Bombora

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  5032 Capital Circle SW

  Ste 2, PMB# 279

  Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

  USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Bombora

  Copyright © 2012 by Mal Peters

  Cover Art by Reese Dante

  http://www.reesedante.com

  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 the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-61372-701-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  August 2012

  eBook edition available

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-702-7

  For my father

  THIS novel would not have been possible without the immeasurable love, support, and encouragement of several special people.

  First and foremost, Virginia Modugno, my sister, editor, and indefatigable cheerleader for more than a decade, and whose late-night gigglefests I will look forward to sharing over the phone when we’re old and crotchety; Dan Di Poce, for thirteen years of never letting an opportunity to make fun of me pass him by, and for being the most inspiring person I know; Dags, for her enthusiasm, original spirit, and brilliant concept art that kept me going when nothing else could; JJM, for making me feel like a superstar, and who cried when I got on the plane; R.C. Smith, for her friendship, endless hilarity, tough love, and willingness to point out even my most spectacular feats of logic fail; Amy Gibbs and Desiree, for the amazing encouragement and invaluable editing; a very special individual who, though she prefers to remain anonymous, was present at Bombora’s conception, and whose friendship, kinship, and all other -ships I am ever so grateful to have in my life—you know who you are; Lynn West, Elizabeth North, and my editors at Dreamspinner for their tireless work, and for putting up with my sporadic bursts of OCD; Reese Dante for her arresting cover art; and finally, all others not mentioned here who bolstered my confidence with such wonderful words of praise and enthusiasm, however undeserved they might be.

  Finally, to my parents, who despite their differences never wavered in their support or the belief that I could achieve anything I set my mind to; one could truly not ask to be loved more, nor so furiously. I wish my father could be here to see his little girl finally achieve her dream of becoming a published writer, but I feel his presence in every word I write. Except maybe the dirty ones.

  —Mal Peters

  Bom•bo•ra—[ bom báwra ] n., Australian—

  1. A wave that forms over a submerged offshore reef or rock, sometimes breaking heavily and producing a dangerous stretch of broken water.

  2. The hit 1960s surf-rock song performed by the Original Surfaris.

  3. A fucking mess.

  Prologue

  Hugh

  CARDIFF-BY-THE-SEA is one of Southern California’s best-kept secrets. It may disappear in the shadow of the better-known Welsh city for which it’s named, lose itself in the bend of an unremarkable of stretch of coastal highway, but die-hard surfers aren’t fooled by such obscurity.

  They’re kind of like birds that way—if you pay close enough attention, the dude with the shortboard beneath his arm can give you the inside track on what kind of weather to expect over the next few days and when to get the hell out of Dodge, or even if there’s an ear infection going around due to some funky lagoon water. Modern-day medicine people, they are. I like to think those old-school surfer dudes knew exactly the treasure they had on their hands when surfing first became a scene out here in California; they anticipated the millions of people who would make the pilgrimage to the West Coast month after month, year after year, to experience what native Californians grow up knowing in their bones. Cardiff is far from the exception.

  Although winter is Cardiff’s best season, these beaches bring out surfers in droves pretty much year-round, from total beginners to world-renowned athletes, all of them for a taste of some of the best wave action in Cali. Even Rob Machado, one of the most gifted damn surfers going, lives less than a block away from the ocean. On weekends things can get insane, though: just try to find a parking spot somewhere. I suppose that doesn’t make it sound like the secret is that well-kept after all, but during weekdays it’s quiet as can be. That’s when the magic happens, when people turn into converts.

  I would know—it happened to me.

  Humankind has been attempting to rationalize and explain the draw of the ocean for thousands of years. Millions, maybe. Have we ever really succeeded? Perhaps the only reason no one attempted to capture the beauty of the sun-sparkling sea in the caves of Lascaux is because its beauty could never quite be adequately rendered, like an arabesque pattern conceding its imperfections to a far more transcendent and unknowable God.

  Personally, I think water fascinates us because the waves make us untouchable. On land it’s hard to run away so no one can find you, but that’s not the case in open water, where there are no boundaries and no rules. Where surfers are concerned, as long as you don’t purposely endanger another person, you’re not accountable to anyone else; the only life you’re responsible for is your own. With that freedom comes the realization that “safety” is very relative, and by no means a guarantee out here. But I suppose that’s why, when I needed to get away from Phelan Price and my brother Nate, my first thought was to grab my board and hit the surf, to keep paddling until I could see neither hide nor hair of land or my brother’s ridiculously fucked-up life. I knew no one would follow.

