Surf's Up Read online

  Surf's Up

  Matestone Guardians, Volume 1

  Bee Murray

  Published by Bee Murray, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SURF'S UP

  First edition. August 28, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Bee Murray.

  Written by Bee Murray.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE: RONNIE

  CHAPTER TWO: DARREN

  CHAPTER THREE: RONNIE

  CHAPTER FOUR: DARREN

  CHAPTER FIVE: RONNIE

  CHAPTER SIX: EARL

  CHAPTER SEVEN: RONNIE

  CHAPTER EIGHT: TREVOR

  CHAPTER NINE: RONNIE

  CHAPTER TEN: RONNIE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: EARL

  CHAPTER TWELVE: RONNIE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: RONNIE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: RONNIE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: RONNIE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: DARREN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: RONNIE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: RONNIE

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: TREVOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY: RONNIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: RONNIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: RONNIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: TREVOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: RONNIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: EARL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: RONNIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: BRYAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: RONNIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: RONNIE

  CHAPTER THIRTY: RONNIE

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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  CHAPTER ONE: RONNIE

  TWENTY-SEVEN SECONDS. That’s how long I stand in the doorway and watch my lying, no-good, soon-to-be EX fiance hammer into Brenda-from-Customer-Care like an out-of-shape jackrabbit running for his life. I’ve read about these kinds of situations in books. I’ve even seen them play out in movies. But all of that background is no real guidebook for when it happens in real-life. I suppose I could ask Alexa or Siri for advice. They seem to know everything. I bet they would give me some valuable insight into the etiquette required for this particular situation.

  They don’t notice when I drop my bag at my feet or clear my throat. Nope. I have to give Brenda credit, she’s selling that porn-star moan something fierce. It’s a performance worthy of applause. So many thoughts fly through my head while I stand there. Do I let them finish? Do I scream and yell? Should I dump cold water on them? Stab someone? I honestly don’t know. So I watch. Do other people do that? Awkward.

  You have no idea how long twenty-seven seconds actually is until you are living in a surreal moment in time. Watching someone you used to trust bounce vigorously off the ass of someone who recently rated you as ‘needs improvement in workplace attitude’ does not help. You know what does help? Knowing that my darling Adam only has another 45 seconds left in him. He’s only got three moves and all of them are mediocre. I think about grabbing our meal planning white board and ranking them like Olympic events. I could commentate. That would be fun. Scream for him, Brenda, if you must, it's all ending very, very soon.

  She sees me first. And, to her credit, she does scream. She screams so loudly she scares the crap out of Adam and he stumbles backward, catching his buttcheek on the edge of the dresser. It’s like watching one of those hidden camera shows, but you know, live. He falls in slow-motion, while she dive-lunges into the covers, wrapping a sheet around herself like a protective toga.

  We probably owe old Ms. Lucille in 2B an apology for the racket. She’s quite offended by what she calls ‘rowdy ruckus,’ and let me tell you, there are few things rowdier and more ruckus-like than a grown woman getting caught in a bed she isn’t supposed to be in.

  Their awkward scrambling for clothing helps me snap out of my surreal state. It triggers rage. Rage has always been a useful emotion. It’s quite versatile. It helps me get unstuck so I can get shit done. This is no exception. I force myself to count to twenty.

  “Come on, Ronnie! We can talk about this!” Adam pleads as he wiggles himself into his sweatpants.

  I don’t bother answering him. Why should I? He’s the one who literally fucked up, not me.

  Nope. I just let that comforting haze of rage flow on through me like I’m a Hulk in heels, hellbent on destruction. The picture frame on the dresser is a convenient starting point. Hearing it smash onto the floor and watching them both flinch is incredibly satisfying. I wonder what else I can smash.

  Smashing is the best. It allows one to explore creativity in new and unique ways. All of my social media ads are targeting ‘self-care’ and giving me crafting tutorials these days.

