by Nancy Bush
“Hi, Zoey.”
“You going to the party tonight?”
“What party?”
“Come on.” She slapped at him playfully. “At the Hapstells’.”
Sam gave her a long look. What was this? “Not on the invite list.”
“No one’s on the invite list. There is no invite list. All ya gotta do is bring something to drink, and I don’t mean Red Bull . . . unless it’s got a little extra kick to it.”
“Where are the parents?” he asked, figuring if there was a party, Mr. and Mrs. Hapstell were unlikely to be on the premises.
She shrugged. “Not home. Everybody’s going. You gotta come.”
He nodded toward the scoreboard. “You think Tritons are going to want some Hawks around after this?”
“Who cares? Just want to get drunk, you know? Come on, Sammy. Let’s go together.”
He hardly knew what to think. She’d never shown him the least little bit of interest. She was too pretty, too petite, too popular. And yes, he’d felt her gaze on him a time or two, but she had an on-again, off-again relationship with a college guy two years Sam’s senior, and he’d steered clear of her. Some girls were trouble. You just knew it, and the best thing to do was to avoid them. Zoey was one of those.
He held out his palms apologetically and looked down at the cast on his foot. “Sorry. I can’t drive. Getting picked up by my brother.”
“You have a brother?”
“A lot older than me.”
“Maybe he’d take us,” she suggested hopefully.
“A lot older,” he reiterated. “Almost like a parent older. He’s just here for the weekend.”
“No fun,” she murmured, but she didn’t go away. She watched the final few minutes of the game at his side, mostly looking at her cell phone, but when the Hawks’ cheers filled the stadium after their predicted win, she clicked off and turned to him again with a smile.
“So, I’m on the outs with Byron,” she said. “He thinks I was with Rafe Stevenson. You know him?”
Sam nodded. Rafe was a Hawks lineman. He glanced back toward the now empty field. Rafe was a big guy. One of the biggest on the team. Sam suspected that Byron wouldn’t mess with Rafe, even if he was supposedly seeing his girl.
“So, take me to the party. I don’t want to walk in alone. It would be nice to be with someone who . . .” Here, she stumbled, and Sam waited, pretty sure they were going to get to the crux of things. “Well, you’re hurt. And you’re not on the team anymore, so it would be okay.”
Ah . . . he wasn’t a threat. He was on crutches and he was no longer a Hawks football player. He’d been neutralized by Brady Delacourt’s crushing friendly fire, so now he was a safe guy to show up with. It should have pissed him off, but it mostly amused him.
“You’d have to drive,” he told her.
“No problem.” Zoey beamed at him. “And I’ve got a surprise for you. A fifth of Grey Goose under the seat. We can drink it together.”
“Grey Goose.”
“Yeah, the good stuff. Byron got it for me months ago and we were supposed to celebrate together tonight, but now that’s all shit.” She added a little too brightly, “It’s our six-month anniversary, but it looks like I’m going to be spending it alone.”
Sam pulled out his cell phone and phoned Joe to tell him he’d made other plans. His father had insisted he come home right after the game because they were leaving early the next morning to drive to Seattle to look at the University of Washington, but though Sam had reluctantly agreed to the stipulation, he had no interest in U-Dub or college or pretty much anything at the moment. So, he was going to call Joe off, who was staying at their dad’s place with Gwen for a couple of nights, an impromptu trip for a weekend at the beach, even though the Ford cabin was really nestled in the Coast Range foothills.
Joe answered on the second ring. “You ready?”
“Uh, no. I think I’m going to hang out with some friends.”
“Dad won’t like it,” he said, but there was a faint tone of amused conspiracy to his voice.
“I’m not going to U-Dub. I won’t get in, and I’m not going anyway.”
“You need to tell him that.”
“He knows it already,” Sam snapped. Zoey was right there, able to hear every word, so he said with more restraint, “I’ll get a ride home so you don’t have to pick me up.”
“Dad’ll be calling you,” he warned.
