Riptide (Rock Stars, Surf and Second Chances Book 2) Read online

  RIPTIDE

  a Rock Stars, Surf and Second Chances series novel

  by

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  MICHELLE MANKIN

  * * * *

  Riptide

  ROCK STARS, SURF AND SECOND CHANCES series

  Copyright © 2017 by Michelle Mankin

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Surfers.

  With your sandy feet walking through the sidewalks of OB.

  With the way you run toward the surf

  as if the answers you search for lie within the waves.

  I believe they do.

  This one’s for you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Author Note

  2015 – Present Day

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  15 Years Ago

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  2015 – Present Day

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Epilogue

  Newsletter

  Preview of Rock F*ck Club

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Author Note

  Riptide is a standalone within the Rock Stars, Surf and Second Chances series, but does contain characters and story lines from the previous book.

  Our story begins

  where Outside ended

  in the year 2015

  2015

  Present Day

  Chapter One

  Ramon

  The surf was coming in big on the Southern California coast, head height crests with nice clean barrels. As good as it got. I turned the nose of my board toward the beach to claim one. Grabbing the rails on take-off, I stalled my momentum and pumped the trough hard, glimpsing blue sky through the crystal curtain that curled over my head. I kicked-out at the last moment. The barrel exhaled its last breath of cool spray as it collapsed behind me. Exhilarated, at one with the water and my board, I grinned.

  I paddled out again, repositioned and repeated the pattern. I slipped into a zone where endless loops of lonely silence gave way to the piercing cry of the gulls and the insistent roar of the ocean. It had been a long-ass time since I had surfed this particular location beneath the shadow of the Ocean Beach Pier. Three years to be exact. A weary sojourner returned home, pleased to discover that the regulars remembered me and graciously granted me the go ahead on every wave I chose.

  The sun sat high in the cloudless sky when I decided to go in. An arc of ocean spray trailing my back like a cape, I round carved off the top of my final ride and drove though the churning white foam toward shallow water. It seemed a shame to stop when the surf was this sensational, but I couldn’t ignore the grumbling of my stomach or the trembling in my legs. I had been at it since daybreak. I was exhausted. Time to call it a day.

  I hopped off my board in waist deep water and waded the rest of the way in. Dropping the nose of my board to the ground, I bent over at the waist and unfastened my ankle leash. Straightening, I shook out an ocean’s worth of saltwater from my hair creating a brief but torrential downpour that the sand readily absorbed.

  The curls on my head significantly drier, I tucked my board under my arm and headed for the public parking lot above the beach where my Explorer awaited. Skirting a turreted, multilevel sandcastle crowned by mounds of artfully arranged kelp, I noticed that the sidewalk that had been deserted earlier now bustled with tourists and locals. The beauty of the Pacific, the iconic OB pier and the spectacle of the surfers drew crowds as eclectic as the tattoo parlors, shops and bars on palm tree lined Newport Avenue as it meandered downhill toward the sea. Reality crept in eroding away my surfer high as I neared the steps and their voices washed over me. I still found it difficult to achieve more than random moments of serenity when the best parts of my life lay in memory, the beloved players swept away on the currents of time. My best friend who had been as close as a brother. The woman who had held my heart in the palm of her sweet hand though I had never let her know it.

  “Ramon Martinez.”

  I paused in the middle of the sidewalk blinking my mind free from the dense fog of the past. I angled my head in the direction of the speaker, narrowing my gaze on a petite, vaguely familiar young blonde with purple streaks in her hair. She returned an engaging double dimpled smile.

  “Do I know you?” I
inquired, moving toward her. She stood behind the lifted tailgate of an old rusted Subaru. My gaze shifted to the guy beside her. Around my height, his feet were sandy and his slicked back hair was nearly an identical ebony shade as my own, though less curly.

  “Yeah, from backstage,” Purple explained. Her half unzipped wet suit revealed a curvy figure, and she had pretty features, but she was at least ten years younger than I was, and the mystery behind her casual regard didn’t intrigue me the way it once might have. It only reminded me of another.

  “Sorry.” My lips lifted along with a satirical brow. “That doesn’t narrow things down much. I get introduced to a lot of chicks after shows.”