  The late-autumn waves are fierce, with coastal winds whipping the water into a frenzy of chilly foam and salt spray. I struggle to remain seated on my board even without paddling farther out to sea, and every so often a swell approaches and threatens to engulf me whole. When faced with a wall of water rushing toward you, there are only two choices: Go over or under. Swim for your life or drift back to shore. I’m not quite ready to go back to land yet, so instead I dive beneath each wave as it comes, a stubborn refusal that leaves me shivering and winded. The moment of being suspended beneath all that power is breathless and meditative, the seconds ticking away into infinity as the water deafens your senses and every muscle strains to keep you submerged, weightless, until reality reasserts itself and you’re thrown back to the surface with a gasp. I can lose myself in that for now. The concentration required to keep me from being swept away by the waves is almost enough to make me forget the disaster that’s been brought to my shores, but not quite.

  How did things get so complicated?

  Before moving to Cardiff, I wasn’t much of a surfer. Not much of an athlete, actually, beyond putting in my time at the gym and going for regular runs. I tried it once in Australia on a book tour, despite Nate’s warnings that a man of my size has no place on a surfboard; I got talked into taking a few lessons by my publicist, Caroline. Good photo op, yadda yadda, and apparently it’s hard to beat Gnaraloo for waves in July. At first I had my doubts they’d be able to find a board big enough for me—they breed us hearty in Alabama—but Caroline pulled it off somehow. She always does. True to Nate’s word, though, I almost died. For a while I thought my foray
into marine sports would be short, as much for my own safety as to prevent more awkward tabloid stories about Hugh Dorian embarrassing himself in a wetsuit. I had enough I-told-you-so material to last me at least two decades into my professional relationship with Caroline, if we didn’t kill each other before then.

  That’s why Cardiff kind of took me by surprise. My girlfriend, Nell—I don’t even know if that’s still the right term, since the relationship never technically ended, but “former girlfriend” doesn’t sound right either—was from there, and we visited her family a few times while we were dating. Only a few times, though, since it isn’t exactly close to where we lived in Berkeley. The plan was to visit more often after college, once we settled into our house in Los Angeles and I got my first book deal, but then the shooting happened, and all that stuff, along with Nell’s life, got cut short. Suddenly my only reason to visit Cardiff was the funeral.

  I didn’t think much about anything beyond what to say and how to act like a normal person until I found myself wandering the town’s beaches and sleepy coastal streets and realizing, hey, life here wouldn’t be so bad. Quiet. Relaxed. Just how I like it. I’ve never been one for the crowds, not like Nate. It’s probably really cheesy to pick a town based on its proximity to your dead girlfriend’s gravesite, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone accused me of being a sap.

  Besides, that was only part of it. In the bigger cities, enough people recognized me from my book jacket photos, and after Nell’s funeral I started playing with the idea of moving someplace secluded to get away from it all, to avoid the tabloids and the showbiz types and do what I supposedly get paid for: write. I also really, really needed to get away from the celebrity scene, which was turning out to be dangerous in more ways than one. I had to distance myself from the deceptive glitter of Hollywood and the person I found I had the capacity to become when escapism turned ugly. Cardiff proved to be that place.

  Because I’m not afraid to admit I’m a geek, I can tell you that Cardiff Reef is the cause of such awesome waves. It extends for about a quarter mile south down the coast, over flat, grass-covered rock that becomes exposed when the tide goes out, allowing the daring and curious a chance to wander out and explore all the marine life normally hidden beneath the water. A biologist’s dream. Where surfing is concerned, the wave off the reef is usually described as being a little slow, not ideal except for its low tides and the huge swells that move in during the winter season. There’s a peak at the southernmost point that, whether or not you’re prepared for it, is one badass tube regardless of skill or experience. North of the reef is what’s known locally as the Suckouts, swells that can challenge the most seasoned surfer with quick drops and low water levels as the waves empty into the channel. It’s no coincidence any surfer worth his salt cuts his teeth here in Cardiff.

  Caroline had her doubts about my moving here, probably because she worried about not being able to keep an eye on me, but for the most part I haven’t had any trouble. For an author, the ratio of rabid fans to people who don’t give a shit is pretty low, and in Cardiff it’s almost zilch. At first there was some excitement to have a best-selling author in the neighborhood, especially one with a troubled history like mine, but after threatening a couple of lawsuits, Caroline was mostly able to keep me out of the local papers. Not to mention I’m usually too boring to warrant much attention. With Rob nearby and a couple of other famous musicians and actors who call Cardiff home, I quickly faded into the fabric of everyday life. Hugh Dorian—though around here I go by my real name, Hugh Fessenden—is just another guy with an inflated salary and too much free time on his hands.

  Even after Nell’s parents eventually moved away, haunted by memories of her childhood, I was welcomed into the community with open arms, if maybe a few more sympathetic looks than I normally like. Pretty much everyone who grew up here knows about Nell and mourns that someone so kind and well liked should have lost her life to a mugging gone horribly awry. I took up surfing because there wasn’t much else to do, and it’s a nice way to break up the monotony of my day when I’m not out promoting a new book or struggling to justify the recent publisher’s advance. Luckily I embarrass myself a lot less out there on the waves than I used to. Some might even call me proficient.