“Fob him off somehow, okay? Better yet, tell him the truth. If I go to college, it’ll be in state, not Washington or anywhere else.”
“If?”
“Yeah, if,” he declared, then hung up.
“I’m going to Oregon,” Zoey offered.
Sam nodded but didn’t respond. He was interested in law enforcement and was thinking of applying at an academy in Salem, about an hour’s drive from Portland. He wasn’t convinced campus life of the ilk available at the University of Oregon or Oregon State, or any number of large colleges, was really for him. As an alternate plan he was thinking of Portland State, a commuter school in the heart of Oregon’s largest city. He had a vague plan to see if he could live with his brother and his soon-to-be wife, but one way or another he was going to follow his own path.
He walked beside Zoey to the parking lot and her car amid a tide of happy Hawks and disappointed Tritons. Several guys called out to Zoey, asking about Byron, but she simply smiled and shrugged. Her ride was a Mercedes sedan. “My parents’,” she told him as Sam slid his crutches through the back door and across the seats. He then worked his way into the passenger seat as Zoey switched on the ignition.
“I still love Byron,” she said plaintively. “And don’t believe anything you’ve heard about me and Rafe. It’s a bunch of lies.” She drove onto Highway 101 and began heading north up the coast. “I didn’t have sex with him. I mean, not everything,” she amended, as if he’d asked for a complete confession.
“Not my business,” Sam said.
“Bullshit. Everything’s everybody’s business. You know how it goes at school. God, I can’t wait for college. So sick of it.”
He was mildly surprised. Zoey seemed to be the girl from his school who had it all.
The Hapstells, Montgomerys, and St. Jameses lived along a curving stretch of beach that had once been summer cabins but had slowly changed over to McMansions with yards that turned into sand and surf, those cabins having been bought up by Walter Hapstell Senior, who’d split the lots and filled them to capacity with monster homes, doubling the original capacity. Sam’s father had said Hapstell was doing the same thing in Portland, where large residential lots were being subdivided much to the fury and freak-out of old-time residents who were desperately trying to keep their neighborhoods from losing their character. Across the city there was much local teeth gnashing over the teardown of rambling ranch homes and daylight basements to make way for two multistory houses on each lot, homes that ate up most of the acreage, turning streets into lines of tall, expensive, look-alike boxes, making the area resemble a planned community. This did not go over with the city’s obsessive desire to be unique, but Walter Hapstell Senior didn’t give a shit about that and kept on bulldozing ahead, also according to Donald Ford, and would continue to do so until there was a law against what he was doing.
Zoey slowed and turned off the highway. The Hapstells’ home outside Seaside was down a private drive lined by sea grass and trees so tortured by stiff ocean winds they looked like gnarled old men bent at the waist, desperately stretching toward something just beyond reach. At the end of the drive lay a wide parking area currently choked with cars parked every which way.
“Hmmm,” Zoey said, trying to make another spot at the edge of a sandy ledge.
“If I were you I’d turn around, park somewhere else, and walk back,” Sam said. He was already rethinking his choice. What would happen if they were arrested for underage drinking? Maybe it wouldn’t be an end to his desire to join the force, but it sure wouldn’t look good. And what did he
care about teen parties anyway? He just wanted to get laid.
At that moment Jules herself bounced into view, ponytail swinging as she whipped around the front of the house and down the side at a run. She was no longer in cheerleading gear. She wore tight blue jeans, sneakers without socks, and a gray sweater that came over her hips. At first he thought she was into some kind of high jinks, but the tension in her face said otherwise.
“Wait. Stop,” Sam ordered.
“What?” Zoey asked. “Thought you wanted me to park somewhere else.”
“Let me out first. I can’t walk.” He was already opening the door.
Zoey said, “Fuck,” in a fuming voice as Sam stepped out, barely snagging his crutches from the backseat and slamming the door before Zoey hit the gas. As he stumbled backward to avoid being hit, the Mercedes squealed around and she headed back out as another car eased its way toward the house. They nearly collided and Zoey shrieked and the other driver swore at her. She slammed her foot to the accelerator and wheeled around the approaching BMW.
