Surf & Surrender Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One - QUINN

  Chapter Two - QUINN

  Chapter Three - SAWYER

  Chapter Four - QUINN

  Chapter Five - QUINN

  Chapter Six - SAWYER

  Chapter Seven - QUINN

  Chapter Eight - SAWYER

  Chapter Nine - QUINN

  Chapter Ten - QUINN

  Chapter Eleven - QUINN

  Chapter Twelve - QUINN

  Chapter Thirteen - SAWYER

  Chapter Fourteen - QUINN

  Chapter Fifteen - SAWYER

  Chapter Sixteen - QUINN

  Chapter Seventeen - QUINN

  Chapter Eighteen - QUINN

  Chapter Nineteen - SAWYER

  Chapter Twenty - QUINN

  Chapter Twenty-One - QUINN

  Chapter Twenty-Two - SAWYER

  Chapter Twenty-Three - QUINN

  Chapter Twenty-Four - QUINN

  Chapter Twenty-Five - SAWYER

  Chapter Twenty-Six - QUINN

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - QUINN

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - SAWYER

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - QUINN

  Chapter Thirty - QUINN

  Chapter Thirty-One - QUINN

  Chapter Thirty-Two - SAWYER

  Chapter Thirty-Three - QUINN

  Chapter Thirty-Four - QUINN

  Chapter Thirty-Five - QUINN

  Chapter Thirty-Six - QUINN

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - QUINN

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - SAWYER

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - QUINN

  Chapter Forty - SAWYER

  Chapter Forty-One - QUINN

  Chapter Forty-Two - QUINN

  Chapter Forty-Three - QUINN

  Chapter Forty-Four - SAWYER

  Chapter Forty-Five - QUINN

  Chapter Forty-Six - QUINN

  Chapter Forty-Seven - QUINN

  Chapter Forty-Eight - QUINN

  Chapter Forty-Nine - QUINN

  Chapter Fifty - QUINN

  Chapter Fifty-One - QUINN

  Chapter Fifty-Two - SAWYER

  Chapter Fifty-Three - QUINN

  Chapter Fifty-Four - QUINN

  Thanks for Reading!

  About Riley

  Acknowledgements

  SURF & SURRENDER

  A Summer Love Novel

  Riley Edgewood

  Copyright © 2015 Riley Edgewood

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

  Cover designed by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations

  ISBN (ebook) 9780986213045

  http://rileyedgewood.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  QUINN

  IN THE LONG run, the difference between a bruised heart and a broken heart is huge. But in the short run? It's really freaking hard to tell what that difference is.

  I sit high above the sand with the late-day sun beating on my no-longer-pale skin, contemplating heart things while I watch the ocean. Or rather, while I watch the one idiot in the ocean brave enough to take on riptides as strong as they are right now.

  If I wasn't working, I'd be out there with him.

  A storm's supposed to hit the coast in another couple hours. Though maybe it'll be here sooner than that. Angry-looking clouds are rolling across the sky in the distance, and the ocean's already rough enough to have scared almost everyone off the beach. Huge barrel waves curve along the surf, breaking clean for what seems like miles. My fingers itch for my board, which is currently slung in the back of my Jeep.

  Instead, I keep my gaze on the blond-headed kid who's almost too far out in the water for my comfort. Well, not really a kid. A teenager, probably only a handful of years younger than me. Standing there, the water up to his skinny waist, letting brutal wave after wave crash over him. Granted, he gets up every time he's knocked down, but…sloppily.

  I lift my shades to get a closer look, and instantly regret it, slipping them right back down. They say blue eyes are the most sensitive to the sun, and, boy is it true. I have to wear sunglasses even when it rains half the time.

  Or, the past few weeks, even when I'm indoors.

  To hide the signs of crying.

  The thing is, I'm a bit of a crier. Always have been. But these past few weeks? It's been waterworks central. And, while every now and then a few tears fall because I'm sad, mostly these days they come because I'm just so damn mad.

  The blond kid's friends are calling to him now, standing at the foot of the ocean. I can only make out a few words through the choppy pre-storm wind, but I hear "hungry," and "beer," and "Kelly's," the last most likely a reference to a local bar none of them are old enough to drink at. He doesn't turn around; his only response is to flip the bird over his shoulder. The motion is terse, full of attitude. Something tells me this kid's got even more anger swelling in his veins than I do.

  But for now he's facing his battles with the water, and his friends are calling for him to meet them later. And I'm stuck here lifeguarding, uncomfortable on the seat of my rickety wooden platform, wishing I had my board.

  Wishing the bruises over my heart would just freaking heal already. Because I know from experience how much worse it could be.

  * Heart Conditions According to Quinn *

  Bruised Heart

  Description: Achy. Heavy.

  Cause: Julian Daniels

  Diagnosed: Three weeks ago.

  Remission? Just about. Hopefully.

  Broken Heart

  Description: Flayed. From the inside out. Torn in two. No, screw that. Torn in millions.

  Cause: Sawyer Carson

  Diagnosed: Four years ago.

  Remission? Yes. Definitely. I never, ever think of him anymore. Mostly.

