove," Miles says. "Shit's about to get fucked up crazy. You coming?"

Well, that really explains things. "Not yet. Go ahead," I tell him, motioning toward the crowd.

He doesn't need any more permission than that because he's gone, running faster than most of the others, headed to the cove. I watch him until he fades into the crowd. Dexter's bark draws me back in.

"Reed!" I jump back when I see him standing next to me.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm sorry...for scaring you. What's happening?"

His eyes are in the distance, watching the locals gather around. The crowd looks bigger from here, like everyone from the party called their other friends to come down and watch the excitement too.

"East coaster in the cove – that's what Miles said. What does that mean?" I ask, trying to redirect Reed's attention.

"Oh God. No. Already? Seriously?" He rambles on, repeating himself, and pulls his cell phone from his pocket. "Yeah, I need a unit sent out to twenty-three eleven Dolphin Point."

He's quiet for a second before saying the reason. "Trespassing."

Linzi and Alston come from between two condos. Linzi has stripped off her tank top and is sporting her purple bikini top. They're both soaked and smell of chlorine.

"I realize there's a party going on," Reed says into the phone, "but this has nothing to do with the party. Someone is trespassing on private property after making threats to the person who lives there."

"What the hell?" Alston asks, grabbing Reed's arm and jerking him around to see his face. "You're kidding, right? Riley's people are here?"

Reed puts his finger over his mouth, but it doesn't silence Alston. Alston rips the cell phone from Reed's hand and begins shouting. "Twenty-three! Eleven! Dolphin! Point! You better get a damn unit out here now!"

He ends the call immediately and slams the phone back against Reed's chest. My heart races too fast for me to speak, and Linzi's eyes bulge from their sockets.

"What the hell?" she screams out at Alston, pulling him away from Reed. "What's going on? All this east coaster Riley trespassing in the cove stuff? Explain something. Now!"

Alston twists his fist into the palm of his other hand and heads down the beach like a madman. His eyes are wild and fuming. He doesn't speak.

"Logan Riley," Reed says, walking quickly behind Alston. "He's the Colby Taylor of the east coast. His guys have been sending threats for a month."

Linzi trips in the sand and stops walking long enough to rip off her flip flops and carry them along the beach with us. She does this goofy fairy hop through the sand, trying to listen to Reed and check on Alston simultaneously.

"Threats? What kind of threats? To who?" she asks, running all of her words together.

"Who do you think!?" Alston screams out. He stops in the sand and looks at Reed. "They're going to have his windows busted out before the law ever gets there! You can't play Mr. Nice Guy all the damn time!"

Reed grabs Alston by the shoulders. "And you can't curse out the cops!"

I grab Reed's arms from behind him, and the small of his back collides with my chest. He didn't seem so tall before, but standing behind him with my arms locked to his, feeling the tension in his muscles, I'm actually scared. I don't let go, even after his body relaxes.

The four of us remain here in the sand. Alston paces, Linzi fights tears, and Reed and I stay twisted together like washed up seaweed. Sirens blare in the distance and blend into the hollering in the cove.

"I'm sorry," Alston says. He walks over to Linzi and hugs her against him, kissing her forehead and apologizing repeatedly.

Reed pulls from my grip and looks back at me. He smiles, and I let go, but I don't move. I feel like I need to be within two inches of his body until we leave the beach just in case he feels the need to bulk up and throw punches at Alston.

"Riley's people come out here to scope out the west coast competition," Reed explains. "And his guys have been sending threats for a while. Nothing's come of them, but this whole east coast/west coast thing is bound to blow up someday."

Alston's madman temper has faded into the night, and Linzi seems to have accepted his apologies.

"You see the cove?" Alston asks, pointing to the rocks down the beach. "It's crescent shaped. The rocks are awesome to jump off of. That's private property...belongs to the guy who lives in that beach house."

All I can see is what's showing in the glow of the streetlights and blue lights, but even the blur of people on the beach can't hide the house. It's tripled the size of the condos next to us and looks mega-expensive even from here. How did I not see it before? How could I miss Colby Taylor's house?

"Private property," Reed says. "If someone's out there who shouldn't be, I'm putting in a call, especially an east coaster."

Part of me feels like this is a warning. I wouldn't trespass onto his property anyway, but I know the guys are watching our every move. And being from the east coast doesn't look like it's going to be in my favor at any point.

Reed's cell phone blasts into my thoughts, causing all of us to jump a bit. He hits a button on the phone.

"Hey!" Reed says.

Alston is out of Linzi's grasp and at Reed's side in .02 seconds.

"Who do I have to thank for all these blue lights?"

It's him, right there on speaker phone, half a mile up the beach. This. Freaking. Close.

"Alston," Reed says. "He cursed out the cops."

"Dude, that was all Reed," Alston argues. "He made the call. I don't know what he was thinking. He knows you get up at the ass crack of dawn."

"I can sleep through the DJ, but the sirens? Not so much."

Reed looks toward me and tells Colby to hang on. He and Alston step away, and Reed holds the phone to his ear. No more speaker phone. Linzi and I stand on the shore, watching the blue lights pull away and the partygoers clear the scene. The lights are still off at Colby's beach house. I try to envision him sitting in his living room watching the madness outside in the glow of blue lights, watching the colors dance along the walls just like the blue streaks of Solomon did in our hotel room just last night.

"Looks like the party is officially over," Linzi says. She nods back toward Reed and Alston's condo. The guys walk back toward us.

Reed hands me my keys and cell phone. "Sorry the party sucked," he says. "West coast parties are usually a little more fun and not so dramatic."

"Yeah," Alston agrees. "So we were thinking that you guys should meet up with us tomorrow and go jet skiing."

Linzi agrees before I can argue, but I know Reed expects me to decline. I straight up told him last night that I'm not the jet skiing type.

"What time?" I ask.

"Twelve?" Reed asks.

Linzi tells him we'll be there and says good night to Alston. I'm still in a half-daze as we walk to the car. I strolled up and down this beach tonight wondering where he might be, and he was just up the street, sound asleep in his beach mansion.

"Shoot!" Linzi says. "My tank top is on their couch."

I hand her my keys. "Go crank up. I'll go back for it."

I stay under the streetlights until I get back to their condo. I cut through the sand and hope I can knock on the back door. I hear their voices through the privacy fence around the pool. They're still outside.

"North Carolina, Alston. It's just not safe. Something's not right. You don't just randomly pick a place like this for a vacation." Reed's voice spills through the cracks of the wooden fence.

"So we'll jet ski tomorrow and they'll bail. It's foolproof. A.J. never lets us down, and if we can't find him, you know Brooks will finish the job," Alston says.

I cut back through the sand and move through the shadows until I see the parking lot. Heat fills up my face, and now _I'm_ mad enough to curse out the cops. Reed's nice guy act and Alston's make-out-with-the-best-friend ploy is not how this is going to end.

"Did you get my shirt?" Linzi asks from the passenger seat when I get in the car.

"They weren't there," I lie. I put the car in drive and head toward the hotel. "I guess they decided to go find their friend or something."

"Oh well. Tomorrow then," she says through a yawn.

Tomorrow – we'll go jet skiing.

Tomorrow – we'll find the party boy.

Tomorrow – the battle is on.

# Chapter Nine

We don't leave the hotel until after Linzi has modeled all three of her bikinis and decided which one will look best flying through the air on a jet ski. I've told her it doesn't matter and that the lifejacket will cover it, but that doesn't faze Linzi. Her final decision is the hot pink one with the shimmery silver flowers. She hauls our beach bag into Strickland's Boating for safekeeping while we're out on the water. Alston is waiting in his bright orange swim trunks, but Reed is dressed in khaki shorts and a white polo work shirt.

"Reed forgot about the annual old man sailboat club," Alston says after kissing Linzi hello.

"The what?" Linzi asks.

Reed props his elbows on the counter. "All the old dudes around here get together and go sailing and talk about business and mistresses and brag about who has what," he says. "I have to be here to grant their every boating wish."

There's no way he forgot about this. If it's a yearly get together of the richest guys around, it's probably marked on the calendar with a huge dollar sign since the last time they got together. He knew this was today, and that's why he invited us jet skiing. He has another plan.

"So I'm a third wheel then?" I assume, even though I don't know how that's supposed to run me off. Linzi can suck face with Alston while I find a way to legally trespass onto Colby's property.

"No," Reed says. "I wouldn't do that to you. A.J.'s going to fill in for me, but he's fun. Life of the party. You'll love him."

Life of the party is probably translation for wild party boy who is going to do everything he can to scare me away. I can see the stolen photo perfectly even though it's sitting on the hotel's nightstand. Blonde hair, messy surfer shag. Brown eyes. Five o'clock shadow. Beer in hand. At least his wild ass is gorgeous.

Alston fills Linzi in on the best spots for jet skiing, making mention of the cove and how awesome it is to jump waves on a jet ski. Reed jumps in rambling about speed and adrenaline, and Linzi is bouncing in her flip flops in a matter of seconds. All of their words run together until the bell over the front door announces the arrival of a tattooed Mexican guy in a white muscle shirt.

"Strick, man, if I die today, make sure they name a cell after me over at county, alright?" he says, walking under the fluorescent lights toward us.

"Fucking moron," Alston mutters. "You can't stay out of lockup, can you?"

"Nah, let me tell you what happened," the guy says.

He stretches his arms out over the counter, stretching the turquoise dragon on his arm too. Its orange eyes watch me.

And his story begins. "I was taking down all those election signs near the cove. All that conservative bullshit everywhere, all around Taylor's house, so I ripped that shit up. Then Deputy Jackass Pittman hauled me in for vandalizing government property. Government property my ass. It's fucking cardboard."

He pushes his sunglasses up into his messy black hair. His eyes are bloodshot; he either hasn't slept or he's high...or possibly both. He turns around, propping both elbows behind him against the counter. A skull carved into a crescent moon is tattooed just under his shoulder on his upper arm. It's surrounded by little black stars. This guy is one of the last people I'd expect to give in to the crescent moon gimmick, but then again, he _is_ wearing one of those stupid white shell necklaces.

"Damn, I need a cigarette," he says.

"You can smoke on the beach," Reed says, pointing to the back door.

Tattoo Guy pulls a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his shorts and heads toward the back door, but Reed grabs his arm and pulls him back.

"Hold up," Reed says. "You've gotta meet them. That's Haley...and Linzi." He points to each of us as he says our names. Then he looks at me. "Haley, this is A.J. Gonzalez, your right-hand man for the day."

My guts transform into a pack of crazed bats flapping around and beating my ribcage in attempts to break free. I could seriously throw up on this waxy white floor. _This_ is A.J. – freshly out of jail, tattooed, nicotine-addicted A.J.

It takes a good chunk of my strength and self-worth to force a smile, especially after seeing that glazed-over, mangy dog look in A.J.'s eyes. I'm just another little lamb out on the beach for his crazy coyote instincts to rip apart and splatter over the sand. And I'm the stupid little lamb who is going to fight back.

We follow Reed outside and around the building to a giant storage unit that I can't believe I haven't noticed before. The colors of the jet skis pop out like those of the paper stars sitting on the counter back inside. Reed explains that most of the bigger boats are in a storage unit down near the dock for easier loading. I think I'm the only one listening to him. Alston and A.J. are eyeing today's transportation while Linzi hangs onto Alston's arm and his every word.

"This one!" A.J. calls out.

He climbs on top of a yellow jet ski, that sporty yellow color that looks super fast flying down the highway even at speed limit. He stands over the jet ski, straddling it and jerking back and forth with the handlebars, like a mechanical bull is underneath him rather than a jet ski. His attitude is better suited for a bull ride.

Alston debates back and forth between a blue jet ski and a red one, but the red wins out, something about it being the color of love and passion. Linzi swoons like a lovesick idiot.

"Load us up, Strick," A.J. shouts out. He waves an invisible lasso in the air with his free hand while still rocking back and forth on the jet ski.

I follow the Alston-Linzi love fest back inside the boating store in search of lifejackets. Linzi throws her T-shirt aside and pulls her jacket over her head to try it on for size. God forbid it hide too much of her bikini. I stare at the Great White photo above the register. Unlike photographer Jake McAllister, I won't be facing sharks in the ocean. I'll be facing a greater risk to my life – bodyguard number three, the party boy – A.J.

The thought of "party boy" takes me back to the stolen photo. If the beer-drinking blonde isn't A.J., then who is he? The only option left is the jerkoff mechanic. And according to Enchanted Emily, even Colby isn't worth that kind of torment. Emily doesn't realize that I'm on a forever-chasing mission, though. It changes everything. I mentally say goodbye to Jake McAllister's shark photo in case I never see it again and walk outside. Reed is leaning over A.J.'s shoulder, most likely giving him instructions on how to send me back to North Carolina.

A.J. runs over to me and throws an arm around my shoulder, leaving Reed to take the yellow jet ski to the water for us.

"This is gonna be the most badass day of your life," A.J. informs me. I smell his cigarette lingering on each word. "Jumping waves on a jet ski is one of the best adrenaline rushes ever. If you hang on pretty tight, you shouldn't wipe out."

It doesn't take a surf genius to know what wiping out is.

"You're such a show off," Reed hollers out, looking back at us. "You just picked yellow so you could be seen. No one drives a yellow vehicle unless they want to be noticed."

"Damn it, Strick," A.J. says, unwrapping his arm from me and dropping the butt of his cigarette onto the shoreline. "You know damn well that the fastest cars are the bright ones. You're the speed junkie, not me."

A.J. pushes Reed away with his shoulder and climbs aboard. I fiddle around with the buckles on the lifejacket as Reed turns into a dot moving back up through the sand toward the store. A.J. waves me over to him. His sunglasses hide his eyes again, which eases my nerves just a bit. I can pretend he's not stoned or sleep deprived or whatever the hell he is.

"Whoa!" Alston yells out.

I look back. His lips keep moving, but I can't hear anything over the roaring of A.J.'s jet ski.

"– the hell!?" is all I catch. I throw my arms into the air and shake my head as Alston moves toward me.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks once he's within earshot. He motions at A.J., but I know he's talking to me.

"Jet skiing," I say. "You know, most people wear lifejackets. I thought that was normal."

He points at A.J. "You're seriously getting on that with him? Are you crazy? No one has ever ridden with A.J. Well, except that one time Reed did. He still has the scar to show for it."

My blood boils as hot as this raging summer sun. This whole jet skiing with A.J. deal was a ploy, just like I thought. He's probably rocked his mechanical bull moves on that yellow jet ski for a thousand girls. I bet he blew cigarette smoke on them and wrapped his arm around their pretty tan shoulders and told them how wave jumping with him would be the most badass experience of their lives. And at that point, the girls decided to take turns riding with Alston or they found another chiseled beach bum to waste their time with. None of them ever dared to get on the back of Jailbird Gonzalez's jet ski.

But I do.

I stare at Alston's blank expression trying to find the words to say 'fuck you' without being so harsh. I settle for "Let's do this" and set my sights on my right-hand man for the day, wild eyes, jet ski, and all. I grab on to A.J.'s skull-tattooed shoulder and pull myself onto the jet ski. He turns around and looks at me.

"You're serious?" he asks. His voice isn't so smirky now. His reckless smile isn't wrapped from ear to ear, and I wish I could see behind his sunglasses to read into him.

Nodding my head is all I can handle. Those crazy bats in my stomach flutter like they're jacked up on caffeine, and A.J.'s mad scientist laugh echoes across the ocean. He punches the throttle, and salt water splashes up around us.

"Hang on, darling!" he shouts back to me. He glances over at Alston and Linzi then yells back to me over his shoulder. "Let's show them how it's really done!"

After two hours on the sea with A.J., I'm still alive and definitely not a pro when it comes to driving a jet ski. I've been splashed with just enough water to cool off but not so much that it can't be sucked back up by the sun in a matter of two seconds. And most shocking of all, A.J. has actually been fun. Or at least until the blur of a blue jet ski zooms by. It sends a spray of water over the four of us. Alston curses under his breath.

"Son of a Hooligan bitch!" A.J. screams out.

I squint my eyes to see the guy as he blasts back through a wave. Sunlight pours over him, blinding me, until he makes a loop past us and takes off again at reckless speed. It's the brunette Hooligan – Dominic.

The water slices as he forces through the waves, whirring like a bullet as he passes. He continues – back, forth. Back, forth. His silent taunts fuel their testosterone, like he's challenging the guys to take him on. Linzi shakes her head a few times and rubs her hands up and down Alston's arms. Her sweet talking wins him over in a matter of seconds. But A.J. revs up the jet ski before I can talk him into letting me off. I hook my fingers around the straps of his lifejacket and pull myself as closely to him as I can. There's no turning back now.

The wind blends into the buzz of the jet ski. I squeeze into A.J.'s lifejacket and bury my face into the back of his shoulder. Waves slosh over the sides of the jet ski, stinging my legs as we fly faster than earlier today when we raced Alston and Linzi. The world is a blur of ocean, sky, and sand, all running together like a child's watercolor painting. A streak of blue rushes past us, and A.J. spits out a few four-letter words.

Seconds later, the world flips upside down. My eyes are flooded with sunlight and blue skies, and then a million needles pierce my body. Salt stings my eyes, and everything around me is murky green. I gasp for air but gather a mouthful of ocean and seaweed instead. The waves toss me around, and I fight for the surface until I see the sky again then inhale the west coast ocean air. A.J. pops out of the water about ten feet away, choking on the sea.

"What the hell?" I shout out at him.

"We flipped!" he shouts back.

No kidding! Our yellow jet ski bobs on the waves behind me, still buzzing after our flip. A.J. swims over to me, apologizing while also bitching about losing his eighty-dollar sunglasses in the water. I unhook the buckles of my lifejacket and hurl it toward the jet ski. Slimy strings of green seaweed tangle with my hair. Oh God.

"Dude," A.J. says. He shakes his hair out of his eyes. "You've got this badass sexy swamp creature look going on."

Now I want to sink to the bottom of the ocean for eternity. Forget the taste of sea water. I'd rather adjust to that than have anyone see me looking like a swamp creature. He pulls me up onto the jet ski. Dominic is gone, probably bragging to his Hooligans that he raced A.J. and kicked his ass because A.J. flipped in a wave and lost his sunglasses. Oh yeah, and "Reed's friend" was with him. Stupid girl.

A.J. drives us back at record slow speed. Alston is stretched out on a beach towel tugging at the Frisbee in Dexter's mouth. Linzi rushes over to the edge of the water to meet me.

"Are you okay?" she shouts before I even get off the jet ski. "That looked awful!"

I leave my abandoned lifejacket with A.J. and return to shore, drenched, with mascara running down my face and my hair crinkling into its natural wavy mess. So much for the thirty minutes I wasted with a flat iron this morning. You'd never know now.

"I'm fine," I tell her. "Let's go."

I grab her arm and drag her back through the sand with me, leaving Alston and A.J. to fetch the jet skis, lifejackets, and Dexter on their own.

"That's why people don't get on a jet ski with A.J.," Linzi says, as if she knows all about A.J.'s past experiences on the water.

She probably does. I'm sure Alston informed her of everything A.J. has ever done on a jet ski and assured her that I wasn't coming back alive.

The sliding back door of Strickland's Boating is cracked open. Reed is behind the counter, alone, when we walk in.

"What in the hell happened to you?" he asks.

I push past him, ignoring the water, sand, and seaweed I've tracked in with me. I pull my T-shirt back over my head and watch the water seep through the fabric. Linzi crams everything she owns into the beach bag, and while I'm sure she doesn't want to leave Alston just yet, she doesn't argue.

"She went jet skiing with A.J.," Linzi tells Reed.

And speak of the devil. A.J. and Alston follow through the back door. Alston drops the lifejackets behind the counter and slides the glass door shut behind him and Dexter. Reed grabs A.J.'s arm and pulls him behind the counter.

"Are you trying to kill her?" Reed yells. "What the hell were you thinking? I told you to scare her, not drown her!"

"Strick, man, listen – it was an accident. We flipped," A.J. says.

I wrap my untamed hair into a clip and dig into my bag for my keys. "It was an accident," I repeat. "It's okay, Reed. Don't worry about it."

All I want is to get out of here before I see my own reflection and realize that swamp creatures cannot be sexy, despite what A.J. thinks.

Reed ignores my attempt to smooth things over. "You went too far," he says to A.J.

"She didn't have to get on there," A.J. says. "And it's not like I tried to flip it. I was trying to outrun Dominic. She was just there."

Reed continues verbally slaughtering A.J. as we head for the door – around the counter, past the paper stars, a step over Dexter, and three feet to the sliding glass door. Linzi heads down the sidewalk, a few steps ahead of me, and I hear the last words A.J. may ever say.

"You're the one who set up this stupid play date to begin with!"

I almost want to stop right here on the sand-covered sidewalk and listen for Reed's reply, but I keep walking with my head down so the group of people up ahead won't see my makeup-stained face. The sound of flip flops comes up on me, like a shark on a sea lion, but I don't look back. I'd rather not face the person who is determined to run me over.

"Haley! Wait!"

Reed runs around me and halts my journey toward the car. I motion for Linzi to go on. She hesitates for a moment but continues toward the parking lot.

"This is my fault," Reed says. "I'm the one who lied and sent you out with A.J. today. It's just...you've gotta understand. No one has ever ridden with A.J. Most girls don't come back around after they meet him, and if I'd thought for a second that you'd really get on there with him, I wouldn't have sent you out there."

"I'm not most girls," I say. I push him out of my path with my shoulder, but he spins around and stops me again.

"I know that. Most girls don't care about paper stars. I know there's more to it with you, but I can't do anything about it," he says.

This time I don't try to leave. I don't know what he knows about North Carolina or paper stars or Colby Taylor's trip back home to interrupt my boring little world, but he knows I'm here to find surfer boy.

"You're just doing your job, right? Keeping the naïve teenage tourists away from your guy? Well, you can tell Colby Taylor he needs to think about that before he drags a random girl off to watch cover bands and talk about chasing forever and then leaves paper stars behind because he's too damn scared to show up the next day like he said he would," I say.

The summer sun blazes through my veins again. Warmth burns my cheeks, and I bet I look like Medusa on fire with my snaky hair sprouting from its clip and my black swamp creature eyes pouring down my face. I'd turn and run toward the parking lot if I weren't afraid of tripping over my own feet and making a bigger fool of myself.

"Haley, I'm done," Reed says. His eyes go sad, like how I'd imagined Dexter's if someone stole that hot pink Frisbee. "You don't have to fight me anymore. If you can get through Alston and A.J. and – Get through the other guys then Taylor's yours. I'm not standing in your way."

If Reed is surrendering, I'm another guy down. Alston is so preoccupied with Linzi that I doubt he even cares about fighting me off. He's totally in this "just for the chicks." I think I've proven I can handle A.J. more than anyone thought I could.

"Who is the fourth guy?" That's the real question.

Reed inhales and looks past me. "You can meet him tonight. I owe you anyway. There's this really awesome diner on the edge of town. I'm paying. Meet us here at seven?"

"It's a date."

Fighting the waves in my hair is like fighting the waves in the ocean – a losing battle. I decide to take the Colby Taylor route and ride with it. Linzi spends too much time checking her makeup in the mirror, and once she's somewhat pleased, I head for the car before she can change her mind about what she's wearing. Alston, Reed, and A.J. are hanging around Reed's dark blue Jeep when we pull into the parking lot behind Strickland's Boating. Alston meets Linzi at the passenger side door. Reed comes to my window, tells me to follow him to the diner, and heads back over to his Jeep.

"Heeeeeey," Linzi says in that 'best friend needs a favor' voice. "Is it cool if I ride with Alston?"

I know better than to complain. She'll just turn the tables on me saying how I made her leave earlier today during my swamp creature crisis and how she didn't put up a fight even though she wanted to lay around on the beach all day and make out with Alston. So I tell her it's fine, and she bounces over to the Jeep and into the backseat with her lover boy without ever giving me a second glance.

"Well, that was one hell of a fucked up thing to do," A.J. says as he slides into my passenger seat. "I'm riding with you. Alston can have the little bitch."

The words I want to say wrap around my tonsils and never escape my throat. A.J. changes the subject and the radio station and tells me about how he ran into Topher outside of Drenaline Surf this afternoon. Topher had already heard about our massive flip from Dominic, but A.J. assures me that he 'set the record straight' that we kicked ass and totally flipped it on purpose to show Dominic up. I doubt Topher bought it, but A.J. does make it sound more awesome than it really was.

We pull up next to Reed at a diner called Shipwrecked. The sign is a ship torn in half, wrapped up in the legs of an octopus. Reed asks for a booth for six, and Linzi and Alston slide in on one side. Reed sits next to Alston, and A.J. takes the wall seat on our side, leaving room for the mechanic a.k.a. bodyguard number four on the other side of me.

I leave my menu flat on the table because I'm afraid if I hold it up to read it, everyone will see my excitement and anxiety spilling from my pores and shaking hands. A.J. plays with a lime green and teal paper octopus that serves as table décor and offers to steal it for me when I say it's cute and I wish I had one for a souvenir. He bends its crinkled legs inward then outward, and I focus all of my attention on him while Reed orders so no one will see how desperate I am for the beer-drinking blonde to arrive.

Reed is between "extra ketchup" and "no pickles" when the world stops spinning. I look up from the paper octopus the instant I feel the weight of another body sitting on the red leather next to me. It's like all eight legs of the octopus have wrapped around me and forewarned me that they are about to squeeze the life from my body. This is how the crew of the Titanic must've felt the moment they saw that deadly iceberg.

"This is the man of the hour!" Reed announces.

But there's no need for introductions.

"Vin Number," I say.

His blue eyes still give me chills. "Sunshine," he says. "We meet again."

# Chapter Ten

"I see you two have met?" Reed asks from across the table. He traces the rim of his menu with his index finger.

"We're acquainted," Vin says. He shoots another cold glance my way, and I turn my focus to A.J. and his paper octopus to avoid the chill.

Silence engulfs our table like a monster wave swallowing the shoreline and the tiny children playing in its sand. Seconds feel like hours until we're saved by the waiter who brings us our food in three separate trips. He lingers for a moment before turning his attention to the con artist next to me.

"How's business?" he asks. He folds his arms and stares at Vin with this stupid prideful smile. I nearly lose my appetite on the spot. How can anyone ask a con artist how business is?

Vin devours a few fries. "Pretty damn good," he mumbles. "With the season and all, you know."

The season? It's summertime – tourist season. God, the nerve of these people. To just sit here and talk about it like it's okay that he rips off tourists and pretends to be a mechanic on the side!

"Just keep doing what you're doing. It's obviously working," the waiter tells Vin. He places another bottle of ketchup on the center of the table and disappears.

The red bottle serves as battle lines – Linzi on Team Not-So-Dangerous and me on Team I-Have-A-Death-Wish. Her flirty eyes with Alston are a day and night contrast with the soul-crushing stares Vin continues tossing my way. Someone should've told me to pick up some armor during our road trip; I'll need it to survive this fight.

"Don't you love when you order onion rings and you find a random French fry in there?" Reed asks, waving his lone fry and breaking my thoughts of battle plans and survival techniques.

"Man, Strick," A.J. says as he stashes the paper sea creature under the table. "It's kind of like when you go to buy weed and you open the bag and there's–"

"Hey!" Vin shouts in my ear. "Hush."

A.J. obeys the order and gnaws into his hamburger before he can argue with Vin. It's probably something he learned in bodyguard boot camp – to keep your mouth shut – and General Con Artist has trained him impeccably.

