The XOXO New Adult Collection: 16 Full Length New Adult Stories (181 page)

And then...

“No.” My voice sounded hollow, tinny, to my own ears. I shook my head. “No.”

Heath gaped at me. “What are you talking about? Just Juice – they're...they're great! Solid company, man. Their first quarter earnings blew last year's out of the water. They have a shit ton of money to spend. They want print ads. Maybe a commercial. It'll take a day. Maybe two. And it's half a million fucking dollars a year.”

They could've offered me five million dollars and I still would have said no.

I shook my head again. “No. No deal.”

His astonishment morphed into anger. He reached for my arm and his fingers dug into my skin. “What the hell is wrong with you? Their reps are here,” he hissed. He nodded his head to the suits parked in the corner. They were watching our exchange with unabashed interest. “This is a fucking no-brainer, Kellen. And I told them it was a done deal.”

I looked down at his hand on my arm, then at him. His eyes widened a little at the expression on my face. His fingers relaxed and his hand fell away. I stared at him for a moment longer, a silent warning to not put his hands on me ever again.

“I don't care what you told them,” I said slowly, making sure he heard and understood. “That's your problem. But you can let them know there is no deal.”

FOUR

Kellen

––––––––

P
eople closed in around me as soon as I stepped back on to the beach. A sea of faces, a crush of bodies. But all I could see was Jay. Not the Jay I knew, the Jay who was whispering words of encouragement to me out on the water just an hour earlier. No. This Jay was different. The Jay I last saw, the Jay that haunted my memory every fucking chance it got.

A lifeless, motionless Jay, limp as a rag doll, as I dragged him to shore.

Fucking juice.

Steve Winslow, a reporter for Surfer, approached me. Decent guy, someone I'd talked to at length plenty of times. “Kellen, do you have a few minutes?”

I brushed past him.

An all too familiar blond hottie wearing her camera face, microphone in hand, approached me. “You looked great out there, Kellen. Congrats on the semifinals. Tell us how you're going to prepare.”

I just stared at her. I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I kept walking, my legs wobbly.

“Kellen,” the reporter called, her voice sharp. To someone else, she said, “Cut the damn camera.” To me, louder, “Kellen Handler. We have an interview. We're scheduled to go live in five minutes.”

I didn't stop.

Winslow jogged up to me, a hesitant smile on his face. “Dude. Lindsay is talking to you.”

I knew who she was. Reporter for ESPN. I'd almost slept with her two years earlier. But I hadn't. Because Jay had been there to intervene before I could cross that line.

And he wasn't here anymore.

Because of me.

“I don't wanna talk.” My voice was a whisper.

His smile disappeared and I couldn't tell what replaced it. A frown? A worried look? “You're the man, dude. You're the reason everyone is here. She needs to talk to you. Hell,
I
need to talk to you. But I'll give you a pass for the moment if you need it.” He glanced back at her. “She won't, though, and you know she'll go complain. You don't wanna deal with that crap right now, do you?”

I didn't care. I couldn't plaster a smile on my face and talk nonsense shit about the tour, about how the water was, about what my strategy would be for the next round of competition. I couldn't talk about my competitors, about what I expected or wanted from the tour. But, more than anything, I couldn't talk about Jay Torres.

Jay Torres. The guy I'd surfed with since I was just a grommet on the waves, unsteady and uncertain on the massive fiberglass board floating beneath me. Jay Torres, the guy I'd spent every day out on the water with, skipping school and blowing off girlfriends for wicked swells and epic waves. Jay Torres who rose to the top with me – the only guy I could talk to and joke with when we were placed in the same heat, bobbing up and down on the water as we waited for the perfect set. Jay Torres, the dude who knew me better than I knew myself, both in the water and out of it.

Jay Torres. The guy who I'd let down, who I let drown six months ago.

FIVE

Kellen

––––––––

“W
ho is this?” I asked, looking past Mark Peters, the vice president of communications for the tour, to the guy standing next to him.

