Read Online Riptide by Lindsey Scheibe - Free Book Online

crests and Damien gets sucked up in the sweet spot. I paddle hard and kick to catch it. Oh yeah. I drop in next to him and we surf next to each other for a few seconds before breaking different directions to carve down the line. I don’t pull any fancy moves. Hanging out with Damien is chill, and it’s fun front-porching it, but I know I need to get serious and work on my 360 even on the days I’m not surfing with Ford.
    The wave fizzles out and I exit the ride.
    Damien and I paddle back over to each other. Sure, he may rub Ford the wrong way, but I think that’s a total guy thing.
    I reach Damien and say, “So when are you going to teach me how to pull an air?”
    He straddles his board, hands resting on the rails. “Me teach you moves? I thought you were teaching me.”
    I splash at him. “Oh come on. You know you pull sick airs.”
    He grins. “I might be persuaded to give you a few pointers.”
    This feels so flirty and fun. “And how does that work?”
    “I pick you up tomorrow.”
    Tomorrow is Ford’s day off. I say, “I already made plans.”
    “A girl in demand. I can respect that. What’s the rest of your week looking like?”
    I ponder, mull it over dramatically. “Friday?”
    He flashes pearly whites. “Done, boss.”

     
    Damien drops me off after a sweet surf session. When I walk through the front door, Dad’s sitting in the recliner with his lips curled in a scowl. Crap. I hate it when a case drives him so nuts that he seeks the refuge of our house. His safe zone equals me walking on eggshells. He looks ready for a fight. Fear flashes through me like lightning.
    “Hey, Daddy.” I try to sound upbeat. “Everything okay?”
    He pops up out of his chair. “Where have you been all day? I’ve been worried sick.” He greets me with a slap across the face.
    I reel backward, shocked at the sting warming my cheek. I blink a couple of times, angry at the unexpectedness. His outbursts are always random, never logical. Even on the days when nothing happens, he still has the advantage because I never know what’s going to set him off.
    “I was surfing. Remember? I told you I’d be surfing.” I fight the desire to cringe. Tears well up at the corners of my eyes. Furious, I bite down hard and stiffen my lips.
    “Yeah, in the morning. Not all damn day. And what beach were you at?”
    I put all my nervous energy into flicking my pointer finger over and under my thumb, hiding my fear. “We went to La Jolla. I thought I told you.”
    “Well, maybe you ought to write it down next time.” His jaw muscles flex in and out. Clearly he’s itching for a fight.
    I clasp my hands into a fist to still my nerves. “Jeez. I’m really sorry, Dad.”
    The veins in his neck throb and his face flushes. “Jeez” was the wrong word choice. Shit.
    My dad slaps me over and over as I run across the living room, playing dodge and retreat as best I can. When I reach my room, my escape route fails. He shoves me across my room. I land smack into my dresser, the metal handle jamming into my lower back.
    “What were you thinking? Did you think you could get away with it? Surfing all day? Are you trying to dodge your chores?” The back of his hand is poised in the air—ready to strike.
    “No, Daddy. I swear.” A small sob escapes.
    He tosses me onto my bed, knocking the mattress half off. I clench my wrought iron bedframe; fear courses through me. I have nowhere to run. I shrink back and flinch.
    Instead of hitting me again, he stalks out of the room, damage complete.
    Once he slams the door behind him, I crumple in a heap against my bedframe, cover my face, and sob without sound. Crying silently has been painfully acquired. My way of not letting him know how much he hurts me. My way of maintaining dignity. My way of pretending I’m tough. Nobody likes a whiner anyway. People ask how you’re doing, but they don’t want the real answer. They want the nice one. Your dad hits you? Forget it.
    I think about another of