Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

He flicks his gaze at her, showing even white teeth as he smiles at her, but it doesn’t ring true. They chat about class, and I’m fascinated, watching his reaction to everything she says, taking in the way he nods, the non-interest in his gaze. His eyes find mine as she rambles on and on about some big off-campus mixer between the frat houses, and he smiles ever so slightly.

  He isn’t into her, and I know it.

  I don’t know how I’m able to read him, but it’s as if we have a connection and I get him.

  She walks off, hips swaying as she does another little wave over her shoulder.

  “You sleep with her?” I ask casually.

  He shrugs. “A few times last year.”

  Ah. “You’re just a playboy, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve had relationships.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, feeling prickly. “Yeah? What’s the longest one?”

  He cocks a smile. “Dated a sweet girl back in high school for a year…” His voice trails off. “Then things got messed up and I came to Waylon. Football’s been my muse ever since.”

  “Doesn’t that get, I don’t know, lonely?”

  He stares at me. “Is this an interview?”

  “No. I don’t even care.” Total lie. I’m dying to know the scoop on Maverick.

  A gruff laugh comes out of him. “I just know when a girl’s a keeper and when she isn’t. She wasn’t.”

  “Ah, a keeper—I see.”

  “Yeah, you know, the one girl who makes your heart pound like crazy every time she walks into the room.” He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes me breathless.

  Does he mean me?

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  Just then the professor enters and begins his lecture, so I pull out my iPad to bring up the class website and get to work.

  I try really hard to ignore how close Maverick is sitting, how his leg occasionally brushes against mine…and I remind myself that getting interested in a cocky-as-hell football player is the last thing I need right now.

  Chapter Four

  Maverick

  It’s the same dream again. I try to pull myself out of it, but it’s no use.

  Maybe the outcome will be different this time.

  Rain slaps at the car and Def Leppard blares on the radio as my father drives our old van. My mother yells at him, her mouth moving in slow motion, the sound disembodied, as if my brain doesn’t want to hear her words. I look over at my little sister and curl my hand into hers. She’s scared, and I have to protect her.

  Dread snakes down my spine when a diesel truck’s horn blares at us as we fly past it, our headlights reflecting off his grill.

  It’s coming.

  My body tenses…waiting.

  Just around this hairpin curve.

  I have to stop him.

  I yell at Dad to slow down.

  I scream at Mom to shut up.

  But I never say it in time.

  There’s a deer in the road, its brown face turning to look straight into our headlights.

  There’s a horrible metallic sound, like tin foil wrapping around a piece of meat, and then stifling silence, thick with smoke and fumes. Gas…I smell gas and oil, and it makes me frantic. I’m just seventeen, but I’ve seen movies—I know cars blow up. Maybe it would be better if it did, I think to myself in my dream. If we all just died, everything would be okay.

  No, I tell myself. Get out. Live.

  I touch my skin, feeling glass. Blood covers my fingers. Dangling from the seat belt, somehow I fight to break free and manage to crawl out of the mangled heap. Mom lies on the pavement, her body twisted like a pretzel.

  I hear a whimper and find Raven, a broken doll, her eyes shut as I turn her over—

  God, make it stop. Fuck!

  I jerk myself awake, my body in a full sweat. Rubbing my hands through my hair, I glance at the clock and exhale heavily. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and there’s no way in hell I can go back to sleep after that nightmare.

  My bedroom door opens, and it’s Ryker, one of my roommates and my best friend. We live in an apartment-style suite in Byrd Hall, also known as the athletic dorm. He squints at me with bleary red eyes. “Dude? Heard you thrashing around—you all right?”

  I scrub my face one final time and get out of bed, willing my heart rate to slow down. “Same old shit.”

  “Car wreck?” He leans on the doorjamb and gives me a concerned once-over. He’s our quarterback, a big dude with a heart of gold, and he knows the fucked-up childhood I lived through.

  I nod quickly. “Every time February rolls around, it brings it all back. It’s like I’m in the dream and I keep thinking I can stop it from happening, but I never do.”

