Chasing Riptides

This novel is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers. Events and persons depicted are of a fictional nature and use language, make choices, and face situations inappropriate for younger readers. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. Cover Design: Maria @ Steamy Designs Cover Image: Wander Aguiar Cover Model: Philippe CHASING RIPTIDES Copyright © 2023 Aly Stiles All Rights Reserved CHASING RIPTIDES CONTENTS CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 EPILOGUE CHAPTER 1 MATTY I’m not okay. I’m not fucked, but I’m not okay. My stomach churns with old alcohol and older trauma as I squint through the sunlight at the silhouette stirring beside me. Zoey promised last night was going to be lowkey. A few friends, nothing more. We were both still messed up from the night before, but then again, Zoey and promises aren’t exactly synonymous. I should say, Zoey and keeping promises don’t mix. She makes plenty of them—usually while drunk and/or high, that are subsequently forgotten the next day. I’m just as good at ignoring them, so I guess it works. “Why are you awake already?” she groans, smacking my chest like I intentionally woke up hours before I wanted to. Lately, I mostly wish I didn’t have to wake up at all. The slap of her hand on my skin reverberates throughout the cathedral ceilings of her bedroom. “Shit, Zoey. That hurt.” “Don’t be a baby. And why’d you leave the blinds open?” She throws her arm over her face to block out the morning light streaming through the giant windows. “Not my fault your entire house is made of glass,” I mumble, kicking off the blankets and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. My head spins, stomach grinding from last night’s mistakes as I press the heels of my palms against my burning eyes. “What’s the point of an oceanfront property if you can’t see the ocean?” she snaps, clearly missing the point, as usual. “Whatever.” I push up from the bed and shuffle toward the windows to manually close the offending blinds. Somewhere there’s a remote for this, but who knows where in this mess. The housekeeper is due tomorrow, so maybe she’ll find it. I’ll add it to the list. I kick my way through rumpled clothing and empty bottles. There are even a few used condoms on the floor that aren’t mine. The main bedroom is supposed to be off limits to guests but apparently that’s another rule that’s stopped being a rule. Then again, it could have been Zoey who dragged some dude back here while I was on the beach getting wasted. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s cheated on me while I was just a few yards away. Is it even cheating? We barely tolerate each other anymore. She’s using me for my name and my body. I’m using her for… her house? No idea. I don’t even know what the fuck we are. Surviving, I guess. Or not surviving. My brother Lex wouldn’t think so. He’d be pissed if he knew how I’m living—and have been living since I returned home to New Jersey for the summer. He and his girlfriend invited me to take the extra room in their posh new condo in L.A. when they moved in together this past May. Hard. Pass. It’s bad enough Lex will always see me as his baby brother. The last thing I need is to be his actual dependent again. I definitely don’t want Mr. Responsible looking over my shoulder and pointing out all the ways I’m screwing up. Besides, he’s finally found peace and happiness after the shit life we’ve had. He and Lydia don’t need me moping around and ruining their fairytale HEA. This isn’t the first time in my life I’ve been homeless. Probably won’t be the last. Even though we’re no longer roommates, we’re still bandmates. In fact, our alternative rock band Falling Back North has legitimately taken off, but since we’re between tours and supposed to be working on a new album, I’m not needed at the moment. It’s no secret Alexandre Silva is the heart and soul of our music. He writes the songs, holds us together, and drives us forward. He’s the talent and visionary that’s willed us to success. Me, I’m just the face. While he runs the show, my job is to take off my shirt and smile pretty for the cameras when the label calls. Matty Silva: on-call sex symbol. We once heard the suits on a conference call say they couldn’t care less about my voice as long as I’m working out and staying fit. Guess they thought they were muted. Lex tried to convince me it was probably a joke. I tried to convince him it didn’t gut me. If only they saw me puking those guts out in the bathroom last night. Here’s your sex god, ladies and gentlemen. Slap that on a poster. Ironic laughter hurts too much, so I force it away as I close the blinds for Zoey and start toward the door. “Where are you going?” she calls out. “To get water.” “Bring me back a sports drink?” “Sure.” I’ll need one too if I have any hope of surviving my beach run. This mansion is enormous. Great for parties, not so much for the morning after when your head is about to explode and each step brings another wave of nausea. Maybe I’ll skip the run and just hit the home gym extra hard this afternoon… once I can stand without assistance. Zoey’s parents must have spent millions