  It could be argued that destruction is good for the soul and, well, women in general just do not take enough time for self-care anymore. We don’t.

  We are over-extended, under-paid, anxious, and waiting for the next shoe to drop on a pile of crap we didn’t make. Ergo, this isn’t petty, it’s self-care. #blessedandbalanced

  Plus, learning new things is great. Did you know that maple syrup is technically not a good substitute for electricity for an Xbox? I know that now. Unfortunately, it took the whole bottle for me to really get that lesson to stick. I’m an experiential learner. #ThanksPinterest

  All of this stuff is technically mine. I bought it. Paid for it from the thankless job I’ve gone to every goddamn day while he stays home and tries to get his business running. It turns out, after three freaking YEARS of ‘market research’ there just isn’t a viable market for ‘mobile bongo drum maintenance’.

  Shocking.

  Not quite as shocking as coming home to Adam-the-Asshole getting it on with Brenda-the-Bitch from Customer Care though. No wonder her survey results are always so high, she’s full-freaking-service in the problem solving department!

  On the list of ways one could find out their partner is cheating on them, finding them balls deep in one’s co-worker isn't one I’d recommend. It’s way down the list. Doesn’t even break the Top 5. Then again, neither does Adam. Karmic poetry.

  Like an avenging angel of wrath, I bulldoze and rampage through the apartment that holds the trappings of my former life. My things are thrown into the giant yellow beach bag he always mocked. His things? I throw them into the trash. Vaguely, I hear them whispering together, but they make no move to stop me as I storm through the apartment and grab everything I want. Essentials like clothes, jewelry, and pop-tarts go right into the bag. Grandma’s afghan? Mine. His favorite video game controller? Mine now. His laundry that I spent 45 minutes folding last night? His. But the buttons on all those pants and shirts? All mine. It’s petty and it’s magnificent.

  Breathing heavily, I walk my way out to the porch with my bags thrown over my shoulder. The blinds in 2B shake and shudder and I give Ms. Lucille a grim salute.

  “All yours, Ms. Lucille!” I shout, turning back to give Adam and The Bitch a one-fingered salute. I make a note to cancel the lease whenever I get where I’m going. We’re month-to-month and the paperwork is in my name. If Adam thinks I’m going to pay for his mediocre little love nest? Hooo boy, he’s got another thing coming.

  Four years right down the crapper. Should I feel sad? Mostly I feel angry. And tired.

  I heave my bags into the cargo area of my trusty old minivan. I’ve had her since college and we don’t need to go into how long ago that was. She’s a family fleet hand-me-down. A peculiar shade of “desert yellow” that has aged into a weird vomitous color. If she had been born a Westfalia or Vanagon, she might have been the perfect vehicle for vintage #VanLife Instagram-fame.

  Alas, she was bor
n in a more generic time. A more aero-dynamic, utilitarian time. I don’t care. She’s mine and her name is Betsy and she’s 189,000 miles young. We may not be young, or polished, but goddamn it we are a team. It’s me and Betsy against the world.

  I hard-shift her into gear and peel out of the driveway. For the first time in my life I drive with no particular direction or destination in mind. Windows down, sunglasses on, I flip a coin at each intersection and let Fate choose my path.

  “To a new beginning,” I yell, raising my fist at the tomato truck that passes me at top speed, spewing red tomato guts out in his wake. He beeps his horn at me. I choose to believe it’s solidarity and not road rage.

  For thirty-eight years I’ve played by the rules. Not anymore. The rules have changed. I’m hitting the open road for a #YoLo-inspired road trip.

  4 DAYS LATER

  .

  Clunk. Clunk-clunk. Nrrrrrrrrrrrrrkkkkkk. Clunk.

  Betsy gives an almighty shudder, the van version of a long-suffering sigh, before slowing and pulling dramatically to the right.