I'd been called back into the tent after winning the semi-final heat later that day. I'd been ready to chuck everything and call it a day after Heath sprang the endorsement idea on me. I didn't know how I'd focus, how I'd be able to see anything except the hard-packed sand at Mavericks, Jay's limp body prone beneath me as I banged on his chest and blew into his mouth, desperate to bring him back. But, somehow, I had. I'd forced the memories out of my mind and concentrated on the water under me, on the waves that swelled behind me, on the board I straddled. I focused on the here and now.

I'd had to work a little harder to beat Davey Florence, the nineteen year-old sensation out of Florida. He was solid in the water, creative, and liked small waves. He'd come out charging and I had to focus hard in the second half of the heat when I realized I was probably behind. I'd changed my position in the water and benefitted from a couple of well-timed sets near the end, finding a couple of backside barrels on my last two rides. Somehow, I'd managed to squeak past him.

I'd walked out of the water, tired, spent. A runner met me at the bottom of the sand and told me that I needed to report to the main tent again. I asked why and the kid just shrugged.

So for the second time that day, I was standing in the tent, wondering what the hell I was doing there.

Mark Peters frowned at me. He was an older guy, former pro who, after blowing out his knee in a freak wipeout at Pipe, decided to dedicate himself to the business side of the sport. He was the public face of the tour, the one who had helped it grow exponentially and gain a foothold in the television market. In truth, he was probably the guy who helped push me into the limelight. He was a guy of few words but when he unleashed, he didn't hold back.

I liked him, but based on the expression on his face, this didn't look like it was going to be a friendly conversation.

He folded his thick arms across his chest. “What the fuck are you doing, Handler?”

“Surfing.” I raised an eyebrow. “And winning my heats.” I motioned to the stranger standing next to him, a dark-haired dude in a suit. Definitely not from the surfing world. “Who is he? And why the hell did you call me in here?”

“You blew off your interviews,” he said, his voice flat. His blond hair was long and shaggy, a holdover to his days in the water, and he pushed it off his forehead. “Again.”

“So?”

The frown on his sun-weathered face deepened. “So you're contractually obligated to grant interviews, Handler. You have to talk to the media.”

I knew this. I wasn't stupid. It was part of the drill, part of being on the tour. And even though this was the Open, the rules remained. You surf, you talk to the press. Period.

“I was busy.” Busy trying to stay sane, to not lose myself to the memory of Jay.

“Bullshit.”

I held up my hands in surrender. I knew he wouldn't let up until I talked. “Fine.” I looked at the suit. His dark hair was carefully combed, slicked back, his sideburns almost nonexistent. He didn't smile, just watched me, his eyes taking a mental inventory. “You want an interview? Let's do it.”

“I'm not here to interview you,” the guy said.

I raised my eyebrows. “No?”

“No.”

I shrugged. “Guess we're done, then.”

“Hold up, Handler.” Mark raised his hand to stop me. “Johnson isn't media.” He paused. “He cleans up images. And yours needs a massive overhaul.”

“Excuse me?” I didn't know where he was going but I was pretty sure I wasn't gonna like it.

Mark nodded. “You heard me. You're a fucking mess. You know it. I know it. Everyone here knows it. And I get it. Jay.” I flinched and he continued. “But, dude. He wouldn't want this. You making a bloody mess of your life? It's the last thing he'd want to see happen.”

“I'm winning,” I pointed out, my voice sharp. “I'm in the goddamn finals. You think he wouldn't want that?”

“I'm not talking about that.” Mark looked at me and I saw something in his eyes that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was, and I just hadn't noticed. Sympathy. Pity. “We all know you can win this. You can conquer every wave out there. No one is questioning your talent. Bigger picture, dude. I'm talking about the bigger picture.”

There was no bigger picture. At least not for me. Surfing was what I had left, was all I had left. The irony wasn't lost on me. The thing that had taken away the most important person in my life was the only thing I clung to. Desperately. Hating it and loving it and resenting it, all at the same time, a mess of tangled, fucked up emotions that still bowled me over.

“What?” I asked warily. “What's the bigger picture?”

“Life.”

I rolled my eyes. “And this dude,” I said, gesturing to the suit. His face remained expressionless. “This dude is gonna make my life better? Perfect?

Mark shook his head. “No. That's your job.”

“So why the fuck is he here, then?”

