The XOXO New Adult Collection: 16 Full Length New Adult Stories (182 page)

“You're Kellen Handler.”

“Yep.”

She extended a hand. White-tipped fingernails. “I'm Mercy.”

I shook. Her fingertips trailed along my palm. The alcohol was slowly working its magic and I felt my body respond a little to her touch. Maybe I needed a different distraction. And maybe she was offering one.

“You here for the Open?” I asked.

That was all the invitation she needed. “Maybe,” she said suggestively.

I smiled at her and took a swig. She was hot. Blond hair falling over her shoulders, blue eyes lined with black eyeliner. A dusting of freckles she'd tried to camouflage with make-up. And tits the size of coconuts. Yeah, I could bury my face in those for part of the night. And bury the rest of me inside of her, too. “Maybe?”

“Maybe I'm here for the contest.” She brought a glass of amber liquid to her mouth and took a swallow. She leaned in close to whisper to me and I could smell the rum on her breath. “Or maybe I came for you.”

“Yeah?” I said. I reached out and touched her ass, my fingers squeezing lightly.

She pushed back into my hand and nodded. “Yeah.”

“And what exactly do you want?” I stopped, trying to remember her name. “Mercy. What do you want, Mercy?”

Her hand covered mine. “You,” she breathed.

The alcohol lulled me a little more and I smiled. “You got a place around here?”

I was pretty sure she wasn't local. I'd remember her if she was. At least I thought I would. But then again, faces and names had started to blend together, even more so after Jay had died.

She nodded. “Yeah. The Hilton.” She looked around for a minute before bringing her eyes back to me. “You wanna go now?”

I drained my beer and set it on the counter. “No. One more.” I raised my hand for Kanoa and he frowned. I held up the bottle and he shook his head. But he brought me one.

“Last one for a while, brother,” he told me.

I looked at the chick next to me, the chick whose ass I was still rubbing. “You good?” I asked, nodding at her drink.

She giggled. “More than good.” She reached down and placed her hand on my thigh. Her fingers trailed lower until she was groping my crotch. “And I'm gonna make you feel more than good.”

I picked up the beer and chugged half of it in one swallow. I was almost ready. In multiple ways.

I slammed the empty bottle on to the counter and stood. “I gotta take a leak,” I told her.

She nodded and reached for my hand. “I'll come with you.”

I pulled her behind me as I wove through the crowd, smiling and nodding as people slapped my back and offered congratulations. More surfers, some press, but mostly, chicks who watched enviously as Mercy walked with me, a triumphant smile on her face as we navigated our way toward the bathrooms.

I stopped in front of the men's room. “I'll be right back.”

She pressed up against me and I felt my body respond. I wasn't on fire but she was starting to hit the right buttons, her hands moving up my chest, snaking their way around my neck. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me, her mouth open, her tongue leaving a wet, hot trail on my lips. “I'll be waiting,” she murmured.

I covered her breasts with my hands and squeezed gently. “Better be,” I said, nipping her bottom lip with my teeth. I pushed away and turned toward the bathroom door and ran smack into someone.

“Oh, shit.” I crouched down. A dark-haired girl, slightly built, lay crumpled at my feet. “You alright?”

The girl got up on her hands and knees and pushed herself off the floor. She reached for her purse and glared at me for a long moment. “I'm fine.”

“Sorry about that,” I said.

She straightened her shirt. It wasn't a t-shirt or a tank top but a blouse. White, all soft and billowy like a cloud. No cleavage to speak of. For half a second, I wondered what a chick like her was doing trolling Duke's. She wasn't in the restaurant area, the part where tourists came to eat and take in views of the pier. She was in the bar with the locals and the hangers-on.

“It's fine,” she snapped, her dark eyes flashing. “
I'm
fine.” She pushed past me and disappeared back into the bar.

I didn't watch her go. Just made my way into the empty bathroom, pissed and pulled open the door that led back to the bar.

Mercy wasn't waiting where I'd left her.

But a group of guys I didn't know was. A throng of them, standing in a semi-circle, their eyes trained on me. Just behind them, I could make out a tall, slim blond. Mercy.

“What up?” I said, my eyes scanning the group. Not a friendly face to be found.

The guy in the center, a thick-necked dude with a shaved head, probably a year or two younger than me, stepped forward.

