Up toward to the road, some skateboarders are dicking around on the stairs near the showers. I hear the hollow clack of their wooden boards against metal and a slew of faint curses carrying over the sound of the waves and I figure they’re trying to master the rail.
There are two girls a dozen feet away from me. They showed up about ten minutes ago with a pack of cigarettes and a long-necked amber bottle. Now, the orange tips of their cigarettes are flaring in the dying light. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch them passing the bottle between themselves, dissolving into giggles and snapping selfies with their phones.
I force my mind blank and focus my eyes out toward the water—on the individual waves lunging at the shoreline, crawling up the sand like cold, dark fingers. Crisp air fills my nostrils and lungs, calming me.
Lulled by the sound of the waves returning to shore, my eyes drift shut and I fall in and out of a shallow half-sleep. Quiet thoughts splinter, leaving my body and floating lazily out over the inky black water like a low fog. I hear the throb of music. I feel the swirl of a night breeze over my cheek. I think about that journal—the one I’m keeping for class. Maybe I’ll write about the time Uncle Dean took me to see that Phish tribute band at the pier. We were in the back. Blue and red lights danced freely over our faces. His fingers moved through the air like he was playing guitar even though I was pretty sure he’d never picked up an instrument in his life. He looked down at me and mouthed, Do you feel it?
Yes, I feel it.
At some point, the sounds around me change and I start to dream. First, it’s fuzzy but then I’m inside of it. It’s the same one I always have. I’m on my board on a seemingly flat ocean. My hands are out, my fingers drifting over the top of the water. I know something is wrong but I don’t know what. Suddenly, my brain shrieks a warning, but it’s too late. A stepladder set of gnarly waves is closing in on me and I’m not ready. When the first one hits, I’m tossed from my board. My arms shoot out, my legs move, but before I can reach the surface, another wave hits, this one bigger than the last. With a sick sort of realization, I look down and now I see a pair of strong hands wrapping around my ankle. Cold, thick fingers bite into my skin.
I try to kick out, a burst of silvery bubbles gusting from my lips, but the fingers only tighten. I’m not going anywhere.
Just as I’m about to give up and let myself be dragged into the darkness, I sense sound and movement above me. My eyelids flick open and I suck in a gulp of air, realizing that the dream is over and I can breathe.
Where am I? The beach?
I’m disoriented and at first, I can only see the edges of my dream and the papery white stars that are patterning the steel sky. Then, things start to clear and my eyes zero in on an unfamiliar face peering down at me. “Can I help you?” I ask, startled, my heart still pounding in my ears.
The girl blinks and smiles coyly. “Sorry, I don’t want to interrupt but my friend and I saw you.” Her gaze darts over her shoulder and I realize that this is one of the girls I saw down the beach smoking and taking pictures.
“Yeah?” I sit up and push salt-stiffened hair from my forehead.
She laughs self-consciously, maybe a little flirty, and bends close enough that I can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to her skin. Okay, definitely trying for flirty. “We were wondering…” She throws in a sassy head tilt. “By any chance are you…?”
Shit. Fuckity fuck.
Now I’m awake. I hate being recognized. Hate it. It’s nothing but a running reminder of all the ways I screwed everything up and have failed. The good news is that surfers aren’t recognized the way pro-football players or musicians or actors are, so it’s not something I have to cope with every minute of the day. For obvious reasons, it happens more often at the beach.
“I’m not anyone,” I grunt, abruptly standing and spraying sand in all directions.
She starts to turn away and looks back, her face creased with disbelief. “You’re not Landon Young? Because you look like him and you—” she makes a dramatic gesture toward the water“—you surf like you know what you’re doing.”
“I said that I’m no one,” I answer, my voice increasing in volume. Maybe I should just have a sign made. Nothing to see here. Move along.
“I could have sworn. I did see him once,” she hedges. “It was before he was arrested. Such a waste, right?”
“Right.”
That’s me. A waste.
