Lorelie Brown - Riding the Wave

On the front walk, he was slipping his sunglasses on when the door opened behind him. For half a second, he thought it would be Sage, wanting a word when their mom couldn’t hear. But when he turned, Avalon stood on the front stoop.

She looked entirely different from the way she had at the beach, but in a way she was still the same. Her hair had been dried and maybe even styled somehow so that her bangs weren’t just pushed out of the way. A thick fringe grazed above eyes that looked greener than they had this morning as well.

The biggest change was the fact that she was wearing way more clothes. The red bikini halter top was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a disappointingly respectable blouse. Not even a hint of cleavage. At least her skirt showed off a couple solid inches of smooth thigh above her knees.

Slender fingers hooked into her dark gray bag. “We should talk.”

“I think we did that this morning.”

Her soft-looking mouth quirked. “Something’s come up.”

It was weird as hell, looking at this version of Avalon and mentally layering it over the version he used to know: thin, wiry, and way too young. But that version was long gone, and he pushed the memory away. This was Avalon now. She was the one he had before him. Ignoring the past was what he was good at, after all.

“Do you mind if we don’t go back inside?” Being in what had been his father’s house had been bad enough. He’d had to employ intentional tunnel vision to make it past all the photographs and framed covers and his father’s trophies. All the things that said what an awesome guy Hank was. No way could he do it again so soon.

She shrugged. “No worries. C’mon, we’ll walk up the block to Manna’s.”

“Where?”

She struck out walking while she laughed at him. “I keep thinking of you as a local. But that’s not quite right anymore, is it?”

He let her draw even before he started moving. She smelled like coconut and toasted sun and everything good he remembered about California girls. Plus, underneath it, something different. Something tastier that called right to the bottom of him, made him want to lick and suck. And bite. “No, I don’t think it is. I . . . I don’t think I’m a local anywhere right now.”

She slanted a sideways look at him. The cross-strap of her messenger-style camera bag did delicious things to her tits, lifting them and pressing the cotton of her blouse against them. “That’s got to be one of the saddest things I’ve heard in forever.”

“Didn’t mean it to be sad. Just is.” He didn’t have to measure his steps to walk alongside her. She moved with ferocity of purpose, intent and quick. Though her legs had to be shorter, she clipped along too fast for it to be a problem. “Don’t feel bad for me.”

“Oh, I don’t.” She grinned. A quick flick tossed her shoulder-length hair over her shoulder. Now that it wasn’t soaking wet, the sun picked out red strands to caress. “Not in the least.”

“Nice. You’re real sweet—you know that?”

“You can’t have it both ways, dude.” She turned her face up toward the sun for a second. When he’d spotted her on her board, she’d been like that too. A true sun worshipper, probably. He couldn’t blame her. He had the same instinct. Get to some water and sun and the rest of it would all shake out. “If you don’t want me to pity you, you shouldn’t get your panties in a twist when I don’t.”

“When you put it that way.” He gently pushed his shoulder into hers. Not hard. Not enough to toss her off balance, but enough so that he felt that skin again. She was everything bright and soft. “So what makes it so sad, then?”

“This,” she breathed. Her hands found the back pockets of her skirt, thrusting her shoulders back.

They’d come to the end of the road, where it dead-ended in sand and a footpath tracked through the reedy plants staking their claim at the very edge of the beach. Cars and trucks squeezed in where they could. The heat of the crystal-clear summer day meant the entire expanse of beach, all the way to the ocean, was a sea of people. Dark hair, brightly colored swimsuits, tan-and-blue sun umbrellas. All of it covered the pale sand.

Some surfers bitched and moaned about San Sebastian. Said it was too crowded, too commercial. Tourists flocked in from miles around to fill out the small town. Tanner had always loved the contrast. In the morning, he could claim waves that ranked among the best in the world. In the afternoon, it’d all be handed over to inlanders so they could get a taste of wildness.

“You gave up all this. Apparently for nothing, if you don’t have a home.” Something sad darkened her eyes into a stormy color. “I could maybe get it if you’d chosen something else instead. But . . . nothing?”