  * * * * * *

  Typical teenagers, the kid's friends leave a pile of trash on the beach when they go.

  "Hey," I yell after the last of them, a burly redhead. "Pick up your shit!"

  He looks over his shoulder and flashes me a puppy-dog smile and waves, like he didn't hear me. I point to the trash can right beside him at the start of the path to the parking lot. He sticks up his thumb. And then keeps walking right down the trail between the dunes and off of the beach.

  "Jerk," I mutter. The wind picks up an empty chip bag; sun glints across the metallic coating as it's tossed around. A sandwich wrapper joins it a second later, and I hop down from my stand to grab everything else before there's a hurricane of litter whirling out to the ocean.

  The sand is warm and shifts under my feet, while ropes of my long brown hair whip into my eyes until I force the entire tangled mass of it back into a ponytail. I scoop up an armful of trash and half-eaten food—and plastic cups with a few sips left of beer in them. Oh, crap. These idiots were drinking?

  No wonder that kid's acting so sloppy in the ocean.

  I glance out to check on him…

  And I can't find him anywhere.

  Trash dropped, forgotten, I dash toward the shore, scanning the water.

  Did he leave with his friends and I just didn't notice?

  No.

  Shit.

  Where is he?

  There are waves for miles.

  And nothing else.

  My radio's still up in the stand—so's my whistle. I can't call this in, and there's nobody close enough to hear me cry for help. I scan the water again, holding my hands
above my eyes to help keep my view focused. Panic ricochets back and forth between my ribs.

  Wait…

  There.

  An arm thrown out, fingers extended. He's still here, in the water. He's still conscious.

  I'm updrift from him, which is perfect because the undertow will pull me toward him. I run into the water, angling myself with the flow of the current. I don't have my buoy, but it's too late for that. I can't take my eyes off of his hand—and, yes, there's the back of his head; it bobs up once, twice, before going under again—because if he gets swept away while my back is turned, the chances of me finding him again are nonexistent.

  The ocean greets me with a smack of cool water in my face, half of which I swallow. It's briny and I come up sputtering strands of seaweed, but he's still in sight. Just a few more kicks and I reach him—right as the biggest wave of the day yawns up above us.

  I curl around the kid's back to shield him the best I can, trying to clamp down on his thrashing limbs, but I startle him and he goes completely wild in my arms, tangling the two of us together as the wave thunders down on us.

  We go under.

  Actually, we go torpedoing.

  Shooting, twisting, whirling through the water until I have no idea which way is up. All I can do is keep my arms around him. And the kid? He slams his head into my face so hard, he's lucky I don't pass out and leave him to drown all alone. But I stay conscious, and I don't let go. At least he might end up having a drowning buddy. How fun.

  Salt water rushes up my nose, down my throat, into my eyes.

  We spin for hours.

  And then my shoulder plows into solid sand and through the shock of pain, I know it's my chance to get us above water. I squeeze him tighter and scramble to find purchase for my feet, finally able to propel both of us up to break the surface.

  Air. In my starving lungs. Even half full of water, they suck in so much oxygen they might burst. I scissor kick and do my best to keep both our heads above water. But the ocean is already sucking us back under, and there's nothing I can do to keep us from getting tossed around again.

  My sinuses are on fire and I'm coughing underwater and then there's nothing left in my lungs to release. They burn, greedy for another breath. And this damn kid won't stop flailing. No wonder we're always taught to never, ever go in for a rescue without our buoys, because I can't lift him on my own.

  He's bringing us down and for the first time in my life, I'm scared I'm going to drown.

  Stop struggling! I mentally beg so hard I wonder if it reaches him, because he finally goes limp in my arms, letting me guide us with the water instead of pulling me against it.

  A second later I'm able to break the surface again. This time closer to the shore and after a few strong kicks, the kid's body jolts when his feet run into the sand.

  He twists away from me, scrambling for the shore and falling to his hands and knees, spewing out seawater.

  I manage to make my way to him, rubbing a hand on his back, saying "You'll catch your breath soon. Let it all out," before I'm retching, too.

  When I'm done, I don't know whether to kiss this kid—because oh my God, we're alive!—or freaking deck him because he almost killed me.

  Well, on second thought, I wouldn't kiss him. Not after all the vomiting.

  Decking, however, isn't out of the question. But for now, I rub between his shoulders until he's done. When he is, he flips onto his back and squints into the sky.

  And I stop breathing all over again.

  I know him.

  It's been four years, but I recognize him like I would my own reflection.

  I just saved Jess Carson.

  Sawyer's younger brother.

  CHAPTER TWO

  QUINN

  THIS YEAR WAS the worst year of my life.

  Well. That's not exactly true. At the time, I thought I was having the best year of my life. Which was also incorrect. So, so incorrect.

  And now?

  Now I'm staring at the brother of the boy who did give me the worst year of my life, almost four years ago.

  "Jess?" I can't stop rubbing my eyes, like maybe I'm not seeing him clearly. I pat the top of my head for my sunglasses, but they're long gone, swept away by the ocean. "What…? I mean how…?" I can't come up with the words to ask.

