Bombora (26 page)

I see the other surfers kick out of the barrel, attacking the nice, steep wall of water at the end of the wave, turning neat carves and breaks for several yards before they hit the channel where the Suckouts empties into the mouth of the river. I concentrate on where best to position myself, calculating how to maintain my speed and enjoy the rest of the wave after I exit the surrounding crash of whitewater, but instead of a smooth glide, I hit an unexpected step in the water that catches the rails of my board and sends me plowing head over feet into the base of the wave. I land shoulders first in the surf.

Even through the shock of finding myself unceremoniously unseated from my board, I am aware of the sudden real danger of bashing my skull open against the reef due to the low water level. I brace for the worst, except that, somehow, my board ends up back underneath me. Instead of sharp rocks and coral, I collide with fiberglass-covered foam. Pain explodes in my back—that will be a spectacular bruise later—and the crash of so many tons of water over my head is a feeling I will never come to enjoy, but relief floods my system as I consider how much worse it could be. I feel the surfboard snap under the impact; the nose shoots up to the surface and is carried away with the rushing waves, and the other half, still tethered to my ankle, jerks free and drags me a short distance. After that is a tumble of water and air bubbles as I’m tossed along like a feather in the surf, never ceasing to try and fight my way to the surface.

The other surfers have already kicked out of the wave and are waiting for me in calmer waters, perched on their boards in a loose circle. Floating nearby is the broken half of my board. One of the surfers, a lanky brunette, extends a hand in my direction, indicating I should swim over and grab hold so I’m not treading water by myself.

“All right, bro?” he asks. Gripping me by the arm, he helps pull me on his board so I’m straddling it alongside him. “Rough ride—that tube was one steppy bastard.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I answer, smiling at him in gratitude. “Can’t say the same about my board, though. Looks like it won’t be joining me on the Suckouts again.”

“That’s a bummer,” agrees one of the other surfers. “Lucky you weren’t hurt, though. You should visit Logan and Max’s shop when you get back to the beach—they can set you up with a new ride straight away. They do good work.”

I nod, recalling a wooden hut on the beach that looks more like a shantytown shack than a surf shop, but I’d trust a local recommendation more than a four-star rating on Yelp. “I think I’ve passed by it before,” I answer. “I’ll take a look on my way home.” It occurs to me that I will receive an epic lecture from Hugh once he hears of this incident from Nate, who will no doubt kick up a small fuss of his own. Considering I’m the better surfer—not to mention a grown-ass man, as Nate would say—he still treats me like a china doll sometimes.

In a display of chivalrousness I scarcely expect, the brown-haired surfer—Ian, as he introduces himself—offers to paddle me back to shore where Nate and I stashed our gear on the beach. Much to my surprise, Nate is already waiting for me. He stands when he sees me carrying half a surfboard, sporting what Ian calls an “impressive palette” of bruises along my back and shoulders from my impromptu introduction to the reef. From the feel of things, there will probably be a few more on my neck as well, if not my face. Already my back is beginning to ache from the pummeling I took in the surf.

“What the hell happened?” demands Nate, placing a warm hand against my bicep so he can turn me around to inspect the damage. His suspicious gaze immediately turns to Ian, who backs away with his hands up. Since Nate has a generous foot and at least fifty pounds on the guy, I don’t blame him.

“I just paddled him in, man,” Ian says defensively. “His board is toast.” To me he adds, “Hope to see you out on the Suckouts again, dude. You handled yourself pretty well out there for a first-timer. Guess I’ll leave you in the capable hands of your boyfriend, but check out Logan’s work before you leave; tell him I sent you, and he and Max’ll hook you up with a deal for sure.”

Neither Nate nor I bother to correct him on the use of “boyfriend,” since it seems more trouble than it’s worth, and after Ian heads back into the ocean, I turn to my lover—“fuck buddy” doesn’t have the same ring to it—with a sigh. “Hit a rough wave,” I tell Nate sharply before he can start with the questioning. “It’s nothing, just a few bruises. I’m ready to go home if you’re done, but if you planned to do more surfing I’ll just… see you.”

Nate rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Phel,” he chides. “You may not like me, but I can still escort your broken ass back home.” I open my mouth to protest, because going to face Hugh was
not
in the evening’s plans, but Nate cuts me off with a dark look. “No way am I letting you go back to Palermo in that state, man,” he says.