I catch Reed's stare over my plate, the way his eyes gravitate between mine and Vin's, like he's searching for answers or trying to see through us. But we're not transparent. And there's nothing I can do to ease the fears that Reed has built up in his mind since the moment Vin sat down and called me Sunshine.

Spirals of smoke swarm together in a white-gray fog above us. A.J. turns his head to the stars and blows into the night. His cigarette smoke lingers just briefly before riding away across the ocean air with the rest of the fog.

He races across the parking lot, jumps on the hood of a car, and uses it as a stepping stone to stand atop the lid of the giant green dumpster.

"I am the dragon lord!" he screams out, raising his arms to the sky. "Fear my fire!" He flicks the lighter in his hand and exhales another cloud of smoke.

"Idiot," Alston mumbles.

Reed shakes his head. "Get down!" he shouts across the lot to A.J.

A.J. leaps forward and blends into the shadows below the dumpster. Metal trash can lids clang together. "I'm okay!" he calls out.

"I think it's time to call it a night," Reed says. He glances at Vin then back at me, and it's more than obvious he has questions that no one wants to answer.

"Spit it out, Strick," Vin snaps. "What is it?"

My chest tightens, and I pray Linzi doesn't begin explaining the hair dye incident. She'll more than likely just piss Vin off even more than we already have. Like it or not, I'm going to have to deal with him to ace Chasing Forever 101.

Reed hesitates for a second. "How do you guys know each other?"

"He called me a psycho bitch about fifteen minutes before I met you," I tell him.

"No," Vin says, circling around Reed and closer to me. "I said you didn't have to go all psycho bitch, not that you _were_ a psycho bitch. There's a difference."

He pushes past me and revs up his motorcycle. He's gone before anyone else speaks. A.J. breaks the silence once he reaches us.

"What's his deal?" he asks. "Never mind. It's Vin."

I'm starting to think maybe A.J. isn't nearly as terrible as Reed and Alston hoped I'd think he was. He's the only one of the bunch who seems open and honest. He may be reckless, but at least I know where I stand with him and what to expect.

"We need to get back anyway," I say. I glance over at Linzi and dread having to detach her from Alston. "I have to reserve our room for a few more days."

"Don't," Reed says. "You guys can stay at our guest house. Two bedrooms, one bath, free of charge."

The thrill of being in their world every second of the day excites me even more than knowing who all four bodyguards are – not that I really consider Vin to be exciting, though. Being in their household means being involved in every moment and aspect of the lives of Colby Taylor's bodyguards. If they contact him at any point, Linzi or I will be there. We can keep tabs on them like I bet no one ever has.

But they can keep tabs on us now too.

"Are you sure?" I ask, hoping I don't sound too eager. Linzi is a lost cause; she's already planning the rest of our time here with Alston.

Reed nods. "Definitely," he says. "I owe you that much. Anyone who gets on a jet ski with A.J. has earned it."

Back at the hotel, Linzi can't pack her things fast enough, as if we are leaving tonight. I make the routine phone call back home and tell my mom how great all of these colleges are, and I feel guilty for not feeling guilty about lying to her. As soon as the obligatory parental call is over, we finish packing everything except tomorrow morning's necessities and Solomon and Sofia, our incredible (thus far) spirit guides.

I reach over to turn off the lamp when I see him smiling up at me from the nightstand. All of my options have been exhausted. I hold up the photo and ask Linzi one of the many things I still don't know. "Who the hell is the blonde?"

A.J.'s face pops up when I slam my car's trunk shut. He grabs my extra bags and hauls them inside without bothering to say 'good morning' or 'hello' or even 'what the hell are you doing?' Instead, he asks a stupid question.

"Why don't you have a shell necklace like Linzi's? It's badass," he says. He drops my bags onto the hardwood floor of one of the bedrooms of their guest house.

"It's a tourist trap," I say.

Reed is standing in the middle of the bedroom, and A.J. abandons us. I'm glad I don't have to go into great detail about the tourist trap associated with those stupid necklaces.

"I have to head to work, but the other room is right around the corner – Linzi's room – and the bathroom is in between. That screen door out there goes straight under the awning and into the kitchen, so we're close by," he explains. "A.J. and Alston can show you the ropes while I'm out."

My mind is between unpacking – again – and doing laundry as Reed is walking out the door. But I stop him. Actually, the beer-drinking blonde hiding in my purse stops him.

"Who is he?" I ask, holding up the picture.

Reed laughs. "You stole that from Drenaline?"

"I'll put it back," I say, hoping he can't see the lump in my throat.

He shakes his head. "It's cool. Keep it." He glances around, though we're alone, and checks outside of the door before he speaks. "I'll tell you, as soon as we have some time alone. Just don't mention it to the other guys, okay? I swear, I'll tell you. It just has to be later."

I nod and watch him disappear between the guest house and condo. I hide the blonde one more time. By nightfall, I'll at least know his name. Or else.

A.J. walks back into the room, falls onto my bed like he's dying from exhaustion although it's barely ten A.M., and tells me that Linzi and Alston are headed to the beach.

"So, what do you want to do?" he sits up and asks.

"Laundry," I say, dragging my bag of dirty clothes across the floor.

"This way, darling," he says.

My clothes smell like pineapple, and I'm beginning to wonder if all of Crescent Cove bathes in this scent. The Strip is busier today than the first night Linzi and I scoped it out. Tourists and families crowd the sidewalk and blanket the sand. A.J. and I have yet to spot Alston and Linzi, but A.J. doesn't seem to mind. He's gnawing on his blue raspberry snowcone like a starved dog who's just been tossed a few scraps from the dinner table.

"They're probably off fucking somewhere," A.J. says as nonchalantly as he would've said that it's hot out here or that his flip flops are full of sand.

I attempt to smile at the mother next to us evil-eyeing A.J. I push him along and change the subject to an extent.

"How'd you and Alston become friends anyway?" I ask. I'm hoping that I can start with this grain of sand and build my way up to the sandcastle of Colby Taylor.

A.J. licks his blue lips. "We met in kindergarten. We were only friends because we were the only kids who looked like us. I didn't know he was Asian. He was just the only other brown kid, so we became friends, and by the time we were old enough to know better, we were kind of stuck with each other," he says.

He tilts his head back and rakes the last drops of blue ice from his Styrofoam cup into his mouth. I'm suddenly thankful that piña colada snowcones are clear and that my entire mouth isn't blue. Then again, I'm more vain than A.J. I don't think he even brushed his hair today. He tosses his cup into a nearby trash can, but I keep mine, even if it's nearly empty. As long as I pretend to eat, he'll keep talking.

"Reed and Alston started hanging out in junior high. They were into the boating, surfing, fast cars kind of stuff. Alston's parents hate me. You know he's adopted? Rich white people. They love Reed. So I was thrown to the wolves and rescued by Reed's dad's mechanic," he says. He looks at me like I should understand. "You know, Vin?"

"Oh," I say. "Vin works for Strickland's Boating?"

A.J. shakes his head and stops to look at a rack of sunglasses. "Not anymore. Just at that time. He got a better offer and quit. He's got other things in the works, so he needed some free time."

Of course. Working on cars takes away from his hair-dye-selling time. I shove my spoon into my mouth to keep myself from speaking ill of A.J.'s salvation from abandonment. He studies himself in a mirror, modeling different sunglasses at the vendor booth.

"The four of us just kind of stuck together. But then I dropped outta high school," he says to the mirror more than me. "Reed graduated early to help at his dad's store. So we crashed at the condo with Taylor for a while, before he moved out to that rich kid beach house of his. Alston moved in after grad, and his parents can't say a damn thing about me living there."

I fight the smile that wants to crawl across my face. This is where Colby Taylor enters the story. A.J. and Alston were childhood 'brown kid' besties until Alston met Reed who he had more in common with. Then Alston ditched A.J., and Vin rescued him because he worked for Reed's dad and obviously felt some sort of personal attachment to the criminal kid. It all makes sense. Except Colby.

But all of my excitement, hope, and progress vanishes in the shadow of a monster whale that's being driven by tiny legs, swim trunks, and little sandals. I can't pull A.J. out of the way in time, and in three seconds flat, the rack of sunglasses crashes to the sidewalk.

"What the fucking hell!" A.J. screams.

He plows his fist into the giant inflatable whale like he's some kind of underwater ninja in a video game and his arch nemesis is the orca.

The little boy wails like a siren, but I can't see him. I can't see beyond the plastic whale that's thrashing before me. Sunglasses snap and crunch under the fight as A.J. tries to untangle himself from the rack and the whale. I grab his flying fist and pull him to his feet, but I can't stop the F-bombs from dropping off his tongue.

The boy's mom grabs him and his whale, apologizes to the sunglasses vendor, and gives A.J. that inevitable squished-bug look of disgust. Warranted or not, it pisses me off.

"You need to watch where your kid is going!" A.J. screams at her. "Fucking parents these days!"

My grasp on his arm becomes a death grip as I pull him down the sidewalk. He mutters about the woman and the whale and spits out a few comparisons to Alston's mom, and I know all talk of friendship and history is over. Just another detour on the long road to the forever-chasing surfer. I block out my disappointment with a visual image of the beer-drinking blonde.

Tonight's the night.

# Chapter Eleven

"Piña coladas with pineapple rum – best you'll ever taste," Alston says.

He hands a martini glass to Linzi. She sips from the straw then raves about how it's the best she's ever had, like she's an expert in mixed drinks at seventeen.

A.J. shakes his head. "You're fucking kidding me, man. I need a beer."

He pushes past Alston and heads back down to the kitchen, leaving the rest of us on the rooftop of the condo.

Nighttime in California is magical. The ocean is black glass, shifting back and forth against the winds with the whitecaps rolling in. An abundance of stars are sprinkled throughout the dark clouds. Everything has that soft milky velvet feel to it. I want to slip in between the clouds and waves just like warm blankets straight out of the dryer.

"What's out there?" Linzi asks. She points into the distance past the old wooden beach house where the Hooligans partied the other night.

"Crescent Cove's old carnival," A.J.'s voice answers from behind me. He throws his head back to chug down half of his beer then sets the can down and sits next to me. "You know that place is haunted, right?"

Linzi sips on her straw, but her eyes are zoned in on A.J. and whatever wild story he's about to tell us. "Is it true or just legend?" she asks.

"True story," A.J. says. "Schizophrenic clown...they called him Lickety Split... get it? Split? Anyway, he saw himself in the House of Mirrors, freaked out and attacked his reflection, and the mirror shattered. Sliced right through him."

I wait for him to laugh. Or at least for Alston to. But no one moves.

"It stayed open for a while," A.J. continues in that scary movie kind of voice, "but weird things started happening. Doors slamming, voices when no one else was around. There were screams reported from the House of Mirrors. They shut the place down almost two years ago. It's just been left to rot."

Alston slams his glass down. "Let's go out there!" he exclaims all too excitedly for me. His eyes glow with that reckless excitement A.J. had on the jet skis.

"Hell yeah," A.J. says. He's on his feet instantly. "We can play hide-and-seek in the dark like we used to."

I turn to Reed, hoping for some sort of intervention. But what he says is far from anything I expected. "You've both been drinking...so I'm driving."

"Let's go," A.J. says. He grabs my hand, pulls me to my feet, and runs back down the stairs.

I stumble behind, hoping my flip flops won't betray me and send us both flying down the stairs. He's laughing louder than necessary, and it echoes off the high ceiling in the kitchen.

"Run!" he screams as soon as our feet hit the sidewalk. Sand crunches beneath us, but I just keep my feet moving. I squeeze A.J.'s hand so I won't fall behind.

He leaps over the side of Reed's Jeep and turns back to pull me up. "Get in! Get in! Get in!" he spits out.

I fall over him and collapse into the middle of the backseat. Our arms are entangled, and A.J. partially falls into the floorboard. I can't stop laughing, and I don't know why we're rushing. Nothing is funny, but A.J.'s ear-to-ear smile keeps me laughing.

"What was the point of that?" I ask once I catch my breath.

He stretches an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to him. "You'll see. Watch this. Play along."

Alston and Linzi round the corner into the garage, and the disappointment on her face answers all of my questions.

"Sorry lovers," A.J. shouts out. "One of you will have to ride up front with Strick. It's mine and Haley's turn to suck face in the backseat."

I know he's totally kidding and doing this not just for a reaction but to spite them. Still, I bury my face into his shoulder. It doesn't do any good because Linzi knows I'm laughing at them. I'm sure this is supposed to make me a terrible friend, but right now, I don't really care because it's about time someone bitched about their constant make out sessions, and I didn't have to be the bad guy. They've known each other, what, a total of three days?

Alston crawls into the backseat with us. Reed glances around at the seating arrangement when he gets in the Jeep, but he doesn't make any additional commentary after he sees Linzi staring out her window with her arms crossed over her chest. She might as well be bleeding teenage angst all over his passenger seat.

The distant streetlights and the glow of the moon barely light up the old carnival grounds. The wooden sign hanging over the arched entranceway creaks as it rocks back and forth in the breeze floating off of the ocean.

I try to imagine this place in its glory with children running, popcorn popping, and the games buzzing with noises of winning and laughter. But I can't hallucinate those images any more than I can imagine the taste of one of those awesome carnival funnel cakes. The ticket booths are falling in with weather damage, and rust eats the surface of the metal rides.

A.J. leads us around the sea creature carousel, and I want to unhinge the blue seahorse from the ride and take it home with me. He's Solomon – life sized – and I wish I could touch up his peeling paint and shine his golden pole until he sparkled like I'm sure he once did.

"A.J., you're seeking," Reed says. He looks over at me. "And you're hiding with me."

"Alright," A.J. says. "Just keep Lickety away from her."

"Shut up," Reed says. He looks over at me. "Come on. We're safe."

We leave A.J. on the old carousel straddling an orange octopus. He buries his face into a tentacle and begins to count to what is supposed to be one hundred. Alston and Linzi run in the opposite direction, past the rusted red and white tilt-a-whirl. Reed leads me through the shadows behind the pirate ship ride. A turquoise dragon takes up the entire side of the wooden ship, and his orange eyes face the sky. I've seen him before – on A.J.'s arm.

Reed grabs my arm and pulls me to him. "Stay close," he whispers. "We have to keep moving. We're going to sneak into the House of Mirrors, but you have to watch your step. The floor is metal, and it echoes."

We slide along the back side of the ship facing the ocean. I bet the view of the water at sunset from the high point of the ship was beautiful in its day. It's sad to know a place that once brought joy to so many people could go to ruins in such a short time. I wonder how often A.J. used to come out here.

We slip behind an old game booth, and Reed puts his finger over his lips. A.J. hollers in the distance that time's up. We haven't even made it to the House of Mirrors yet. I'm not sure I really want to if the ghost of Lickety Split and his other personalities might be lurking around in there.

"Trust me?" Reed whispers.

His hazel eyes are lit up by the moonlight, and his nice guy attitude overflows from his pores in a way that, any other time, would sweep me and any other girl off her feet.

"I trust you," I whisper back, not nearly as convincing as Reed.

The entranceway to the House of Mirrors is a long metal ramp. There's no way we can go inside without being seen and waking the spirits of the carnival grounds. Reed points to an emergency exit on the side of the building. He climbs in first and pulls me up into the old house with him. The light of his cell phone startles me in the darkness. It bounces off all the mirrors surrounding us.

"Upstairs," he whispers. He locks his fingers with mine. "I don't want to lose you in the dark."

He uses his free hand to light our path, and I watch the metal flooring so I won't look up and see Lickety Split's face staring at me through the many mirrors. I step softly, hoping not to draw A.J.'s attention to us...or anyone else's for that matter.

We stop on the top floor. This place is a crazy maze that Reed luckily knows his way around. "Stay here. I'm going to see where A.J. is," Reed says just above a whisper.

My knees are shaky, and I wish I had a railing or something nearby because I'm absolutely terrified. The blue glow moves across the room, and Reed laughs though it's barely audible.

"We're good," he whispers. "Trust me on this, okay?"

"On what?" I whisper.

He holds his cell phone up and pulls one of the mirrors back like a sliding patio door. He shines his phone inside and looks back at me. "A.J. will never find us in here."

I step inside against my better judgment, and Reed slides the door back into place. His cell phone slips back into his pocket, leaving us alone with the pitch black night.

"His name is Shark McAllister," Reed whispers so closely to me that I can feel his breath on my neck. "Well, Jake McAllister, but everyone called him Shark. You've seen his work. It's hanging up in the store and at Drenaline and basically anywhere else you look in the cove."

The silver logo on the shark photographs flashes through my mind. I pull back and try to see Reed's face, but I see nothing in the dark. I latch onto his arm to steady myself. I feel like I'm on one of those rides where I'm suspended in the air and begging gravity to put me back on the ground.

"He was Vin's best friend," Reed says. "He was a year older than Vin, local photographer. But he was a hardcore surfer, as hardcore as Taylor is now."

My increased heartbeat echoes against the metal floor, but as my breathing calms, I realize it's not my heart that's echoing.

"Shhhh," Reed whispers. He pulls me tightly against him, and I bury my face into his chest, breathing in the pineapple scent of his laundry detergent. I could melt in the smell of pineapple and die happily, I do believe.

"I know you're up here," A.J. hollers out. "And don't even think of jumping out and scaring me, you fucker. I know you and Blondie are in here sucking face since you couldn't in the Jeep!"

Reed's body shakes as he tries to fight his laughter, which doesn't help me any because I can feel his every move, and I'm piercing my lip trying not to laugh as well. A.J.'s footsteps draw closer, and Reed's arms constrict around me, pressing me into his torso. I'm barely breathing just trying to stay silent.

"Alright!" A.J. shouts out. "I'm leaving you lovebirds alone...but Lickety can see you!"

His footsteps are loud and fast against the ramp outside, and Reed releases me from his anaconda grip.

"I think we're good for real now," he says.

He leans against the wall and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket to light up our tiny hideout. "Shark was the best surfer I knew, but he wouldn't do it professionally because he didn't want the competition to suck the fun out of it for him."

"So he was a photographer," I say.

"By profession, yeah," Reed says. "I mean, he loved it, don't get me wrong, but it was a job. He was really into underwater photography. His shark photos made him locally famous. Most of Cali knows his work."

I want to ask where I can buy some of his work, but I don't want to draw away from the conversation. Still, I know one of those black and white shark photos would look amazing in a frame of driftwood.

"Once he had some money saved up, he talked to my parents about building next to the store. We helped him build Drenaline Surf from the ground up. And that place blew up like we never expected," Reed says.

Reed shakes his head, slinging his bangs from his eyes. "He had the right reputation and went into business at just the right time. Two months after he opened, this kid walked through the door looking to buy a surfboard. An hour later, Shark had his own protégé."

"Colby Taylor," I say.

Reed nods. "He was on an intermediate level, but Shark saw his potential. They trained together every single day. In time, Drenaline was doing well enough that Shark thought he could afford to put his name on something, and he wanted it on Taylor."

"His first and only sponsor," I remember aloud. I read that on the brochure at the bakery.

"Yep," Reed confirms. "But the first time Taylor competed, Shark had to stay at the store. He wasn't as fully staffed back then, and it was in the heart of surf season, so he couldn't lose the business."

My stomach sinks like a captured pirate ship. This is where the story changes. I can sense it in Reed's voice.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Taylor called him to tell him he'd won," Reed says. "It was huge, you know? For him, for Shark, for Drenaline. So Shark went out for a victory surf at sunset. He knew better, but he was so excited."

I blink repeatedly to fight the tears, but they drip down my face, and I taste it – just like the salty ocean is dripping from my eyes.

"The chop was bad. And he knew it, damn it. He knew it," Reed says. His body sinks just a bit against the metal wall behind him. "Rip current grabbed him, sucked him right in."

"He drowned," I whisper.

Reed nods. "I try to tell myself even now that that's how Shark would've wanted to go – doing what he loved, in the ocean, celebrating – but it doesn't make it any easier."

He slides his phone back into his pocket, leaving us in the dark space behind the mirror. It's like that awkward moment at the funeral home where you've hugged someone and offered your condolences, but you know it's not enough nor will it ever be. So I just stand here and hope he'll say something to break the silence. And he does.

"Vin took it the hardest though," he says. "He's dealt with Shark's death every day since it happened, and he's going to keep dealing with it."

There's more to what he's saying. I can hear it in his voice, but I don't ask right now. It's not the right time. They're all dealing with the repercussions of Shark's victory swim, but whatever Vin's dealing with is bigger. Maybe that's what pushed him into his con-artist lifestyle – cheating people because he was cheated out of time with his best friend.

"You know, it's weird telling you all this stuff. We spend all of our time trying to keep everything under wraps with Taylor – not spilling our guts about Shark and Vin and everything else," Reed says.

He laughs, and most of the tension falls through the floor. I can breathe again, at least for a moment. The thought of conquering Vin leaves a knot in my stomach. He'll be my biggest obstacle yet, even more so than driving across the country blindly in hopes of finding a guy with a cover band's drumsticks.

A.J.'s scream rips that knot from my stomach up through my throat. Reed jumps at the same time and grabs the sliding mirror. Moonlight bounces off the warped mirrors, and Reed's grasp on my wrist tightens as he me pulls through the maze. Our shoes echo against the metal ramp as we run outside of the House of Mirrors.

"Where the hell is he?" Alston hollers out. He and Linzi meet us in front of an old popcorn stand. Alston spins in a circle, glancing over the grounds as best he can. "This isn't funny, A.J.! Where are you?" he shouts out.

The lovebirds head left in the direction of the old pirate ship, and I go with Reed toward the sea creature carousel. All of our voices blend together through the night calling out A.J.'s name with a few curse words and threats sprinkled in from Alston.

"This isn't funny," Alston says as he and Linzi approach us again. "He's just fucking with us because he can...all that talk about Lickety Split and this place being haunted. He's trying to scare us. Motherfucker!"

Alston kicks what's left of a wooden ticket booth. I'm surprised it doesn't collapse from the force.

Reed takes a deep breath. "Calm down. He's around here. He's just goofing off."

On cue, A.J. leaps out of the dark game booth close by, screaming and growling in some kind of possessed zombie way. We all scream.

"I'm sorry!" A.J. yells. He hops over the side of the booth and runs toward us. He grabs me instantly. "Vin made me. I'm sorry."

I push him away and watch Vin's shadow move toward us from his and A.J.'s hiding spot. He's laughing, and had Reed not just told me all about Shark, I'd be cursing and screaming and possibly kicking Vin right now. How could we not hear his motorcycle?

A.J.'s arms tighten around me from behind, and his chin settles into the hollow part of my shoulder. He smells like cigarettes and wintergreen gum.

"Please forgive me," he begs. "It's really Vin's fault. He held me at gunpoint."

A.J. is so ridiculous that I can't help laughing. Alston mumbles under his breath about A.J.'s stupidity.

Vin looks directly at me. "Lighten up, Sunshine. It's all in fun, right?"

He laughs, and I really didn't picture him as the type to goof off with A.J. Maybe I _can_ break through his tough guy exterior in time to find Colby and chase forever down.

"I thought you were working tonight," I say.

"I was," he replies. "But there's a storm brewing."

A.J.'s arms fall from around me, and Alston pulls away from Linzi. The two of them, along with Reed, freeze in a state of panic – their faces suddenly pale and eyes widened. A chill of fear and confusion sweeps over my skin. And in an instant of perfectly aligned paper stars, they all say one word – "Fuck."

# Chapter Twelve

Vin Brooks is probably the only other person in Crescent Cove awake at this hour. His eyes were glazed over with the blues and greens of the weather channel when I left him on the couch two hours ago. Everyone else finally crashed, but Vin's silent treatment was more annoying than his usual smartass comments. Lightning flashes across the bedroom like a massive camera flash. There's no way I can sleep through this.

Gusts of wind howl around the side of the house as the ocean hurls salty water over the sand and through the night air, mixing with the rain. Solomon spins around in the window. His blue reflection splashes on the ceiling and walls. The weatherman made mention earlier of swells and high waves, which to a commoner means 'stay inside.' But to a surfer, it means perfect monster waves. Still, even the most hardcore surfers won't be out in this disaster until daybreak.

I cross the hardwood floor to the bay window and pull the curtains to the side. Droplets chase each other along the glass. The whitecaps of the waves wash ashore just briefly before being hauled back out to sea. I try to imagine Colby out there, black and silver surfboard, wind flowing through his hair and waves crashing around him. He's in his element, the sun burning his skin and the water washing away the worries of the world. It must be a magical moment to be willing to "die" for.

I reach for my bag on the floor to finish obsessively reading the carefully worded information about him on the tourist brochures. But my fingers find their way around a little doll dressed in a white blood-spattered straightjacket. The Enchanters. I pull the five dolls out along with their booklet. _Zombie Asylum, the first Enchanter rock band_. My eyes scan over Emily's biography and how she hand sews each doll herself. And I remember her sales pitch about the unattainable heartthrob and his four band members.

Pickett – dressed in his straightjacket after escaping from an insane asylum. Locked up after a massacre that resulted from the accidental death of his favorite musician. As much as Linzi loves TheKeeganLawrence, I can't imagine her going on a murder spree for him. Pickett's lime green eyes stare up at me, like he's alive and watching the thoughts scroll through my mind.

Bones – a former funeral director who supplied a vampire coven with blood. After being stalked out by vampire slayers, he hid in the woods and met up with an asylum escapee. He traded his embalming tools for a set of drumsticks and a wild wardrobe and became the rock band's drummer. His pink undershirt is as bold as Alston's swim trunks. If Alston was an Enchanter, he'd be Bones.

The thought of any of these guys in doll form makes me laugh. The next one is Caspian, a former pirate who went down with his ship, The Sapphire Bandit. This would be Vin with his thieving ways. He may be somewhat cold, but he'd definitely be the type of captain who'd go down with his ship. There's a sense of loyalty that follows him, even if I hate admitting that. He'd be laid to rest with his sapphires on the ocean bottom, with the sharks, and I think he'd be okay with that.

Declan – one of the friendliest Enchanters created, according to Emily's handwriting. He was a firefighter in a former life, always helping others, always caring. I can almost see Reed's smile in Declan's dark face and his lime green eyes.

And then Nicholas – the bassist heartthrob with the inability to love. The heart pinned onto his shirt is detachable, so unrequited and aching. I imagine Emily's Enchanter booth after dark when the little dolls come to life and Zombie Asylum would take the stage. All of the little Enchanter girls would go crazy screaming for Nicholas.

The five dolls look up at me from their line across the bay window. This time, I smile at massacre-man Pickett. He's not so scary now. He's full of loyalty and love and a little bit of Gonzalez. He'd be my A.J. if I were a doll on Emily's shelf.

I carry them to the bed, move the candle from the shelf on the wall, and line them up accordingly – Nicholas farthest from my reach, symbolic of the isolated surfer. I place Caspian the pirate next to him, the biggest obstacle I've yet to overcome to reach the surfer. Then Bones, because Alston is still unreadable, followed by Declan, because Reed is still cautious with what he says. Pickett remains closest to me. For me, he's the easiest to get past, and honestly, he's the one I'd most want on my side. Enchanted Emily was right – they _were_ made for me. I fall back onto the bed and watch Solomon twirl until my eyes are too tired to focus.

