Chasing Forever Down (Drenaline Surf Series) by Nikki Godwin Page A

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 n ot 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