Always Summer (8 page)

“We screwed up,” I admit, pushing my hair
back behind my shoulders. “But we’re going to fix this. Who do you
want to be? Tell me what you want, and let’s make it happen.”

He forces his sunglasses up into his hair.
“I want to be Colby Taylor,” he says, causing my jaw to drop to the
ocean bottom. “Without the drama, obviously.”

“Say that again,” I say.

He laughs. “He has a huge following. People
are excited to watch him surf. And aside from the mess with his
parents, he seems to be well-liked. Ocean Blast Energy likes him.
Shaka Magazine praises him. People turn up to see him surf, drama
or not,” he says. “I want that. I want to excite people. I want to
be one of those surfers you either love or love to hate. And you
know, I want to give back to the community and stuff.”

He reminds me of a beauty pageant contestant
– highlighted hair and a perfect tan, camera-worthy smile, and what
seems to be a genuine personality. Of course, then they like to
throw in that line about world peace or ending world hunger.

“And how do you plan on giving back?” I
prompt him. I wait for a few stammers or half-answers, but he
surprises me.

“I’ve always wanted to work with the sea
animal conservation, like saving sea turtles. They’re my favorite
animal, and there are more of them here than in Florida,” he
explains. “I like all that environmental, go-green kind of stuff. I
don’t eat as clean as Colby does, but I have more in common with
him than he realizes. Oh, and surf lessons. I’ve love to give surf
lessons.”

Surf lessons. How freaking genius! That’s
something Drenaline Surf hasn’t offered in the past. It’d give
people an experience rather than an item they bought on vacation.
They’ll remember the brand. They’ll remember the surfers. It’s
priceless – for a price.

“If we started up a program, like if we
could team up with some of the tourist venues or trip planners,
would you be willing to help with a strategy for how to manage surf
lessons? Like help head the program?” I ask.

“Are you kidding? I’d do it in a heartbeat,”
Logan says, his eyes wide and surprised more than excited. “Tell me
when and where. I’m in.”

“This is fucking horse shit,” A.J. shouts,
slamming the oven shut. “I’m not doing it. I’m not fucking doing
it, and he can fire me, and I’m done. I don’t care. I want Vin
back.”

None of us react because A.J. has been
saying the same thing for the last half hour. Reed pushes him aside
to check the boiling noodles, and Alston makes a remark about not
letting the garlic bread burn. But A.J. isn’t really here
tonight.

“Haley, you have to do something about it,”
A.J. demands. He leans against the countertop of the kitchen bar,
staring across at me. “I can’t call them. Jace is crazy.”

I don’t dare tell him, but I can see both
sides of the issue. A.J. is Drenaline Surf’s store manager. He
needs to be the professional I know he can be and just make the
call. But on the flip side, he’s my best friend and his safe haven
was destroyed to make way for a hotel. I totally understand his
unwillingness to call them and make business deals.

“They’re the only ones willing to partner
with us right now,” I tell him. “With all of tabloid crap, people
are skeptical. They don’t want to promise something we can’t
deliver, and seeing Miles on crutches and Colby’s parents on TV
really puts a few dents in the plan.”

Alston takes the bread out of the oven while
Reed douses the noodles with spaghetti sauce. They humor me with
their ease of continuing dinner without a second thought to A.J.’s
outburst in the kitchen, right in between them.

A.J. shakes his head. “They tore down my
carnival,” he says, a hint of desperation in his voice. “That place
was my home. And now there’s a big ass white hotel there with a
zillion fucking flower beds because they’re the Florence Gardens
Inn. They took my house of mirrors for flower gardens.”

But Florence Gardens Inn is the newest
establishment in Crescent Cove. They’re looking to build business.
They want epic deals that hotel guests can’t ignore. Why stay at
the Crescent Inn when you can get a package deal with specials from
Drenaline Surf and Strickland’s Boating? I mean, I’d stay
there…without telling A.J.

“Dude, I’ll call if you’ll shut up,” Alston
says. He bites into a piece of bread that he’s impatiently waited
for. “I’m pretending to be you, though.”

“You still have to go to the meeting,” I
tell A.J. “If they agree to meet with us and sign a contract,
you’re going to fake it like the rest of us.”