With a shake of my head, I pick up my wetsuit and board and start walking away. Behind me, she’s still talking, but I don’t answer as I climb the beach ledge to where my car is parked. I check the waterproof watch on my left wrist. Damn, I dozed off and now I’m going to be late if I don’t hustle.
I’ve cut it too close to go home to clean up and change before work so the beach showers are going to have to do tonight.
After I secure my board to the roof rack, I grab a towel and a small black bag where I keep deodorant and soap and a little mouthwash for these occasions. I work my way down the steps that lead to a small open-air patio and a line of showerheads. I turn the lever on one of them and wait for the slow drip to turn into a steady trickle. The water smells like traces of salt and sulfur and feels slimy on my skin but at least it gets the sand off my body. I dunk my head under the cool stream and scrub my hands into my hair, substituting fingernails and some soapsuds for shampoo.
I use my towel to dry off and provide a little privacy while I strip my shorts and get into my unofficial work uniform: dark jeans and a wrinkled but clean black shirt. Before I put the small black bag in my car, I pop two little Tylenol tablets and wash them down with the plasticky, lukewarm swish left in my water bottle.
Aunt Zola’s, the restaurant where I bartend isn’t far from the beach access, so I decide I have just enough time left to stop off and grab a cheeseburger from one of the food carts parked along the main drag. This particular cart does a burger right—Monterey Jack, spicy chili peppers, lots of crunchy lettuce and red onion.
I’m chewing my last bite as I park in the employee lot and stalk toward the side entrance of the building.
I wipe hot mustard from my chin and do a check of the people funneling toward the main door of Aunt Zola’s, showing their IDs to Corey and Alec, the bouncers on duty tonight. The crowd looks good for this early on a Friday. Tips should be decent.
There’s a girl hanging back near the street. From this angle, I can’t make out much of her face—just a hint of chin, the tip of a nose and the soft arc of one cheekbone backlit by the red lights flaring overhead, but I feel an odd tug. She’s medium height with long brown hair that swings around her arms. Her shoulders are drawn in and her arms are wrapped around her middle like she’s holding herself together. She’s got a blue dress on that shows off her spindly legs and I guess that’s what’s hooked my interest.
My heart beats a little faster as I greedily trace the outline of her body and study the pale skin between her shoulder blades. She lifts her head then and says something I can’t make out. Before I know it’s happening, she’s sucked forward, enveloped into the throng of people in front of the bar.
My lashes lower fast and hard, snapping me out of my trance, but it’s already too late.
The girl is gone.
My stomach clenches and a strange sensation spreads across my chest, hot and cold all at once. It takes a second for me to place it and when I do, I scratch my head and suck in a breath. Disappointment.
Hashtag: FUCK.
Do you feel it?
Trying to banish the feeling with a hard shake, I pull my keys from my back pocket and let myself in through the oversized metal security door. I check my watch one more time before hiking across the hall and calling out a murky hello to Tish, who is bunked down in her office doing paperwork. I duck through the kitchen, grabbing a few carrot sticks from one of the prep stations to get the taste of peppers and mustard out of my mouth. Micah, a lanky figure standing over the grill, nods and asks me about the waves tonight. I
tell him about the south swells predicted for Trestles and Del Mar over the weekend then I’m pushing my way through the swinging door that leads to the main floor of Aunt Zola’s.
Music, voices, tinkling glass, the chime of metal on metal. I was right about the crowd. We’re so full that it’s stifling in here.
When I step behind the bar, Jamie greets me with a rushed Thank God.
“Miss me?”
“Vincent and Margo are handling the high tops,” he says, pouring an ounce of well vodka into a cup and topping it with soda water and a squeeze of lime. “I’m going to let you deal with the bachelorette party out on the patio.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I say, my eyes scanning the perimeter for raised hands. Hell, who am I kidding? I’m checking for the girl in the blue dress.
“They’re getting wasted and frisky. One of them just came up here and asked if she could take a picture of my penis for some sort of checklist.” Then he’s directing me around the bar.
