Malibu

Malibu Elite 8 Studios Book 2 Emmy Sanders Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Emmy Sanders All rights reserved. The names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents portrayed in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electrical or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Beta Reading by C.J. Banks, Georgia Johnson, and Lauren Editing by LesCourt Author Services Proofreading by Ky Cover Design by Cate Ashwood Content Warning: This book covers mental health topics of anxiety, panic attacks (on-page occurrence), panic disorder, and PTSD. There is also mention of homophobia and the brief detailing of past “conversion therapy,” child abduction, and assault. Please take caution if this subject matter may be triggering for you. Contents 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27. Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 Epilogue A Note from Emmy Connect Chapter 1 Mal “I don’t know about this, Jerome.” “Don’t know about what?” the man asks, raising one arched eyebrow my way. I look down at myself. At the neoprene wetsuit hanging dangerously low on my hips. So low, in fact, I can see where my pubes would start if I had any. The material clings uncomfortably to my hips and legs, and I vaguely wonder if I’ll even be able to get hard in this thing, it’s so tight. A spritz of cold water jerks me from my ponderings, and I reel back a step, blinking in surprise. The production assistant, not missing a beat, steps forward and peppers a fine mist over my naked torso. Warn a guy, geez. “I don’t see the problem,” Jerome continues on as the assistant walks around me, making my chest and back glisten. “The sand?” I hedge. I realize I’m grasping at straws, but I don’t know what else to say. Jerome’s eyebrow waits, judging me. With his leather jacket, crossed arms, and no-nonsense stare, my boss cuts an imposing figure. Although not a threatening one. “Where’d you even get it all?” I ask, stretching my toes down into the soft, tawny granules underneath my feet as I stall. I wonder if real beach sand would be this clean. Jerome waves me off. “We live in a desert.” “I just…” “Spit it out, Malibu,” my boss says. Jerome runs a tight ship. He may be blunt at times, and he has a propensity for yelling on set, but he’s a good manager underneath it all. As executive producer, he’s always treated his performers at Elite 8 Studios well, so I know if I tell him I don’t want to do this scene, he’ll listen. The problem is I don’t have a valid excuse to give him. I’ve done worse things, weirder things, than lean into the surfer-dude persona that’s become my brand. Sure, I have long, blonde hair that runs in loose, wavy curls to my shoulders. My eyes are clear blue like the ocean. And my body is lean and toned. But I’m not actually from California, and I’ve never been surfing a day in my life. No one here knows that, though. It wasn’t my intention to lie, but on my first day at the studio, someone mentioned how I looked like a Cali boy, and I didn’t correct them. That’s why Jerome gave me the moniker Malibu, and that’s why everyone here thinks I really am this laidback former surfer, when that’s so far from the truth it’s laughable. I mean, I’ve never been to the coast or even stepped foot in a body of water. And with my never-ending anxiety and panic attacks, I don’t know the meaning of the word “chill,” not when it feels like I’m a rat in a wheel, constantly trying to stay far enough ahead that I don’t spin out and land on my ass. Spoiler alert: I already have. In the grand scheme of things, maybe it’s harmless—letting my coworkers and friends think this Malibu façade has some basis in reality. We’re all performers, after all. But there’s a difference between acting on set and in real life. And my real life lies keep piling up. Same as my debts. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal, playing the role of an actual fake surfer. I’ve certainly had enough practice pretending to be Malibu. Yet, as I stand here on set with my toes dipped in sand, skin warm from the artificial lights overhead, I’ve never felt like more of a fraud. I’ve let the ruse go on too long, and now, it feels as if by enacting this scene, I’ll be hammering the proverbial nail in my coffin. Sealing my fate. Trapping myself inside this impenetrable box of lies stamped “Malibu.” A box I built for myself. Melodramatic, I know. But I’m starting to feel like I’ll never be able to crawl out of the mess I’ve buried myself in and just be…me. I want that so badly I ache with it. I’m tired of lying to my friends, even by omission. I’m tired of the constant battle against my anxiety. And I’m tired of feeling like, no matter what I do, I can’t escape the demons from my past. No matter how fast