I may just manage the surfers’ careers, but
I refuse to let A.J. fail out of holding a grudge. I don’t like it
either, because of A.J., but Vin gave him an opportunity to lose
the stereotype and make something of himself, and I’ll be damned if
he fails.

The next morning, Alston has formally
arranged for a meeting with Florence Gardens Inn. Unfortunately,
he’s not going with us because he’s under the command of Emily and
her super training skills. Hopefully, between Jace and me, A.J. can
be somewhat reined in.

I watch Alston ring up the next sale while
Emily digs around in the inventory for new surfboard leashes. They
seem to have it under control. I wonder if I can slip A.J. away for
a while to prep him for the meeting tomorrow. Maybe we can grab
Reed for lunch and have him play the part of the hotel manager.
A.J. needs a practice run so desperately.

I turn to A.J. to suggest a trial run, but
the bell dings over the door, drawing my attention back to the
center of the room. Topher has newspapers in his hand. Miles is
booking it on his crutches to keep up with Topher’s pace. I’m
actually impressed at his speed.

“So, we sort of have more problems,” Topher
says, actually laughing through it. “It’s crazy. Like totally
ridiculous.”

He slides the newspaper over the counter. A
photo of us from the seahorse celebration is on the front page. I
catch the words ‘cult’ and ‘public relations’ before I shove the
paper away. My hands literally shake with nervousness about what’s
being said. I can’t even read it.

“I can’t,” I say, stepping back toward A.J.,
who braces my unsteadiness. “What is this?”

Alston grabs the paper before Emily can and
skims the article. “It says Drenaline Surf is an incest-ridden
cult,” he says.

He doesn’t crack a smile. If anything, he
looks disgusted and confused.

“It talks about how you dated Vin and now
you’re with Topher,” Alston continues. “And that you work for
Drenaline Surf, ‘keeping it in the family’ as they put it. It
mentions Emily and Miles too. People are actually calling you guys
Haler.”

Haler? What the hell is a Haler?

“Dude, we have a ship name,” Topher says.
He’s excited about this. How in the hell is there any way he can be
excited? This is more damage. Does he not care that Drenaline Surf
is being dragged down even more every time one of these things goes
to press?

Miles shakes his head. “Haler is fucking
stupid,” he says. “It’s like an inhaler or…some other stupid shit.
Like a redneck saying ‘halo’ or something. You know, like some
angel has its haler on crooked.”

Miles’s attempt at a southern accent is
horrendous and thankfully hilarious. I guess it could’ve been
worse. We could’ve been Tophey.

“What would we be?” Emily asks, propping her
elbow on the counter and resting her chin on her fist. “Emiles?
Em-uh-less…or E-miles? Em-iles? Ugh. Forget it. We suck. We can’t
compete with Haler.”

Alston clears his throat. “It’s bad, you
guys. They mentioned Topher and Miles being best friends since
forever ago. And that Haley and Emily hang out together. It’s only
a matter of time before they bring up the fact that A.J. and I are
your roommates.”

I hadn’t thought of that. They’ll pick us
off, one by one. The only one who may be safe is Reed because he
doesn’t work here, but his parents gave Shark this lot to build on.
Mr. Strickland helped Colby get a top-notch attorney. Reed drives
Shark’s old Jeep. And he lives with us. The connections are bound
to come out sooner or later.

After taking a deep breath, I move forward
and squeeze in between Emily and Alston. Pictures from my Instagram
account are on the page. There’s a photo of Emily and Miles as
well. She Snapchatted it to me about a week or so ago before she
posted it to her Facebook account as well.

“Make your accounts private,” I tell her.
“Now.”

I grab my own phone from my pocket and
immediately start updating my privacy settings. While I log in and
hide my life, I lecture Miles and Topher about what they can and
cannot post. No more girlfriend pictures. No more party pictures.
Be professional. Be surf-related.

I can’t believe I’m actually having to PR my
own relationship. And my friends’ relationship. This is outright
ridiculous.

“Heeey…” Alston says, dragging out the word.
“There’s a name on here. Carson? Do you know a Carson?”

My mind rolls through its internal book of
contacts, but I can’t place it. It sounds somewhat familiar, but
it’s just not coming to me.

“G. Carson? Does that help?” Alston
asks.

Topher inhales sharply. “Greg Carson!” he
says too loudly. “He’s the Liquid Spirit guy who wanted to sign
me.”