  "Yeah, I'm okay, thanks for asking," he snarls at me. He snarls at me. The boy I once thought I'd know forever but haven't seen in eons. He shoves up into a seated position, his chest still heaving.

  Confusion is a drug and I'm spinning.

  He looks like Sawyer. Blond, shaggy hair. Green eyes. Sharp chin.

  Even covered in sand and seaweed, bedraggled and out of breath, and glaring at me, he's the spitting image of his brother in my memory.

  It takes everything I have not to allow my whirling emotions to spin me straight back into the past with Sawyer. Because the last time I saw him? He looked just like this. Though he never glared at me like he wished I'd curl up and die.

  "Take a picture, it'll last longer," Jess snaps. "Get off of me." He yanks his shoulder out from under my hand. I hadn't realized I'd reached out to him. Maybe I wanted to see if he was real.

  "Is Sawyer here?" The question funnels up from my belly and shoots out of me so fast I don't have time to try to stop it.

  I haven't said his name in so long—haven't even allowed myself to think it—my throat tightens as the shape slips out.

  Sawyer.

  "Fuck you." Jess shoves to his feet, flinging wet sand everywhere. Even into my mouth, which is hanging open.

  Because, whoa. Just when I thought nothing else could shock me today, he cusses at me.

  Jess, who once was twelve and wore braces and blushed whenever I was around and giggled when I tickled him.

  Jess, who once was nine and so nervous to go on his first sleepover that he cried. Sawyer teased him, but I told him the story of how I wet the bed at my own first slumber party, which made him laugh. And then he hugged me and I think I started to love him before I even started to love Sawyer.

  This, though? This is not that same boy.

  I spit out the sand and scramble after him, wincing at the pain that explodes in my shoulder when I push myself up. "Wait."

  He stalks away, ignoring me.

  "Jess!" Shouting slays my already raw throat. Scraped up from too much salt water. Tense from the lingering tightness over long-buried memories.

  He spins. "What?"

  "I… I have to write a report about the save." Not the line I meant to go with, but the fury across his face has me biting my tongue on anything more personal.

  "I was fine. You're the one who almost killed us." He turns away again—and stumbles to his knees. Stumbling a second time when he tries to get up.

  I rush toward him. "You need to get checked out. You could have—" Then the smell hits. Booze rolls off him in waves. "You're drunk."

  "So?" He stands, unsteadily, and I grab his arm to keep him from walking away.

  I do the math. "So you're sixteen." Holy shit, Jess is sixteen. How did he get so old? How did the anger in his eyes become so ancient?

  "Like you didn't drink when you were sixteen." He pushes me away, a little harder this time. "Leave me alone, Quinn. I'm fine."

  Hearing him say my name is almost as shocking as everything else. It's been so long. And his tone, once so adoring, is now annoyed. Worse than annoyed. I dig my toes in the sand, wishing I didn't have to look up at him to make my point. I'm not short, but he is tall. Almost as tall as his brother. "You almost drowned."

  "No, I didn't." His breath is sour from alcohol and it hurts my heart.

  "You drank half the ocean." I rattle off the things he needs to get checked for. ARDS, hypoxia, swelling in his brain—but he shakes his head.

  "I'm fine."

  I reach out to take his pulse, but he snakes his wrist out of my hand like he's been burned. Which burns me in turn. Right in the heart. "I get that it's been a long time, but…what did I do t
o deserve this attitude?"

  His expression darkens and he looks away, not answering.

  "It's okay." I'm dying to reach out again, to squeeze him, because underneath all that anger, he looks so lost. "Talk to me, Jess. What are you doing here?"

  Is your brother here, too?

  Your dad?

  Are you all back? The family I thought I was a part of for so many years?

  I don't ask the questions burning through me, but maybe he sees them when he looks at my face because he shakes his head and says, "You don't know me anymore, and I don't owe you anything."

  "Maybe that's true." My tone comes out sharper than I intend, probably to combat the way he's hurt me. "But you do have to let me call an ambulance. You do have to get checked out."

  "You can't make me stay."

  I glance down the beach. There's nobody left in sight and the last of the sun is about to be swallowed by gray. I still haven't called this in. "Even if you're fine—of which I'm not convinced—I could get fired if I let you go without a report."

  "Like I give a shit." And he really, really looks like he doesn't. Which would be fine, but I'm pretty sure I could tell him I'd die if I let him go and he still wouldn't give a shit.

  I wonder how to categorize this kind of heartache. "What is wrong with you?"

  "Nothing. Just leave. Me. Alone." His eyes are a lighter green than his brother's, and they're flashing with so much steel I take a step back.

  I study him for a moment to gather control of my thoughts. Of my emotions.

  He's not wheezing and his breathing's back to normal. So that's something, I guess. "You're not driving anywhere, are you?"

  "I'm not that stupid."

  "Well, you did go into a super rough ocean while drunk and almost drown."

  But he's already walking away. He swipes up a ratty towel—I actually recognize it from years ago—and kicks one of the empty chip bags as he passes the spot where his friends were set up earlier.

  "Nice," I call after him. "Glad to see you still care about the environment. Oh—and you owe me a pair of sunglasses."