My eyes should be heavy, like sunken treasure being held to the ocean floor. But I'm wide awake and ingesting the vanilla frappe Reed picked up at the bakery this morning for me, against Vin's orders to stay indoors. Water slams against the skylight above the stairs. It's last night all over again. But this time we can see the damage.

Sand coats the morning air, swirling through the rain in a blurry haze and landing wherever the wind sees fit. Waves hover over the ocean and crash against the shore like the ocean gods are throwing punches. The west coast is angry this morning, and it'll take out anyone who dares to interrupt its tantrum. The only ones stupid enough to try interrupting it would be surfers.

Vin slams his cell phone against the couch. "No answer," he says. "I'm not waiting any longer."

He stands up and walks toward the sliding door leading out to the swimming pool. He leans against it, watching the rain meet the glass and slide away. There's no way he can see what's happening among the waves from here.

"We can't go out there," Reed says. He joins Vin by the door, most likely assessing the damage before the inevitable journey outside.

I pull my legs up into the chair with me and watch them watch the weather outside. Colby wouldn't be dumb enough to go out in this kind of storm. At least I hope he wouldn't be. But if he has that desire to conquer the waves, to be the best, to surf the ultimate surf...he just might.

A.J. bounds down the stairs like he's hung over. His hair sticks out at odd angles, but he looks like that most days anyway. "Any word?" he asks while fighting a yawn.

Reed looks back and shakes his head, but Vin doesn't move. He's still watching the wind and rain.

"We're going to go look for him," Vin says to the patio door more than to A.J.

A.J. leans over the armrest of my chair and grabs my frappe, takes a sip, and hands it back. "When do we head out? I'll wake Alston," A.J. volunteers before either guy can answer his first question.

A.J. is up the stairs much more quickly than he came down. Reed runs through the kitchen and out to the garage to crank up his Jeep while Vin attempts another unanswered phone call. He paces back and forth alongside the couch, willing Colby to answer and cursing his name when he doesn't. I jump up from the chair and awkwardly try to keep step with Vin...but at a short distance.

My heart thumps, and I feel it in my throat. Linzi's eyes meet mine for half a second as she rushes down the stairs with A.J. and Alston. She reminds me of a soap opera star. Her hair falls lightly over her shoulders, and she doesn't have black smears of mascara under her eyelashes. My hair, however, smells salty from the beach, and there's no way I can tame the curls. I just hope the remnants of yesterday's makeup remain where they are because there's no time to touch up. This would be a hell of a time to finally see Colby again.

"We'll head down the beach," Alston says. "We'll check The Strip if you guys will take the cove."

Vin nods and looks back at me. "We'll be back shortly," he says.

"No," I say. "I'm not just going to sit here while you guys are out plowing through that mess. If you go, I'm going too."

Reed's arms wrap around me from behind, like it's his turn to hold me back against Vin just like I did with him and Alston that night at the party.

"Don't argue with her, Vin," he says. "We'll just stand here all day fighting about it. Just let her come with us."

"Fine," Vin says. "And _you_ can explain her presence when we find him." He barges through the kitchen and lets the screen door slam behind him.

Vin sits in the middle of the backseat with an elbow on the shoulder of each front seat. At least I get to ride shotgun during Operation Find The Missing Surfer.

Vin nods to the radio. "Tune in to the surf station," he says.

Reed punches the FWD button with his finger a few times, and the green numbers jump until he stops at 105.3. Sixties surf music plays faintly in the background, but the weatherman's voice is in the forefront. I imagine some terrible surf world announcement that Colby Taylor's body has been washed up in the cove followed by information regarding his memorial service. I can't even feel that twinge of happiness that I may see him again for the fear of his being dead...again.

"A mass of jellyfish have washed up on the shores of Horn Island, north of the beach at Crescent Cove," the voice says through the speakers. "Authorities are warning all residents and tourists to stay off the beaches until further notice. As previously stated, the waves and currents caused by these storms have made the waters unsafe for swimming and surfing, so please stay inside."

"Seriously?" Vin asks. "He's worried about the fucking jellyfish?"

Reed looks up at Vin through the rearview mirror and pulls out of the garage. We drive in the opposite direction of The Strip, down toward the high dollar condos and beach houses. Reed didn't bother to put the top up on his Jeep, and I wish he had. Flying sand stings my skin, and the rain drizzles over us. Hopefully A.J. was right about the sexy swamp creature look.

Vin pulls himself up against the rail above his head. Rainwater seeps through his shirt, and I flinch when I imagine how much that sand has to sting when you're a standing target. I guess it doesn't faze him since he has the better view of what's ahead of us.

The rustic beach house comes into view, its weathered shutters rattling against the house from the wind, and I know we're close. That's where we were the night I watched blue lights spin around the perimeter of the surfer's beach house while east coasters swam in his west coast water. But Reed's secret shortcut through the sand is nonexistent thanks to an orange barricade and 'Do Not Enter' sign. He stops the Jeep in front of them, right next to the beach house from the party. The hazy air hides any view of Colby's house down the shoreline.

My cell interrupts the moment. It's A.J.

"Fucking helicopters! A lot of them!" he screams through my earpiece. "Tell Reed and Vin! Tell them! Now!" His words all run together in a frightened breath.

"Helicopters," I say, looking up at Vin. "A.J. said to tell you there are helicopters."

Vin falls to the backseat and runs his hands through his wet hair. "Damn it," he mutters. He reaches over the seat and I hand him my cell phone. He looks hopeless and far less intimidating with his spiky hair now falling flat. He seems younger, more vulnerable, and I seriously want to crawl over the seat and hug him and tell him it's going to be okay.

"Where are you?...From Horn Island?...Yeah, they'll be here soon...At least it's not sirens."

He hands my phone back to me, and I wipe the sand off the screen. I slide my phone into Reed's glove compartment to avoid more damage.

"What about sirens?" I ask Vin.

He leans in between me and Reed. "We don't like helicopters – at least not in packs – but A.J. takes them a lot better than he takes sirens. The helicopters usually aren't looking for him, but there's a good chance the sirens are."

Vin hesitates for a moment, like he's trying to talk himself out of whatever he's about to say, but he says it anyway. "Why'd A.J. call _you_?"

Reed answers before I can. "Seriously? Haley is A.J.'s new best friend."

There's that look again, the 'I shouldn't say this but I will' look.

"Good," Vin says. "It's about time someone treated A.J. like a real person."

Reed interrupts what could have been an emotional breakthrough with a slew of questions – where the choppers are, why they're out, if A.J. found Colby – and my head spins around his words.

"We've gotta go...now," Vin orders Reed. "They're headed this way, and if there's a search party out, there'll be blue lights soon enough. We have to move fast."

Reed motions toward the barricades in front of the Jeep. "Do you want me to get out and move those?" Sarcasm doesn't flow well from Reed's mouth. He's too nice to pull it off.

"Hell no," Vin says. "Plow through the damn things."

I actually have to fight a smile. Jerkoff-mechanic-Vin is back.

Reed throws the gear into reverse and slams back, slinging wet sand up around his tires. "Hang on!" he yells.

The Jeep lunges forward, slicing the wooden orange-painted barricade in half. The 'Do Not Enter' sign falls to the sand, and we plow over it, just like Vin ordered.

The Jeep jolts forward through the wet sand, leaving tread marks along the shoreline. The waves drift over them, filling them with sand and sea water, hiding all forensic evidence that we drove along the beach. The wind picks up, and the once-drizzling rain is now an open cloud drenching the three of us and the inside of the Jeep.

Reed slings his wet bangs out of his eyes. He parks the Jeep near the water down a small hill from Colby's house. I follow him and Vin as they run toward the back patio. Reed veers to the left and shouts that the truck is gone. Vin peers through the windows, then points below him.

"He left Dexter," he says. The dog hurries over to Reed as he rounds the corner, leaving the mangled pink Frisbee at Vin's feet.

"He never leaves Dexter," Reed says. He drops down and pets the dog, running his hands through the wet fur.

Dexter jumps up, wagging his tail and spinning around like he hasn't had human contact in ages. My thoughts smash together in a montage of moments – the party, the beach, the Frisbee, the jet skis – and all that time that I just assumed Dexter belonged to Alston.

"He's not here," Vin confirms again. "And A.J. said there's no sign of him on the beach. No one is out in this mess."

"Someone is," I say. "The helicopters aren't joy riding."

I want to kick myself for speaking up. I want to stay right here on Colby's back patio watching the rain flood his swimming pool while the wind and sand pierce my skin. I'll never learn the secrets of the trade if I never see him again. I could wait right here with Dexter and fight the storm off with that hot pink Frisbee.

The air pops in the distance. Small black dots move across the sky and dip down toward the ocean. Helicopters.

"He's going to be okay," I say, nodding with as much confidence as I can. I'm probably not very convincing, though.

Vin runs his hand through his wet hair. "He better be," he says.

"He's not dead." My voice sinks to a whisper.

Vin shakes his head. "I could really give a damn less if he's dead or alive. It's not him I'm worried about." His phone rings in his pocket before he elaborates.

"Damn it," he says. "What do you want?" he asks into the phone. He stands silently for about five seconds before he speaks again. "Topher, I don't have time for this. I can't talk right now."

He ends the call before Topher can pull a West Coast Hooligan attitude with him. Maybe Topher needed a mechanic or something since today isn't the day for surfing. Mechanic work obviously falls second to keeping Colby's secrets.

Vin whistles for Dexter to follow. I want to ask Vin who or what he's worried about. We're chasing Colby all over Crescent Cove, yet Vin doesn't give a damn if he's alive or dead? He's more complicated than the typical con artist should be.

The dog jumps into the backseat next to Vin, bringing more sand and rain onto Reed's seats. Gritty sand invades my flip flops, and I reclaim the passenger seat. I don't think I could talk Reed and Vin into letting me stay here even if I begged and pleaded. Reed's tires spin in the wet sand, and we retrace our tracks down the beach toward the old beach house. I glance back to look for a vehicle or person, but the beach house is quiet and lifeless.

Sirens blare and grow louder as they move toward us. Reed speeds through the broken barricade, but an army of blue lights blocks our path. He parks along the roadside, and Vin jumps out of the Jeep.

"Hey Pittman," he shouts out. "Who are you looking for?"

A younger deputy meets Vin halfway between the Jeep and police cars. Vin talks with his hands from a distance, but we can't hear anything being said.

"That's the cop who always locks A.J. up," Reed tells me. "He doesn't like Vin much either, but he can't arrest Vin for being a hard ass. A.J., well, he brings it on himself."

"Where do you think Colby is?" I have to ask before Vin gets back. I don't think he plans on engaging in a lengthy conversation with the cop.

"Surfing," Reed says. He's certain of it. "He probably went down past the cove where the big cliffs are. The waves are insane coming off those rocks, especially in this weather. Or he went down to the lower area of Horn Island, but I doubt that since Topher didn't mention him to Vin."

Vin walks back to the Jeep with good news. "They were looking for some kids who were fishing this morning. Boat turned up on the shore, but they bolted to a friend's house to get out of the rain. Just got the call when I was talking to him. Search party is off," he says.

But we still haven't found the surfer. And the water still isn't safe. Worst of all, he's out there catching waves in this mess.

The Strip is empty when we arrive to meet up with A.J., Alston, and Linzi. Vin skims the vacant beach and crashing waves, still hoping to see the surf star emerge from the waves and wash up on the shore. Alston's car sits alone outside of the closed Drenaline Surf. Must be nice to have a vehicle with a top. A.J. pops out of the backseat and runs toward us in the mist from the rain. He's probably been in misery, even if he was dry.

"Have you talked to him?" A.J. calls out.

Vin shakes his head. "I'm calling him again now," he says. He pulls his cell phone up to his ear. We wait. And the cursing begins.

"Where the hell have you been?" Vin shouts.

I so wish I could hear both sides of this phone call!

Vin jumps over the side of the Jeep and paces the sand-covered sidewalk. "Are you fucking crazy?...Yeah, it's a huge deal... Don't you ever do something that stupid again...Fuck you."

He ends the call and looks directly toward me. "You better get out while you can, got it?" Then he flings his phone into Reed's Jeep.

"I'll get it later, Strick," he calls out. He starts down the sidewalk and the drizzling rain picks up. No one goes after him, but I think the rain will do him some good.

# Chapter Thirteen

Topher stretches out on his orange beach towel and pops a sugar cube into his mouth. Seven hours ago, this very sand swirled through the air and created a tornado of salt water and beach particles. You'd never know by the looks of the sandcastles, surfers, and the scorching sun. I glance behind me for A.J. He left a few minutes ago to get bottled water and left me with the Hooligan. Apparently Topher has to surf in the cove due to the jellyfish clean up in Horn Island.

"Taylor's crazy, you know," Topher says in between chews. "Going out in that storm to surf. He's going to die for real doing that."

He knows more than he lets on. Why else would he have called Vin this morning? I'm beginning to doubt that he needed a mechanic. Still, I don't press for any juicy tidbits. He's not telling me anything I don't already know. He tugs at the loose strands of his swimming trunks and readjusts his sunglasses before popping up as quickly as he would on a surfboard in the water. Miles waves at us from a distance, dragging two surfboards and leaving his mark through the sand. He looks less than thrilled to be here.

"Will you be the keeper of my cubes?" Topher asks. He looks back down at me and shakes his bag of sugar cubes.

A.J. snatches the bag from over my head. "Go on, surf star wannabe," he says to Topher.

That's all it takes for Topher to jet off toward the water to meet Miles. A.J. drops down to the sand, stretches out on Topher's towel, and hands me a thick roll of blue tickets, like the ones you get at high school basketball games.

"Vin wants you to sell these," he says. He twists the lid off of his water bottle.

I spin the tickets around and wonder how in the hell I'll be able to sell one thousand tickets before this weekend's surf competition. The guys were talking about it last night, how Drenaline Surf is a sponsor. I'm pretty sure Vin is hoping I'll be back in North Carolina before then. He's probably protective of his dead best friend's old store, even if I still don't understand the hostility he has toward Colby. But there's one thing I'm more curious about.

"Vin? He actually wants my help?" I question. I can't imagine him trusting me with anything Colby-related.

"Damn it," A.J. says. "Strick, not Vin. I just saw Vin. Sorry. But no, Strick – he wants you to sell them. A dollar a ticket for a chance to win a custom Drenaline Surf surfboard. We try to help Shark's dad out as much as we can. Oh, and he said to tell you just to sell tickets to guys, no girls. Strick and Alston can take care of that."

I shake my head and keep spinning the roll from its center with my index fingers. "There's no way," I say.

"He said you would have them sold in no time because you're hot and guys will buy from you...but not to tell you he said that," A.J. blurts out.

"Reed said that?" I can't imagine him actually thinking A.J. wouldn't tell me.

"Uh...yeah. Strick said it. Don't tell him I told you."

A.J.'s stammers aren't the truth, but I know he's not going to tell me much more. The tickets fall in between our towels as I lie back and pull my shades over my eyes. When I talked to my mom mid-afternoon, she told me that a water pipe in the kitchen burst so they'd be in a hotel for a few days. She also said that Linzi and I needed to enjoy ourselves, so "take a few days away from this college search and sightsee, live a little." Oh Mom. If you only knew.

But thanks to that ruptured pipe, I'll have plenty of time to sell raffle tickets and extend my trip long enough to see Colby Taylor compete on the waves just once, if nothing else. Maybe seeing him chasing his forever down and living his dream will be enough to motivate me.

"I can help you, if you want," A.J. offers, pulling me away from my thoughts.

"What?" I ask. I prop up on my elbows to look at A.J.

"With the tickets," he says. "I can help you if you need me to."

"Right," I say. I scan the water for Topher and Miles.

A.J. sits up next to me, but I don't face him. I see him watching me from the corner of my eye. He doesn't know thanks to these cheap five-dollar sunglasses.

"Alright Haley, what's up?" he asks. He leans over, staring into me to the point that I can't ignore him. The truth is there's so much on my mind that I can't even sort it out.

"Can we walk?" I ask, nodding toward The Strip behind us.

A.J. is to his feet almost instantly, sliding his flip flops back on. I drop the blue tickets into my beach bag while A.J. throws both mine and Topher's towels over his shoulder. He pops a sugar cube into his mouth from Topher's bag then chokes and spits it out.

"I don't know how in the hell he eats this shit. It's like eating sand," A.J. says when we reach the pavement.

I snatch the sugar cubes from him and secure them in my beach bag before A.J. finds a trash can to toss them into. We stroll along past the fresh fruit stand, and I dread walking past the sunglasses rack that A.J. demolished the other day. He walks around me to avoid eye contact with the vendor as we pass. I watch the sidewalk and make shapes out of the sand that washed over the pavement from the storm.

The storm is what's bugging me. And Vin. I've never seen anyone so worked up over thunder, lightning, and rain. Sure, it was bad, and there was need to be concerned, but there's more to this. Vin even said he wasn't concerned with Colby's life. If it's not that, then what the hell was he worried about? He obviously cares about something – or someone.

"Do you guys always panic like that?" I ask. "When it storms?" I add for clarification.

A.J. runs his hands through his hair and pulls his sunglasses away from his eyes. It's rare that he's ever so serious. It's actually scary.

"Vin panics," he says. "We used to, all of us, but Vin won't sleep. He doesn't do anything until he locates Colby. And then he flips the fuck out on him and they don't speak for a few days until Strick or Alston smoothes it over."

He continues along The Strip, kicking at clumps of sand and watching them burst apart as they come in contact with the toe of his flip flop. I replay last night in my head – Vin not leaving the couch. Vin watching the water. Vin standing up in the Jeep because he had to have the perfect view. Vin's unanswered phone calls. Vin flipping out on Topher for no apparent reason when he called. And Vin walking away in the rain, alone, after he said, 'Fuck you,' and threw his phone into Reed's backseat. Why did he tell me to get out while I can? Out from what?

I take a deep breath. "Is he scared something will happen like...like Shark?"

"Kind of," A.J. says. He steps off the sidewalk onto the sand and watches the ocean, wave after wave toppling over the sand and washing up toward the tourists and locals alike.

I wish I could pull the photo montage out of his mind and see it for myself, to know what A.J. is thinking about. Maybe he's remembering Shark's memorial, everyone in a circle in the water on their surfboards with Shark's dad speaking about his son's love for the ocean and how he'd always be a part of it now. Or maybe he's remembering Vin standing on the pier watching them pour Shark's ashes into the sea, not stepping foot into the same water that claimed his best friend's life. I feel like I can see it myself just from hearing Reed talk about it last night after we got back to the condo, while everyone else watched the weather.

"Colby already died," A.J. says so quietly I have to ease closer to him to hear. "Back in Florida, that spring break trip. Who's to say he won't do it again? What if he gets bored with this life or decides he'd rather be someone else again? Every storm is a chance for him to bail."

His words slice through me like Reed's Jeep sliced through the orange barricade. And everything somehow makes sense. The secrets, the disguise, the lies, the bodyguards. If Colby decides to just up and leave this life for a new one as well, it'd leave these four guys completely screwed. Vin is the only one of them to realize it.

"Strick says he won't do it, that he isn't that kind of person, but Vin doesn't trust him," A.J. continues. "And really, Vin has a point. Colby Taylor's name is on the mortgage. We live the high life because we keep him hidden. Shark's store keeps going because Colby's name is all over it. He's our lifeline, Haley. And he could cut it off at any time."

My throat runs dry, but I couldn't speak even if I knew the words to say. All it takes is a storm. All it takes is one night, one moment, and he could be gone. He could hop a train or hail a taxi or just ride his board across the ocean. Then Reed and Alston would move back in with their parents, and A.J. would...be homeless.

"Where does Vin live?" I ask, pushing away the thought of A.J. in a cardboard box holding up a 'Will work for food' sign.

"Horn Island, same apartment he's been in since he got kicked out," A.J. says. "I crash on his couch sometimes when I'm out that way. Or whenever he bails me out. Colby offered him better, but he won't take it. Vin does just fine on his own."

A.J. nods down the sidewalk, and I follow along down The Strip. He doesn't say much else, and I don't dare ask. I don't need clarification. His point was made quite clearly. If Colby's secret is ever revealed, their lives will crash and burn right in front of them. And the only threat is someone from Colby's other life. Their only threat...is me.

My mind flashes through scenes from their would-be future – moving boxes, Drenaline Surf shutting down, and A.J. living on the streets – and I know the answer is simple.

I can never see Colby Taylor again.

# Chapter Fourteen

It's like a scene from a cruise commercial – white sandy beaches, bright blue water, sun shining, and palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze. A perfectly beautiful California morning. And I absolutely hate it.

The truth is it's anything but beautiful. I jerk the curtain shut, twisting Solomon around in the fabric, but the sunshine pours through. It's the first morning since the corporate jail party that I've woken up without the goal of chasing down Colby Taylor. But that doesn't mean it's not on my mind. A splash of Solomon's blue reflection spills across the floor, and it makes me smile for half a second. Even from in between the curtains, he's watching over me.

I don't ask him for guidance, though. I already know he'd tell me to put on my best smile and my rubber Drenaline Surf bracelet and make the most of these last few days in Crescent Cove. I've worked too hard to buy time here, and I can't waste what I have, even if I'm not on a mission to see Colby and learn the secrets of how to chase my forever down. I wonder if he's ever regretted it, if there's something he'd have done differently. But that's something I'll never get to ask him. I slip on my ocean blue bracelet and trace the embossed letters of Drenaline Surf with my finger. If I ever see coffee shop Tim again, I'm so giving him one of these to add to the collection of bracelets he had growing down his arm.

Reed pulls up behind Strickland's Boating, one hand on the steering wheel and the other gripping his latte. I'm glad he agreed to an early morning coffee run with me because after thinking of Tim's arm of bracelets, I could almost taste the chilled vanilla frappe from that morning at Jitters. I drop my empty cup in the trash can behind the register and flip the closed sign to open on my way out onto The Strip. I've never been much of a salesperson, but I figure if Vin can persuade someone to buy cheap hair dye spray, I can definitely sell one-dollar chances for a high-dollar custom surfboard.

But I don't have Vin's smart mouth to bark with, his height to intimidate with, or his iceberg eyes to terrify with. A group of guys are two stands down, looking at T-shirts, and they fit the stereotype for beach bums with their shaggy hair, tan lines, and brightly colored swim trunks. I can't stomach the reminder of dream-chasing surfers. Not yet. Not alone. And definitely not this early in the morning.

So I settle on the two boys at the hot dog stand. Only pre-pubescent boys eat hot dogs at eight A.M. They can't be older than twelve or thirteen, and I'm sure they at least have a dollar to spare. I push my hair behind my shoulders, resorting to total Linzi mode – cleavage and all – then lick my lips since I didn't bother with lip gloss.

And it totally works. My simple pitch of, "Hey! Drenaline Surf is raffling off a custom surfboard at the competition this weekend. A dollar a ticket, you can't beat that," sends me straight to total victory and Shark's surf shop is four whole dollars richer. Only 996 tickets to go.

I don't even try to hide my goofy accomplished smile. I tuck the four dollars into a side pocket of my beach bag and head down the sidewalk of The Strip – smile, tickets, and newly found confidence in tow. Topher waves at me from twenty feet away, and I feel totally prepared for his sugar cube high, even combined with that bottle of Ocean Blast Energy in his hand.

But even with the tiny adrenaline rush from my success, my heart spirals into the pit of my stomach when I see Vin and Miles with him. From that smirky look on Vin's face, I'm more than sure he witnessed my ticket selling, and he'd rather die than keep his mouth shut about it.

"I hope you don't have plans for the rest of the summer," Vin says. He stops directly in front of Drenaline Surf and folds his arms across his chest.

"Why's that?" I ask.

"That's how long it'll take you to sell those tickets at the rate you're going. Seriously, Haley? Twelve-year-old boys?" He shakes his head, and every point on his spiky black hair pokes holes in my confidence. But he did call me by my name for once. Maybe that counts for something.

Topher takes a gulp of his energy drink and licks his lips. "I'll help you," he says.

"The hell you will," Vin interjects. "She can sell those on her own."

He grabs Topher's arm and drags him off down the sidewalk, leaving me standing under Drenaline Surf's giant wave with Miles and his nappy blonde dreadlocks.

Miles shrugs his shoulders. "Looks like I'm gonna be helping you instead. C'mon, I'll show you where the real deal surfers hang out."

I climb into the passenger seat of Miles' old truck. Gatorade bottles and candy wrappers litter the floorboards. He throws a handful of the trash behind the seat.

"Sorry for the mess," he says. He pushes his sunglasses up into his crazy wild hair. "The guys taken you down to Horn Island yet?"

"No," I say, shaking my head.

I've wondered what Horn Island looks like since the first time I heard mention of it. It sounds magical and sparkling, full of enchanted mermaid girls and sexy surfer boys and more palm trees than Crescent Cove has moon décor.

"It ain't much to see," Miles says as if he heard my daydreamy thoughts.

The truck roars to life but chokes a few times on the way out of the parking lot. He fumbles with the radio stations and makes small talk about the east coast and how much he would hate living in a non-surf city. After spending time in the cove, I really think I'll hate living in a non-surf city when I return home.

Ten minutes of interstate later, Miles takes an exit that loops around an old apartment complex. Weather stains eat away at the pale yellow paint, and a pit bull is chained up outside of one of the doors. There's a window with bars over it, like a prison window, and I can't help wondering how many drug deals go down daily here. So far, Horn Island is looking pretty ghetto.

Miles catches my stare. "Vin lives there," he says, pointing back to the rotting apartment complex from hell.

"Are you kidding?" I ask. The hell with being dependent on Colby Taylor. I'd rather be dependent than live in Horn Island's version of Alcatraz.

"No joke," Miles says. "He's lived there since he got kicked out a few years ago. Only place he could afford at the time. I don't know why the hell he stays there now, though."

We pass a run-down liquor store with dark green paint and half-working neon signs. My hope for Horn Island falters. There are no mermaids nor magic here. The buildings bleed together outside my window, classic downtown scenery...without any class.

Miles pulls into a parking lot near a boating ramp. The side wall is painted with a graffiti mural. A red sunset bleeds behind a jagged blue-painted wave. This painting is probably the most color Horn Island has seen in a while.

Miles points down to the ocean. "That way," he says.

He grabs his green and silver surfboard out of the bed of his truck, and I follow him with my bag full of tickets, which will fail me if I need a weapon against any surf thugs.

A guy with an incredible natural tan and long black hair meets us halfway across the clumpy sand. It's thick and dark and sucks on my flip flops like quicksand. The cove's sand must've been imported from that magical land I'd dreamed up earlier. It's not the same sand as Horn Island.

"Hell yeah! About time you got a new girl. She's damn hotter than Kristin," the guy says. He bypasses Miles, drops his blue surfboard, and grabs me in a hug. What ever happened to handshakes and personal space?

"I'm Kale," he says when he pulls away.

"And she's Haley," Miles says for me. "She's not my new girl either. I'm helping her sell tickets for Drenaline...and giving her a break from Vin."

"Ohhhhh," Kale says, retrieving his surfboard from the grungy sand. "Vin Brooks finally has a girl? That's reason enough to get drunk and celebrate."

I open my mouth to protest, but the two guys who Kale had been hanging out with near the shoreline circle us. My words would be lost had I spoken them. I stand here awkwardly waiting for the talking to cease, but I refuse to keep quiet when one guy says it's about time Vin got laid.

"I'm not dating Vin!" I shout over their voices.

I want to tell them I'm not dating him or sleeping with him or anything else their dirty minds might've conjured up, but I don't.