  I wish I could say being a well-known author has made for an active social life and lots of friends, but that isn’t really the case. For one reason or another, I keep to myself. Privacy is a hard thing to come by in a small town, and I’d hate to make the mistake of divulging too much of my life to the wrong person. Writers, even the famous ones, don’t have it as bad as the Brads and Angelinas of the world, but we still see our fair share of public interest. That I’m under thirty and, I suppose, passably attractive seems to make me a natural target for gossip, especially since some of my stuff got optioned for film adaptations.

  While I can’t say it’s something I ever really worry about, there have been a few incidents to make me think twice about who I let into the inner circle. I often used to wish Nate lived closer than Ohio, but his own family was a full-time job, especially since Emilia opened her dance studio and Liam started middle school. My mom died when we were little and my dad a couple of years ago from a heart attack, so for the most part I lie low and have fewer than five people on speed dial. I talk to Nate all the time, but brothers don’t count; he just harasses me about being a bore, anyway. “How’s the free booze and groupies this week? Or did you spend another Saturday beating off to Internet porn by yourself?” is his usual refrain when he calls.

  Like I said, no one I really hang out with on a regular basis.

  Except, that is, for Phel.

  WHAT is there to tell about Phelan? Way too much and not enough. He’s both the most unremarkable and the most interesting guy I’ve ever met. To this day, I have no idea how the hell he wound up in a place like Cardiff—although how does anyone end up here? His story probably isn’t all that different from mine. Then again, he could have escaped from a circus for all I know, or fallen from the sky.

  I met him on the beach a couple of months ago while on a morning walk with my dog, Callie. He was having some trouble. Beginners take to the surf all the time around here, and normally I don’t think anything of it, but Phel stood out a bit more than the rest, wrestling with his wetsuit like it was a live animal and not a piece of neoprene. It being late July, there were a few kids gathered together for lessons, their small bodies zippering easily into the suits before they grabbed their bodyboards and paddled into the surf after their instructor. Certainly there was no rocket science involved, but this poor schmuck couldn’t seem to figure out which end of his suit was up—not what you’d call an experienced surfer.

  I probably would have continued on my way if Callie hadn’t sprinted away from me in her excitement to catch a slow-moving target. Phel looked up when he found himself under the investigation of seventy pounds of Australian shepherd.

  “Uh… hey,” he greeted me awkwardly, and his nose wrinkled in the universal sign for people who like dogs a lot more in theory than in practice. “Can I… help you?”

  The incongruousness of the question made me snort. I decided to rescue him before Callie could get any more friendly, and she whuffed happily as I approached over the sand. “Get back here,” I told her with mock sternness, and she played her little game of running back and forth across the beach between us, inviting one of us to chase her around.

  Phel wasn’t having any of it. “Is this an off-leash area?” he asked peevishly when I got close enough. “I didn’t think dogs were allowed to just….” With a look of frustration for the wetsuit, he threw it down on the sand with a lame slap.

  “What, judge people’s surfing ability?” I asked. The sun was glaring kind of awkwardly from behind Phel’s head, and I had to shield a hand over my eyes just to make out a vague impression of his facial expression. From what I could tell, he looked a combination of embarrassed and exasperated. That’s Phel down to a T—always too much going o
n below the surface to get a proper read on the guy. “Don’t think many people care round here,” I pointed out, “and Callie won’t give you half as much trouble as that wetsuit.” This earned me a glare, and a little spark of humor made me add, “By the way, it goes ass-side down.”

  “And you’re the expert?” snapped Phel. I shrugged. The gesture drew another grunt of frustration from him, then Phel motioned at the discarded pile. “I just… I’ve been cooped up for days, and supposedly surfing is the one good thing to do around here. So far it’s a disaster.”

  “Have you surfed before?” I asked neutrally. We both knew I’d already guessed the answer.

  In all fairness, Phel called me on it. “What does it look like?”

  “Touché.” I stooped, half to put the guy out of his misery and half to save him from further embarrassment, then grabbed his wetsuit off the ground and stretched and untangled the neoprene until I held out a neat person-sized article in front of me. “You should get yourself an instructor if this is your first time,” I suggested. “Waves can get pretty intense out there if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “I know even less about where to go for that kind of thing,” he answered. “I borrowed the board from… some friends I’m staying with.” There was no denying the emphasis on the word “friends” was weird, but I tried not to comment since it would only make him more uncomfortable. Say what you want about writers, but we’re pretty good at psychoanalyzing on the spot. I didn’t need a psych degree to know Phel was lying to my face about something he didn’t want to talk about. However, the fact that I had one didn’t hurt. He was definitely lying about something.

  “That’s cool, man,” I said. Before I could think twice about the impulsiveness of the gesture, given my tendency to avoid people, I extended my hand. “I’m Hugh.”