His earnestness makes me snort; on his face is the same worried expression he gets whenever Hugh so much as stubs his toe or gets a paper cut, however quickly concealed with laughter or an obnoxious joke. “I’m not your responsibility, Nate.”

There’s no disguising the flash of hurt in Nate’s eyes, nor the way his hand briefly tightens around my arm in reproach. “Can you stop being a dick for five seconds and let me help?”

“Why?” I counter. “What’s the point?”

Wisely, Nate foregoes any pretty statements about his concern for me, sticking to the realm of the practical. “The point is: you need to ice that shit before you wake up tomorrow unable to move.”

I roll my eyes. “Will you drag me back kicking and screaming if I refuse?”

Nate quirks his mouth, knowing I’m only at my most exasperated before I’m about to cave. Suddenly tired, I can’t be bothered to get worked up that he still knows my tells. “Sounds about right, since I’m the one who got tied up last night.”

“Let’s just get on with it,” I grumble, flushing.

We’re halfway back to where the car is parked when we cross what I realize is the beach shack/surf shop Ian described to me earlier. Despite being sore and undeniably bone tired from sun exposure and the culmination of the day’s excitement, I catch Nate’s arm, the one not wrapped around his surfboard and my half of one, and pull him to a halt. It’s the only explanation I can think of for what proves to be a series of dubious flashes of genius to follow. “Wait.”

“What?”

“I’d like to go in here,” I say, indicating the surf shop with a nod of my head. “Ian mentioned this place earlier, said the owners produce excellent gear.” With a shrug, I add, “I need a new board anyway.”

Nate cocks an eyebrow. “You need one right this minute?”

“I did say you could go about your own business if you wanted,” I remind him peevishly. “You don’t have to come with me.”

Another eye roll, as if Nate has chosen this as his default response for the afternoon. Curious that he never just says no. “Christ, you’re such a little bitch sometimes. Worse than Hugh.”

“Is that a yes, or a ‘fuck off’?” And then, before he can beat me to it: “If you’re just going to roll your eyes
again
, I’d rather you left.”

“This better be good.”

The inside of the shack is hardly a surprise, given its exterior, though it is quite a bit larger than I expect. Rough-hewn wood and bamboo thatching give a cozy, rustic appearance both outside and in. There aren’t many frills beyond a few basic work surfaces along the walls and trestle tables that vertically bisect the main floor space. Near the back of the shop, a man wearing a protective mask is in the process of sanding down a board, his tools and materials strewn about the workspace. The “storefront” is nothing more than a simple if cheery front desk decorated with the requisite hula figures and swaths of long grass that look to have once belonged to a Hawaiian skirt. Examples of surfboards produced by the shop hang from the walls, and I don’t have to try very hard to be impressed by the intricate and colorful graphics that decorate the surface of each one, ranging from standard shortboards to longboards and even a few wooden boards. Nate, too, gives a low whistle and a muttered “Sweet,” and I turn to look at him with a smile.

Before I can comment, a tall man with a ponytail and painted nails abandons his seat in front of the shortboard he’s airbrushing and comes to meet us at the desk. “Afternoon, gents,” he says cheerfully, and I immediately pick up on a Southern accent and the scent of beer on his breath. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m, er… looking for Logan or Max,” I answer slowly, taking in his ragged cut-off shorts—inexplicably paired with the most battered set of cowboy boots I’ve ever seen—and faded red wifebeater. “A group of surfers at the Suckouts suggested I come here for a new board.”

“And right they are,” he says jovially. “I’m Logan, and the handsome devil out back is Max—he’s the boss man of our humble operation, but he lets me handle the customers because I’m prettier.”

Ignoring Nate’s snort of laughter from behind me—leave it to him to be charmed by anyone with ’70s hair and a taste for PBR—I nod and try not to let my disbelief show. “It’s just the two of you?”

“Yep.” Logan spreads his arms and gestures at their shop. “It don’t look like much, but the Maxster and I know our product, and our customers always come back with their friends. You’re kind of living proof of that, eh, hermano?” To Nate, he asks, “You looking for a board too, bro?”