“I'll tell you what's up,” he growled. He jerked his head in Mercy's direction. “She's what's up. What the fuck are you doing hitting on my girlfriend?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Your what?”

“You heard me.” He stepped forward, his arms crossed over his massive chest. “Saw you at the bar. Hitting on her.”

I laughed. “You got your story all wrong, dude.” I wasn't gonna waste my time. “And I'm outta here.”

He moved closer, maybe a foot away from me. “No one fucks with my girlfriend.”

“No?” I said. I shook my head. “Maybe you should talk to her, then.”

He waited, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “Why's that?”

I thought for a minute. Maybe I was going to waste my time, I decided. Because I'd stopped drinking and it wasn't looking like I was going to get laid. And I needed an outlet. Even if it was this.

“Because I wasn't fucking with her,” I said, my voice calm. “She was the one ready to do the fucking. And I'm pretty sure it wasn't gonna be with you.”

I ducked just as he took a swing. Mercy screamed but I didn't look at her. Stupid bitch.

He was off balance after missing me and I grabbed him by the neck and shoved him head first into the door at the end of the hallway. The door flew open as he stumbled outside and I followed him.

The parking lot was crowded and people seemed startled as we barreled out of the back of the bar. The guy turned around and I smashed my fist into his jaw before he could get his hands up. He fell to the pavement, his hand clutching his face.

I spun around, knowing his friends were coming. The first one, a skinny guy with shaggy black hair wearing a Guns and Roses T-shirt, was already charging. I stepped to the side and punched him in the ear as he went past. He fell on top of his pal.

The third one came at me with more caution, shuffling his feet as he tried to move to the side. I feinted like I was going to swing at him, then swung my foot hard into the side of his knee. His knee buckled and he yelled, dropping to the ground on his good knee.

I took a step toward him, my vision blurred with rage, the adrenaline pumping.

“Enough.”

I looked up. Kanoa stood next to me, a bat in his hand, his arm flexed, ready to strike.

My chest heaved and sweat rolled down my neck. I glanced to my right. A crowd had gathered, clusters of people standing in groups, wide-eyed, pointing and whispering. The two guys on the ground rolled on their sides, rocking, trying to get themselves up.

“Come on,” Kanoa said to me, motioning back toward the bar. “Let's get you inside.”

I took one more look at the carnage around me, then looked at Mercy. Her hands covered her mouth and her eyes were widened in horror. Her expression was decidedly less suggestive than about fifteen minutes earlier.

“Thanks for a good time,” I said to her before following Kanoa back into the bar.

SEVEN

Kellen

––––––––

M
y phone wouldn't stop ringing. I fumbled in the darkened hotel room, my hand finally encountering the nightstand next to the bed. I grabbed the phone and glanced at it with half-open eyes.

Mark Peters. I tossed it back on the nightstand. A minute later, it rang again, signaling a voice mail. I reached for it again and glanced at the screen.

He'd called three times. And left three messages.

I sat up and stretched, rubbing the base of my neck. I hadn't been the one to get the shit kicked out of me but the tension of getting in a fight and then actually brawling meant I'd need to loosen up a little before suiting up. In more ways than one.

The phone rang again.

“Jesus Christ.” I picked it up and tapped the screen. “What?”

“What the fuck is right,” Mark yelled. “Get your ass down here. Now.”

I sat up a little, my muscles tensing. “What's up?”

“I'll tell you what's up,” he said. “The goddamn paper is what's up.”

“What?” I was confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I'm in the lobby. Just get your ass down here. Now.” The line went dead.

I pulled myself out of bed and crossed the hotel room to the front door. I cracked the door and reached for the paper at the threshold. Opened it up as I walked back into the room. Saw the top of the sports page. And sighed.

Surfer Involved In Assault
blazed across the front page. I sank back down on the bed and scanned the article. Apparently, Mercy's boyfriend just so happened to be the son of a Nike executive. And daddy hadn't been pleased that his son had gotten the shit kicked out of him, courtesy of me.

Witnesses report star surfer Kellen Handler instigated the fight. Representatives from Duke's were not available for comment. Keith Branagan, the victim, is in communication with local authorities but it is unclear as to whether he will press charges at this time.