  “It was a month ago, at your last performance,” the guy clarified, his grey eyes narrowing. “We’re friends of Simone’s.” Well that made things a little easier. I remembered her taking me around to meet people backstage at the after-party at Humphrey’s. Well, maybe keeping me upright after too many glasses of celebratory champagne so I didn’t fall flat on my face and look like an idiot was more accurate. Simone Bianchi was an old friend with a kind heart. She had been there with the Dirt Dogs years earlier on the So Cal mini tour that had launched us into the big time as a rock and roll band. Mostly out of the picture since those heady times, she had recently reunited with our lead singer, Lincoln Savage, after a long separation that had been wrong for both of them.

  “I’m Tasha Rusak.” Purple’s name jogged a memory loose. “And this,” she hooked a ringed thumb to her companion, “is Patrick Donegal.” He lifted his chin in response.

  “You’re the bassist.” The specifics started to come back to me. “In a local band, here in OB. I’m sure you told me the name, but for the life of me right now I can’t remember it.”

  “Free Wave.” Tasha nodded her head vigorously, obviously excited that I had recalled that much. She shouldn’t have been. Our meeting mostly stuck out in my mind because she had been cute, and a bit of an oddity as there weren’t a ton of female bass players.

  “You told us you might be able to give us some pointers. Maybe even some marketing advice. We sent you a demo,” Patrick prompted, pulling Tasha in closer and throwing a protective arm around her shoulder. I got the message loud and clear. They would be grateful for any help, but I shouldn’t expect any between the sheets payback.

  “So what did you think about our sound?” Looking nervous, Tasha twirled a violet strand of her hair while her companion played with the string that tied her bikini top around her neck.

  “Honestly, I haven’t had a chance to listen to it.” I had been out of town for the past month in Hawaii with Diesel Le. Our band’s woman hating bassist had invited me to his place on the big island. Anxious to escape the inevitable flurry of questions about what I was going to do with the rest of my life now that the Dirt Dogs had disbanded leaving me unofficially retired at the age of thirty-three from the only career I had ever known, I had readily accepted his offer. But Diesel had spent nearly all of the time that we weren’t surfing trying to convince me to start up a new band with him. I wanted the best for him. After all, he had stepped up and had my back after Dominic ‘Patch’ Campo’s funeral when things had gone south for the rest of us. Drugs with Linc and his cousin, Ashland Keys, our drummer. Disinterest and depression with me. Patch’s untimely death had hit everyone hard. Diesel was a good guy and a fantastic bass player, almost as good as Patch had been. But I wasn’t the least bit interested in starting over again with him or anyone else. Fifteen years of living on the road had been enough. I wouldn’t mind if I never stepped foot on a stage again. For me things had never felt right since my best friend’s departure. The Dogs were broken, and the one guy who could always fix things was never coming back.

  “I’ve gotta get going.” I hooked a thumb in the direction of my SUV. “I need to swing by Mona’s to get a replacement leash before she closes, but I promise I’ll give your stuff a listen after dinner. I’ll email you later tonight. Will that work for you?”

  Tasha smiled and nodded enthusiastically. And Mr. Protective even relaxed a little. I remembered the days when the guys and I had been as revved up about our music. For me it had once filled the void between hookup after meaningless hookup. But it didn’t have that power for me anymore. Nothing did.

  Chapter Two

  Karen

  “Where you off to, Sunshine?”

  “To work Daddy. I’m covering for Simone at the surf shop, remember?”

  “That’s right.” He nodded and scratched the top of his head, mussing what little of his grey hair that remained. The way he studied me, squinting hazel eyes like my own over the rim of his glasses, he reminded me of one of my Yale professors from my college days. “You wearing a bikini top to work?”

  “No. I’m going to catch a few waves first.” I grabbed one of the slices of bread as soon as it popped up from the toaster. My dad slid the two eggs he had been frying onto the plate and turned off the burner. Moving the empty pan to the back of the stovetop he turned toward me. The wistful expression he wore gave my heart a pang.

  “Wish I could go with you.”

  “I wish you could, too.” He was the one who had taught me how to surf. I missed him beside me out on the waves, missed the conversations on our walks to the beach. But the memory lapses he had been having lately made it unsafe for him on the ocean. At my mom’s insistence, he had reluctantly given up surfing. She saw how it pained him, but since his Alzheimer’s diagnosis, she had become increasingly protective. Through good times and bad, they remained constant to each other, the affection between them as strong as ever. I knew that she was doing what she thought was best. “I love you, Daddy.” I wrapped my arms around his only slightly soft middle and laid my head on his shoulder feeling more settled about my decision to come home to Ocean Beach.