Nate holds up his hands. “Just checkin’ out your wares at the moment, man, but thanks.” I absolutely don’t miss the proprietary way his free hand curls about the bare skin of my hip, and I resist the urge kick my heel into his shin in retaliation. “Some nice work you got here, though. I’ll definitely come back with my brother whenever we’re in need of new gear. Hell, he might come back on his own, since he collects enough of the damn things.”

“Man after my own heart,” says Logan, approval clear in his voice. “Would I know him?”

For a moment Nate hesitates, clearly considering the matter of his brother’s minor celebrity around town, but then he says, “Maybe. His name’s Hugh Fessenden. Big guy, stupid hair.”

Logan pauses to consider, muttering, “Hugh Fessenden… Fessenden…,” to himself as he tries to place the name. Then his face brightens. “Hey, you wouldn’t mean Hugh Dorian by any chance, wouldja? The author? He’s bought a couple custom jobs from us. Designed ’em myself.”

“That’s Hugh all right,” Nate answers, huffing a laugh. “More money than brains sometimes.”

“No way,” Logan answers with a quirky smile. “Dude that big, gotta go custom. Nice guy, though, your brother. What do they call you?”

“I’m Nate, and this here is Phel,” says Nate, still clutching my hip like his fingers have any right to be there. I twitch away from his touch hard enough that he gets the point, and his hand falls uselessly to his side.

Logan nods. “You lookin’ for something off the rack, Phel, or a custom job?”

“You do custom work on a regular basis?” I ask, stunned. I’ve seen plenty of small businesses before, but that two men are capable of running a beachfront operation, as well as producing custom orders, is a little astounding, even to the grandson of a self-made man. My father was fond of regaling my sister and me with tales of how the Price business grew from a small marketing firm of just five people and one secretary to a true behemoth of the industry. All the same, the idea of two men such as Logan and Max holding down the fort on their own fills me with moderate anxiety. If Max is anything like the average business owner, he experiences more than his fair share of panic on a regular basis too, especially during these harsh economic times.

“Well, much as we can,” says Logan. “Hard to keep up with the big companies sometimes, which is sort of why we depend on customers like Hugh to keep us in work. Not enough to keep Max from thinking of selling the place, though.”

This confirms my suspicions, though I’m not happy to hear it. “You’re selling?” A note of curiosity creeps into my voice, enough to get Nate casting a sidelong look in my direction. Like I said, sunstroke has probably addled my brain.

Before Logan can answer, the man he indicated as Max comes to the front of the shop, through with sanding his surfboard for the time being. He’s shorter than me by a couple of inches, middle-aged, and once he pulls the protective mask from his face, I can tell from his shaggy, graying hair and unshaven chin that he’s pure old-school hippie. “These fellas in need of something, Logan?” he asks. With a nod at Nate and me, he adds, “I’m Max. Logan helping you out all right?”

“Yes, sir,” answers Nate, surprising me with his formality. Apparently he, too, picks up on the note of authority in Max’s voice, aided by a steady gaze and an accent similar to Logan’s, the kind that suggests he’s no stranger to settling disagreements with shotguns when necessary, despite his appearance. It gives him a distinct “don’t fuck with me” air, though his tone is friendly enough and Nate’s voice is suitably respectful. Aloha spirit only goes so far out here, is my guess. “We were just discussing surfboards for my friend here; haven’t gotten into too many details yet.”

“You own this place?” I ask Max, wincing internally at the abruptness of the question. I can’t help my sudden fascination with the operation, despite the modest presentation and my inexplicable disappointment that it might go under. I suppose getting kicked out of the family corporation didn’t quite kill the businessman in me.

Max shifts and turns his sharp, gray-eyed stare on me. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “What’s it to you?”

I feel Nate hiss in disapproval, clearly wondering why I’m not just chatting about surfboards like any other normal customer. “I mean nothing by it,” I say, as much to Nate as to Max. “I’m impressed you’ve grown such a solid reputation from the local surfing crowd, despite the size of your business. I imagine your work must really blow everyone else out of the water, so to speak, to go up against companies like Billabong. Especially since they sponsor half the professionals in the area.”

“Don’t remind me,” Max mutters, folding his arms. “Word of mouth keeps us afloat most months, but rent’s goin’ up all the time; so’s the cost of materials. Hard to compete with the big outfits when you’re just tryin’ to break even.”