That’s it. That’s exactly how I know the
name. We met him in Sunrise Valley. He offered one hell of a deal
for Topher – a deal we never followed up on.

I lean closer to the newspaper. “Is he
quoted in this? Did he say something about us?”

“No,” Alston says, shaking his head. He
points to the byline. “He wrote the article.”

Miles yells at Topher to ‘Go left! No –
right! Left, fucking left!’ while I reread Greg Carson’s slander
for the hundredth time. Alston laughs hysterically when Topher’s
racecar crashes into a light pole and spins in circles. Miles
curses, and Topher asks for a rematch. Obviously, video games are
still most important in this household.

Reed sits next to me, glancing at my phone
every few seconds to see if I’m still on this same site. I can’t
help it. It’s like I can’t look away. I feel like, maybe, if I read
it enough, I’ll find some hidden clue as to why Liquid Spirit would
do this to us.

“Haley, let it go,” Reed says, waving his
hand in front of my phone. “You can quote that article by now. New
sentences aren’t going to magically appear.”

I close the article and put my phone down.
“I just want to know their motive,” I tell him. “If we can get
ahead of them, we can stop them.”

Reed looks at me with sympathetic eyes and a
half-smile. I know he thinks I’m crazy. I sort of want to shake him
and scream at him. He doesn’t work at Drenaline Surf. He’s not the
one who is supposed to make their image look good, no matter what.
I feel like I’m failing Shark and I’m failing Joe and I’m failing
the store. I’m failing its surfers and its legacy. I’m just
failing.

There’s a rattle on the window pane of the
kitchen door. Kale invites himself in, with Emily not far behind
him. I’m glad to see them. We need some cheerfulness around here.
Kale jumps into the video game fest with Topher and Alston while
Miles breaks away to see his girlfriend.

I stay right where I am, planted next to
Reed and a few feet away from A.J., who hasn’t said a word through
all of this.

“Alright,” Reed says, giving in. “Let’s talk
motive. Why would Liquid Spirit come after Drenaline Surf?”

“Me!” Topher shouts. He turns around and
smiles all too happily. It makes me laugh.

But all of this for Topher? Why drag Colby’s
parents into it? Why sue him? So much of it doesn’t make sense.
Liquid Spirit doesn’t need the money. They proved that when they
built the most massive surf shop in California.

“Okay, Topher is an option,” I admit. “Maybe
they’re scorned, but they don’t need the money. Topher would be a
pride thing. Who would sell them information?”

The room is quiet for a moment, aside from
the sounds of screeching tires and revving engines on the TV
screen. Then Kale says it.

“Dominic.”

The puzzle pieces begin to fit. He has all
the motive in the world. He didn’t get signed by Drenaline Surf. He
was somewhat kicked out of the Hooligans. He flunked out of
college. He arrived back shortly around the time Colby’s parents
showed up, and it was
his
party that Colby went to and ended
up on the Wall of Shame because of. He even invited Colby there to
‘get his mind off of things.’ It could easily have been a colossal
ploy to start unraveling Drenaline Surf, surf leash by surf
leash.

“Where is he now?” I ask, hoping someone
actually knows so I can track him down, kick his ass first, and ask
questions later.

“I heard he’s in Indonesia,” Miles says from
across the room. He hobbles away from Emily to fill us in. “His dad
sent him on a surf trip to get more experience, surf all the
massive waves of the world. Fucking lucky bastard.”

Kale nods. “I heard something about that. He
was in Hawaii too, which pisses me off. That asshole doesn’t
deserve to surf my home breaks,” he says. Then he shakes his head,
actually mad about it, which is unlike Kale’s easygoing nature. “My
cousins sent me pictures from the last swell that came in. Amazing
waves. I can’t believe he may have been out there surfing it
instead of me.”

I toy around with Dominic’s motive. Does he
just want to bring us down because he’s not part of us anymore? I
can’t see him caring that much. His dad can send him around the
world to surf anywhere. He can get noticed at any given moment. Vin
even said that Dominic was a great surfer, so he could easily grab
sponsorships. Maybe that’s what he’s after – a Liquid Spirit
sponsorship. The more he tells them about us, the closer he gets to
signing the deal. He has the right connections here to find out
what’s happening at Drenaline Surf. Crescent Cove isn’t
that
big. It’s still an ‘everybody talks’ kind of town.