“Because if you don't shape up, no one's gonna want you.” He held up his thumb and forefinger and brought them close together. “You're running out of chances here.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling bitterly. “But no thanks. I've got this.”

The suit stepped closer. “What if we could virtually guarantee an increase in endorsements? In income?”

“I don't need any more money.” I had enough to live and to drink. That was all I needed.

Mark frowned. “Handler,” he cautioned, his eyes boring into me.

“This is bullshit.” I glared at him. “You want me to give a fucking interview, I'll give it. Point me in the right direction and I'll sit down with whoever the fuck I need to and I'll smile and play nice. But this?” I jerked my thumb in the suit's direction. “This is not happening. Ever.”

SIX

Kellen

––––––––

I
started drinking at six. Duke's was slammed, wall-to-wall people after the tournament. I'd found a spot at the bar right after my confrontation with Peters, parked myself on one of the stools at the wooden counter and immediately ordered a shot of tequila. Another shot, a beer and my anger finally began to temper.

“Lookin' good out there, Handler.” Kanoa grinned and slid another bottle of Pacifico across the bar.

He'd been at Duke's for as long as I could remember. A burly Hawaiian, he'd come stateside back in the seventies. After a brief run in the pros, he'd picked up the bar-tending job, making just enough money to pay rent to park his single-wide at Pacific Mobile Home Park and keep him in new boards. He was a good guy, always friendly, and had been one of the first to reach out to me after the accident. He'd been the one to organize the memorial, the paddle out just off the pier the week after Jay had died. And he hadn't said a word when I didn't show up. Just greeted me with a hug and a smile the next time he saw me.

I drained the first bottle. “Thanks.”

“You doin' good?” he asked, raising his voice a little to be heard over the masses of people crowding close to the bar.

I just nodded. I was doing fine. I was winning, wasn't I? Doing what people expected me to do, what
I
expected me to do. It didn't matter that Jay should have been there with me, both in the water at the competition and at the bar afterward.

I took a swig of beer. Who was I kidding? It was the only thing that mattered.

Kanoa moved to the other side of the bar and I sat and contemplated my beer. People surged closer, patting me on the back, trying to make small talk but I tuned them out, nodding half-heartedly at their congratulations. The bar was full of other surfers, guys I'd blown past in the heats, and I felt their eyes on me. I knew what they were thinking.
Why him? What the hell does he have that I don't?

The sad thing was, I didn't have the answer. I didn't try any harder than any other guy out on the water. I wasn't born with a surfboard in my hand, didn't have a dad who dragged me to the beach and into the waves before I could walk. Hell, my dad was an investment banker from Philly, had relocated us to the OC when I was three. I couldn't even say I was born into surf culture.

But it had found me. Grabbed on to me and held tight and had never let go. I lived and breathed the ocean. The waves. No distractions, nothing to focus on other than finding the perfect wave. Riding it, becoming it, releasing it. And then finding the next one. And the next one. The ocean was always there. Would always be there. Always ready with the next wave, always giving.

Except when it took things away.

Jay.

I reached for my beer again and drained it in one long swallow. The pain was sharp today, like a needle stabbing my gut. I knew why. The competition. Jay should have been there, I thought again. Laughing alongside of me, goading me, blowing through the heats with me. He'd been good. Better than good. Maybe even better than me.

I took another swallow, hoping to flush out the memories. Drinking eased the pain. Sometimes. I wasn't sure tonight was gonna be one of those times.

I signaled to Kanoa and he reached into the refrigerated case behind the bar. Held up another bottle and raised his eyebrows. I nodded.

He brought it over to me. “Drink it slow, my friend.”

I just nodded again. I couldn't. It was the only thing that dulled the pain.

I shifted in my seat and my elbow bumped into something. Someone. Something soft. I turned to apologize and a massive set of tits came into view. Anyone else might have done a double-take. I just looked up.

“Sorry,” I offered to the owner of the tits.

She smiled at me. She was blond and tan, a killer body to go with the cleavage hanging out of her white tank top. “You can bump into me any time,” she said.

I didn't respond, just re-shifted so I was facing the bar again. She squeezed in next to me, her ass pressed against my thigh.