Page 37 of Deliverance

There’s hardly any other feeling to compare this rush to. Except for the wicked, heart-pounding sense of rhythm that overtakes me when I play drums.

My two weaknesses.

The greatest loves of my life.

Music and surf.

As I begin to curve the wave, an image of Drew slips into my head and plants itself there for the rest of the morning. It’s just an afterthought, a subtle reminder that the Zero Ecstasy vinyl she gave me is unpacked and waiting to be heard, but the fact that I think about her so much—way more than I think about women in general lately—scares me.

The past few days have been hectic with the new gig and I haven’t had a chance to listen to the record yet. Once the legalities were dealt with and the contract signed, I went through the entire Bleeding Faith catalog multiple times, trying to get a feel for Ashby’s technique. Leo also sent me the demos of all the songs the band has already written. We even bounced a few ideas off each other while on the phone the other night, and this—being a part of a new project—made me feel something I haven’t felt for the longest time.

Validated.

And perhaps even appreciative of this life I left behind when I ditched it for the sun of another continent.

“You good?” Grinning, Avery slaps my back when we’re making our way back to the shore, our surfboards tucked at our sides.

“Never better,” I say, and it’s the honest truth.

“You should come over one of these days. We’ll hang out. Shoot some pool.” He lowers his voice and the words nearly disappear in the noise of the wind and the ocean surrounding us. “Sable’s been taking some cooking lessons.”

I bark out a laugh. “You better have 911 on speed dial.” Avery’s girlfriend hasn’t touched a knife in her life unless it was to spread fat free butter on her celery stick. Such is the life of a supermodel, but then again, things change. People change too. “In case she accidentally sets your house on fire or puts some rat poison in your meatloaf.”

“Fuck you.” Avery gives me the finger and adds, “She’s gotten pretty decent actually.”

We draw to a halt in front of my Jeep and lose our wetsuits to change into dry clothes, all while he continues to praise Sable’s cooking attempts. It’s when we’re in the car, driving back home that he says, “Every time you come back from one of your trips, I’m half expecting you to have a wife or something.”

Holding the wheel with one hand, I reach for his forehead and pretend to check his temperature. “You have heatstroke, buddy?”

He swats my wrist away from his face and cackles. “Foreign pussy made you picky, Shaw.”

“Says the dude who’s dating Miss Sweden.”

“MissSwitzerland,” he corrects proudly.

“Oh, my bad.” We turn the corner and navigate down the street toward Avery’s house.

“What happened between you and Rachel?” he asks matter-of-factly. “You guys finished?”

I contemplate my answer for a second, my mind drifting back to the band’s final tour run and the shitstorm that surrounded us all both in the press and in our private lives. “Yeah,” I say, staring at the winding road ahead of me. “Didn’t work out.”

My short-lived and highly publicized affair with our former make-up artist made a lot of people, especially Justice, uneasy, and now that she’s fucking some European football star, everyone pretends that it never happened.

Including me.

“Sable liked her.”

“Maybe she should hook up with her then.” A bitter chuckle leaves my mouth. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Dude, I’m just saying,” Avery shouts over the noise of the engine.

“Ah… It was fucking weird at the end. She worked for us for a long time. Just felt off after the novelty wore off.”

Truth is, I don’t even remember who broke it off or whether we had that conversation. We just stopped seeing each other, and eventually, she moved on.

“Don’t shit where you eat.” Avery laughs. “Isn’t that what they say? Translation: don’t stick your dick into the wrong woman.”

I ignore him and pull up to a two-story-cottage. My eyes scan the police cruiser parked in the driveway.

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