"I'm just selling tickets because Reed asked me to, and I'm not dating Reed either," I say instead.

That's all it takes to send them back to the murky green water. I step over clusters of seaweed and cringe at the foamy white bubbles lingering on the waves that have washed ashore. Even the beach is ghetto here. I can't imagine the West Coast Hooligans ever having to fight someone off of their surfing turf. I wouldn't want to step in this water, much less surf in it.

"These are the rest of the Hooligans," Miles says, pointing to the guys ahead of us.

"And I'm the honorary Hooligan," Kale says. "Dominic won't let me be official."

The tall brunette in front of me spins around. "Fuck Dominic. I think four to one should be enough to let you be whoever the hell you want to be," he says. "I'm Jace, by the way."

I like this Jace guy already. He doesn't like Dominic, and he's the only one who didn't assume I was sleeping with Vin.

Jace turns back to the slimy water and yells "Sapphire!" He dashes into the oncoming waves and paddles out toward the big wave that's about to roll in.

Now I see why the Hooligans are so territorial. Horn Island has rocks – jagged, broken cliff kind of rocks – like the ones down in the cove near surf star's beach house. But these rocks are bigger, edgier, and outright intimidating. And the waves, wow. They slam against the rocks and fall back into the ocean, collapsing in a huge splash and slinging themselves ashore in the most monstrous waves I've ever seen.

"So yeah," Miles interrupts my awe. "Jace is Vin's age. Grew up with him and Shark. And the other guy is Theo. He lifeguards down at the cove. That's all of us, though. Horn Island's West Coast Hooligans."

Another shout of the word "Sapphire!" echoes behind us.

I look to Miles, who laughs and instantly explains. "It's how we call dibs on a wave, like calling shotgun. It's our code word, just to say that I saw it first and I'm riding it home."

Miles motions for me to walk with him, leaving Jace, Theo, and Kale to the waves. He leaves his surfboard in Hooligan territory. He kicks a left over Dr. Pepper can along the shoreline, daring the waves to snatch it away. I don't speak until we're out of earshot of the other guys. Miles hasn't done anything to help me with selling these tickets, but maybe he'll enlighten me with some Horn Island secrets. The Dr. Pepper can dings against the toe of his flip flop and lands with a thunk on the wet sand.

"How can you be an honorary Hooligan?" I ask.

"Kale didn't grow up here. He's from Hawaii, and Dominic said if we let him in, we'd have to let anyone in," Miles says. "He just doesn't like anyone else in our waters. None of us do, really. But Kale surfs with us anyway."

Dominic has been a jerk since I got here. I'm betting he was beforehand too. Just thinking of that smug grin on his face the day I flipped off of the jet ski with A.J. makes me cringe.

"Kale gets it though," Miles says.

We approach the lonely maroon can he'd kicked earlier, still hanging on to the sand, refusing to be taken out to sea. Miles kicks it again.

The cloudy ocean water rushes over my flip flops. I take them off and carry them along the way. "Gets what?" I ask.

"Surfing," he says. "Like real deal surfing. He gets what it's like to be out there, being a piece of the ocean, becoming a part of the wave. It's spiritual really, seeing how big the ocean is and how small you are. Just having faith and trusting in the ocean like you'd trust in God to watch out for you."

And here I thought it was about the adrenaline rush – the wind breezing past you, the salt water stinging your skin, riding that wave into shore and defying nature by staying upright on a wild splash of ocean. I shouldn't wonder what it's like for Colby, if he does it for the thrill or for that moment that no one else could possibly understand because you're the only person in it riding that wave.

I stop and watch the greenish brown waves roll toward us. I bet Shark taught him the secrets of the surf right here in Horn Island, between those jagged rocks and the collapsed pier in the distance. My inner forever-chaser wants to haul all of that wood away to plaster around Shark's underwater photos, but my more poetic side can't imagine this beach without a collapsed pier. It gives the place character.

"So," I say, hoping to keep the conversation alive, "Dominic doesn't get it. Why does he do it then?"

Miles stops, repositions the Dr. Pepper can, and draws his leg back like he's about to kick the game-winning field goal. "For the glory of being the best," he says. "But he's not the best. You can't be the best when you're a fucking show off."

The maroon can grows smaller and smaller as it flies through the air. I don't see where it lands, but I'm sure Miles will kick it again if we stumble across it. A group of people move in our direction, coming from beyond the collapsed pier.

"Who the hell are they?" Miles asks, like I'm supposed to know.

I don't answer him. He stands as solid as those jagged rocks in the water. We stay right here on the shoreline until they come within a few feet of us. I feel like I'm on the front line in an ancient war, like I can't fire until I see the whites of their eyes.

"Where do you think you're going?" Miles asks.

There are two girls and three guys, two of whom are carrying surfboards. Both of them are taller than Miles, who is probably five-foot-six flat-footed. Still, Miles doesn't move.

"To surf," one of the guys says. "The waves are better down there."

"I know," Miles answers. "But that's Hooligan territory. From the pier to those rocks – those waves are spoken for."

I glance behind us to take in a panorama of 'Hooligan territory.' The waves are definitely better there.

The other guy laughs and rams the tip of his surfboard into the sand, letting it stand next to him. "I don't see your Hooligan name anywhere on it. It's a free country, so I'll surf in whatever water I want to surf in."

Miles laughs and shakes his head. "You're either deaf or just fucking stupid. The pier to those rocks – _my_ water. The pier and beyond – _your_ water. Now get the fuck out of here or I'm gonna fuck you up and drown you in my water!"

I take a few steps back because I know with everything in me that Miles will hit this guy. He'll get into a knock-down brawl before he'll let these guys surf in Hooligan territory.

The first guy who spoke hurls his surfboard onto the ground. Oh, how I wish it would've snapped in half. He bulks up, standing a good six feet, and looks down at Miles. Part of me wants to scream for the other Hooligans, just for back up, but the smarter part of me knows not to dare insult Miles' pride that way.

I don't have time to scream, though. Miles lunges forward, slamming the guy into the sand in one blow. He rears his fist back and blasts the guy's jaw. The girls with the intruders both scream – for help and for the other guys to do something – and I'm thankful because they've alerted the other Hooligans.

I spin around just as Kale dashes past me and tackles one of the standing guys to the ground next to Miles' grappling session with the tall guy. Theo lands in the mass of flying fists in record time. I guess his lifeguard rescue training paid off for other things as well.

"What happened?" Jace asks, catching his breath next to me.

"They wanted to surf in your territory," I say.

It's amazing how calm Jace remains while his friends indulge in the ass kicking assembly before us. He doesn't join them, but he doesn't make any effort to stop them. He waits it out, as do I, while the other girls scream and cry for their boyfriends to stop fighting. These fifteen seconds feel like a solid five minutes.

But the intruders scramble to their feet and run – back toward the outskirts beyond the collapsed pier, away from Hooligan territory. Miles dusts off his shorts, and the others head back down to the water, like nothing ever happened.

I seriously want to head back to the cove now. This Hooligan business is no joke!

"Sorry about that," Miles says. "What were we talking about?"

Gosh, this guy is freaking bipolar. "Dominic," I say.

"Right," he says. "And guys who don't get it. Like those kooks."

Kook – a wannabe surfer. _Now_ I remember.

"If Dominic wins that sponsorship, I'm quitting surfing altogether," Miles says.

I stop on the shoreline. Sponsorship. Every surfer's dream. Who the hell would want Dominic's arrogant smile plastered on a billboard? Who'd want him wearing their merchandise and being a poster boy for them? Forget the fact that he's actually a decent surfer. From what I gather, he's terrible at being a decent human.

"Who wants to sponsor him?" I ask.

Miles bends his eyebrows, and I'm not sure if it's because of my question or the sun.

"Drenaline Surf," he says. "Dominic and I are both up for sponsorship. They're announcing the winner at the end of competition week. It's a huge deal. How can you not know about this?"

I suddenly feel so out of the loop, out of this close-knit little circle that I thought I was becoming a part of. A.J. hasn't even mentioned sponsorship or the Hooligans having competition within their own surf gang. I thought A.J. was pretty open about everything with me.

"I guess they don't want to bring up the fact that there's a battle within a family," I say.

Miles smirks and nods his head, which lets me believe that my pathetic attempt at an excuse might be somewhat true.

"We used to be pretty good friends," he says. "But he got wrapped up in himself. Topher's always been my best friend, though. The only good thing about Dominic winning would be that he'd ditch us and Kale could be official."

My heart aches for Miles. It aches for him to win this, to have the chance that Colby has to live out his dream with the Drenaline Surf logo pushing him forward, into new places and new waters and new waves, and letting him conquer them head on.

The sky is orange with the red sun falling back into the ocean, just like the graffiti painting by the parking lot. The water ripples with colors of fire and blood. I don't think I've ever seen the beach at Crescent Cove look this eerily beautiful. It's haunting, and I think this moment will stick with me forever – being on the run down beach of Horn Island, sitting in the dirty sand with Miles, Kale, and still too many blue raffle tickets, watching the waves slosh against the rocks and the remnants of what use to be a massive pier.

I never want to leave. It's that same magical feeling I feel in Crescent Cove when I'm watching the blue waves and sitting in the white sand with a cotton candy sky around me. But this time, it feels real. Real in a sense that I haven't felt since I've been here. Real in a way that I couldn't understand because I was too busy chasing Colby to realize how much was around me and why he _had_ to bail on me with nothing to remember him by but memories and a lime green paper star. California, the ocean, this surfer way of life...

Kale grabs a seashell that just washed up with the waves and turns it in his hand. It's the perfect shape of a mountain goat's horn. He places it in the palm of my hand, and I squeeze it, letting the edges dig into my skin, savoring this moment and soaking in every ounce of Horn Island air I possibly can.

# Chapter Fifteen

The morning sun glints off of Linzi's rhinestone-studded flip flops and blinds me for half a second. She rocks back and forth, heel to toe, studying the whiteboard hanging outside of the turquoise snowcone stand. Summer Snow stretches across the lime green roof in bright pink letters, the letter O a snowcone. Luckily the guy ahead of us is as indecisive as Linzi.

"Brad, dude, c'mon. Make up your mind. I've got real customers behind you," the blonde behind the stand says. His lopsided smile is childlike, and his hair is as wild as A.J.'s.

His name tag reads Alex, and Linzi instantly begins talking about her Enchanter named Alex and how she wonders if Enchanted Emily named it after snowcone guy. This Brad guy settles on blue raspberry and moves along so Linzi can study the selection list more closely.

"Just get the usual," Vin says from behind me.

Reed laughs. "You're so boring. It's always something simple. Watermelon. Grape. Apple. You need to live a little."

"Fine," Vin spits back. He leans over my shoulder and scans the flavors while Linzi orders Mango Mandarin.

Despite Reed's jab at Vin for being boring, I play it safe myself and order pineapple, not so much because I'm scared to live a little but more so because I don't want my mouth to be blistering red or deep ocean blue while I attempt to sell the rest of these tickets. I need my smile today. I don't have Miles to help me out or show me who I need to target.

"Tiger's blood," Vin says. "It sounds badass."

But three seconds after he bites into the snowcone, tiger's blood splatters across the sidewalk and Vin curses, something about strawberries and damn-it-fucking-coconuts. I grab his arm before he tosses it into a nearby garbage can.

"Wait," I say. "I like coconut. We can trade."

I pull the spoon from my clear pineapple ice and offer it to him, although every fiber of my confidence is mocking me and laughing at my attempt to be nice to Vin, like he'd even accept such a gesture.

So when he hands me that bleeding red ice and says 'thank you', I'm too dumbfounded to respond. I stand on the sidewalk, watching the back of Reed's T-shirt blend into the crowd as he and Vin disappear into the mass of tourists and locals near Strickland's Boating. I attempt to drop the red ice down my throat without it hitting my tongue or teeth, but Linzi sticks her orange tongue out at me, and I realize it's pointless. I hope her orange tongue is up for selling tickets because my mouth will look like that of a well-fed vampire soon.

After an hour of listening to Linzi's attempt to sell tickets, I see my salvation down the sidewalk. A.J. flexes his arm back, showing off the dragon across his forearm to the girl working at one of the T-shirt stands. She leans forward on her elbows in that flirty way Linzi does, and I assume she asked if he has more because he turns and shows her the crescent moon skull on his other shoulder. Neither Linzi nor I approach until Alston pulls his shirt over his head to show off the tribal art between his shoulder blades.

I swap glances with Linzi, whose eyes are flaring with some sort of emotion that I can't exactly decipher, and we trek forward to the T-shirt stand. The guys are already past it though, A.J. with his arms flailing and his turquoise dragon flying crazily with his motions. For him to be so thin, I really think he could take Alston right now. His eyes are flaring, just like Linzi's, and I suddenly feel like I should be mad too.

"Every fucking time! Every. Fucking. Time. You just have to get in the way. You can't give me a single fucking moment!" A.J. shouts the words too loudly, and it won't be long before some Crescent Cove cop gets word that his favorite troublemaker is at it again. God, I hope it's not that Pittman guy.

Alston shakes his head and just laughs. "Dude, don't trip. All I did was show her my tat. You're not the only one with them, you know." He drapes his arm around Linzi, but she shrugs him away.

"No!" A.J. shouts. "That's not all you did, and you fucking know it! You have Blondie. Is that not enough for you?" He motions to Linzi, who obviously isn't enough to feed Alston's need for attention.

A.J. doesn't wait for an answer. He tells Alston to go to hell and cuts between two vendor booths before he disappears. The three of us stand in awkward silence while life carries on around us – volleyball, shopping, swimming – until Dexter circles Alston's legs and drops that hot pink UFO onto the sidewalk.

My heart erupts into a mass of burning flames. Dexter. Colby's dog. His pet. One of the few aspects of normalcy in his abnormal life. I wonder if he takes him out on the beach for morning runs or if he plays Frisbee with him in the sand. Dexter doesn't even know that his owner is the ultimate west coast surf star.

But I can't dwell on Dexter or wonder if there really is any normalcy in Colby's life when he has to live in the shadows to hide who he used to be. Right now, I have to find A.J.

"Where is he going?" I demand answers from Alston, but he just laughs.

"To join the freak show," he says.

I wait just a second longer for a real answer, but he isn't going to give it to me. He's more concerned with sucking up to Linzi and convincing her that she's the only girl he has eyes for. I leave them on The Strip, cut between the two vendor booths, and hurry back to my car. I hope Alston's smartass remark is legit because my instincts tell me that I already know where A.J. went.

A.J. is perched on that same orange octopus on the sea creature carousel that he sat on the night Reed and I hid in the House of Mirrors. He doesn't acknowledge me even when I straddle the tentacle next to him. I don't know what to say. We sit in silence for so long that I finally stand up and make a circle around the carousel. My heart silently breaks to see this beautiful piece of machinery go to waste.

"I wish I could take this thing apart," A.J. finally says from the octopus. "I can't stand it, watching it rust like this."

He flicks a piece of orange paint from the tentacle. It floats like a leaf on a windswept morning and lands on the carousel's metal floor. He pushes off of the octopus and jumps off the carousel. He doesn't speak on his walk toward the giant pirate ship. I trail behind, watching the giant dragon grow larger as we draw closer.

"I used to damn near live out here," he says. "This was my second home...until it shut down. I didn't have anywhere else to go when Reed and Alston were out doing their speed junkie stuff. Vin was always working, so I came here. Now it's decaying and everyone's moved off and Lickety doesn't remember me and–"

"Whoa," I say. I grab his dragoned arm and force him to face me. "The schizo ghost?"

He nods his head. "C'mon up," he says, climbing into the pirate ship. "He's not dead. He's in a nursing home about four miles from here."

We settle onto the last bench seat toward the dragon's head. I wish we could turn this thing on, let it send us higher than the rest of the carnival rides. We could see the far side of the ocean, away from Alston and Linzi, away from surfers, away from all the things that don't feel right anymore.

"Haley, what the hell happened to your mouth?" A.J. asks, staring directly at my tiger's blood-stained lips, teeth, and tongue. Damn.

"Vin," I say. "He got a tiger's blood snowcone, and it had coconut mixed with it, so I traded him, and now I look like a vampire."

"It's kind of hot," he says.

From swamp creatures to vampires. God help him.

"Tell me about Lickety," I say, changing the subject before it ventures into whatever paranormal creature A.J. may be fantasizing about next.

"He was a war vet," A.J. says. He stares off into the distance while he talks. "He didn't have anywhere else to go, and he joined this traveling carnival. They finally stayed here, but he was pretty fucked up from the war."

This place isn't nearly as creepy in the daytime. The ocean splashes behind us, quietly and calmly, with no disruptions from undead surfers, wild storms, or territorial surf gangs. And the fact that Lickety isn't lurking around waiting to attack me with shards of mirrors helps too.

"He used to tell me stories, not that they all made sense, but he liked to tell them," he says. "After the surf scene blew up and Drenaline opened, this place went to hell pretty quick. Most of them moved off, but Lickety was too far gone. The war, the carnival closing, no family – he just couldn't take it."

A.J. stretches his arm out again, showing off the dragon on his forearm. I pull his arm closer to me and trace the ink with my index finger.

"He went with me when I got this. I was underage and he signed for me," he says. "I used to visit him in the nursing home every week, but his dementia got to a point that he didn't remember me. He thought I was some ghetto Mexican thug coming to kill him."

He pulls his arm back and runs his hand back and forth over the dragon.

I inhale and stare at the House of Mirrors. "Why the ghost story?" I ask.

"No one around here really knew what happened to him," A.J. says. "And it keeps stupid kids off of my carnival grounds. Sometimes Vin sends funnel cakes over there to him. They were his favorite."

A.J. leans forward against the railing and squeezes his eyes shut. I want to cry too, just like the last time I was here and couldn't fight the salty tears as Reed told me about Shark's death. I wrap my arms around A.J., and for once, someone here doesn't push me away. He buries his face into my shoulder, and I can't really make out everything he's saying through the tears. Something about hating how Alston is now, how he doesn't have anywhere else to go, and he doesn't want me to go back to North Carolina.

At sunset, we're still here, sitting in the spinning teacups. A.J. has told me all about the legend behind them, about the two feuding kingdoms who were merged together after the princess fell in love with an assassin, went insane, and then murdered anyone who didn't follow her. The maroon and gold cups belonged to her kingdom, the blue and black to her cousin's.

A.J. prefers the blue and black, unlike me. I'm all for the princess who went after what she wanted. She chased her forever down before the two kingdoms' teacups were stolen in a pirate raid, cursed by a gypsy named Cornelia, and washed ashore to become part of a traveling carnival. At least that's what the legend says.

A.J. climbs into the maroon cup with me. He has his serious face on again.

"You really need to listen to Vin," he says. "He's looking out for you, for real, even if you think he's just being a jackass."

I wondered how long it'd take before someone brought up the morning of the storm, the whole "get out while you can" remark that was so clearly aimed at me. I guess this is that moment.

"What's his deal?" I ask, hoping A.J. will spill something to change my mind about Vin. I feel like there's so much more that I don't know, so much about Shark and Colby and how Vin is twisted into the middle of it.

"He cares," A.J. says.

I try not to laugh at him the way the tourists laughed at me and Linzi the first time we hit The Strip.

"Cares? He has a damn good way of showing it," I say.

I push off of the golden rim at the top of the cup and start walking toward my car. I can't deal with A.J. feeding me this craziness. Vin doesn't care. He never has, and I don't foresee him having any major change of heart before I leave California.

A.J. runs behind me. "Haley!" He grabs on to me and won't let go until I face him and listen. He looks so incredibly desperate, and damn it, I care about A.J. too much not to listen.

He exhales like it's his last breath, exhausted and emotionally drained.

"Look, you're one of my favorite people in this world," he says. "It doesn't matter if it's only been this short time. You're for real, and you have been the best friend I could've ever asked for. Hell, I don't want you to leave. But the truth is, Vin knows what he's talking about. He knows things that you don't, and he knows you're going to get fucked over just like the rest of us. He doesn't want to see that happen to you."

"Why do you listen to him?" I ask.

I get it – Vin took A.J. in when the world kicked him out. But still. He puts way too much faith in a con artist with a million secrets.

A.J. shrugs. "Vin's one of my favorite people in this world too."

I feel like I'm standing under a slew of blue and black flags, waiting to surrender to the maroon and gold, just like the princess's cousin's kingdom did so many centuries ago.

"Forget it," A.J. says. "Just be careful. I don't want to see you get trapped like we did. C'mon, we have to get ready for tonight."

He wraps his arm around my shoulder and leads me toward my car. I question what's happening tonight.

"Pre-competition party?" A.J. says, seemingly surprised that I'd forgotten.

"On a Tuesday night?"

"Um, yeah," he says. "You're in California, babe. It doesn't matter what day it is."

Of course. The party to celebrate Colby Taylor, Drenaline Surf, Shark's legacy, and the upcoming sponsorship. God, I don't even know what to wear, and Linzi will look cuter than me anyway because she's totally doing up this whole beach babe thing to perfection. But I'm not leaving that guest house until I've brushed every bit of tiger's blood out of my mouth.

# Chapter Sixteen

I check my teeth one last time in the visor mirror, and Reed laughs from the driver's seat. A group of girls in short shorts and bikini tops pass by, and I realize I'm totally overdressed. I leave my T-shirt in the Jeep and hold back any smart remarks for Reed's laughing at me since he had the decency to wait for me to brush my teeth four times. Linzi bailed on me long before.

She's lingering around a lit up palm tree with Alston once we push through the crowd and onto the deck behind the beach house. I scan the crowd for A.J. I'm certain he's here somewhere, but I don't see him.

"Hey!" Linzi squeals out. She rushes over and hugs me like we're long lost friends, and I'm starting to feel like we are. She wasn't pulling me out of the ocean when A.J. flipped our jet ski. She wasn't fighting through the stinging sand with me after it stormed and we all thought Colby was dead. And she definitely didn't do me any good when it came time to sell raffle tickets for Reed. The only thing she's done worth a damn is keep Alston from getting in my way.

Her eyes sparkle under her silver eye shadow, but her face is serious. "We need to talk," she whispers.

She tells Alston over her shoulder that we'll be back and pulls me through the mass of partiers with a grip on my wrist. I can't imagine what's wrong. Maybe our parents found out we're here or Colby found out or Alston ratted us out to the surf star and hell is going to explode tonight or God I can't even think.

We walk out about twenty feet from the house, and she sits in the sand while steadily twirling that purple flower ring in and out of her blonde hair. I pull my knees up close to me when I sit, and I wait for the worst.

"Why are we still here?" she asks, her eyes on the dark ocean. It swishes like black paint, trying to decide what abstract design it wants to splatter onto the canvas. Swishing back and forth, back and forth.

I don't have a real answer for her. We have time to kill. And I don't want to leave. Not this weekend, not this summer, not ever.

"Better yet, why haven't you mentioned Colby Taylor in like...the last three days?" She turns to face me now. "I know I've been hanging out with Alston and all, but wasn't finding Colby sort of like our purpose for being here? Wasn't this trip all about finding him?"

It was. When we followed a gum-stained receipt and a left over coffee cup, it was. When we stalked a band into a dark alleyway with a broken streetlight, it was. And when we crossed the California line and saw him on the billboard and listened to Enchanted Emily talk about his bodyguards, it was. But now...

"I thought it was," I say. "But now I think it's really more about finding myself."

"How poetic," Linzi says. She stares at me with this look of confusion and what-the-fuck-are-you-serious. "So we're just chilling and you're not concerned with finding him after we lied our way across America? Hell, you even made it through A.J. You're the first. Isn't that some sort of cosmic sign that you're supposed to find Colby?"

I trace circles in the sand with my finger. I haven't made it through Vin. Isn't that some sort of cosmic sign?

"Maybe. Or maybe I was supposed to get through A.J. because he needed a friend. Or maybe... I don't know," I admit.

Music thumps from behind us, and someone attempts to tune a guitar. The speakers screech across the night, and Linzi cringes at the same moment I do.

"Let's head back in there before it gets too crowded to find the guys," I suggest. "Alston's probably already having withdrawals from your absence."

She laughs and jumps up, fairy hopping back toward the house and assuring me that whatever mission I'm on, whether it involves Colby or not, she's totally on my side. Reed is busy doing his public relations for Strickland's Boating, so I don't interrupt. Instead, I follow Linzi back to Alston, who is talking about surfing and parasailing with a group of guys he says he knows from school. He introduces Linzi, slips his arm around her, and she's back in paradise while I hang back outside of their little clique. These two minutes stretch onward, allowing me to listen to all of the random conversations passing me by – "Did you see what she's wearing?" "Oh, I know he didn't just kiss her." "This beer tastes like horse piss."

Salvation! I spin around the instant I hear his voice, and in the process of grabbing A.J.'s arm to get his attention, his horse piss beer spills across the wooden floor of the deck.

"Thank God!" he says as he drops the beer can into a nearby trash bag. "I've been walking this deck all night, looking at all these skanks and idiots. About damn time you got here. C'mon."

He pulls me right back toward the steps that Linzi and I just left behind, but we don't head back into the sand. Instead, we round the house and walk out to the group of people sitting around a blazing bonfire.

"This is where the real deal people are," A.J. says. He steps over a log and motions for me to sit on it next to him. I glance around and see a few familiar faces – Hooligans. A.J. grabs a beer bottle and chugs a fourth of it.

Kale walks around from the fire and sits on the other side of me. A blue Hawaiian lei hangs around his neck. "You're kidding, right? Gonzalez? You know he ain't nothing but trouble," he says. He looks over at A.J. with this goofy smile.

"A.J.'s my best friend," I inform him. "And he hasn't been in any trouble since I've been here."

Kale wraps his arm around me and leans in to keep anyone else from hearing him. "At the rate he's going tonight, he'll be drunk and in trouble before the hour's up."

I shrug away his assumption, along with his arm, and if it wasn't for the fact that he's actually quite charming, I'd have ruled him off as a creeper the first day I met him. His face runs pale, and before I can apologize for possibly offending him, I follow his gaze and see the Hooligan jackass himself – Dominic.

And he's looking at me.

"You really need to keep better company," he says, like it's any of his business who I'm friends with. "A.J. was bad enough, but Kale too? Really?"

He's had a few too many drinks, not that it really matters in his case. I lock my arm with A.J.'s just in case he's thinking of doing something stupid. Dominic has a good five inches and probably twenty pounds of muscle on A.J. But I think A.J. could take him. Still – it's not a fight I want to witness. I've already seen one Hooligan brawl. I don't want to see A.J. on the opposing side.

Dominic stumbles a little, and I secretly wish he'd tumble ass first into the fire then run off to the ocean like a drunken firefly. He so doesn't deserve a sponsorship from anyone, especially Drenaline Surf. Shark would die a second death if he knew his store was at risk of being dragged through Horn Island's muddy shoreline by this guy.

"I need another beer," Dominic mutters.

He reaches toward A.J.'s half-empty bottle. A.J. swings it back, slinging beer across the sand and himself, and poses like he's about to score a winning homerun.

"I will bust this over your head just like last time, motherfucker," A.J. says as clearly as the Crescent Cove waves wash over the sand.

Tension swallows our breathing air for a moment, then releases a deep breath when Dominic sits with some girls on the other side of the fire. I start to tell A.J. that we should go back inside, but Topher interrupts, telling us to come back on deck. He talks with his hands, and that blue bottle of Ocean Blast Energy sloshes with his every movement. I've yet to see another person in the cove drinking that stuff. I've rarely seen Topher without it. And he definitely doesn't need it.