  “You ok, old girl?” I ask, as I pat the dashboard in an encouraging way. I check my phone but the battery says 9%. I make a mental note to add purchasing a second charging cable to my list of “gas station essentials.” For now, I’m shit outta luck. There hasn’t been service in hours and I am officially out in the boonies. If there’s a difference between ‘hopelessly lost’ and ‘using Fate as a roadmap’ I’m really not sure what it looks like.

  Betsy makes another terrible creaking noise so I flip my hazards on and ease her off onto the shoulder. When I ease her into park, she makes another crunching noise and I know we aren't going anywhere else tonight.

  One of the nice things about getting out of the city is the view of the stars. It’s a clear night and they twinkle merrily above me. Unfortunately, one of the terrifying things about getting out of the city is the sheer darkness that surrounds you. From the look of things, we’ve managed to land smack dab at the crossroads of Horror Movie Death Wish and Haunted Demon Forest. Thanks a lot, Fate.

  I lock the doors and grab Grandma’s afghan before I climb back into the cargo area where I’ve made a nest out of all my earthly belongings on the bench seat. It’s less comfortable than one might think, but I’m on an adventure! Sacrifices must be made.

  I settle in with a pop-tart, determined to get some sleep. Fate’s in control. Everything is fine.

  CHAPTER TWO: DARREN

  SEA LION MC CLUBHOUSE

  “Hey Boss, we’ve got a situation. Looks like a perimeter breach of the wards out by Quadrant Five. Really minor, could just be kids looking for a quiet place to pull over. Thought we should mention it though.”

  A giant yawn escapes me as I stretch, push my shoulder blades together and crack my neck. Glancing at my watch, the green dial says 0500. Rise and fucking shine. Welcome to Saturday. Just once, it would be nice if the alarms went off at 1100, or just after lunch, or some decent time to go prowling around.

  The overwhelming majority of the time the wards go off because kids will always find a boundary and mess with it. Still, there’s something about a morning ride that is invigorating.

  “Should I send Chuck and Trev out to look at it?” Bryan asks me, his eyes still glued to the monitor.

  “Nah, I’ll take care of it. Thanks, man.”

  I grab my helmet, walk out into the early morning sunrise, and inhale deeply. The air is heavy this morning and the sea breeze blows cold. It smells like possibility. Mornings in Misty Cove are why, no matter how frustrating this town can be, I’ll never leave it. With the sound of the waves at my back, I start my motorcycle and tear out of the Clubhouse yard to do my rounds.

  The brilliant pinks and purples of another sunrise streak across the sky, welcoming the day. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s going to be one for the record books.

  Checking the wards is monotonous work, but I love it. Any excuse to ride is a good one, but getting to ride and simultaneously protect the place you love? That’s a pretty badass job. Other than a Yeti who got lost in the early 90s and triggered an alarm, we don’t really have any problems. The people who are supposed to be here, find us. Everyone else stays away. It’s why Misty Cove has been able to keep her secrets for so long.

  Quadrants One through Four are all clear, just as I suspected, but as I pull into Quadrant Five, something is very, very off.

  For starters? The world’s ugliest minivan is parked on the side of the road. Our side of the road. That’s not supposed to happen.

  Something got in. I put my senses on high alert but I don’t smell anything that would indicate any supernatural involvement. Our wards are calibrated to allow supernatural entities free passage, but humans are blocked. If our wards are down and humans can find us, that’s a risk that the Council will need to know about immediately.

  Protocol says I should call for backup, but the more I study the van, the less threatened I feel. I am fairly certain there’s only one person in there. And honestly? I just don’t get a threatening vibe from someone who would drive a vomit-colored van with a t-rex sticker on the back that reads: “My pet dinosaur ate your stick figure family.”

  I chuckle under my breath. Whatever they are, Supe, human, or something else, they sound like my kind of people.

  Walking towards the van, a peculiar sort of feeling starts in my core. I feel as if I’ve been caught on a hook and someone is reeling me in. But, instead of fear, I feel a sense of contentment wash over me. My intuition screams that this place, this person, this ugly van, is important to me and I can’t stop myself from walking faster.