Yeah, thanks. Like he needed any reminder of how bad the last few years had sucked. Of the kind of choices he’d been left with. Words burned his throat but he choked them down. She didn’t deserve to take the lashings from all the tension he carried.

He’d have to do something soon to work off the buzz riding his skin. Maybe he’d grab a board and hit the water, if he could get through the crowds. And the freaking tide was out too, now that he thought about it.

He’d have to find another outlet. He couldn’t help the track his gaze took toward Avalon. She’d be a spicy little armful—if she had any intention of giving him the time of day.

Though she had been the one who wanted to talk to him. Maybe she had more illicit purposes after all.

He couldn’t help the little spike of amusement. Yeah, right. He was starting to believe his own hype. Too much more of that, and he’d be Jack Crews. And as useless a surfer too. He and Jack had made about the same amount of money through the years—lots of it. But Jack’s attitude had suffered. “C’mon,” he said, shaking free of his own head. That was a dangerous place to be too long. “Where are we headed?”

“This way.” She turned south, then led the way down the beach about a hundred yards to a beach café slash bar. The door they pushed through was weathered to look like driftwood and the interior was cool and dark. The entire west wall was nothing but banks of open glass doors. Dark wood fans swirled air around in a lazy effort to add to the salt-tangy sea breeze.

There were tables outside, all of them crowded with pasty white or lobster red tourists who clutched frothy drinks. The tables inside were half empty, as if it were a sin to come to the beach and not get all the sunstroke possible. At the far end, a nest of tables had been pushed together and seats dragged up. All of them were occupied by surfers.

Tanner recognized many of them, including James Montcrief, and so did Avalon from the way she smiled and waved. In fact, there was Jack Crews sitting at the head of the tables, as if Tanner’s very thought of him had drawn the man. He forced his mouth into a smile and gave two tips of his fingers.

“Avalon, sweetheart, why’re you keeping such shitty company?” Jack called. His eyes were narrow, but Tanner had heard plenty of chicks coo and giggle over him. He pushed his seat back and patted a knee. “You know I’ll always make room for you.”

“Like she wants to fight through your hordes,” provided James. It was surprising to see him in town, since he’d left the World Championship circuit behind to become a free surfer. He must have been visiting Beth Harmon, his fiancée.

“Sorry, Jack,” she answered. “We’ve got business to discuss. But maybe if you behave yourself I’ll grace you with my presence later.”

Business, did they? That certainly put an end to anything he’d been supposing. Probably had something to do with the way she’d been asking about WavePro earlier that morning.

“If anyone can keep me on my toes, it’s you,” Jack said with a grin. His teeth were so white, he’d probably had a recent bleach treatment.

Tanner didn’t hate the guy, but he didn’t understand him, either. Jack seemed to go out of his way to court inlanders and kiss publicity ass. He drank too much, partied too hard, and he’d lost freaking heats in important competitions because he’d been hungover. Absolutely unprepared. But his sponsors never let him go because he drew attention.

Considering Tanner had spent the last nine years garnering the least possible attention he could get away with, all so no one would ask him about his dad, he couldn’t comprehend.

“But please,” said another voice out of the crowd, this one low and lilting with the slightest touch of a foreign tongue. “Do think about coming back. We could use your sort of pretty around.”

A cold freeze trickled down Tanner’s spine in direct opposition to the hot air on his skin. Even worse, Avalon’s cheeks pinked with a blush. He didn’t need to look for the speaker, but he did anyway. He couldn’t help it.

Three seats down from Jack, separated by a dreadlocked, burned-out surfer stereotype and a bright-faced noob, sat Mako Wright.

His father’s bastard.

When Avalon had been thirteen, after the Wright family had practically adopted her but before she’d managed to break all the old ties of her life, she’d been at a beach bonfire that had gone very, very wrong. Too much alcohol and a too hefty sprinkling of skinheads had led to trouble once the hour got late. The air crackled with the very taste of violence, something sharp and bitter as everyone stared down enemies. Avalon had wrapped her hands around a red plastic cup and huddled into her hoodie, hoping no one would notice her before her ride was ready to go home. When an accidentally spilled drink led to a fistfight, which turned into a near riot, she’d run all the way home—a mile and a half in the dark.