“Two Bicardi and Cokes. Highball!”
“One Kahlua shooter!”
“Bourbon. Neat.”
Orders are shouted. Drinks are mixed and poured. Money is exchanged.
I ignore the ache in my body and keep my head down as I work. Stoli and pineapple. Bud Light in a glass. A line of pickleback shots.
“Bartender!”
The impatient demand pulls my head up.
Bartender.
This is who I am now.
Forget about Landon Young, rising surf star.
He doesn’t live here anymore.
CHAPTER FIVE
Gemma
At night, the reedy streets crisscrossing the boardwalk seem to be alive.
Electric lights spin overhead, their scattered neon trails painting intricate red and green patterns on my skin. People are everywhere—weaving past a small food cart at the end of the block selling chili dogs and fried cheese sticks. They spill from shadowy club entrances to the sidewalk, trickling into the street in disorganized lines. I see them melt away—almost liquefying as they slide into stopped cabs, move smoothly through shadowed entryways and sweep around the corners like particles of dust.
I step over the curb, stop, tuck my hair behind one ear and close my eyes. A soft wind gusts through a wide gap between two one-story buildings, carrying the tangy zing of cloves and cooking meat to my nostrils.
“You coming?”
A question. Lightly asked—more curious than annoyed.
My eyelids flutter. The lights are back, coming into focus. Julie is watching me, concern knitting her face.
“Yeah. Sorry, I needed a minute.”
Then we’re moving through the crowd with Smith and Claudia in the lead. They seem to know everyone here, including the bouncers at the door.
I smack my lips and adjust the outfit Julie forced me to wear. I hate it. I look like a Forever 21 dressing room threw up on me. No lie. I’ve got on a wide pleather belt that I think is reminiscent of something Wonder Woman would put on if she was pretending to be Diana Prince for the night, and on my feet are these mile-high glittery black heels that Julie insists are perfect man bait. Whatever. Earlier, she referred to the electric blue scrap of fabric I’m wearing as a “dress,” but I’m pretty sure she’s mistaken and the thing is actually some kind of bandeau bra or horribly impractical neck warmer. Even in L.A., the land of boob jobs and butt implants and Botox, this would be considered stripper gear. It’s so short that I can feel the air creeping up my inner thighs and the stares on my pasty legs.
“Stop it. You’re killing it,” she assures me for the hundredth time as she grabs hold of my elbow and drags me up a short flight of stairs.
“You likey?” Claudia shouts over the thump of live music.
After a few blinks, my eyes adjust to the low light and the world steadies. I take in the packed tables, the dancers and the four-man band jamming out on a large half-moon stage cut out between two barn-style purple doors. To be perfectly honest, my expectations coming in had been pretty low, so I’m pleasantly surprised. “It’s great!” I yell back, meaning it.
The restaurant is cool. It’s hip, but not in an obvious kind of way, which is actually the hippest kind of hip. Think people who shop at Whole Foods. Think tortured, tattooed musician in a pair of black Buddy Holly eyeglasses. Think East Bay.
Nothing matches but everything goes. The walls are covered in an eclectic mix of funky artwork. Near the hostess station is an oil painting of a Chihuahua wearing a black derby hat and a bowtie. Above a row of green leather booths I spot a wire plant shelf lined with a collection of bizarre looking ceramic cats.
Claudia stands on her tiptoes. “I think some seats at the bar are opening up. I’m going to grab them!” She calls out, lunging away and taking Smith with her.
Julie and I are slow to follow. We take our time weaving past the dining tables and through the horde of swaying sweaty bodies on the dance floor. When we finally reach Smith, he lifts a glass sparkling with a frothy green concoction and asks, “So, what are we having?”
“Shots?” Claudia suggests.
Now I look to my left and see that she’s standing behind the bar. There’s a small white towel thrown over her shoulder.
“You work here?” I ask, my eyes bugging from my head. I seriously hope she didn’t crawl back there as some kind of practical joke. Getting kicked out of here is not what I need right now.