A local punk rock band, Sapphires and Sunsets, is in the middle of introductions when we walk back up the wooden steps. Summer Snow Alex is on bass, and I recognize the lead singer as Jace, the Hooligan who so profoundly stated "Fuck Dominic!" regarding Kale's honorary status.

A string of bikini tops line the bottom of the stage, and I feel so icky. I turn back to A.J.

"I have to find Reed. I seriously want my T-shirt," I tell him. He laughs, nods, and motions toward the patio at the back of the deck.

I follow the edge of the crowd until I can cut through to Reed. He's talking to Vin. Damn my unlucky paper stars. I wait for that cold iceberg stare that slices through me and sends chills over my skin, but it's more of the what-the-fuck-are-you-serious face that Linzi gave me earlier.

"Hey," I say to Reed, trying my best to ignore Vin. "Can you let me get my shirt out of your Jeep?" I gesture to my lime green bikini top. "This just isn't really me."

Reed fishes into his pocket for his keys, and Vin strips off the black Drenaline Surf jacket he's wearing.

"Here," Vin says. "It's a long walk to the Jeep."

I say 'thanks'...or at least I think I do. I'm not sure. The words were somewhere between my voice box and my mouth. For all I know, I might've hallucinated saying them, and he thinks I'm an ungrateful idiot now that I'm in his jacket and two steps behind Reed on our trek to the Jeep. Why did I even take my shirt off in the first place? I'm not Linzi.

Reed passes my ocean blue Strickland's Boating shirt to me, and I trade it out with Vin's jacket. This time, I practice saying 'thanks' in my head over and over and over until I know I won't screw up when I say it. I'm glad Reed isn't forcing conversation. But I'm not as glad when he parts ways with me at the deck and leaves me to return Vin's jacket alone.

He's still in the same spot on the patio, leaning back against the bar. He stares off at nothing, and I wonder what he's thinking. Is he thinking about surfers or how much he doesn't seem to trust Colby or who is going to win this sponsorship and be the next poster boy for his dead best friend's store? I swear, my heart breaks for him in the same second that he pisses me off with his harsh blue eyes.

Deep breath, Haley. I walk over with his jacket already halfway extended (God, I'm an idiot). "Thanks," I say. This time I know I said it.

And he smiles – a real, genuine smile that I've hardly seen from him.

"Gotta have a little respect for the girl who wants to cover up when every other girl here wants to strip down," he says. He pushes a strand of my hair back behind my ear, and I wish I knew what to say to him.

The crowd cheers at the end of the song, buying me a few seconds since he wouldn't be able to hear me over them anyway. He reaches behind him for the half-finished bottle of Pepsi, takes a swig, then recaps the lid.

"You're not drinking?" I ask. I regret it as soon as I say it.

"Do I look like an alcoholic?" he asks.

Stupidstupidstupid. "No." I try to find something else to say, but God, the stars are out of alignment tonight. The one time I've got this guy in a half-decent mood, and he's being freaking nice to me, I find every way I possibly can to insult him.

"I don't drink," he says. "Never really could acquire a taste for it. And, you know, I like to remember what I did the night before when I wake up in the mornings."

I nod, all bobble-head like, and say, "Plus someone's gotta bail A.J. out of jail, right?"

He laughs. "You are exactly right."

He focuses his eyes on Jace and follows his movements across the stage. We wait with silence between us until he finally says, "A.J. and Linzi both came back here looking for you while you were getting your shirt. You should probably go find them."

Great. He's running me off. I fight the overly dramatic girly sigh that's building up in my chest. "Are you just going to stay back here alone?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Nah, I'm going to go talk to someone. Go have fun."

He smiles one more time and slips back into his jacket, even though there isn't much of a breeze tonight.

I take a few steps into the crowd, but I stop and look back. I watch him make his way into a shadow of the deck with some old guy in a faded Drenaline Surf T-shirt. They hug like old friends, and he motions for Vin to sit down with him. I release the energy in my chest with a huge sigh of relief that he wasn't actually ditching me to go talk to some fully dressed girl.

And it bothers me that I actually care.

An hour later, I'm certain of a few things. One, white guys are the worst dancers. Alston and A.J. have proven that. Two, Jace isn't a half bad singer. And three, Kale was wrong – A.J. is still out of trouble and that hour was up long ago.

"Look at you, going all Virgin Mary," a voice says from behind me. "I liked you better with the shirt off."

Certainty number four – Dominic is the world's ultimate asshole.

He grabs the bottom of my T-shirt, and it slowly finds its way up my back while I fight to pull away. A.J.'s arms tighten around me before the shirt comes off, and he slings me back behind him.

"I will fucking kill you!" he screams. "Back the fuck off, you got it?"

Dominic slams both palms into A.J.'s shoulders, but A.J. barely falters. And there's absolutely nothing I can do when his fist lands on Dominic's right eye.

It's all such a crazy blur – Dominic falling, A.J. cursing, and people running everywhere around us. Security hauls A.J. outside, telling him to leave the party or they'll call the law, and they return – without A.J. and with an ice pack for the jerkoff who deserves that shiner.

And even in all that chaos, I'm alone. I assume no one realized it was A.J. and Dominic, but I feel like word travels fast here, especially when the sponsorship nominee Dominic is involved. Reed is the first to find me after word spreads around the deck. I give him a super quick rundown of what happened, and he bolts to defend A.J. against the idiot security guards who are most likely friends with that Pittman guy.

It's a total replication of the west coast party in Crescent Cove. The threat of blue lights mixed with loneliness. At least last time I had Dexter. I wait around for Reed to return, but after five minutes, then ten minutes, I feel like I did waiting for Colby Taylor at Bristow Park.

The band slows down, announcing a special guest performing with them, and my curiosity perks up from my self-pity long enough to see the old guy Vin was talking to earlier walk onstage with an acoustic guitar.

Jace leans into the microphone. "You guys, please give a huge Horn Island welcome to our own Joe McAllister!"

I bite my quivering lips. Shark's dad is probably the only thing that could break the already fragile shell I'm hiding within. No wonder Vin ditched me to talk to him. I'd have ditched me too.

Joe asks that everyone find their "special someone" and starts strumming some kind of music that I swear is probably a Beach Boys song. I bolt for the steps. I'm not playing the role of Virgin Mary wallflower while Drenaline Surf's Kristin clings to Miles and Enchanted Emily laughs at Kale's attempts to hook up with her. Alston and Linzi are for sure making out on the dance floor, although I can't see them.

But a familiar face stops me on the third step.

"Be my special someone!" Topher yells over the music.

The clear Christmas lights from the palm trees reflect in his blue eyes like stars dancing on the surface of his energy drink. There's no way I can say no to him.

He hauls me back onto the dance floor with him, telling me how he's known Joe since he was born, and that Joe was in a band when he was in high school a thousand years ago. He twirls me around, laughing and bouncing, and for a moment, I forget all the drama and have one last tiny bit of fun just like Vin told me to.

"I think she likes everyone but me," Kale says, approaching Topher and me after the music dies out. "Seriously, Brooks? Big brother's got you watching her now?"

I don't hear another word of the conversation. Everything in my mind swirls around like a sandstorm, and it slaps me in the face. Topher called Vin the day of the storm. He was with Vin the day that Miles helped me sell tickets. How did I not realize he has Vin's eyes, just more full of Ocean Blast Energy than icebergs and worry?

"Vin's your brother?" It's a miracle I even get the words out of my mouth. I think I'm paralyzed.

Topher laughs. "You didn't know that?"

I can't answer. I'm realizing there's a hell of a lot I don't know. And demanding answers from Vin is the only way I'll ever know.

"Where'd he go? Where's Vin?" I spit the words out as fast as I can.

Kale has that look, the same one I've been getting all night, so I spare him from having to ask any questions.

"I know! What the fuck, right? Yes, I'm fucking serious! Where is Vin?" Certainty number five – I've been around A.J. Gonzalez too long.

"Beer run," Kale says. "We're all underage."

I turn and run, as fast as I can, tripping over couples making out and drunken idiots who are screaming at me for knocking them into walls.

But I don't care.

I just run.

# Chapter Seventeen

My breath catches in my throat, and I'm overcome with relief when I find Vin talking to A.J. I'd have never heard the roar of his motorcycle over the music of Sapphires and Sunsets.

"Why didn't you tell me Topher was your brother?" I ask before I can talk myself out of unearthing the skeletons that Vin has worked so hard to keep hidden.

He folds his arms over his chest, looks at me like I'm an absolute idiot, and says, "You never asked."

Right. Because any normal person would've thought to ask if Topher was his brother. Of course. That makes total sense.

I shrink into my surroundings, like in the movies when the camera zooms out and the main character looks so tiny and helpless in a world of drama and chaos.

"What else haven't you told me?" I do all I can to keep my voice steady, but I feel that intimidation from day one on The Strip all over again. And he's not even armed with lame hair dye spray tonight.

He throws his arms into the air. "What do you care?"

He pushes off of the car behind him and heads toward his bike. A.J. stumbles behind him, and I trail along, racking my brain for any good reason as to why I care that doesn't sound totally invasive and obsessive.

"You really need to leave some things where they are, Haley," Vin says, turning back around to face us. "You don't want these answers."

Oh but I do. Beginning to end. The good, the bad, the drowning, and the surfer. And anything else you want to shed light on. I don't just want them. I need them.

The silence continues to grow more awkward and uncomfortable, at least for me because I think Vin likes staring at me and freaking me out. The street lights flicker and stars pop out of the sky. Music pours over the roof of the beach house and floods the sand. I don't even know how long we've been standing here.

"I'm going with you," I finally say.

"No," Vin counters. "You're not."

"My car," A.J. says, dangling his keys.

Vin snatches them out of A.J.'s hand. "You're too drunk to drive anywhere."

A.J. latches onto my arm to balance himself. "But you...can drive," he says, pointing his finger at Vin for extra emphasis.

A.J. must've been sitting out here since the fight, drinking beer to his heart's content, or until he forgot why he was kicked out to begin with.

Vin doesn't verbally surrender. But when he helps A.J. into the backseat of that tin can of a car and motions for me to get in, I want to squee like an excited fangirl. I climb into the passenger seat and lose all focus upon seeing the Enchanter hanging from A.J.'s rearview mirror with what looks like a yarn noose. The doll is small with black fabric for its body. But it's not wearing clothes. Instead, the entire body is covered in white stitches, like Enchanted Emily cut him apart and sewed him back together and left his battle scars out there for the world to see. Its lime green eyes stare back at me.

"That's Logan," A.J. says, leaning in between the seats. Vin pushes him back and tells him to put his seatbelt on.

A.J. does as he's told but keeps talking. "Like Logan Riley," he says. "That motherfucker got fucked up bad...black market organs...and that's what we're going to do to the east coast."

So A.J. is a little more drunk than I thought. I glance over at Vin, and he tells A.J. to go to sleep, but A.J. keeps talking and slurring his words more each time he tries to tell me the story behind his Enchanter. I still don't know the story even after we pull into the gas station parking lot. Vin goes inside for the beer, being the legal twenty-two year old that he is, and A.J. goes into a comparison of Logan Riley and our dear friend Dominic.

Vin comes back as A.J. says Dominic should have been arrested and charged with assault, but it sounds more like asphalt. Vin shoves two cases of beer into the floorboard behind the driver's seat and tells A.J. that he has learn to control his temper, especially around idiots like Dominic.

"But he took Haley's shirt off," A.J. says, more clearly than he's said anything since we left the party.

"He did what?" Vin yells, looking over at me. He doesn't give me time to answer. He looks at A.J. in the rearview mirror. "We're slashing his tires."

"Hell yeah!" A.J. shouts. He slams against the backseat once Vin cranks the car, and it chokes itself to life in the same way Miles' truck did.

"Hold up. He didn't take my shirt off," I say more to Vin than A.J. "He tried, and A.J. stopped him. Then he pushed A.J. and A.J. hit him, and it was insanity until Topher rescued me."

A.J. laughs. "Topher's a good kid. He's learned from the best."

Vin cracks a smile, but it fades just as quickly as it came. "Except for the fact that he volunteered the information that I was his brother."

"No, he didn't," I say. "Kale told me."

Strips of sand and ocean rush past my window, bleeding together into such a blur that I'm not sure if it's a Crescent Cove beach or a Horn Island beach. The longer I'm here, the more the two places seem to belong together in a twisted way, like Topher and Vin. So vast and different, yet unique and kind of beautiful in their own ways. And they balance each other so perfectly.

"Kale has the biggest mouth in Horn Island," Vin says. When I glance over, he's shaking his head. "I wouldn't be surprised if he rips into Dominic next. Miles better not blow it this weekend. I'll be damned if Dominic gets that sponsorship."

The stitched up Enchanter swings on the rearview mirror. I'd bet Vin would rather an east coaster have Drenaline Surf's name plastered on him than Dominic.

"He doesn't deserve it," I state the obvious.

"No, he doesn't," Vin says. "He wasn't such an arrogant jackass when he went up for sponsorship. He thinks he has it in the bag because his parents have money. They'd put a lot into Drenaline, but he's the last thing Drenaline needs. But if Miles gets nervous and chokes, I really won't have a choice."

I rewind those last few words in my head, trying to make sense of them, but I've learned by now that not much makes sense with Vin because he tries to be as vague and mysterious as possible. Right now, he looks exhausted. Either he forgot to be a man of mystery tonight or he just doesn't care anymore.

"Wait. What? What do you mean you won't have a choice?" I ask.

Something loud under the hood swallows my question. The car coughs and squeals and echoes like a gunshot. Vin pulls it off the side of the deserted highway before it officially kills over.

"A.J., when's the last time you had your oil changed? Or anything else changed, for that matter?" Vin asks, looking back at A.J. in the rearview mirror.

A.J. fights a yawn. "You were the last one to change it."

Vin slams both fists into the steering wheel and buries his face against it. "That was last summer, you idiot," he mumbles. "Damn it, A.J."

He gets out of the car, lifts the hood, and mutters quite a few four-letter words. A.J. grabs a case of beer and heads down to the shoreline, but I stay behind. I won't be much help to either of them, but at least Vin is sober and can carry on a conversation better than A.J. can tonight.

I walk around to the lifted hood. Vin wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's too hot under here to work on it right now. We're going to have to wait for it to cool off," he says.

"You're really a mechanic?" I ask. I always assumed, to a certain extent, that it was a cover up.

He laughs. "Yeah, believe it or not, I do have a few talents. It paid the bills for a few years." He looks down to the shoreline, where A.J. has set up his own little beach party with a case of Milwaukee Best. "Might as well join him. We're going to be here a while."

Vin slips the car keys into his pocket, and we trek through the sand. I debate returning to the sponsorship, but I don't have much else to lose at this point. It's not like he can leave or abandon me here. We're stranded, at least until A.J.'s car cools off and Vin can attempt to get it running again.

"What did you mean by not having a choice? About Dominic?" I ask as we close in on A.J.'s solo party spot.

Vin stops in the sand and looks at me with that same defeated look he had the morning of the storm, the morning when we thought Colby might be dead out there in the ocean. He looks vulnerable and almost scared. He kind of looks like Topher – or maybe Topher looks like him – and I feel like an idiot for never putting the two together.

"Get comfortable," Vin says before stretching out in the sand. I sit next to him, but I'm too tense to get comfortable just yet.

He stares out across the ocean, and I wish I could capture those brainwaves and whatever thought or memory they're reflecting on. I feel like there's more going through this guy's head than anyone could ever imagine. I want to know those thoughts even more than I want to know Colby's secrets about chasing forever down.

"When Jake died, everything changed," Vin says.

It's the first time I haven't heard someone refer to him as Shark. And for once, he feels like a real person and not a local celebrity-turned-tragedy.

"Drenaline Surf was in its prime, he'd just signed Colby on, and everything just soared straight to the top for him. I was working for Strick's dad, and I wasn't thrilled with the whole not-dead kid, but I went with it because Jake believed in him," he says.

He doesn't take his eyes off the ocean, like maybe his best friend will emerge from the black waves and tell him everything's going to be okay, that he just pulled a Colby Taylor and has been living as someone else for the last year and a half.

"He used to tell me that I'd make a good businessman if I'd just get out of the business of screwing people over. He said if I had a real business, I'd be even better than he was," Vin says. He turns to face me this time. "That's why he left Drenaline to me."

A.J. sits up in the sand and stops drawing pictures in the sky. "Thank God! The secret is out," he says. He stands up, stumbles toward the shoreline, raises his beer bottle into the air, and screams out, "The secret's out, Shark! The secret's out!"

Then he hurls the bottle into the ocean, possibly for Shark's ashes to share in a victory toast. If I knew A.J. wouldn't turn into some crazy psycho and swim in after it, I'd pour all of that beer into the ocean to keep him from drinking any more of it.

"Get over here," I yell out to him. Even when he's drunk, he obeys well.

"Go to sleep, A.J.," Vin says again.

"So you own Drenaline Surf now." It's more of a statement than a question. I'm not exactly sure how this changes everything, but it does – it totally changes everything.

"He left half of his money to his dad, part to me and Topher, and some for his mom, but she lives out of state and didn't really support the idea of a surf shop," Vin explains.

He continues, "So he left me the store. Joe invested most of what Jake left him back into the store too. He's more involved than people think. That place was his son's dream. We're just keeping the legacy going."

I can't even imagine. Losing your best friend. Inheriting all of his dreams and feeling obligated to fulfill them. Not having a clue in hell what you're doing but knowing you have to do it, no matter what it takes.

"I wasn't even legal to buy alcohol," he says. "Haley, you don't know what it's like. Hell, I'm twenty-two, trying to raise my kid brother because he's an idiot who got kicked out just like I did, trying to keep Drenaline above water, and dealing with all this Colby Taylor bullshit."

Of course, then I showed up, digging into the secrets that no one should ever reveal. Colby Taylor is Drenaline Surf's poster boy, their sales pitch, and without him, Vin would lose Shark's store. He'd go back to working on cars, and then he and Topher both would be next to A.J. with "will work for food" signs. If Colby had been outted, everything would've sunk to the bottom of the ocean with his best friend's ashes.

I take a deep breath and verbalize my next realization. "And if Miles chokes on nerves this weekend, everyone will see it, and they'll blast you for picking him over Dominic," I say. "And they don't know the side of Dominic that we know. You really wouldn't have a choice."

Vin sits up and dusts the sand off the back of his shirt. "Miles is Topher's best friend. I'll catch hell regardless. If he wins, everyone will say it was rigged. If he chokes, then I'll be stuck with Colby and Dominic, and I can't take that much arrogance. Do you know how fast that store would go under? I need Drenaline to put Topher through college. I can go back to fixing cars, but Topher's better than that. He can do more. He deserves more."

I want to tell Vin that he's better than that, that he deserves everything he's ever wanted too. But every line I think of sounds even cornier than the last, and I doubt he'd believe me anyway.

Vin slides over closer to me. "I have a plan though," he says. "You can't tell anyone, or I swear, I really will have to kill you. Topher knows, but he's the only one." He glances over at A.J., who seems to be passed out in the sand.

"I don't have anyone to tell," I remind him. Linzi is so far out of the question. And her replacement in the best friend slot is passed out behind me.

"Okay, so, this energy drink company contacted me a while back about doing a sponsorship through Drenaline Surf, and in return, we'd sell their drinks, put their logo on a lot of our stuff, and Colby would wear it during competitions. We'd basically market them, right?" he says.

He talks with his hands, like Topher does. I've never seen Vin this excited about anything, but his movements are dead on with enthusiasm. It makes me smile bigger than I ever thought I would for Vin Brooks.

"It's this energy drink slash rehydrating drink, like Gatorade with some kind of extra zing to it," he explains.

And it totally clicks. "Ocean Blast Energy!" I practically scream it. "Topher is always drinking it, not that he needs it. He's kind of hyper anyway."

"All those damn sugar cubes," Vin says, nodding along. "He's been my test subject – I know, he's the worst candidate – but I figured if it wasn't too much for him, everyone else would be okay. I can't just endorse a product that I don't know about. It's bad for business."

"What's the trade off?" I ask. "What does Drenaline get in return?"

"The sponsorship," Vin says. "The money, the perks, their logo, the whole works. I'm just praying Miles doesn't choke. He has before. If he wipes out, I'm fucked."

I'm still confused, though. How does Ocean Blast Energy help him if all they're doing is backing Colby and possibly Dominic? How does anyone win in that situation? That would be just stroking their egos and dragging Shark's legacy through the mud.

"So, um, what's your genius plan? I don't think I get it," I admit. I dig my flip flop into the sand and watch the ground reconstruct around it.

"Oh yeah," Vin says. "That plan – Logan Riley."

I wish it wasn't so dark out here. My eyes have adjusted well in the moonlight, but damn it, I swear if I could see Vin's eyes right now, they'd be the most incredibly beautiful shade of blue that even Solomon can't catch in the sunlight. I can hear his smile in his voice.

"I met him last year," he says. "And he's interested in Drenaline. He wants to move out here, get away from Florida and join the big league of surfing. His contract with his sponsor is up for renewal in March, and he said he's not signing it. He's saving up now to move out to the cove."

"Fuck," A.J. says behind me. "I'm going to have to change my voodoo doll's name now."

A.J. most likely won't even remember this conversation in the morning. Or afternoon. Whenever he sobers up. What I don't understand is how a big time surfer in Florida hears about a surf shop in California – one of a kind – and wants to be part of it. Then again, Colby Taylor is his archrival. He probably knows everything there is to know about Drenaline Surf.

"He's real," Vin says. "He's got Colby's talent and Miles' heart, and he's driven and wants to be better. And his family knows he's alive. His name is the same one he was born with. No extra baggage. No bodyguards. No empowerment over the world around him."

With Miles and Logan, Drenaline Surf could totally build itself up to be something bigger than Vin or Shark ever dreamed of. And as much as I kind of hate it, Colby doesn't hurt. As long as he and Logan can come to terms, they might be an unstoppable duo in the surf world.

"So Ocean Blast Energy...then Logan," I say. "Sounds like you are quite the businessman."

Vin laughs. "Don't give me any credit until I actually deserve it."

He doesn't realize that he already does.

It takes nearly an hour for Vin to fix A.J.'s car – or at least get it running long enough to make it back to the condo. Reed's Jeep is back in the garage, and Alston's little red sports car is in the sand. I laugh at the irony that we're the last ones rolling in from the west coast party, and we're the ones who partied the least. Except for A.J. He staggers into the guest house, but I walk back outside. The gears are still turning in my head.

"I sold those tickets for you!" I don't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it does.

Vin shrugs and locks the doors of A.J.'s car. "You got me on that one," he says. "But I do appreciate it. Thanks. You did good."

He has that tone again. That smartass tone that I hate. There's no way in hell he's going back there with me. Not after all of this. Not after tonight. Not after he told me about Logan Riley and Drenaline Surf and how much he wants Miles to win this and let him off the hook.

"So you said it," I accuse again. "You told A.J. to tell me to sell to the guys only because they'd buy from me. That was all you."

He crosses the sand to the sidewalk where I'm standing and stares at me in the glow of the streetlights. "Yeah, that was me. It was a good sales technique, wasn't it?"

I grab his arm when he brushes past me to go inside. "That's not all you said," I remind him.

He twists back around, looks to the sky, then back at me. He shakes his head, but I don't let go of my grip on his arm. "Haley, please," he finally says. "Let me walk away from tonight with a little bit of my pride."

As much as the angsty girl inside of me wants to twist the knife and make him say it, I don't. Instead, I let go of his arm and follow him inside to find A.J. crashed out sleeping in my bed. Linzi is most likely asleep in Alston's room, but I still don't want to sleep in her room tonight. This room is mine – Zombie Asylum, Solomon, and even the drunk best friend sleeping in my bed.

"I can stay with him if you want," Vin says. "And you can crash in his room. Or I can drag him upstairs in the condo. I just don't want him to be alone. I've heard too many stories of people drowning when they've passed out."

Thank God he spared me the gross details. But I've heard the stories too. And Vin can't lose another friend to drowning, even if it's not in the ocean.

"It's fine," I say. "I can stay with him. I'm a light sleeper, so I'll definitely check on him all night. And you've gotta be up early to get to the store for all that pre-competition stuff."

Vin nods. "I'll crash here, in his room. Just come get me if you need me, no matter what, okay?"

"Promise," I say.

He lingers a minute longer, like he's trying to convince himself that it's okay to leave A.J. under my watchful eye. But he finally says, "Good night, Sunshine," and heads back toward the condo before I can say much else to him.

I push A.J. over onto his side, facing away from me just in case he does throw up, and turn off the light. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I know it's going to be a restless night. I feel around for A.J.'s wrist in the darkness then latch on and wait for his pulse to thump beneath my fingers. I almost wish I could channel his intoxicated dreams.

Tonight, I don't think I'll dream of anything less than icebergs."

# Chapter Eighteen

A rush of tourists and teenagers jostle me around as I push through them to reach the door of Drenaline Surf. I don't know why I expected less right before a surf competition, but this place seems larger than life now. I totally feel the weight of the world that Vin is carrying on his shoulders.

Kristin slams the register shut and scrunches her nose at me. It's almost enough to make me bolt for the door. Almost. I don't know what I did to offend her, but I think I'm guilty by association.

"I need to see your boss," I say. I stiffen my shoulders and stand up straight, hoping she'll get the hint that I'm not backing down and I'm not scared of her or her bleached hair.

"He's busy," she hisses back at me. Her arms fold across her chest. She's not backing down either.

Deep breath. "I get that," I say. "But it's important. It won't take long."

I leave out the part that I need to see him for my own selfish reasons – to prove to myself he's still that jerkoff who tried to sell me cheap hair dye in a spray can and he's not this super cool guy who spilled his secrets across the sand last night.

"He doesn't have time to–" Kristin's words are swallowed by the sugar cube rush diving over the counter to hug me.

"Haley! What's up?" Topher shouts in my ear.

I squeeze him into a tight hug and say the only thing that I possibly can. "I need to see your brother."

Topher jerks his thumb toward the area behind the counter. "This way."

Linzi is with me in spirit. I've got her stupid fairy hop bounce and clown painted smile wrapped from ear to ear. However, I refrain from looking back over my shoulder at Kristin and giving her a "haha!" smile that Linzi would flash in a heartbeat.

Topher pushes the office door open. Vin is drowning in invoices and boxes. He glances up over the mess, and his shoulders fall with relief that it's just his brother and not the surf world CEOs coming to take over.

"Brought a visitor," Topher says. He pulls me into view, and Vin cracks a smile.

I think my heart might've just melted. Or exploded. Or completely stopped pumping.

Topher bails on me instantly, leaving me lingering underneath the office doorway, too scared to enter but too excited to truly hold myself back.

"I could definitely use a ray of sunshine right about now," Vin says. "Good timing."

I push the door closed behind me and walk over to the desk. "You look overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed was about two hours ago. I'm outright lost now," he says. He falls back in his chair, his eyes pleading for some sort of salvation to get him through the next few days.

A strand of hair falls into my face, and I brush it back behind my ear before Vin can. "Do you need some help?" I ask.

My thoughts flash to Solomon for a split second, his blue reflection bouncing around the guest room right now, and I pray his lucky light can reach me this far from the condo.

I think the light found its way to Vin's eyes instead though because they are bluer than I've ever seen them – melted icebergs and specks of Ocean Blast Energy – and I could drown happily inside of them.