  “I love you, too. But stay a minute,” he cajoled. “You’re always in motion nowadays. Eat one of the eggs I made. You’re too thin, and I only want one anyway. Let’s just talk the way we used to.” My chest squeezed tight with regret and guilt, twin emotions that were my constant companions.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.” I took a step backward. “Sure, I’ll have one. I love your eggs.” I pulled out a chair from the weathered kitchen table that bore the evidence of my childhood, including teeth marks on one end from my terrible twos. As an only child, I had been lavished with love, but I had always wished I could have shared the affection my parents focused on me with a sibling. But like so many others, that wish never came to pass.

  Sweeping sorrowful thoughts aside, I took a seat across the table from my dad. We ate and made small talk, yet I savored every word knowing the man whose love and wise counsel I had always relied upon was slowly slipping away. After I helped him clean up the kitchen, I hugged him again, braided my hair and stepped into the garage. Towel around my waist, I shimmied out of my shorts and bikini bottom and slid into my wet suit. Stowing the clothing and my towel in my black and pink Roxy backpack, I threw it over one shoulder and removed my favorite powder pink and lime green surfboard from the rack on the wall. I used the control panel to close the garage door. Flip flops snapping with eagerness, they ate up the sidewalk as I headed downhill toward Sunset Cliffs. The residential streets I navigated lay quiet, the craftsman bungalows, the Cape Cod clapboard houses and the Spanish style ones with Mediterranean influences still asleep as I passed by them. The fronds of the palms rustled softly forty feet overhead in the predawn breeze. The star jasmine clinging to fences and walls clotted the humid air with its rich floral fragrance. My thoughts inevitably slid backward on the long walk to the water from my house, but too many ghosts haunted the pier for me to contemplate taking the shorter path there.

  The dramatic bluffs and arches at the cliffs remained indistinct shadows in the low light rather than colorful like a russet sunset when I reached them. I kept to the designated path heeding the warning signs about the crumbly footing along the edge. At the staircase down to the water, I grasped the steel han
drail, wet with dew in my grip and cold like lost dreams. I descended the steep stairs, the surfboard awkward in the tight space and the concrete unyieldingly hard beneath the thin soles of my flip flops. The roar of the ocean chastened me for my caution, tempting me to take the steps two or three at a time.

  When I finally made it to the bottom, the sun broke free, turning the sky from grainy grey to a sugary cotton candy pink. The expanse of the Pacific filled my vision as far as my eyes could see, and the boom of the surf soothed me the way nothing else in my life currently could. I filled my lungs with deep draughts of briny air and scrambled quickly over the slabs of uneven rocks. I set my board down on a flat sandstone outcropping, slipped off my shoes and dropped my bag. A moment later I had my ankle leash fastened. I lowered myself into the ocean, wading into deeper water with my board floating amiably beside me. I scanned the horizon, not surprised that only a few other hardcore types had preceded me. Boards pointed toward the deep ocean, legs dangling off the sides, they bobbed on the surface like seals in their dark wetsuits. All guys today as usual. I would have to wait my turn for a decent ride. Still a little wary of the interloper in their all boys club, nonetheless they gave me lifted chins of grudging respect once I started carving up the waves. I might not be as fluid on the water as I had once been before a move to New York City to take a position with Roxy’s East Coast Division eight long, lonely years ago, but after surfing every single day for over a month I was getting there.

  I ducked my head into a large wave as it crested over me. Surfacing on the other side, completely drenched, I blinked the salt from my eyes and my worries from my mind. I scrambled into position on my board. If the surf cooperated, I planned to attempt a full air rotation. I was pretty confident I could pull it off. Though there hadn’t been any waves in Manhattan, there were plenty of skate parks. I had taken to skateboarding religiously needing the physical outlet to cope with the nearly paralyzing anxiety that had plagued me whenever Dominic had been away. Well, he was gone forever now. Nothing remained but my regret and guilt. Since I wasn’t allowing myself the option of drowning myself in wine anymore, surfing would be my therapy. It would have to do. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from searching for him on the waves.