“Yeah.”
“This is why your margaritas were so amazing?”
“This is why,” she replies, wiggling her eyebrows at me until I can’t help but laugh. “So what’ll it be? Another margarita?”
“Umm…” Julie hikes up her skirt and squirms her way onto one of the barstools that Smith has saved for us. She looks over the colorful bottles lined up in neat rows across the shelves at the back of the bar and studies the long line of craft beer taps. “I think I’ll change it up and go with a Lava Flow.”
“What’s in that?” I ask her.
Julie shrugs and makes a popping sound with her lips. “It’s pink and frothy, and it tastes like cotton candy but gets you drunk. Who the hell cares what’s in it?”
Sounds reasonable to me.
“How about you?” Claudia asks me.
Still maneuvering myself into place and tugging on the bottom of the blue dress, I tell her that I’ll be fine with water.
Julie’s head whips around. “Water?” she sounds appalled. Like I just said that I crave the taste of raw kitten flesh and the blood of a newborn infant. “What is this—amateur hour? I’m totally confuzzled.”
“You’re what?” I laugh.
“Confuzzled. As in confused… puzzled… seeking understanding or divine intervention.” She closes her eyes on a long blink and frowns. “Did you miss the memo about coming out tonight to drink away your feelings and find you a man? We’re on a mission, Gem.” She pauses and says very slowly, her voice full of seriousness, “Possibly a mission from God.”
I bite down on my bottom lip and look away. “Remember that I’m broke. Like soup kitchen broke.”
“Pshhh!” She blows off my concern with a hand wave. “Tonight is on me. You can get me back when you’re rich and famous.”
I watch her lift two fingers to indicate to Claudia that we want two Lava Flows. “No, Jules. I’m already staying at your place. I can’t sponge drinks off of you too.”
“No arguments, Sayers. We’re here to toast your independence!” she crows and swings around on her stool to take in the scene. “Let’s see. A rebound guy for you and a perhaps a tonight guy for moi.” She bobs her finger. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Catch a rebound by the toe. If he smells bad, let him go. My best friend said to pick the very best one and you are it!”
I follow the tip of her index finger to a tall drink of water in dark-rimmed glasses and a plain white shirt.
“He’s cute,” I concede.
“Gay,” Smith says blandly.
“How do you know?”
He lifts his eyebrows at me and blinks. “Trust me. I know.”
“Figures.” Julie’s mouth puckers. “What about Mister Manly over there?”
This time, her eyes and finger are on a bearded man-boy with a wide-legged stance and massive shoulders. He’s got on black boots and a plaid shirt that is stretched tight in all the right places. I get the feeling that he’d be able to wreak some havoc on a Rugby field or take down an ox with his bare hands. “He looks like he’d have you begging for mercy by the end of the night.”
“Um, do I want to be begging for mercy?” I shift my feet and wiggle my butt. The stool I’m on is wobbly and I can’t seem to get comfortable.
“Hell yeah you want to beg. Don’t you see what I mean about the lumberjack vibe?” she murmurs, her eyelids drooping and her lips parting for air.
“For all we know that guy could be a firefighter or play football or be someone who knits tea cozies with his grandma.”
“I don’t care. He’s still got it.” In a sing-song voice, she goes on to croon, “It’s goin’ down, I’m yelling timber!”
“You better move, you better dance!” I finish the familiar lyrics for her and we both snort in laughter.
Smith puts his hand up beside his face and turns away. “It’s going to be that kind of night, isn’t it?”
Julie glances at him then bursts into another round of laughter. “Aw, lighten up.”
Someone bumps my arm. It’s Claudia. Her hands are full of our drinks and some napkins. “Is Smith being a grouch?”
“He’s being a guy.” I smile, enjoying the newfound camaraderie with Julie’s friends. When was the last time I felt like this? In L.A., everyone we hung out with belonged to Ren in some way or the other.