"You're the best," he says. He pushes off the chair and pulls me out the door behind him. He lets Topher know that he's leaving him in charge, and we hit The Strip.

Vin opens the doors on the back of the trailer that Jace hauled down into the sand. There are crates upon crates of T-shirts, and as boring as it may be, my and Vin's afternoon task is to sort them out by color and size. Then box them again for the opening morning of the competition.

I open each box as Vin drops it in the sand, lining them up under the Drenaline Surf tent, but this one rattles with the noise of metal cans. I dig into it instantly, and it's a con artist's dream – hair dye in a spray can. Or thirty cans.

"Seriously?" I ask, holding up a can of Honey Gold. "This is the color you would've recommended for me?" I twist my hair around my finger and attempt to match my own highlights to the color of the lid.

"Give me that," Vin says, using his jackass voice yet again. He reaches over for it, but I jerk my arm back.

"Why do you even have this stuff?" Now I remember why he wasn't so awesome to begin with. I remember that initial meeting when he spit out the nickname Sunshine with much less affection and fed me that awful line about scratching the VIN number off of the cars he'd stolen. "You own Drenaline Surf," I say more to myself than Vin. I shake the can at him. "Why do you need this?"

He reaches for the can again, but I step back, keeping my grasp on Honey Gold.

"Colby brought a box of that stuff back with him," he says. "And he seriously thought he'd use it – all of it."

An array of colors pop from the box, their lids adorning names like Midnight Black and Tree Bark Brown. If that doesn't scream 'cheap,' I don't know what does.

"He's so stupid, Haley," Vin continues. "He's so paranoid about his parents finding him or someone blabbing his secrets. He's getting more offers to surf in competitions, more appearances, and I told him there's no way he's surfing with this mess in his hair. He'd go in the water brunette and come out with his hair streaking down his face."

It feels so wrong to laugh, especially when Vin is so serious right now, but he's painted this perfect picture of Colby rushing into the water with that Midnight Black emo boy look and emerging looking even more like a swamp creature than I did after the jet ski flip. He wouldn't be the dreamy poster boy plastered on the billboard after that. Then again, maybe swamp surfers will be the next big thing thanks to him.

"I'm glad you find humor in this," Vin says. He drops another box from the trailer.

"I'm sorry," I say. "But that still doesn't explain why you're ripping off tourists on The Strip."

He shrugs. "Maybe I just can't let all my old habits die that easily."

I shake the can of Honey Gold. "Maybe we should rename this one Sunshine."

"Give me the can," he demands.

He lunges for me this time, and I'll be damned if I don't go down without a fight. I twist my arm back behind me, and his arms tighten around my waist. I pull in one direction while he goes the other way, and we're soon a twisted seaweed kind of mess tumbling toward the sand. Honey Gold takes flight with the seagulls, and I hook both arms around Vin's neck to brace myself. Luckily Crescent Cove's sand makes for a soft landing. However, Vin's bodyweight on top of me doesn't.

"Are you okay?" is the first thing out of his mouth.

My arms remain hooked behind his neck, holding him closely to me, and all I can do is laugh and nod while I stare at the blue tent roof above us. He breathes a deep sigh of relief then buries his head into my shoulder.

"God I hope no one saw that," he mutters into my shirt.

"That would kill your badass image," I say.

"I was never a badass," he says. I feel his breath through my shirt, warm and shiver-worthy at the same time. He pushes himself up so I can see him. "That's all a defense mechanism."

I let my arms relax but keep them around him. His heart beats through his chest, and I feel it against my body. Or maybe that's my own heart.

"Against what?" I ask.

He pushes my hair back away from my face. "Letting someone get too close to me."

"How close?" The words come out a whisper, just loud enough for the two of us to hear before the ocean sweeps them away.

I swear, his eyes are electric – a lightning storm dancing toward me with sparks of danger that captivate me into paralysis when I know damn well that I need to run for safety.

"This close," he whispers.

The scent of his aftershave swallows me, and my hands move to the back of his neck, pulling him closer and closer – if that's even possible – and I feel his breath against my mouth.

"Ahem. Mr. Brooks," a hollow voice says from somewhere outside of the universe of icebergs and Honey Gold.

And as quickly as we landed in the sand, Vin is up and on his feet, standing face to face with the one and only jackass cop Pittman.

"Officer," Vin says.

"Vin, I don't think I have to remind you, but this is a family beach," Pittman says.

My faces flushes with a color that I'm sure is Scarlet Letter Red. I want to crawl into that trailer full of boxes and hide from the world. But I'm too scared to even move from the Platinum Blonde sand.

"It's not how it looked," Vin explains.

And while it's not nearly as scandalous as it looked, part of me wants to attack him with cheap hair spray cans for brushing it off like it's no big deal that he totally almost kissed me.

"Look, I don't care what it was or wasn't," Pittman snaps. "You don't need me to tell you how bad it looks on a family beach, and you definitely don't need me to tell you it's not exactly good for business. You need to be a little more professional in public."

Vin braces his hands on the table between himself and the enemy. "I'll look into that," he says in that same tone he used the first time I met him. But this time I'm not so scared of him.

Pittman looks down at me. "How old are you anyway?" he asks.

"Eighteen," I lie instantly. I will be in three and a half months. Close enough.

He glances back at Vin, holds the evil eye stare for a moment longer than necessary, then heads on his way to patrol and dominate the rest of the beach. Vin reaches his hand down to me and pulls me up from the sand. I dust off my clothes, and while avoiding eye contact, he thanks me for lying about my age.

Vin slides the last box into the trailer, closes the door, and reattaches the lock.

"Here," he says, holding out a lime green T-shirt like the ones we just stashed away.

It's the first time he's really looked me in the eye since the Pittman incident hours ago. He's talked about the swells and how it's perfect competition weather. He rambled on about how Shark and Pittman were suspended for a week their senior year of high school because Shark beat the hell out of Pittman after a football game. But any real communication has been absent.

"Is it not the right color?" he asks.

"No, it's great," I say. "Lime green is actually my favorite color." I take the shirt and trace the Drenaline Surf logo with my finger.

"Yeah, that's what A.J. told me," Vin says. That's the most he's said directly to me in the past few hours. How did we go from an almost kiss to awkward T-shirt talk?

He walks toward me, finally daring to re-enter my personal space. "Hey, I've gotta finish up some invoices at the store," he says. "Is it cool if I come by after?"

That silly Linzi smile sweeps my face. I don't think it dissolves even after I'm back at the condo. Everything is as it should be there. The video game fest in the living room makes me smile.

"Damn it, Strick, get out of the way!" A.J. yells from the couch. He jerks his arms one way then another, trying to navigate the racecar on the game he's playing with Reed.

"You're the one hitting street signs," Reed says. "Dude! You're on the sidewalk!"

A.J.'s car crashes into a wall – that was on the sidewalk, no less – and he looks over the couch. "You want to race, Haley?" he asks.

I shake my head. "My coordination sucks on video games," I say. I squeeze in between the two of them on the couch, and a rare mischievous smile sneaks onto Reed's face.

"So...long time, no see...Sunshine," he says.

"Don't call me that," I tell him.

He fiddles around with the controller in his hand. "You let Vin call you that."

"I don't let Vin do anything," I correct him.

I don't know what he knows, but I don't dare ask. He may not have heard anything and is just giving me a hard time. I won't fall into the trap. So I change the subject.

"Have you guys seen Linzi tonight?" I ask.

They both instantly nod in the direction of the guest house. By Alston's absence, I assume he's with her.

Linzi's voice echoes off the walls. I freeze in the doorway, leave my flip flops on the porch, and gently shut the screen door behind me. Funny how I was worried about walking in to sweaty make out sessions or wild summer sex. But Linzi is mad. I'm not sure if I should interrupt. Her bedroom door squeaks when I hurry by, but they don't seem to notice.

"You knew I wasn't staying," she says. "You knew everything up front. I never lied about a damn thing!"

"You can't just show up like this though," Alston argues through the wall. "Do you know what it's like keeping all these secrets? I can't date like a normal guy because I can't let anyone know the truth. And you came here knowing it."

Linzi's voice rises an octave. "You knew!"

Reality slaps me across the face. This is all my fault. In forty-eight hours, as much as I hate it now, I won't be able to bitch about Linzi and Alston's constant make out sessions. A.J. won't be around to make me laugh when everything is going wrong. I won't have Reed there to smooth everything over when life is about to erupt. No more West Coast Hooligans or crescent-shaped cheese biscuits or Ocean Blast Energy drinks or iceberg eyes.

And what was it for? What did any of us gain from this? Linzi and I are leaving, Colby still has his secrets and all of the playing cards, and we're no better than him because we interrupted the lives of such amazing people just to walk out two weeks later. It's not even Linzi's fault.

I dragged her across the country chasing after forever and a surfer. It's all on me. Colby found me, I found Crescent Cove, and now it's all going to shatter into a sea of broken hearts – mine, Vin's, Linzi's, Alston's, A.J.'s, and everyone else who was dragged through the forever-chasing disaster I've created.

Tears well up in my eyes, and there's no moment of redemption for this. I get up, walk to the window, remove Solomon, and I even apologize to him for being dealt such a crappy card. No one should have to be a spirit guide for me when I'm playing the same awful chess game as the west coast surf star.

But still, I hug the glass seahorse to my chest because he's the only thing that's been with me from the beginning. From Solomon Worthington to my suncatcher. And he's the only thing I deserve to have left in the end. I squeeze him tightly in my hand, push through the screen door, retrieve my flip flops, and run toward the shoreline.

The beach has grown silent. No laughter from the condos, no late night surfing adventures, no bonfires or volleyball games. Just the rolling waves and crashing whitecaps. So it's impossible not to hear the roar of that motorcycle when Vin pulls up.

He must've made the rounds once around the house because he finds me in record time. I know it's him. His shoes thud in the sand. He's the only person around here who wears tennis shoes on the beach.

"You come here often?" he asks from behind me.

I barely glance over my shoulder, mainly because I don't want him to see my red eyes or tear-stained cheeks. He finds a seat in the sand behind me, stretches one leg out beside me, and pulls himself close to me. I relax and let my shoulder blades press against his chest.

"Hey," he whispers into my ear. "I was going to tell you...I really owe you an apology for how I acted, how I've been acting."

He settles his chin into the hollow of my shoulder. "I was just trying to look out for you. I'm not the hard ass guy you think I am. I'm so not that guy, and I don't want you to think I am. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you or..." His voice trails off as the salty tears chase each other in a race to my chin.

I'm not sure if he sees them, but I can't fight the urge to sniffle. If my teardrops were a secret before, they're widely known now. I brush my cheek dry with the back of my hand, but I can't look at him. I can't face him.

"Are you okay? Talk to me," he says. He pushes my shoulder back, leaving me no choice but to let him watch my mascara flow down my skin.

So I talk. Or try to. Most of the words come out a jumbled mess mixed with sniffles and tears and a touch of self-loathing. Even if he doesn't make sense of it, he steadily wipes the tears off my cheeks and pushes my hair back every time it falls into my face.

"It's all my fault – everything – with Linzi and Alston and A.J. and you," I ramble on. It's like role reversal, me pouring my heart all over the sand and Vin listening this time. "And if Colby Taylor hadn't come back to North–"

"Are you kidding me?" Vin pushes away from me and scrambles to stand up. "Come on. We're ending this right now. You can't let it go. So you know what? I'm going to give you exactly what you came here for."

He treks back toward the condo, and I follow slowly, careful not to walk over his shoeprints because I want some sort of proof that he was here, that he came to find me tonight. He never looks back – not even once, not even after he's revved up his bike.

"Get on," he hollers over the engine. He notices my hesitation. "We're just going up the beach. It won't kill you."

My stomach clenches itself, squeezing so tightly that I want to vomit. I think that's my natural instinct trying to talk me out of this. But I'm too scared not to do what he says, too scared that I might screw this up even worse than I already have.

I throw my leg over the seat and pull myself on behind Vin, grasping him with one hand and Solomon with the other. Streetlights and porch lights blur together into orange blobs in the night, whizzing past us in streaks. I watch them until we slow down, and the night comes into focus. My lungs take a trip to the land of temporary paralysis, and I forget to breathe when I see the numbers 2311 on the mailbox. I can still hear Alston screaming it into the phone that night. Twenty-Three Eleven. Dolphin Point. The flag on the mailbox is a red surfboard.

Vin kills his bike, and guitar chords float around the side of the house. Dexter joins them and greets us, happily dragging that hot pink Frisbee with him. My knees go all wobbly, and I'm not sure I can stand up or walk or even think to maneuver like a normal human being.

"Hey Taylor!" Vin calls out. "Brought someone to see you."

The acoustic guitar falls silent, and then he rounds the corner. Blonde. Chiseled. Shirtless. Tan. He's something straight off of a billboard. And I'm standing in his sand, next to Vin's motorcycle, with Dexter all too happy and so very clueless as to how badly this may end.

Vin revs up the bike one more time, blinding me with that one headlight and leaving me here with nothing more than a million questions and a glass seahorse.

"He's all yours, Sunshine."

# Chapter Nineteen

Vin's taillight shrinks into the darkness like a dying red star being sucked into a black hole.

"So...you found me. Impressive," Colby says. He steps toward me, still keeping his distance but seemingly sizing me up, as if I'm here to fight. "Care to tell me how you pulled that off?" He folds his arms across his bare chest.

"I could ask you the same thing," I say. "I mean, faking your death. A new identity. That's not exactly amateur stuff, you know?"

I watch him reach down and sling Dexter's Frisbee across the sky. There's no way I'm going to let him intimidate me. I've come too far.

His eyes pull away from Dexter and burn holes into me. "Hold up. Faking my death?" He shakes his head in disbelief, and I swear, I think he's actually offended.

"Okay," he says. "Let's just start this over. Would you like to come inside?"

He motions toward his gigantic beach house, and there's nothing more I want than to go inside. I would've stayed on his back patio the day of the storm if I'd known Vin wouldn't have thrown me over his shoulder and hauled me off.

"Seriously?" I ask.

"Well, you didn't bring a camera crew, screaming girls, or worse, my parents, so I feel like my secrets are safe," he says.

He leads me past his big black truck, around the house, and to the back patio. A string of wet suits hang against the wall, probably dry by now from today's burning sun. Three surfboards are propped against the house as well.

"One sec," he says. He quickly fills Dexter's water bowl with fresh water and dumps a cup full of dog food into another. Then he whistles across the ocean for Dexter to return home. And I see Dexter's home – a dog house made entirely of broken surfboards. Their colors are faded, and bits of them are cracked or chipped or outright split in half. I don't know how I didn't see it the last time I was here. But then again, we were focused on Colby's life that day, not that his dog's house was made of surfboards. I follow him through the back sliding glass door.

"Let me give you the official tour," he says. "This way."

He opens a door to his left, and had I been asked to guess what was on the other side, I'd have said a laundry room...or possibly an empty garage. But it's neither. It's like a showroom for his biggest trophy. A real Woodie, like from the 1960s – exactly like the ones you see in old beach movies. It's only the coolest station wagon-like vehicle I've ever seen. It shines like it's made of black marble with silver splotches of awesomeness in the shapes of stars and crescent moons. Drenaline Surf's logo is plastered across the passenger side, and there's the silhouette of an angel on a surfboard. "RIP Jake 'Shark' McAllister" curls beneath it in cursive.

Colby pats the hood. "Got this bad baby in Australia a few months ago. Vin said I should've taken the cash, but this thing was just too badass to pass up. I got to design it myself."

My heart overflows with pride as I constantly steal glances at Shark's name while I try to take in the rest of the car. It makes me so happy to know that Colby honored Shark like that, to see that he remembers where he came from and who gave him the chance to live his dream. He remembers who helped him chase forever down. Shark was like his salon lady Stella...or his coffee shop Tim...or his rock star Barney. Whatever Shark was to him, he remembers.

And as if the sentiment wasn't strong enough in the trophy room, his living room walls bleed Shark's photography. Forget the flat screen and huge sound system. It's a shrine to his mentor's work.

"The rest of the place is pretty boring," he says from behind me. "Bedrooms, bathrooms, the kitchen, surf stuff. Just make yourself at home. I'm going to go find a shirt."

I ease closer to the entertainment center and scan over the pictures he's framed. Most are of him with the guys, a few with Shark. There are jars of paper stars and framed newspaper articles chronicling his journey from Drenaline Surf sponsorship to his big win a few months ago in Australia. And then there are drumsticks – the drumsticks!

All of Crescent Cove can probably hear my heart dancing in my chest right now as I realize that night was as important as everything else to him. I hang Solomon on the knob of the cabinet that protects the drumsticks. He'll be safe here.

The living room captures me with a million emotions, so I zone in on one of Shark's amazing photos and attempt to breathe. It was taken underwater, looking up at Colby, who is sitting on a surfboard. It would be a literal shark's view of him. It's poetic and artistic and outright beautiful. It beats the hell out of those Great Whites hanging in Strickland's Boating.

"That's always been my favorite," Colby says. I glance over my shoulder as he approaches wearing a red Drenaline Surf T-shirt. "He had the coolest ideas. He was the one who thought up the surfboard dog house when I got Dexter. Shark was larger than life. Anyone who dreamed up Drenaline Surf had to be."

I wish Vin could hear this. He'd see how much Shark meant to Colby and how much he admired him and misses him. Vin would see how much they have in common, how his best friend is what ties them together in a way that only they understand because they were both so close to him.

"But Drenaline Surf lost that creative spark the day the ocean took Shark McAllister from us," Colby concludes.

Never mind. I stare at the picture a moment longer to keep myself from jumping to Vin's defense. I want to. And I should. But right now, it's not an option.

"So how did you become Colby Taylor?" I spit out before I can talk myself out of asking. My eyes remain on the bottom of the surfboard in the giant photograph.

"How did you find me as Colby Taylor?" he counters.

I surrender and give him the super quick version of how the receipt led us to Stella's, and Stella led us to Tim, and Tim mentioned The Ocean in Moonlight, and Barney told me I'd see him when I got here. To protect the innocent, I change Enchanted Emily's name to "some random girl on the beach" and explain that she led me to Reed.

"And now I'm standing in your living room," I say, ending the condensed version of the last two weeks.

"Fair enough," he says, nodding. He sits on the couch and motions for me to join him, so I do. "I didn't fake my death. I ran away. Faking your death is illegal, you know? I knew they'd assume I was dead, that I drowned or was eaten by a shark, but I never faked my death."

He talks about hitchhiking and catching a ride with a long-haul truck driver to a small town in Texas, where he bought a jar of paper stars as his good luck token. I glance up at the blue seahorse hanging from the entertainment center, and I completely get it. I understand that need for something inanimate to be there holding your hand through a journey.

"From there, I hopped a train and eventually landed in Nevada. I bummed rides with college kids heading to Cali the rest of the way, and once I got here, I asked for the best surf shop around. Some guy told me about Drenaline Surf, said it was roughly two hours south, and I didn't sleep until I'd bought a surfboard from Shark," he says.

As he continues weaving his story to life, I sit here on the couch like a starry-eyed child listening to her grandfather's old war stories. It's the same story I've heard from A.J. and Reed but from a new viewpoint, the viewpoint of a guy who gave up his whole world to chase his dream.

"But I miss the normalcy of just living," he says. "I like the fact that no one can control me anymore, but I hate not being able to walk outside sometimes without fearing that someone will see me, and it'll end up on a North Carolina news broadcast. I've put too much into this to watch it all crash down."

He steals a glance at his watch. "You want to ride somewhere with me? There's this really cool place out on the far side of the cove that I bet you haven't seen," he says.

The beach flies endlessly past my window in a blur of white sand and black water. After a ten minute drive and Colby's less-than-exciting story of how he simply paid a few hundred bucks and had his name changed with no hassle, he turns onto a street in the middle of a suburb. A million questions continue to run through my mind, but I play it cool, trying not to press my luck with him. I'm finally here; I can't blow it now.

"This is the retirement area," he says. "Old people, nursing homes, just simple life away from all the tourist craziness. A.J.'s psycho clown friend lives out here."

He points to a white building with a purple sign that reads Azalea Living Center. I bite down on the inside of my jaw to keep from saying something I'll regret.

"Here we are," Colby says.

He kills the engine and nods toward a long pier that stretches far into the ocean. It's much longer than the one near The Strip, which surprises me with The Strip being the hot spot of Crescent Cove. Orange circles glow inside the tiki torches that line the pier's edges. They reflect off the water in little blobs, like orange stars against a sky of black glass.

"This is incredible," I say. I can only imagine the crowds that would be drawn to it on The Strip. It'd be covered all day and all night.

"Yeah, it's not on the tourist attractions," he says. "They keep it pretty hush-hush. The people out here enjoy it, and they don't have to fight the crowds. I come out here to think. It's kind of like my Zen location, just to clear my head."

We climb out of the truck and trudge through the sand. It's the soft crushed diamond type of sand that's on The Strip. Colby leads the way up to the pier. It's even more massive up close. I imagine Horn Island's pier looking like this in all its glory, before it collapsed and was left to rot on the beach. My flip flops make a thunking sound against the wooden flooring.

"So why did you go back to North Carolina, to the party?" I ask halfway down the pier. A slight breeze lifts off the water and the grains of sand on the pier run toward us.

"To make sure I was dead."

The blunt force of his words ram through me. "What?"

"To make sure I was dead," he repeats. "To see that my parents were living their lives and not having the ocean drained to find me. I have a lot more going on now, more appearances, more competitions. I just needed to know they weren't necessarily looking for me."

Every assumption I'd made about his reasons was so, so wrong. What about making sure they weren't still heavily grieving? Or what about missing his family or his old life, even just a tiny bit?

"But they couldn't control you now," I remind him. "Look how far you've come. You're the surfer on the west coast. They can't make you do anything you don't want to do."

"I don't want them in my business," he counters. He looks straight ahead across the water and into the night. "They don't need to know where I am or what I'm doing." He says it more so to the night than to me.

We reach the edge, and he sits down, slinging his legs over to dangle above the ocean. "Sometimes, you just can't have it both ways," he says. "It's either this or that, you know? I'd rather have this. I'm completely in control of my life. I hold all the cards, and I can deal myself any hand I want. No one's messing this up for me."

I hesitate as to whether I should sit down with him. He may decide I'm a threat, that I'm the one person who may try to interrupt this awesome little card game he's playing, and throw me over the pier. Those dark waves would sweep me out to sea until the shore was out of sight, and I'd find myself on some sunken ship on the bottom of the Pacific. Maybe Shark McAllister would be there with sapphires and shark teeth waiting to meet me at the clock.

"You're so right," I say, deciding to play along. I'm stranded without a cell phone, and the only person who knows where I am probably hates me. Forget chasing forever. I just need to survive right now. "I just hadn't thought of it that way."

He looks at me and smiles that same smile from the night of the corporate party, back when he was a forever chaser who got away...before he was a manipulative jackass who used anyone he had to just to get what he wanted.

"I knew it," he says. "I could see it on your face from across the room at that party. You could escape, you know. This could be your life too. You've just gotta get the right people on your side, and then carry a little leverage on them. It's easier than you'd think, especially when you have idiots like Alston and A.J. using you as their lifeline."

He faces the ocean again, watching the whitecaps roll over under the glow of the moon. My teeth pierce the inside of my mouth to keep from screaming...but also to keep from crying. He doesn't know the first thing about A.J. He doesn't know the guys who watch out for him and lie for him. He doesn't give a damn either. I fake a yawn then pretend that I'm trying to fight it.

"It's late, I know," Colby says. He laughs and stands up, dusting the sand off of his shorts. He reaches his hand out to me, pulls me up from the pier, and nods back toward his truck. "Long day tomorrow," he says. "Competition time makes everyone crazy around here."

Part of me wants to tell him it's not the competition that makes them crazy...or makes him crazy. This whole whirlwind of lies and the secret life of Colby Taylor is what makes everyone crazy.

"Hey, Saturday night...Sunday morning–midnight, meet me here?" he asks. "I swear, this time I mean it. None of that no-show paper star mess. For real. Will you meet me here?"

I'll be long gone before then. I plan on bailing as soon as competition gets underway. I don't want to leave, but it takes so many days to drive back across the country.

"Why didn't you show?" I ask, crossing another question off my mental list.

He shrugs. "I got scared," he says. "I didn't mean to be a jerk about it like that. I was afraid you'd figure out who I was or someone else would see me. I bailed before I could get caught. I'd hoped you'd find the star, though."

I nod as he explains he left it there as a good luck token for me. I wish I had it right now. I need some luck. And I seriously have to get away from Colby Taylor.

"So you'll meet me here? This very spot?" he asks again. He counts the tiki torches. "Third torch from the end?"

"Definitely," I lie. "I'll be here."

The night is as dead as the guy who was once Spence Burks, and I'd give anything to hear the roar of Vin's motorcycle or even that dying cat shriek of A.J.'s car. For a clear cove night, the air is thick with disappointment. The stars mock me from way above, looking down on me and laughing. They make me feel like I'm back in junior high and not cool enough to hang with the popular girls because my hair is too frizzy and my makeup isn't heavy enough.

Red Christmas lights flicker on the hill above where Colby's truck is parked. Their time with me is short-lived before the restaurant's owner flips them back off and heads home for the night. But those words – those words painted in red on a wooden sign with a silly red crab painted next to them – give me hope. Solomon's Crab Shack. His light has found me on the far side of the cove.

"Oh shit!" Colby yells. He grabs my arm, and we pummel back toward the wooden floor of the pier. "Get back!" he hisses.

We duck down behind a garbage can that smells like bananas and onions. Headlights whirl around the parking lot, near his truck, and in the vicinity of where we're hiding. I don't think he's even breathing. In the moonlight, I can see his wide eyes, but he's a statue.

"That was close," he finally whispers after the car is far gone.

I hate admitting that Vin was right. But he was so right.

Colby Taylor is never going to change.

I keep my best smile painted on my face through the first DVD Colby shows me of his surfing competitions from last summer. He falls asleep during the second DVD, the one where Alston is mock interviewing him about surfing and what it means to him. It was filmed not long after Shark died, before Colby lost all of his heart. He has a spark in his eyes and a light in his voice that reminds me of Miles and the way he talked about "getting it" and how Dominic never would. If this forever-chasing path leads to what Colby's become, then the gods of forever can have forever back.

I grab his cell phone off the coffee table and slip outside. I carry my flip flops so they won't make any extra noise. His contacts are very few, so it's easy to spot the name I need. I press the "send" button and wait until I hear his voice.

Then I whisper, "Hey, it's me. I need your help."

# Chapter Twenty

The headlights of my car sweep around the curve in the street and stop short of Colby's mailbox. My flip flops smack the pavement as I hurry around to the passenger side. Warmth and safety radiate from the orange lights of the dashboard, soothing me in a way that the pier's tiki torches couldn't.

"Are you okay?" Vin asks from the driver's seat.

"I'm fine. Just drive," I say.

We retreat to silence as he drives out of beach house central and back to the far side of the cove that tourists aren't aware exists. I hope to God he's not driving back to that pier. I don't question his intentions, just as he doesn't question my night at Colby's house, but I know he wants to know. He wants to know what happened, whether Colby was everything I thought he would be.

"Go ahead and say it," I finally say. My voice cracks just slightly, and I know I can't stop the tears descending from my eyes. "You told me so."