  He nods, studying my face. “It doesn’t help that you’re worried about Raven. Your dad needs to get his shit straight.”

  A muscle ticks in my jaw. Just thinking about him makes my blood boil. He’s lost his latest job as a mechanic…again.

  “How’s she doing?” he asks me.

  “As best she can.”

  A sigh comes from him, and I know he’s got an opinion. “You’re wearing yourself out going to see her every afternoon. Hell, it was midnight before you got in last night. Between practice and her…something’s got to give.”

  My mouth compresses. “I don’t have a choice.”

  Raven suffered a traumatic brain injury, also known as a TBI, in the accident. Now, at nineteen, she drags her right leg and has speech issues, and don’t even get me started on the loss of cognitive ability and emotional outbursts. Worry tugs at me as I think about everything she’s lost.

  Everything I lost.

  She’s been staying with my dad temporarily for the past few weeks since we removed her from the state-funded group home where she’d lived since the car wreck three years ago.

  I never liked the home with its tiny rooms and smell of death, and when she showed up with unexplained bruises on her skin a few weeks ago, I knew right away that I had to get her out of there. I removed her and placed her with my dad, but she needs somewhere besides his trailer. She needs stability and a routine and a regular nursing staff to check on her every single day, not just the one her disability helps pay for that only comes out three days a week.

  If only I had known about the abuse before I’d signed the paperwork to not go into the draft early. I let out a deep breath. Now it’s too late, and I have to wait until next year.

  “You should talk to Coach Al—maybe he can help.” He’s saying what he always does, but Ryker doesn’t get it. No one does.

  “Help with what?” I can’t help but be annoyed with him. “Going out to my dad’s trailer and cooking dinner? Helping her get in the shower? Getting her ready for bed? Get real, man. I need money, and no one affiliated with football or Waylon can do that because it would be an infraction with the NCAA. I can’t accept any compensation or donations, remember? Coach can’t even buy me a fucking candy bar. If they think any kind of money or benefits changed hands—for anything—I’ll be out of a career in the NFL. Those are the goddamn rules.”

  “Stupid rules,” he mutters. “If you weren’t such a damn fine player…”

  Yeah, tell me about it.

  “I’m cool, okay. Things will work out,” I say with a lightness I’m not feeling, playing off my worry. I show him my fists, which are rough and red from hitting the punching bag at Carson’s Gym, an off-campus facility I’ve been sparring at for extra cardio. “I work out my frustrations this way.”

  He shakes his head. “You always get all squirrely on me this time of year. Do me a favor and get laid, or ask that girl out.”

  “What girl?”

  He sends me an are you kidding me? look. “Dude, don’t even pretend.”

  I ignore him, grab my socks out of the drawer, and slide them on while he watches me like a mother hen.

  “And we need to talk about this fight thing, man. I’m worried.” His voice has lowered and he’s whispering, and I assume he doesn’t w
ant the chick in his bedroom to hear.

  I pause. I confessed to him last week that a casino owner, Leslie Brock, was at the gym where I spar and offered me a flat fee if I would box another college football player at his casino. No one would ever know, and it would be enough money to get Raven set up somewhere.

  “If anyone finds out, that will ruin your fucking career. Look at Michael Vick—went to jail just for financing a dog fighting ring.”

  I groan. We’ve had this conversation. “No one’s getting arrested, and Vick was running a million-dollar operation with illegal gambling, plus he killed the dogs that refused to fight. I’m not gambling or killing animals for sport. I’d just be fighting for money.”

  That said, it is risky as hell, and I haven’t decided if I’m going through with it.

  His lips flatten. “You really don’t know what this guy is planning. Who the hell knows if it’s even legal? I can see it now: you’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit and taking it up the ass.”

  I snort. “Someone else would be my bitch.”

  He huffs, letting out a sigh of frustration. “He owns a casino, and that shit will blow up the NCAA rules.”