I tossed the paper across the room. “Shit.”

I groped the floor for my shorts, found them and pulled them on. My duffel bag sat unopened on the desk and I unzipped it and dug out a t-shirt and slipped into it. I stumbled into the bathroom, a combination of sore muscles and a slight hangover making me a little unsteady on my feet. I pissed and rinsed my face, then glanced up at the mirror.

I looked like hell. Three days worth of dirty blond stubble lined my chin and cheeks. Bloodshot eyes, a small cut on my cheekbone that I assumed I'd gotten somewhere along the line in the fight. I looked more like a homeless person than a professional anything.

I doused my hair and brushed it back with my hands, then swished water in my mouth, trying to remove the lingering taste of beer and tequila. I crossed the hotel room and fished out a stick of deodorant from my duffel bag along with a container of mints. Somehow, I'd forgotten to pack a toothbrush. And I hadn't thought to buy a new one.

Five minutes later, I stepped off the elevator and into the hotel lobby. I scanned the room, looking for Mark. There was a group of tourists at the front desk, stacks of suitcases piled up next to them. I couldn't tell if they were checking in or out.

I looked to my right, at a seating area with couches and overstuffed armchairs, all occupied. Their backs were to me so I couldn't see who was seated there. Probably more tourists. Mark stood next to one of the chairs, his arms folded across his chest.

“Handler.”

I ran my hand through my hair and tugged a little on my shirt. “Hey,” I said as I approached.

He slammed a newspaper into my chest. “You better start talking. Now.”

It was the same article I'd just read in my hotel room. I knew what it said. But I reached for it anyway and unfolded it.

“Well?”

I looked up at Mark, his eyes blazing, his mouth set in a grim line. “Sorry, bro,” I said. “The dude riled me up, man. And he swung first.”

“It doesn't fucking matter.” He jabbed his finger into my chest. “You are Kellen Handler. You can't do this shit.”

“It was one time,” I said. “One fight.”

And that was the truth. I didn't pick fights. I wasn't one of those dudes with an attitude, wigging out over waves or getting freaked about getting cutting off in the lineup. Maybe part of it was because guys didn't do that shit to me. Maybe my reputation kept people at a distance. I didn't know. But I didn't go looking for fights and, more often than not, I let things go.

Mark reached for my arm and led me to the couches. Heath sat in one of the chairs, his leg bouncing nervously. The suit from yesterday was there. Johnson? I couldn't remember his name. Dressed in a white button down and a pair of charcoal gray slacks, his black loafers impeccably polished. Next to him were a couple more guys from the tour. Big shots. And sitting across from them in a floral armchair was a small, dark-haired woman. Her hair was pulled off her forehead with a glittery headband, her face like a china doll, smooth skin and pink cheeks, her lips a soft red. She was hot. Not surfer girl hot. Just hot.

She was also the woman I'd crashed into at the bar the night before.

They all stared at me impassively. A ball formed in the pit of my stomach. Not the way it had when Jay had gone missing, out of my sight line on the water – nothing would ever compare to that – but a sense of uneasiness grew. They weren't there to simply chew my ass out.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

Mark motioned toward an empty space on the couch. “Sit. We need to talk.”

I crossed my arms and stayed put. “I'd rather stand.”

He started to say something, then stopped. He nodded curtly and cleared his throat. “Fine.” He glanced at Johnson.

“As I mentioned yesterday,” Johnson began, his hands folded in his lap. “We'd like to help you with your...image.”

I stared at him. “Right. And, like I mentioned yesterday, I'm not interested.”

Bruce Wyckoff, one of the tour officials sitting on the couch, spoke up. He was older than Mark, slightly overweight, his hair a silvery gray. “You don't have a choice.”

“Excuse me?”

He nodded. “You're in multiple violations of tour rules, Handler. We have enough to suspend you. Indefinitely.”

The ball of anxiety moved from my stomach to my throat. “What?” I glanced at him and then at Mark and then at Heath. Bruce was the only one who would meet my gaze.

“You're a wreck, Kellen.” His voice was firm but I detected a note of sympathy. “And we all know Jay's death was hard on you. Hell, it's a miracle you're back out on the water. Winning, even.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Winning. And I have the finals this afternoon. I don't have time for this shit.”