He taps the brakes and slows to a stop in the middle of the street. "I wasn't going to say that," he says.

He puts the car in park, reaches over and brushes my hair out of my face, and stares at me in the glow of the dashboard. "I was going to say that I hate that you had to see it for yourself. I wasn't trying to be a jerk when I told you about him. I was just trying to protect you."

"I should've listened. You know more about him than I do. I just had this idea that he..." I can't even finish the sentence.

Every idea I had about him was wrong. He isn't the carefree dreamer or forever chaser or fearless warrior I thought he was. He's a coward who is scared of the freedom he's bought himself. If manipulation and lies are his way to freedom, I'll take another route.

"He's not what you expected," Vin says, summing up all of my conclusions so simply.

I nod. "Exactly."

Vin pulls the gear back into drive and continues forth into the night. He veers onto one street then turns onto the next, and I don't think I could find my way back to the condo if my life depended upon it. We park next to a small business that's dark and lonely.

"C'mon," he says. "Get out. I want to show you something."

I grip the door handle but hesitate. I'm not really up for trespassing or any other crazy A.J.-like adventure tonight. Seeing Colby again was enough adventure for me. I still can't believe I chased him across the country just to find out everything I thought was dead wrong. I'm almost glad his parents think he's dead. They wouldn't recognize the person their son has become.

"Haley?" Vin leans back into the car. "Are you waiting for the apocalypse? Because I don't think it's going to happen tonight."

I push the door open and step onto the pavement. An oval-shaped metal sign hangs over the entrance, but I can only see the side of it bulging out toward us. I follow Vin to the front door, and the silver letters are all too familiar. Jake McAllister Photography.

"He had an actual studio?" I ask. "I thought he just shot underwater."

Vin unlocks the front door and drops his keys back into his pocket. He twists the doorknob, reaches inside, and flips on a light. But he doesn't go in.

"I rarely come here. I think I've been inside twice since he died. Topher comes out here about once a month and flips the lights on and runs the water in the back, just to keep this place from dying," he says.

He pushes the door open, and the room bursts with color. Surfboards, palm trees, waves, and tropical fish. More sharks, a few dolphins, and the most amazing snapshot of Topher and Vin that seriously melts my heart. I hate to ask how long these pictures have been hanging on the walls, how long they've hidden in this dark studio rather than being seen by the world. Shark had a gift, even if it was "just a job."

"But yeah, to answer your question," Vin says, "he did have an actual studio."

There's a shot on the back wall of Colby riding a wave. It's one of those perfectly captured moments with the water curled around him and his board, defying gravity for a split second. I wish I could pull him out of the photo and replace him with Topher or Miles.

"People ask me all the time where they can buy his work. I just give them my business card and ask them to check back with us, that it's a work in progress. Sometimes they call back, but most times they're just tourists who want it then or never," Vin says from behind me.

I turn my focus to a picture that was taken in between leaves of a palm tree. The sunset is a blend of ice cream sherbet reflecting off the ocean. I wonder if Vin would let me take it home with me.

"I had a reason for bringing you here," Vin says. "I thought you might want to help me with this place."

"What?" I spin around on the heel of my flip flop to face him.

He walks around me to the back of the room and unlocks a filing cabinet drawer. "This," he says, holding up a silver hard drive, "is Jake's digital catalog. Every picture he ever took. And now it's mine."

Those pictures have to be worth something, even if just to the locals and surf community who know the story of the legendary Shark McAllister. Those are the same photos hanging in Drenaline Surf and Strickland's Boating and the walls of Colby Taylor's beach mansion.

"And what exactly were you thinking I could do?" I ask.

He walks back toward me, hard drive in hand. "Frame them."

I open my mouth to ask a million questions, but he stops me before I can ask the first one.

"A.J. told me, and I just thought how I was letting this place die, and I shouldn't because Jake was about so much more than just surfing, and..." he finally stops to breathe. "This was stupid. I'm sorry."

"No," I assure him, "it's not. I just...I don't know what to say."

He brushes past me, sets the hard drive down, and leans against a nearby table. "Reed said you wanted to come out here for college, and I just let my imagination run wild," he says.

I want to tell him to let his imagination keep running, but I can't rationalize anything right now. I mean, it's Vin – the same Vin who tried to sell me Honey Gold hair dye spray and protested my very presence after he learned that I'd made friends with the other bodyguards. And now he's offering me my dream in the form of a studio and a silver hard drive?

"You still have to graduate high school," Vin says. "You may not even want to come back out here by next summer."

Oh but I will. That much I do know.

I start to defend my case, but his back is already turned to me. He locks Shark's hard drive back in the filing cabinet, and I feel like all of my hopes and dreams were locked away with it. He can't tempt me with forever then tuck it away under lock and key.

He brushes my hair back over my shoulder as soon as he's within reach. "We'll talk about it next summer, okay?"

I nod and follow him back into the parking lot, back toward my car, but I stop in between my headlights and pull him back.

"I am coming back next summer," I say. "Reed's already said I could move in with them. I can work part time at his dad's store through college if my parents refuse to help me pay for it."

Vin leans back against the hood of my car and pulls me toward him. "You have to come back," he says. "You're one of us now. And I kind of...like...having you around."

My inner fountain of happiness rushes up and overflows. I throw my arms around Vin's neck and hug him more tightly than I ever thought I would. His arms are warm around me, and I feel safe in a way I haven't felt since I've been on this forever-chasing journey. I pull back to look at his face. The streetlights reflect in his eyes, and I feel like I'm right back in the sand watching Honey Gold soar through the air as Vin closes in on me. And Deputy Pittman isn't here to interrupt.

But headlights sweep around a curve in the road and Vin retreats. The car turns onto another street and fizzles into the blackness. Damn them for ruining this moment. Unlike Colby, Vin's breathing is steady, unfazed by the headlights. With Vin there's no need to hide behind trash cans.

"We should go before all the old people out here call the law thinking someone's trespassing. You have North Carolina plates. They won't know it's me," he says. He pulls my keys from his pocket, and I surrender to the passenger side.

"Want me to walk you in?" Vin asks. We've been sitting in my car for a few minutes, right in front of the guest house. I don't want to go inside. I don't want to deal with Linzi asking questions about where I ran off to, and I definitely don't want to talk about Colby Taylor tonight.

"Please," I say.

I need to sneak past Linzi's room without alerting her that I'm back. But the guest house is empty when we get inside. She's probably cuddled up next to Alston in his bed. I can't imagine that silly little argument from earlier stopping them from enjoying their last few nights together, even if they do know she's leaving. Vin lingers in my room, like he's waiting for me to tell him once I'm okay enough to be alone tonight.

"I don't want to stay here," I finally say.

"Want to stay at my place tonight?" Vin asks.

My brain flips into montage mode, flashing all the pictures of Horn Island from my day with Miles. The dying, yellow apartment complex where Vin lives. The prisonlike barred window. The pit bull. The old liquor store. Ugh...the murky water and seaweed and collapsed pier that's just rotting away in the ocean and poisoning the sea creatures. A night in Horn Island?

"Yes."

Vin waits in the car while I grab the few things I'll need for tomorrow – change of clothes, makeup bag, toothbrush, phone charger, the basic essentials. I grab that lime green competition shirt as a last minute thought and run for my car. No one will ever know I came back here tonight. And by tomorrow, maybe I'll be ready to face the Colby Taylor questions.

I toss my beach bag full of junk over my shoulder and double check to make sure Vin locked my car doors. He glances around the parking lot then motions me to follow him.

"Topher must still be at Kale's. He'll be exhausted tomorrow for competition. The kid ain't got his head in the right place, I swear," he says. He points ahead. "Five-B."

My head turns to Four-A when a dog barks. That chained up pit bull is on all fours watching us. I lock my fingers around Vin's arm, and he stops en route to his apartment door.

"Sit, Rosie!" a voice calls out. The pit bull flops back onto the concrete outside of Four-A. "Sorry about that, Vin," the man calls out. His porch light flickers on, and I see the wheelchair before I see him. He's an older black man with two amputated legs.

"No problem, Luther. I know her bark is worse than her bite," Vin says. "Come with me." He grasps my hand and heads across the grass to Four-A.

The dew reaches up from the green blades and leaves its mark on my flip flops. Vin doesn't let go of my hand until we're under Luther's porch light.

"Luther, this is Haley," Vin says. "And this is my favorite neighbor, Luther. And Rosie." He nods toward the dog.

He wheels closer to me and reaches out to shake my hand. His arms are buff, and his grasp is tight. Whatever happened to him didn't steal his strength. "About time you found someone special," Luther says. "Pleasure to meet you, Haley."

"Same to you," I say.

But ohmygod I can't even think of anything better to say because he seriously thinks I'm Vin's someone special, and three seconds have passed and Vin hasn't corrected him.

"Sorry I woke you...and Rosie," Vin says, reaching back over and taking my hand. "You know I'm usually not out this late before a competition."

"No, no," Luther says. "You know my arthritis keeps me up at all hours anyway. I haven't hit the gym the last few days, and I'm feeling it."

Vin laughs. "Have a good night," he says. His fingers intertwine with mine.

"Same to you both," Luther replies. He wheels himself backward on the wooden ramp, and his porch light flickers off.

We cut back through the wet grass and into Vin's apartment. A note from Topher is taped to the wall just inside the front door. "At Kale's. Don't worry. I'll sleep. See you soon. – T"

I try not to stare, but Vin's apartment is everything I expected. Worn furniture, old appliances, and surfboards tucked into every corner of the free space. It's small but I think it's just big enough for him and Topher. The dim lighting from the kitchen spills over a small table and into the living room. There's a huge picture of the collapsed pier hanging above the couch. I know without a doubt that Shark took it.

"You can have my room tonight. I don't know when Topher will be home or if he'll even come back tonight, so I'll crash on the couch," Vin says.

Aside from the pier photo, the place is null of any decoration. It's definitely a "guy" apartment. Vin kicks some clothes aside in his bedroom and apologizes for the mess. He mutters something about never having company and "you should see Topher's room" while he remakes the bed for me.

"I can sleep on the couch," I offer. "I hate putting you out of your own room."

"I'll be damned," Vin says. "I have better manners than that, Haley. Give me a little credit here." He takes my bag from me and drops it next to the bed, closing the deal.

He shakes his head and laughs. "Have you realized every time you try to be nice to me you just end up insulting me?"

Of course I've realized. "I'm sorry. I was just..."

"Trying to be nice," Vin finishes. "It's cool. I know. So, Topher's room is down the hall. Bathroom is pretty much across the hall. Kitchen and living room are back the way we came. If you need anything, wake me up. Don't hesitate, okay?"

I nod to keep from saying something else that could possibly insult him. He still lingers, just a minute longer, then finally says good night and heads to the living room.

Unlike Crescent Cove, you can't hear the ocean late at night in Horn Island. Instead there are car alarms, barking dogs, and that damn creaky couch in the living room. It looked old and worn, and I bet Vin is feeling every spring in the cushions each time he tosses and turns...which is a lot. At this rate, neither of us will get any sleep before the competition tomorrow, and he needs it more than I do.

I push myself out of his bed, which doesn't squeak every time I move thankfully, and let the streetlight pouring through the window serve as my path to the bedroom door.

"Vin," I half-say half-whisper, just in case I dozed off for a minute and Topher came in earlier.

"Yeah?" he calls back.

"Come here," I reply.

The couch croaks out a battle cry or two, and then I hear footsteps. When Vin steps into the doorway of his bedroom, he looks more defeated than the day of the storm. It's the most innocent I've ever seen him – white Strickland's Boating T-shirt, black boxers, unspiked hair, and sleepy eyes. He reminds me of Topher. And gosh, I hate saying he looks unbelievably cute.

"Everything okay?" he asks. He attempts to fight a yawn, but it's useless. He's exhausted.

I pull him into his bedroom and shut the door. "You're not sleeping on the couch," I say. "You've tossed and turned since you went in there. Just sleep in here. I'll take the couch."

He reaches for the doorknob. "Haley, we've already had this discussion."

I grab his arm. "Then just...stay in here...with me."

He pulls his arm back and laughs. "That'd make me quite the gentleman, don't you think?"

His face is unreadable in the darkness. I shouldn't have closed the door. I could see every bit of his tired eyes in the dim glow from the kitchen.

"No one will know," I say. "And it's not like anything's going to happen. I'm the girl who slept with drunken A.J. all night, remember? I can handle you."

Vin sighs. "I'm going to hell."

"Right...because selling Honey Gold on The Strip didn't put you there."

I grab his arm and drag him toward the bed. I climb in and take the side near the wall. Vin settles in next to me, keeping a safe distance to be the gentleman he seems to think he is.

"Thank you," he whispers.

The silence is long and awkward, and I can't sleep. Vin has resituated himself too many times, and I know he's still awake. This isn't helping us sleep any better than when he was tossing and turning on the creaky couch.

"Haley," he finally says.

I keep my eyes to the ceiling. "Yeah?"

He props up on his elbow and turns toward me. "If your parents refuse to pay for you to go to college out here, I'll pay it. Drenaline can pay it."

I turn my head from the ceiling to him. "You can't do that. You've already got Topher to worry about. That's not your responsibility."

"You have to come back," he says. "You belong here."

Even though my heart is gushing with all kinds of happiness at hearing that, from Vin of all people, I can't let him take that on. I prop up on my elbow and mirror his position. His back is turned to the window with the streetlight glow, but I don't have to see his expression. I know by the tone of his voice that he's serious.

"You can't pay for me to go to college here. I'm not your sister," I say. I refuse to let him take responsibility for Topher and me.

"I know," he says. "I wouldn't kiss my sister."

Oh those butterflies. They're familiar, like the day I climbed on the back of that yellow jet ski with A.J. I ease back into the pillow.

"You haven't kissed me," I whisper.

Vin pushes up from the bed and leans over me. "I can't because you're still talking."

This is the loudest silence I've ever heard. My heart thumps, dogs are barking, and there's a siren somewhere in the distance. Vin's fingers entangle my hair, and he leans in. The third time is such a freaking charm because this time he kisses me – no headlights, no Pittman, nothing in this world to come between us – just me and Vin and the smell of his aftershave.

I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer. Every bit of that intense iceberg melts, and I feel safe in his arms, like I could stay right here forever with his lips against mine, his hand in my hair, in this perfect Horn Island night. He inhales deeply when he pulls away.

He lies back onto the bed, closer to me than before, and pulls me nearer. I settle into the crook of his arm. He moves my hair back from my face, kisses my temple, and whispers, "Good night, Sunshine."

# Chapter Twenty-One

I shake my hair free from the towel and check myself one more time in the bathroom mirror before I walk out. Topher hasn't been home long, and Vin has been lecturing him through the wall about getting enough rest before competitions. He hasn't mentioned my being here, to my knowledge.

Deep breath. "It's now or never," I say to my reflection. I push through the door, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, which adjoins the living room. Topher's bare back is to me while he digs through the refrigerator.

"Dude, did you not buy more milk?" Topher asks the refrigerator door.

"Middle shelf, toward the back...if you'd actually look," Vin shoots back.

"Found it!" Topher shouts out. He spins around, milk in hand. "Holy shhhhh...Haley! Vin! Dude! You could, like, tell me when you have chicks over so I can put clothes on."

Vin meets me halfway across the room, kisses my forehead, then says, "She ain't looking at you."

He couldn't be more right. Vin looks like himself today, well-rested, spiky hair, and intense blue iceberg eyes. Ohmygod he's beautiful, and this time, I'm not even afraid to admit it to myself.

"You have girls over often?" I ask.

"No," Vin says. He reaches into a cardboard box of Drenaline Surf merch and tosses Topher a T-shirt. "Never actually."

Topher's head pops out of the blue shirt. "But apparently there's a first time for everything. Cereal?" He shakes a box of Lucky Charms and shrugs his shoulders.

"Yeah, sure," I say. Topher hands me a bowl, and all the awkward conversation I expected never comes to surface.

An hour later, I'm latched onto both of the Brooks brothers trying to fight our way through the mass of people on The Strip.

"Why didn't we just go around back?" Topher screams into my ear from behind me, hoping Vin can hear him from in front of me.

"It's never been this crazy! I didn't think it would be!" Vin shouts back.

I expected a big crowd to swamp the beach today, but it's barely eight A.M. This is freaking insane. There's a line outside of Drenaline Surf, blocking the front entrance and any chances we had of getting inside. They don't care if Vin owns the place. They just need last minute surfboard wax.

"Strick's!" Vin shouts, jerking his head toward the boating store.

It's busy inside but nothing like the craze outside of the surf shop. Reed waves across the store, and an older guy joins him at the register. Reed says something to him then bolts around the counter toward us.

"Dad's got it covered, so if you need me, I'm yours," he says to Vin. Then he looks directly at me. "Haley...you're becoming a stranger these days. Not cool."

I swap awkward glances with Topher, hoping he won't start blabbing that I spent the night with his brother, but Vin is all business today and isn't in the mood for secrets.

"It's insane out there. We can't even get into the store. Mind if we cut through the back?" he asks.

Reed motions us to the back sliding glass door. He follows me and the brothers through the sand to the back office of Drenaline Surf, which thankfully has a fire exit that serves as today's entrance. A.J. is sitting in Vin's office chair.

"I'm not even late, and A.J. has taken over my store," Vin says. He grabs the back of the chair and spins it around.

"Dude," A.J. says. "Shaka Magazine already called wanting to interview Colby after he surfs today. The lady with the flamingo pond has called three times and won't let me take a message, and the Ocean Blast CEO dude took the wrong exit and I had to give him directions. Where the hell have you been?"

Topher answers for Vin. "He was pre-occupied."

The phone rings again. "I wasn't pre-occupied. I was on my way," Vin says. Another ring. "The front door was completely blocked with all those crazy people." Another ring. "Damn it," he says before grabbing the phone. "Drenaline Surf, this is Vin."

He grabs the pen from A.J.'s hand and begins scribbling down whatever the voice on the other end of the phone is saying. He waves Topher toward the main showroom of the store, and Reed follows him into the mass of surf mania.

A.J. pulls me toward the back door, and I follow him back outside. We don't have a chance to talk though because Linzi and Alston meet us almost instantly.

"So nice having connections," Alston says, pointing to his car in the 'employees only' parking lot of Strickland's Boating.

Linzi grabs my shoulders, and her eyes glow with excitement. "Where'd you go last night? Did Vin really take you to see Colby? You have to tell me everything," she says in one breath. "I'm so excited to see him surf today. It's like we finally get what we came here for."

"She'll tell you all about it," A.J. says. "But we've gotta go grab something for Vin. Meet us at the Drenaline tent later?"

Linzi nods and bounces off with Alston to find the Drenaline Surf tent. I don't know how to tell her that Colby Taylor is the very last thing I'm here for these days. I breathe a sigh of relief and thank A.J. for stalling her for the time being. But that doesn't stop _him_ from demanding answers, and right now, I feel better giving A.J. answers than I do Linzi. We trek through the sand to the employee parking lot and sit on the hood of Alston's car.

"I kissed Vin, and Colby Taylor sucks," I say.

"Whoa. You kissed Vin?"

"Well, he kissed me."

"But you kissed him back, right?"

"Yes," I admit. I don't know if I'm flustered from admitting that out loud or if it's just this summer heat burning my skin. I'll go with the heat, just to save a little bit of my pride.

"Okay, let me get this straight," A.J. says, talking with his hands. "You came to California for the guy who sucks, but you end up kissing the guy who you thought sucked the most?"

I bury my face into my hands and laugh. That's exactly what I did. I know he's probably shaking his head, but I refuse to unhide my face. "Yes."

"Damn," he says. "There's never a dull moment with you around."

That pulls my face up quickly. "You're a fine one to speak – stealing election signs, passing out drunk in my bed, busting Dominic's eye."

A.J. nudges me with his shoulder. "Hush." He looks off at the water. "I told you about Vin. He's not a bad guy. He's just got a lot on him that he never asked for."

The action from the store has moved to the Drenaline Surf tent near the shoreline. A.J. and I walked The Strip for a while, hated on Colby, and he again reminded me that Vin was never the evil con artist I thought he was. But now that I'm sitting on the toolbox in the back of Jace's truck, I'm still fighting to find words to tell Linzi that Colby Taylor isn't all I'd dreamed him up to be.

I wish A.J. hadn't gone back to the store to cover for Vin. He'd be straight up with Linzi, so I wouldn't have to be. There's no way Reed would say it, even if he did think Colby was a royal screw up. And right now, Reed is my only wingman.

"I can't wait to see him surf," Linzi says. "Was he excited about it?"

Shrugging my shoulders isn't much of an answer, though. "He didn't really say much about it," I tell her.

Reed looks across the water at the surfers paddling out. "This isn't his first rodeo. One competition is the same as the next for him," he says.

Linzi stares at Reed for a second, probably trying to figure out what a rodeo has to do with surfing, but luckily she doesn't ask and focuses all of her attention on the guys in the water. She's excited, just like everyone else in the Crescent Cove sand. And just like the west coast surf fans, she's so ready to see Colby Taylor do what Colby Taylor does best.

But I'm not ready to see him. I honestly don't want to. Just days ago, I thought I'd see him surf and know he was happy with his new life, and I'd be able to let it go. For Colby, it's not about being one with the ocean or becoming a part of the wave that's carrying him. I can't watch him surf when he takes the love for surfing in vain.

I latch onto Reed's arm and pull him close enough so Linzi won't hear me. "I need your help," I whisper.

He nods in agreement, and I tell Linzi we'll be back in a little bit. She tells me to hurry or I might miss the big moment of seeing Colby surf. I don't tell her, but that's exactly what I'm aiming for.

Vin looks up from under the hood of my car when Reed pulls up next to him. "Couldn't stay away from me, could you, Sunshine?"

I laugh because secretly that is part of the reason I made Reed bring me back to the condo. "That...and I couldn't stomach watching Colby surf," I say.

Reed tells us that he's going to park his Jeep near the amateur division section and double checks with Vin to make sure we'll be there in time. Vin says there's no way he'd miss it. I watch Reed's Jeep until he's out of sight.

"Have you told them?" Vin asks. "You know, that you're leaving tonight?"

I'd hoped he wouldn't bring that back up. "Yeah," I say. "Reed complained that he'll have to go back to keeping A.J. out of trouble. And A.J. is really good at denial because he refused to hear me out when I tried to explain that I can't stay forever...at least not yet."

Vin slams the hood shut. "I changed the oil and topped off the other fluids. Your tires are good...and I hacked into the system and did some rewinding on the mileage so it won't appear that you've driven to Cali and back."

"How'd you do that?" I ask as I follow him down the sidewalk and into the kitchen.

He turns on the faucet and scrubs the oil from his hands. "Magic trick," he answers.

"Feel like helping me work a little more magic?" I ask.

It takes twenty-five minutes through competition traffic to get to the far side of Crescent Cove. The pier is alive today with retired couples spending the day with their grandchildren, all of whom are oblivious to the insanity happening a few miles down the shoreline. It's peaceful out here. Waves crashing, seagulls cawing, children laughing. It makes sense why this is Colby's Zen location. But there's no ignoring that air horn in the distance. I wonder if that's his competition, if he did well enough in the first heat to move forward. Of course he did. He's Colby freaking Taylor.

"You always return to the scene of the crime?" Vin asks, slipping his hand into mine.

"Sometimes it's necessary," I tell him.

We walk the length of the pier mostly in silence. He speaks to a person here and there, and I wait for someone to ask him why he's not at the competition. But no one asks. No one even minds our being here really. They go about their lives and their afternoon as if we aren't strolling along their pier.

I stop just short of the pier's edge and count three tiki torches back. I twist a piece of the wood around and tuck the little orange CT star into the torch. I position it as carefully as I can, so it can't be ripped away by the wind or caught up in the torch's fire when they're lit up tonight for all of the cove to see. I don't need his unlucky autographed star anymore.

"An eye for an eye, huh?" Vin asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind. "It's symbolic though, so that makes revenge okay."

I wrap my arms over his, tilt my head back against his chest, and inhale. I'm going to miss this west coast ocean air.

"Let's stay here a while," Vin says.

We settle onto the edge of the pier, away from the third tiki torch and laughing grandchildren. Then Vin unleashes half a million thoughts into the universe from his worries over what'll happen if Dominic wins this sponsorship to how Alston bought that hot pink Frisbee for Dexter when he was just a puppy and Colby got mad because it was a girly color.

The mention of Dexter sends my thoughts back to last night in Horn Island.

"What happened to your neighbor?" I ask. "Luther, the guy with the pit bull." Not that Vin really needed the clarification.

"War veteran," he says. "He was born and raised in Horn Island, known him all my life. When he got home, they offered him full residency at a facility that is set up for injured vets, but that'd mean leaving the island. Because they offered the facility, they weren't obligated to make his current residence wheelchair accessible."

"So who made the ramps for him?" I ask.

Vin hangs his head but smiles. "Me and Topher. Horn Island is just one of those places you can't leave. It gets in your veins."

I rest my head against his shoulder. "I don't want to go back to North Carolina."

"I don't want you to," he says. He wraps his arm around me and pulls me closer to him. "I don't know who I'm going to get to sell raffle tickets for me now."

I ram my elbow into his side and push him away. "You'll just find some other hot girl on The Strip to do it for you. By the time I come back next summer, you'll be engaged, and I'll be long forgotten. Then I'll have to date your brother."

"You are not dating my brother," Vin says, pulling me back toward him.

"Well, Reed's still single," I counter.

He wraps his arm around me. "You're not dating Strick either. And I'm not replacing you, so get that out of your head."

"Hey, you're the one who said guys would buy tickets from me because..."

"I know what I said," Vin interrupts. "And I feel bad enough for it without you throwing it back at me all the time. Yes, I said you were hot. No, I shouldn't have."

I don't wait for his explanation. I know where this is going. "It's because I'm seventeen, right? I'll be eighteen in September."

He laughs. "Your age doesn't faze me, Haley. I knew how old you were before I even let myself get close. It's not an issue. I just felt bad for using the same words to describe you that Alston uses to describe the whores on the beach."

And I'm reminded again how right A.J. is about Vin. "I didn't want to date your brother anyway. He'd get on my nerves pretty quick," I admit.

Vin laughs, and I know he understands that all too well. All the sugar cubes and energy drinks. "What about Strick?"

I shake my head. "He's too nice. I like a challenge." Then I lean in and kiss him before he can even throw some smartass comeback at me.

And I don't care if all the grandparents on the pier are watching.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

I kick off my flip flops before we step into the sand and carry them down to where Reed's Jeep is parked. He's staked out an awesome spot to watch the amateur division. Only A.J. is with him, and neither will make a big deal out of the fact that Vin and I are approaching the shoreline hand-in-hand.

"I knew it!"

I recognize the voice vaguely, in that way like I should totally know it yet I don't. I look over my shoulder, and it's impossible to miss the only guy on the beach wearing a real flower lei, straight from that Hawaiian culture he was born and raised in.

"You totally denied it," Kale says, walking up on the other side of me. "You said you weren't messing with Brooks."

"And at the time, I wasn't," I reply. I still wouldn't say I'm "messing with" Vin, whatever Kale means by that. I can only imagine.

Kale laughs. "It's cool. He needs someone. He's been lonely way too long."

Vin shrugs his shoulders then shakes his head. "I love how everyone just talks about me like I'm not standing here." Luckily he laughs after he says it. "I'll be back. I'm going to give Topher one of those brotherly lectures before he goes in."