The cops’ll be called, Sam thought, but he worked his way forward in the direction Jules had disappeared. Music was blasting from speakers on the second or third floor—it was hard to tell from his angle. Tom Petty’s “American Girl.”
He silently cursed his lumbering gait. And Brady Delacourt for causing it. And the whole set of circumstances that had brought him to the Hapstells’ beachside home. He managed his way down a set of stone steps that curved around the house, hanging on to the wrought-iron handrail like a scared little girl, he was so unsteady on his feet, which pissed him off even more.
At the bottom was a stone patio and beyond and down about five feet, the beach itself. Sand had blown onto the rough stone surface and no one had bothered to sweep it away as kids from both schools, and probably more as well, crammed onto the outdoor furniture, sand and all, covering every inch of the patio. Loud voices and loud music drowned out the roar of the ocean, but the waves, black and frosted like icing, raced up hard-packed sand to lap ever closer to the revelers dancing on the slate surface.
At that moment Walter Hapstell Junior shouldered his way through the crowd from inside the house, his face set in a glower. “Damn it!” he screamed, trying to be heard above the noise. He faced the back of the house and looked upward to the second story, waving his arms madly. “Turn it down! Turn it all down!”
Sam followed his gaze to where a window was wide open and most of the music was blasting. The dancers on the patio weren’t paying a lot of attention, but when the sound suddenly cut out, they protested loudly.
“Jesus, Hap,” a swaying, drunk guy grumbled.
“Put it back on!” a girl yelled, which earned her a hard stare from Hap. She mumbled, “Just not as loud,” then stumbled into a table and smacked her shin. “Shit!”
“Keep it off,” Hap hollered up at the window. “You guys want to get raided? C’mon. Take it inside.” He turned to a guy Sam recognized as one of the Triton running backs and said, “Get ’em outta here. And where the hell’s Jules?”
Sam had thought she’d joined in with the partiers, but when the running back swept his arm toward the ocean, Sam turned to scan the dark sand. His heart began beating hard. The tide was coming in and it was black as pitch outside the range of the Hapstells’ outdoor lighting. Where was she?
“Goddamn it,” Hap growled. Sam glanced back at him. “She’s pissed and probably doing something stupid,” he added, shouldering his way past the running back and pushing at the mass of bodies trying to squeeze as one through the French doors.
Martina Montgomery, leaning against the rail, waved a hand at the crowd. She was wearing a red bikini top and low-cut jeans. “Somebody bring me a jacket before I freeze my ass off,” she called.
A male voice answered suggestively, “Bring that ass over here. I’ll keep it warm.”
“Fuck you,” she said on a smile, shivering.
Sam thought about giving her his jacket, but before he could negotiate the steps back upward, another guy was eagerly hauling a blanket from inside the house. He helped her wrap it around her shoulders and then she looked at him and pleaded, “And now do you think you could find me a drink?”
The guy immediately turned back to the house.
Sam focused his attention to the beach once more, trudging and stumbling down the short dune to the packed sand in search of Jules. He was immediately chased by an incoming wave, and he tried to keep away from its swift, wet water but was too ungainly. He damn near fell over trying to avoid the eager wave that soaked his sneaker, the cloth boot on his injured ankle, and the hem of his jeans.
With a sigh, he looked down the edge of the surf and saw nothing but dark waves and dark sand. In the light of day he knew he would be able to see a long stretch of beach. Glancing to his right, he wondered if she’d headed north instead of south. He kept looking both ways, and was about to give up, when he saw something ahead, in the ocean. Was that a person standing in the receding water? As he peered through the gloom, another larger wave charged forward.
“Jules?” he called, yelling over the rush of the ocean.
Movement. She tried to dash through the water toward him, but it was halfway up her calves. He sloshed awkwardly toward her through the now receding wave, hoping a big one wasn’t on its heels. She let him come for about ten steps, then, when her bare feet were almost free of the water, she quickly pivoted away and began walking south.