  I stop getting dressed and give him a long look. We’ve been friends since freshman year when we met on the field, so by now I’ve known him long enough to see that he needs reassuring, just like he does when I slap him on the back and tell him his arm is fucking golden and he’s going to take us to a championship next year.

  He might be the quarterback, but I’m the glue that holds our defense together, the glue he needs.

  I push out a grin even though I don’t feel like it. “Dude, I’m not getting arrested. Next year is going to be our year for a championship, and there’s no fucking way I’d jeopardize that.”

  Except when it comes to my sister.

  He nods, the scowl lifting, revealing his All-American face that is usually lit up with a permanent grin. “I knew you’d make the right decision. You know if you ever need any money, I can maybe see if one of my relatives has some extra cash. It’s a long shot, but—”

  My pride jacks its head up. I was the recipient of a lot of handouts growing up, and I never want to revisit that. “No, I’m cool. I’m making it.”

  “Ryker, where’d you go?” comes the sleepy voice of the jersey chaser in his bed.

  I arch my brow at him, recognizing the nasally whine even with a wall between us. “Is that Muffin? Seriously? Don’t tell her shit. Her mouth is bigger than your ass.” I pause. “I thought she was doing Alex now?”

  I’ve never been with her, but half the team has. A bit of a schemer, she’s never gotten over the fact that I turned her down cold freshman year when she snuck into my room one night and tried to crawl in bed with me.

  Ryker shakes his head. “Apparently that was a one-time thing. Alex is probably still in love with you know who.” He cocks an eyebrow and I know he’s waiting for me to comment about Delaney, but I don’t—not going there. Yeah, I’m interested in her, always have been, but she is my teammate’s ex, and that’s touchy.

  “Rykeeerrrrr, I need you, big man,” she coos from the other room, her voice making a weird throaty sound.

  I suppress a laugh. “Sounds like you’re being paged, bro, and FYI, she’s looking for a paycheck, so instead of worrying about me fighting, maybe worry about Muffin pulling a fast one on you. Wrap it when you tap it.”

  “You’re just trying to change the subject,” he mumbles.

  I’ve finished dressing so I grab my shoes and shove them on. Once I’m ready, I put on my orange and blue Waylon Wildcats cap and jog past him into the small living area we share with two other players. A quick glance tells me their doors are still shut and I haven’t woken them up. Good.

  He follows me and stands there glaring, concern on his face. “Where you going?”

  “For a run.” I chug down a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge in the kitchenette.

  “At five in the morning? It’s still dark—you might get run over.” He’s got an obstinate look on his face.

  “I’ll stick to the sidewalks and areas with streetlights.”

  “At least wear pants. It’s cold as shit out there.”

  I huff out a laugh. “Dude, are you sure you aren’t a girl?”

  He shrugs. “Just worry about you is all.”

  “Bye, Mom,” I say sarcastically as I head out the door.

  Chapter Five

  Delaney

  He-Man: Are you over your ex?

  Me: Why?

  He-Man: Just curious. Do you miss him?

  Me: Sometimes. But every day is better.

  He-Man: You just have to get your groove back. I dare you to go to the library and shout out that Princess Leia is a badass.

  Me: What? No!

  He-Man: I thought you couldn’t turn down a dare.

  Me: How will you know if I go through with it?

  He-Man: Oh, I’ll be there watching. What time should I show up?

  Me: Dammit. Tomorrow at 8:00 PM. BTW, I hate you. ☺

  I smile, feeling good as I think about today’s text convo with He-Man. We’ve been texting on and off for the past week, just little messages here and there. He now knows I can sing every word to “Baby Got Back”, and I know he can tie a cherry stem with his tongue. I admit, I spent a few hours picturing that in my head last night.

  He hasn’t brought up the whole I dare you to dream about me comment, and neither have I.

  It’s Sunday night as I park my Prius at the local Piggly Wiggly and head across the parking lot. I’ve come to the second grocery store past campus, mostly because I don’t want to run into anyone while wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt with no makeup on. I’m just about to pat myself on the back for not seeing anyone, but that all goes to hell when I’m almost to the door and see Martha-Muffin with one of her sorority girlfriends at the self-checkout near the entrance.