By 'brotherly', I hope he means wishing Topher good luck and telling him to be careful rather than chewing him out for still wanting to compete. Every time Topher surfs in the Pacific, he's surfing with the ashes of the one other person Vin really cared about. Still, that's not enough for Vin. And I get that – he doesn't want to lose Topher next.

Kale walks along with Vin but veers off from the competition crowd to meet up with Miles and Jace. I'll miss this – the atmosphere and community and people – when I leave tonight. The east coast doesn't have any West Coast Hooligans.

I walk over to Topher's truck and sit down next to A.J. on the tailgate. "Thanks for saving me a seat," I say.

"No problem," he says. He stares ahead, I think. His sunglasses hide his eyes. "I'm glad you stayed. Topher's never competed before. We're all scared. We've given enough to the ocean. We deserve to keep Topher."

"And we will," Reed says. He slides in next to me on the tailgate. "Prayer circle in ten. We're waiting for Theo to get down here from Colby's competition."

Ten minutes later, we're lingering around the lifeguard stand as Theo and his girlfriend approach us. He's still wearing his red lifeguarding shirt with a whistle dangling from his neck. Vin walks back up to where we are with Topher, who is decked out in his wetsuit like a real surfer. He looks so serious. He looks like his brother. And although I haven't been introduced to the man with them, I know he's Joe McAllister.

We look like a pack of tropical Skittles in our brightly colored Drenaline Surf competition shirts. Joe and I are the only ones who chose lime green, and it makes me smile. Shark's dad has style.

"Alright, if you guys will, let's all join hands," Kale says.

It surprises me that he's the one leading the prayer circle. He's even more "life of the party" than A.J. and Topher combined. If there's any one person in California who is all about partying, fun, and absolute nonsense, it's Kale.

But I still do as he says and lock hands with A.J. on my right and Reed on my left. Across the circle, Topher is between Joe and Vin, like he's absorbing good vibes and protection on both sides. I bow my head upon Kale's signal, close my eyes, and listen.

"Today, we call upon Kanaloa and ask him to protect one of our own," Kale begins. "Please be with Topher today as he surfs in your waters. Guide him carefully through your waves, allowing him to catch the best and dodge the worst. Please call upon the spirit of our fallen friend Shark McAllister to swim beneath his board and keep him safe. Let him ride in a way that makes you proud. Amen."

We all echo with 'amen' and watch Topher head back down to the competitor zone with Vin and Joe.

"Who did we just pray to?" I whisper to A.J.

"Kanaloa – the Hawaiian god of the deep sea," he says. "Kale wasn't really into the Hawaiian culture until he moved here, mainly because everyone was into it there and he's the only one here. He likes to stand out."

That's obvious. Kale has never blended into the background in any instance I've seen him. I follow A.J. back to Topher's tailgate and watch the first two surfers take off in the first heat. From what Vin has said, Topher is light years ahead of the other riders competing today. There is no real prize – just the glory of having the best score. But this is Topher's first taste of a real competition. He swears someday he'll surf for Drenaline, even if Vin refuses to sign him any time soon.

"I think I'm more nervous than he is," Vin says as he sits on the tailgate on my other side.

A.J. leans forward. "He'll be okay. He's going to be the best out there."

I glance up at the current heat – two guys who look even younger than Topher – and one is pummeled by a wave. His board flops over the water, and I hold my breath until I see him come back up. I'm tempted to send some prayers up to Kanaloa myself.

"Haley!" Linzi rounds the side of Topher's truck. "I swear, every time I spot you, it's like you disappear before I can get over to actually talk to you."

That was sort of the plan. I've been able to avoid her this long, to avoid the Colby Taylor conversation that's inevitable, but I can't really run away now.

"You missed it," she stresses. "You missed seeing Colby Taylor surf. _The_ west coast surfer. The reason we drove across the country."

Vin wraps his arm around my shoulder. "She had better things to do."

Linzi's jaw drops and her forehead wrinkles. "Better than watching him surf? Seriously? There's nothing better to do in Crescent Cove than watch a local celebrity do what he does best."

Actually, I could think of plenty of things. Jet skiing with A.J. Hiding in The House of Mirrors with Reed. Watching Alston and Dexter fight over that hot pink Frisbee. Walking the shores of Horn Island with Miles as he kicks a Dr. Pepper can. Hearing Jace's band perform. Eating cereal with Topher even when he's hyped up on sugar cubes at seven o'clock in the morning. Kissing Vin Brooks. Oh, that list just goes on and on.

"She was with me," Vin says. He tightens his arm around me. "You and Alston aren't the only ones trying to get your last minute thrills in."

My face burns the color of a flaming red Horn Island sunset. If A.J. had said it, I'd have elbowed him with all my might and buried my face. But Vin? God, I can't even begin to believe he said it in the first place. I guess the secret's out – even though the whole 'last minute thrills' was a total exaggeration. Linzi stands in front of us, eyes widened, speechless. Vin's little remark might've been worth it for that kind of response.

"A.J., save our seats," Vin says. He grabs my hand. "C'mon, I want you to meet someone before Topher goes in."

He walks us directly in between Linzi and Alston, as if he's making some sort of statement, and leads us over to the competitors' section. Topher waves a shaka at me, but I know that's not who we're here to see. Joe meets us halfway under the tent. He's a lot shorter than I'd thought. I also expected him to look more sad, more tired, but his eyes dance with a light in them just like Topher's.

"I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to introduce us," Joe says to Vin. He reaches out to shake my hand. "Joe McAllister."

"Haley Sullivan," I reply, although I have this gut feeling that he knows exactly who I am just as I know who he is.

"I've heard your name quite a bit here lately," Joe says.

He smiles at Vin, and if it wasn't for the fact that my face is no longer flushed from Vin's earlier remark, I'd glance up at him too. Luckily Joe turns the conversation to the competition and how Shark would be so proud of Topher competing today. He stays with the competitors, in the middle of the action, and we return to the tailgate with A.J. just before Topher's heat begins.

Miles grabs Topher on his way toward the shoreline and says something directly into his ear, making sure no one else hears him. Topher nods and laughs, signals the shaka to the other Hooligans, and with the blast of the air horn, he dashes into the water.

Two minutes into the heat, Topher is sitting pretty in the ocean, but he's yet to take a wave. The guy competing against him took the first wave that rolled in and wiped out shortly after. He's paddling back out now. I pray that Topher catches one before this guy has a chance to redeem himself.

Topher flattens himself onto his board and paddles farther out. Vin grips the edges of the tailgate with a death hold, and I almost want to check his pulse to make sure he's still breathing.

"This is it!" Miles yells out. He hasn't sat down since the heat began.

Kale jumps up to his feet, with Jace and Theo inches behind him. "Paddle harder, Brooks! Paddle hard!" he screams out, although Topher can't hear him.

"Get up! Get up! Get the fuck up, Topher!" Miles yells. He must've seen the competition official in his peripherals because he throws his arms out in apology. "Sorry dude!"

But it makes Vin crack a smile and that earns Miles a few more points in my book. All eyes are back on Topher, who has popped up and is riding the wave flawlessly into shore. He paddles back out for the next wave, but Kale announces ever-so-loudly that he knows Topher's moving on to the next round with that wave, especially when his competitor sucks.

An hour of California sunshine later, Vin turns his back on the ocean because he can't bring himself to watch the final heat. We've abandoned the tailgate to stand with the Hooligans. I soak up every bit of warmth from this moment because I don't know what next summer holds, and I don't know if all of us will ever be together in a single moment again. I know Linzi won't be back here with me, attached to Alston's hip, and I don't know where the world will take Miles if he wins the sponsorship. Kale could go back to Hawaii. A.J. could get thrown in county for something dumb. Or the ocean could take someone away.

I shake that last thought out of my mind as Topher paddles out. The waves crash around him and over him, sloshing him back and forth, but he keeps going, fighting harder each time to reach the big set that's rolling in.

"He's going to take it," Jace says, craning his neck to see that far out.

"It's fucking beautiful," Miles says in an almost whisper.

He's right. Everything about that wave is beautiful, and I'm not even looking at it from a surfer's viewpoint. It's a glaze of all shades of blue, and it feels so right for Topher to be the one about to ride it. The whitecaps stretch out behind him, hovering and waiting to make sure he's safely onboard. The sun glints off the water creating a glow of ocean and sky with Topher Brooks right in the center of it all. There's nothing amateur about the way he rides.

The waiting period for the judges to tally the scores feels like hours rather than minutes. Topher paces the sand in this stressed out kind of frenzy, a habit he's inherited from his brother. Vin hasn't said a word either, but I know he's hoping that Topher has the highest numbers – just because it means that much to Topher.

I latch onto A.J.'s arm to brace myself once the announcer asks everyone to gather around for scores. Aside from the competitors and their supporters, the amateur section is pretty dead. Even this emptiness makes me happy, just seeing who all really cares about their amateur surfers. Of course there's one Hooligan who didn't bother to show. But as far as I'm concerned, he's not one of them – and Kale is.

As third best ride and then second best is announced, my heart races and I hear it pounding even with the roaring ocean behind me. A.J. squeezes my hand, and I hold my breath.

"And with an average score of 8.5, today's best ride – and winner of the amateur division title – is Topher Brooks!"

A.J. wraps me up in an anaconda-grip kind of hug, and although I'd give anything to see the look on Vin's face upon hearing Topher's name, I don't fight my best friend. Instead, I squeeze him back, breathe in the smell of cigarette smoke from his shirt, and savor every single second of this moment.

Miles screams out, "Hell yes!" too many times to count, and Reed announces, "Celebration at my place!" I glance around to see where Vin is, and I spot him easily. He's wrapped up in a moment with the kid who's drinking Ocean Blast Energy like it's a gift from Kanaloa. I wish Shark was here to capture it.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

The scent of charcoal fills the guest house as Reed fires up the grill out back. I'm ready for next summer for Reed's cooking alone. Strick is quite the housewife, even though he'd kill me and Alston both if he knew we said that behind his back.

Linzi makes more noise than necessary packing her things in the room next to me. I think she's mad, partially at me for not telling her about Vin, and partially because she doesn't want to leave. I just hope she gets it all out of her system before the cross-country drive home with her.

My heart crumbles just a little as I take Zombie Asylum down from the shelf and pack them into my suitcase. I sniffle and blink my eyes a few times to keep from letting the tears fall. I'll do enough of that later on.

"Hey," Linzi says from my doorway. "Do you have anything I can wrap Sofia in? I don't want her to get broken on the drive back."

She holds Sofia up, and the bedroom light catches her just perfectly. Streaks of purple bounce off my walls, and now I can't help letting the tears fall.

"Damn it," I say, sitting back on the bed. My bay window is lonely. "I left Solomon at Colby freaking Taylor's house."

And I hate myself for it.

"We'll get him back," Linzi says. She comes inside the room and sits down next to me. "Any of the guys can get him. Hell, I'll go out there and get him right now. I'm not scared of Colby Taylor. We have leverage on him."

I laugh. Yes, we do. But we're not sinking to his level. I wipe the tears away and find the plastic bags our suncatchers came in and give them to Linzi for Sofia.

"You know what? I'll be okay. Solomon was the one thing that was constant on the Spence Burks-Colby Taylor search, and I found all my answers. I found everything I needed. Surfer boy needs Solomon's light more than I do now."

"So we're leaving him?" Linzi asks.

"Yeah," I say nodding. I imagine him hanging there, sparkling blue, next to all those jars of paper stars and the drumsticks. He's surrounded by Shark's photography, surfboards, and Dexter.

"He's in good company," I say more to reassure myself than Linzi.

After dinner, Miles pops open a can of beer and chugs some of it, then raises it in the air.

"Toast!" he yells out. "To my boy, Topher – for his win today and for being the badass surfer that he is."

Topher holds up his hand to stop him. Then he raises his bottle of Ocean Blast Energy. "No, this one is for Shark McAllister, who taught me how to surf. And to my brother Vin, who taught me everything else."

"Hell yeah!" Kale says. He stands up and raises his beer can. "To all of you – for making me a part of your jacked up Hooligan family."

I wait just a second to make sure no one else is going to interrupt before I clink my Dr. Pepper can against Linzi's. Like Kale, I feel so insanely blessed to be here with this jacked up Hooligan family, to be surrounded by people who see the best in each other and don't take a second of their time together for granted.

The party moves outside, but I know the night's winding down. All of my things are packed. There'll be no sleeping in the guest house tonight. I won't be able to sleep period knowing what I'm leaving behind here. I grab Reed's Strickland's Boating hoodie off the couch inside and walk down to the shoreline to watch the waves roll in one last time before the sun officially sets.

"Are you gonna miss it?" Topher hollers out from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder to see him coming toward the shoreline. Miles and Kale are a few feet behind him.

"Miss what exactly?" I ask once he's beside me.

He nods toward the water. "The ocean. The cove. California."

"Not as much as I'll miss the people here."

Kale snatches my cell phone from me, and Miles watches the ocean like he's contemplating the meaning of life. He's fascinating, like the ocean in a way. One moment he's pulling thoughts from the deepest depths and the next he's raising a beer can and screaming like a Hooligan.

"In case things don't work out with you and Brooks," Kale says, "I saved my number in there. And you know, if it does work out, you can still text me and get the lowdown on the Island parties."

I tuck my phone back into my back pocket and hug him. Someday he's going to make some crazy surfer girl really happy. He says that he's going to send a special prayer up for a safe trip home...and back next summer. He ascends the hill back to the house and disappears behind the privacy fence.

"I guess we're going to go," Miles says. "Topher, you riding back?"

Topher shakes his head. "Nah, I think big brother needs me more tonight. I'll see you tomorrow, though."

Tomorrow. The competition. I wish I could spare one more day to watch Miles kick Dominic's ass.

"You're going to kill it tomorrow," I say. "I wish I could see it, but I already know you will. Good luck...and an early congrats."

Miles laughs. "Don't congratulate me yet. You never know what can happen out there."

But I do know. I know that Miles will dominate because his heart is in it. He gets it – real deal surfing. He knows what it's about at the core. He's not in it for the glory.

"I'll congratulate you again tomorrow then. I'll be on the phone with A.J. getting play by play," I say.

"Well, in that case," Miles says, "after they call out my name and I pry Topher off of me, I'll find A.J. and holler at you."

He hugs me, waves a shaka at Topher, and moments later, his truck rumbles in the driveway and into the night. Two Hooligans down and I already want to cry.

Topher crams my last bit of stuff into the trunk and, by some miracle, actually gets the thing to close. He lingers around my car in that awkward way that his brother does, like there's a million things running through his mind, and he can't decide which to say or if he should speak at all.

"I don't like goodbyes," he finally says. "We don't really make a lot of new friends around here."

"I'll be back," I remind him. "Just take care of your brother for me until I get here."

He tries to smile, but it's obviously forced. "Haley, he doesn't let people in. He never really did, but after Shark died, it was like no one else was allowed into his life because he might lose them. If you don't come back, it really will kill him. And I'll be right behind him because I'm not scattering another brother's ashes into the ocean."

I throw my arms around Topher and hug him as tightly as I can. "You have my number. You can call me every single day, and I'll remind you that I'm coming back," I say. I pull away from him to see his face. "And closer to time, we'll even count down the days."

He looks like a battered puppy, and for once, I see icebergs in his eyes too. He seems so fragile and scared. I know it's not because I'm leaving but because he's not sure how my leaving will affect his brother.

We walk back to the guest house to grab my keys. Everyone else is outside now. I wish tonight could've been about just celebrating Topher's win rather than saying goodbye. I wish there weren't any goodbyes to be said. I wish I could stay here forever.

Topher's arm latches around me and pulls me into one more hug. "I'll miss you," he says. "And next summer, I'm not letting you leave us again."

"That works for me," I say.

He flashes me one more smile – a real one full of sugar cube happiness – then goes back inside to avoid the finale.

Vin busies himself under the hood of my car...again. If he could've gotten away with it, he'd probably have ripped my car's guts apart to keep me from being able to leave. A.J. paces behind him, probably debating ripping my car's guts apart anyway.

Alston and Reed walk my way with Linzi, and I'm swamped with a mosaic of memories. That first night here, we walked The Strip and met Reed and Alston. Then Reed stuck me on a jet ski with A.J. and apologized with dinner at Shipwrecked, where he brought Vin into the equation. Sitting between Vin and A.J., I swore I was on Team-I-Have-A-Death-Wish. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Linzi breaks away from Alston long enough to say goodbye to Reed. Alston makes his way over to me in the process.

"That's a long drive home," he says. "Be careful, seriously." He gives me a quick hug and glances back over at Linzi. "Hey, and thanks...for giving me a taste of reality. I know you can't bring her back next summer, but you know, if you have any other friends, I'm game."

He laughs, even after I call him a perv, and grabs Linzi for a few last kisses. I hope she savors them because I don't know if she'll ever see Alston again. She'll visit me, I know, but he may be brave enough to meet a girl and have a relationship now that he's learned that the big Colby Taylor secret can be kept. Either way, Linzi has said she knows Alston can't do long distance relationships like she's sure Vin can. Deep down, I believe she's right. At least she's not in denial about Alston.

Reed breathes one of those long, heavy sighs. "I saved a few numbers into your phone. Drenaline, my dad's store, Joe's. Just any number you might need in case of an emergency or something. I think Topher and Vin had everyone else covered for you."

"Thanks," I say. I go to pull his hoodie off to return it, but he stops me.

"It looks better on you anyway," he says. "I'll make you a list this semester of which professors not to take when you move here. I'll repaint the guest house before then. And I'll keep A.J. out of trouble til you get back, but then he's all yours again."

I hug him and inhale that pineapple detergent smell one more time because I know it won't stay on his hoodie forever. "I'll miss you, Strick."

He laughs. "I wondered how long it'd take before Vin and A.J. wore off on you. They're the only ones who call me that, so I knew you'd be next."

Vin slams the hood shut, but A.J. keeps pacing.

"I'll miss you too. Be careful," Reed says. He pulls away and heads over to the front porch to join Topher, who apparently changed his mind about watching the finale.

I lean against the back of the car and wait for A.J. to make his way over to me. He's been avoiding this moment even more than I have. He doesn't say anything when he walks over to me. He just wraps me up in a long, quiet hug until I break the silence.

"I feel like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz," I say.

He glances behind us at Reed then over at Alston. "Does that make me your scarecrow?"

"Yeah," I say, "because I'm going to miss you the most."

I pull him back to me and hug him again. I can't imagine the next year without having A.J. around to keep me sane...or to keep things interesting. It's like he's been engraved into my world with carvings more permanent than his dragon tattoo. He's one of those people who I somehow survived nearly eighteen years without, but now I can't imagine a day without him.

"Stay out of jail," I whisper. "You have to call me every day."

He pulls back. "If you don't come back, I'm coming to North Carolina, kidnapping you, and smuggling you across the border. No one will ever see you again. Don't think I won't."

I don't doubt anything he says. So far, he's always been right. And I know he's fearless.

"You're the best friend I've ever had," he tells me. "I'm not letting you ditch out on me like the last one." He nods toward Alston and Linzi.

"You know better," I say. "I'll be back, even if you and Vin have to abduct me. Maybe you can fly out with him when he goes to see Logan sometime. Then you guys can make a detour."

A.J. glances over at Vin, who is leaning back against the hood of my car. "I'll be there. Go easy on him," he says. He squeezes me one more time and says he'll call me as soon as Miles and Dominic are up tomorrow.

I start around the car to reassure Vin of the million things I've already reassured everyone else, but A.J. stops me.

"Wait," he calls out. We meet halfway. "Look, I know how you feel about these things, but it's not a tourist trap if it's your best friend's, right?"

He unhooks his white shell necklace, the same one he's worn every single day since I've met him and God only knows how long before then, and hooks it around my neck.

I can't even argue. The tears fall down my face, and I taste the salty ocean in them. "I freaking love you," I whisper.

"I love you too," he says. "Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and rip the transmission out of your car."

Vin finally looks up from the driveway. "You know, you could call your parents and tell them your fuel pump is leaking. Or that your air conditioner is frozen," he says. "You can buy another day or so. Tell them you've got a mechanic friend who is going to fix it as soon as he gets the part for it." He pulls me against his chest, and I wrap my arms around him.

I can't look him in the eye. "It'd take forever for that part to come in, wouldn't it?"

Truthfully, I wouldn't mind. I could graduate with Topher and Kale and just stay here for good. I could live between the guest house and Vin's apartment. Maybe Colby could teach Linzi and me how to properly fake our deaths, and we could just follow in his footsteps. That was the original plan anyway.

"You've got me all figured out," Vin says.

That's so untrue. This guy is still a world of mystery. I'm just lucky enough that he's slowly letting me in on all of his secrets. He gives me one of his overprotective lectures about how I have to call him every time we stop, even if it's three in the morning. No texts because he wants to actually hear my voice and know I'm alive. I wonder if he does this to Topher as much as I think he probably does. But no matter how long he lectures me or fiddles around under the hood of my car, I still have to leave.

"I'm flying down to Florida in September to meet with Logan again. Think I could drive up and see you while I'm there?" he asks.

I pull back enough to see his face. "Definitely. I'll tell my parents that you're a businessman. That'll impress them."

He laughs. "And it's not a total lie. Just leave out the part where I dropped out of high school and did some scam artist work."

"But Honey Gold's the best part of the story," I say. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him before he can protest. It's the truth. Honey Gold is how we met.

I trace down his jaw line with my mouth until he finally eases out of my grasp. "You're about two kisses away from a busted radiator," he says. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and hands me a few twenties. "Take this."

"I'm not taking your money," I say.

"This is what I made from selling Taylor's hair dye," he tells me. "I figure if I do something good with it, it'll justify ripping off the tourists."

He leans in and kisses me again, but I stop him shortly after his mouth meets mine.

"I can't afford a busted radiator," I whisper.

"Alright," he surrenders. He walks me around to the driver's side, prompting Alston to forfeit Linzi to the passenger seat.

I reach inside and turn the key in the ignition. Secretly I'd hoped it'd choke like Miles' truck, but this is probably the best shape my car has ever been in. I turn back to Vin's iceberg eyes one last time.

"One more for the road," I say, pulling him closer. I want this kiss to last forever.

But of course it doesn't. Linzi's door slams shut, yet I can't bring myself to give in that quickly. Vin and Alston join the others on the front porch. I blow a kiss, which A.J. returns, and Topher waves the shaka at us. Tears streak Linzi's face, and I know I'm seconds away from the very same thing. I close the door, put the car in drive, and don't look back.

Colby Taylor's billboard glows in the early darkness. The highway is ghostly quiet, which allows us time to slow down and look one more time. He's still tan and shirtless and glorified next to that black and silver surfboard.

"Crescent Cove," I say.

"Home of surf star, Colby Taylor," Linzi reads.

I laugh through my sniffles and tears. "It's so much more than that."

"Definitely," Linzi replies. "So tell me, Sunshine, just how exactly did you end up with Vin Number?"

# Chapter Twenty-Four

The UPS truck halts at the curb outside of our house. I can't see it from up here in the attic, but I know the sound of it all too well. Mom probably bought more crap on QVC. It's like a terrible addiction. She's more than likely bought an entire new kitchen after that water pipe incident. Of course she's never home when Tripp brings her packages.

I stumble over pieces of driftwood, some of them pieced together in frames and some sailing alone, and leave the metal pelican near the door. I sort of think my parents just stored all of Secrets of The Sea in our attic. It'll be a while before that pelican has a new home, but I want him in my possession, just in case I do end up across the Mexican border with A.J.

The wooden ladder creaks beneath my flip flops. Tripp is ringing the doorbell once I round the corner.

"Haley," he says. "How'd the college search go? Find someplace special?"

Oh yes. Crescent Cove. Horn Island. Drenaline Surf. Strickland's Boating.

"It was good," I say instead. "Still have to graduate though before I make a final decision."

The decision is final, but I haven't told my parents about California yet. Not that I planned on telling them about the trip. I told them about the awesome college guys we met during our break in Colorado. They happen to be from California. They were scouting colleges too. It shouldn't have been so easy to lie.

"You've got all the time in the world," Tripp says. He hands over a box that is so not anything from QVC. "You want to sign for that?"

The return address is an apartment complex in Horn Island, California. Hell freaking yes I want to sign for it! I scribble my name in a totally illegible fashion then rush inside even though there's driftwood and a pelican waiting for me back in the garage.

I don't even bother taking it to my bedroom. I rip through the tape with Mom's butcher knife and land my hands on a copy of Crescent Cove's local newspaper. I already know the verdict. I heard it the moment it was announced while sitting at a gas station in Colorado the day after we left when A.J. called just as he promised. But I still squee like a total Hooligan fangirl when I see the headline.

DRENALINE SURF SIGNS HORN ISLAND SURFER MILES GARRETT

There's a picture of Topher and Miles next to the article. And there's an envelope full of actual pictures taken the day of the competition. The note included reads Courtesy of Strick. It's the next best thing to actually being there.

I drop them back into the box and rush up the stairs to hide it away in my room until Linzi can come over and see it all for herself. And that's when I see it. The large, thick envelope under the foam peanuts. They fall like chunks of snow around it as I pull it from the box.

I peel off the lime green sticky note. It's in Vin's handwriting, and for once, I think he actually tried because it's easier to decipher than his Drenaline Surf invoices.

A.J. broke into Taylor's house for this. I had to pay for a new window. A.J. said it was worth it. I hope he was right. – Vin

My heart pumps and surges like one of those Horn Island waves bouncing off those huge, jagged rocks. There's more bubble wrap in the envelope than anyone would guess could actually fit in there. And A.J.'s packing job is perfect. There are no broken pieces nor the slightest scratch.

Sunlight dances through the window and catches every blue shade of Solomon – iceberg eyes, Ocean Blast Energy, Kale's flower lei, and the Crescent Cove water.

A.J. was right.

# THANK YOU!

Thank you so much for reading CHASING FOREVER DOWN! If you enjoyed this book and want to support the series and author, please consider leaving a quick review!

Be sure to check out ROUGH WATERS, book #2 in the Drenaline Surf series. If you want to know when more books are released, sign up for Nikki's newsletter and get alerts!

#  Acknowledgments

These people deserve paper stars, sugar cubes, and a vacation in the cove. (Yes, Emily, you can go to Horn Island instead.) Thank you to...

*Brittany Oliver and Olivia Butler, for reading my manuscript when you could've been reading a published book. You've both given me priceless feedback.

*Carolyn Truong, for being my California sister and for the super sweet texts about A.J., which I still have saved on my phone.

*Rachel Schmermund, for being my forever-cheerleader; for chasing after and capturing impossible dreams with me; for Yellowcard; and for suffering through the summer heat, drunken idiots, and a "barrier" just for me to have the experience of hearing TheDavidDesrosiers sing live.

*Emily Godwin, for being the best sister ever; for being #TeamCrescent from the moment this book was a vague idea about a dead surfer and "Strickland's Ship"; for being enchanted; for Zombie Asylum; for being Miles Garrett's number one fan; for the little things, like A.J.'s dragon tattoo; and for Topher.

# About The Author

Nikki Chartier is a dream chaser, caffeine addict, and young adult/new adult author. Her books are often about surfers, musicians, and relationships. She is an avid surf fan who always wants Gabriel Medina to win and prefers cold weather even though most of her books are set in beach towns. She lives in the southern USA with her awesome husband and adorable pup.

For more information, visit www.nchartierbooks.net.