“Wait! Jules!”
She was carrying her shoes and she stopped short for a moment, looking back. “Who are you?” she demanded, the words sounding sharp but faint, snatched by the wind.
Sam was having a helluva time navigating, especially with the fits of gales that came off the ocean and damn near toppled him. “Name’s Sam Ford,” he called.
She waited, but he sensed she was ready to leap away from him. “Hap sent you to find me?”
He wasn’t sure what answer she was looking for, so he settled on the truth. “No.”
“You’re not a Triton,” she observed as he drew nearer. She seemed to be debating whether to leave him to his crutches and race away, or stick around and find out what he was about.
“No.” He was close enough now to see the wariness in her eyes. “I’m a party crasher, I guess.”
“What happened to you?” she asked, looking at his injured foot.
“Football.”
“Really? Huh. What team are you on?”
“You played us tonight.”
“You’re a Hawk?” That seemed to take her aback. “How’d you get to the party so fast? You had to have gone to the hospital for that.” She motioned to the soaked, cloth-wrapped ankle.
“This happened in an earlier game.”
“Ahh. Well, your team still won.”
“Yeah. I’m not as irreplaceable as I’d like to believe.”
That netted him a fleeting smile. “So, how did you hear about this party?” she asked. “You and Hap friends?”
“I don’t even know him.”
“That makes two of us,” she said with a grim smile. She hitched her chin back in the direction they’d just come. “The cops are going to come and I don’t want to be anywhere near that party.”
“Then let’s leave.”
“That’s what I was about to do.”
“I’ll come with you,” he invited himself.
“You’d only slow me down—no offense. I’ve got a long way to go, and no cell phone. My father bought me one for Christmas and I dropped it in the toilet and so now I’m phoneless, and well . . . I gotta go.”
“You walking home?” He knew her house wasn’t that far from where they were standing.
“Nah . . . not yet. Too easy to find.”
“You hiding from Hap?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Sam Ford.”
He shrugged. Nothing much to say to that.
Jules looked past him to the north, toward Hap’s house and her parents’. Then she contin
ued in the opposite direction and Sam struggled to keep up with her.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” she admitted after a while. “I’d rather go up to the highway and get something to eat.”
“Kind of a ways from any restaurant,” Sam observed.
“Yeah . . . eventually someone’ll come by that I know from the party and pick me up. Unless they’re all busted.”
“I’ll come with you,” Sam said. He had a phone and could make some calls, find someone to give them a ride somewhere, but he didn’t want to give that away for fear she would use it to leave him and meet up with friends.
“Suit yourself, but I’m not waiting around.” She picked up the pace and Sam gritted his teeth and kept up with her, though it was no mean trick. A frisky little wind was blowing off the ocean and whipping her ponytail to and fro, stinging Sam’s eyes. Luckily for him, the wind threw sand at her as well, so she had to keep turning around, her eyes squinched shut.
“Damn sand,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, but he really didn’t care. When a particularly hard lash of sand hit them both, he said, “C’mere,” and held his arms out, his crutches tucked beneath his armpits, offering her shelter.
She came without hesitation, which both surprised and delighted him. He could feel the warmth of her body as he wrapped his arms around her, balanced on one leg, the crutches teetering. They stayed that way for long minutes and in that time Sam decided in his teenaged heart that he was in love with Jules St. James.
Chapter Three
Ling-ling-ling-ling.
Sam’s cell phone woke him from his reverie. He’d been sitting in his truck, hands loose on the wheel, focused unseeingly on the horizon, lost in memories. Now he witnessed stripes of orange light knifing through layers of gray clouds, the setting sun. It felt more like fall than summer. Or, maybe he just felt cold.
Glancing at the cell’s screen, he saw it was the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department. Stone again. Dread ran through his veins. “Sam Ford,” he answered.
“Stone here.”
“The recovery . . . It’s my brother, isn’t it?”
Stone exhaled heavily. “We believe it’s likely. The boat fire is under control and it is The Derring-Do. . . .”