  Part of me considers just turning around and leaving. I can always come back later, but once Monday arrives, I tend to be overwhelmed with classes and my job at the library.

  Don’t let her get the best of you, Delaney.

  With my head down, reading the grocery list on my phone, I fortify myself with a mental pep talk and walk through the sliding glass doors.

  Don’t make eye contact, I tell myself, but before I realize it, I’m glaring right at her. She looks up, catches my eye, and sends me a sly smile, lashes batting.

  Our dislike of each other is palpable and always has been. Skye claims she’s intimidated and threatened by me because somehow I managed to land a football player as a boyfriend freshman year, and all she got was an STD.

  She’s wearing her usual, something ridiculous and ill-suited for the cold weather: tall Uggs and a pair of denim shorts lined with lace. Of course, her face is expertly made up, all the way down to the arched eyebrows she probably watched some two-hour YouTube video on how to make.

  She finishes checking out and pushes her cart straight over to me, her pert little nose practically twitching with excitement. “Well, well, if it isn’t Delaney Shaw.” Her gaze sweeps over me, lingering on my baggy Waylon hoodie. “Here to raid the ice cream freezer? Just be careful you don’t eat the whole gallon.”

  I stiffen. As a matter of fact, I do have chocolate ice cream on my list, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I tell her that.

  “Don’t let me keep you from your Mensa meeting,” I say before moving to walk around her.

  I’ve gotten a few feet away when she calls out after me, almost tauntingly. “I can’t believe you’re being so rude, especially since I haven’t seen you in weeks.” I cringe, knowing she’s referring to the night I caught her with Alex.

  I turn back around, knowing I shouldn’t, but I just can’t stop myself.

  She puts a hand on her hip. “Look, you don’t have to be so upset about Alex. He’s an athlete. They screw around—it’s what they do.”

  My stomach churns at the imagery her words bring up, and
I feel the blood draining from my face.

  Her friend tugs on Martha-Muffin’s arm, ushering her out the door, and I stand here for a full five seconds just breathing, trying to get myself under control.

  I make my way over to the produce aisle and walk around, not really seeing anything, my heart heavy as I think about Alex and everything we lost.

  On an impulse, I pull my phone out of my bag and send a text to my mystery man.

  Paging He-Man. I miss you. Where are you? Not that you care, but I’m staring at cherries at the Piggly Wiggly and thinking of you. It’s been a shit day. Shit week. Shit month. Just ran into the girl my ex cheated on me with. Need to vent. Need a cigarette…or I would if I smoked.

  He replies immediately, and I want to shout with glee. Awkward. Want me to kick her ass?

  Yes.

  Done. I’ll be there in five.

  A laugh comes out of me, and for some reason, seeing Martha-Muffin doesn’t have nearly the punch it did a minute ago.

  No! I’m just kidding. Plus, she’s gone already. Hey, can I ask you a personal question?

  Shoot, he replies.

  Do YOU sleep with those groupies who hang all over athletes? You know the ones—they’ve had more loads than a washing machine but they’re hot so all the guys want a spin?

  Uh…how many loads are we talking?

  Of course he sleeps with them. He calls himself “Badass Athlete”, and what red-blooded male is going to turn down what’s offered?

  He-Man, you’re disappointing me.

  Truth: I haven’t been with a girl in months. I’m turning them down left and right.

  You’re so full of yourself.

  True, he says. But I am the best.

  Best at what? Football? Volleyball? Baseball?

  Why are you turning them down? I ask.

  I’ve been waiting on you.

  WHAT?

  Is he kidding? Is it the truth? He never replies, even after I linger around the produce, waiting to see those three little dots that mean he’s responding.

  They never appear, and once again I’m overcome with embarrassment at my neediness and lack of male attention. Screw it. I stick my phone in my purse and head to the magazine section to pick out a new Cosmo. I move on from there and hit up the meat department. Several minutes later, I’m lifting a large container of ground beef into my cart when I hear a deep male voice behind me.