  I peer through the back window but it’s too grimy to see through. Walking along the side of the van, I pass the back window and I can hear a heart beating very quickly and then a bloodcurdling feminine scream sounds from inside the van and a cascade of white foam covers me from head to shoulders.

  I freeze, sniffing the foam carefully. It’s fire foam. The person inside sprayed me with fire foam. Which makes no sense as I was not, and am not, on fire.

  Then my brain clicks. Self-defense. I scared the van resident.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am I’m not here to hurt you. I just wanted to check to see if you’re ok. You’re a long ways out here.” I call out, wiping the foam off my helmet and jacket as best I can.

  There’s no answer from the van. I see a stuffed animal in the window of the passenger side and I start to worry. Are there small humans involved? Are they hurt? Is that why the person is so defensive? That would make sense. I have no pups of my own but mothers are the fiercest warriors I have ever encountered.

  I try again.

  “Are the kids ok?” I yell, gesturing towards the van and hoping a show of compassion towards her young will calm the warrior woman inside..

  “What?” she calls back. She sounds calm but confused. I’m less worried that she’s going to attack.

  “The kids?” I point at the van again and give her a wide smile to reassure her that her pups will be safe.

  “No kids. What? You think just because a woman drives a minivan, there must be kids involved? I’ll have you know Betsy has substantial cargo space in her back end. You wouldn’t believe what you can fit back here. It’s exactly what EVERY woman needs!” She yells back.

  Clearly, I’ve offended her somehow. But I’m also distracted by the implication of putting things in back ends.

  For god's sake, Darren. You’re fully grown, not an idiot pup. Pull it together.

  She’s silent for a while and we both eye each other warily. Or at least I assume that’s what she’s doing. I can’t actually see her fully through the tinted, grime-covered windows. She doesn’t ask for assistance and I start to wonder if she should just be left to her own devices. It’s not like she’s hurting anything. Her and this ‘Betsy’ person. They seem to be just fine on their own and not a threat. I could call the Council and have them deal with it.

  “So, you’re all fine? You and....Betsy? Sorry to bothe
r you. I’ll leave you to your morning.” I actually turn to walk away and make it halfway to my bike before she calls out. The curious feeling in my chest pulls at me, encouraging me to stay, but I fight against it.

  “Um, actually? Can I borrow your phone? I need a tow truck.” She calls out in a small, irritated voice.

  A smile covers my face when I turn around, already reaching for the small phone in my pocket. An almost primal level of pride fills me at the knowledge that I can do something to assist her. I’m tempted to jog the remaining distance back to the van, but decide against it on the basis that one never wants to seem too eager.

  The van door slides open, and the occupant peers out into the sunlight with suspicion weighing her every move. Her long hair is sticking out every which way, she reaches up to push a reddish-brown curl behind her ear and I see a small silver skull hanging from her earlobe. I catch myself staring.

  This woman is intriguing.

  She has big brown eyes, flecked with green and gold, framed by long lashes and she is careful to lean away from me. I have not yet earned her trust. She reminds me of a doe I once saw. Beautiful but skittish.

  The woman is busy dumping out the contents of a large purse on the seat next to her. I watch with fascination. There are so many things in this bag, I can hardly imagine how heavy it would be to carry: gum, candy, cough drops, pens, wallet, bobby pins, tampons, ketchup packets, headphones, a parking validation sticker, mace, a portable pulse oximeter, and a crystal pendant.

  She grumbles and I want to laugh. She makes the cutest noises. The feeling in my chest grows stronger, drawing me to her.

  “So, my name is Darren.” I start. “You won’t get service out here,” I say conversationally.

  She looks up from where she was fastening some sort of necklace around her neck. “Veronica. But most people call me Ronnie. If there’s no service, why the hell did you give me your phone? Why not just tell me there’s no service?”