It Was Me
Page 20
She sat up and tugged on the sheet, covering her ass but leaving her tits exposed. “Well, I guess we'll have to save it for tonight then.”
I could feel her eyes on me as I crossed the room. It was a nice hotel—the best Huntington Beach had to offer—but to me, it was just another place to crash. A place to sleep before I woke up and started the same shit all over again. I grabbed a container of mints sitting on the dresser and popped two of them in my mouth, feeling the mint burn away the lingering taste of alcohol. I rolled them around with my tongue, making sure I hit every spot. The tour frowned at alcohol on my breath at check-in. I kept thinking they'd get used to it, but it hadn't happened yet.
“Kellen?” the girl asked, pulling the sheet tighter around her, sort of like a topless toga. “We can hook up tonight? Right?”
I crouched down, looking for my t-shirt. I found more of her discarded clothing—a black lace bra, a skirt that looked like it hadn't covered nearly half her ass—but couldn't find mine.
I straightened myself and looked at her. “What?”
“We can hook up tonight, right?”
I frowned. What was her name? Cheyenne?
“We hooked up last night,” I said.
She smiled at me. “I know. So we should do it again. Because we, like, totally clicked.”
We hadn't. I knew exactly why she was naked in my hotel bed and it wasn't because I'd suddenly decided she was the one. I'd been drunk. I hadn't wanted to be alone. And she was beautiful.
I knew there was no way she could believe what she was spewing, either. She didn't give a shit about me. She didn't even know me. She wanted to do me because of who I was. She wanted to hang on. She wanted to tell her friends she was hooking up with Kellen Handler.
I tossed my stuff in the beat-up blue duffel flattened on top of the dresser. My boards were already on the beach, waiting for me. Along with about three thousand spectators. And Jay's ghost.
I slid my feet into my sandals. I ran my hand through my hair and offered her a half-smile. “Stay as long as you want this morning. Think checkout's at noon.”
Her face fell and I'd seen it before. Disappointed, mad, maybe even sad. Nah, I thought. Not sad. She just wanted the conquest, thinking she was the one who was finally going to reel me in.
“Don't you want my number?” she asked. “I'm not some psycho that—”
“I don't even remember your name,” I said, trying not to sound too harsh. “And I'm sure you're cool, OK? But it was one night. I'm outta here tomorrow. So there's really no point.”
She loosened the sheet, pulling it up over her breasts. She'd lost a little of her confidence. “Yeah, but next time you come through, you could call me. We could hook up again.” She offered a tentative smile. “Pretty sure you had fun.”
My temples throbbed, and it wasn't just from listening to her babble. I'd put away twice as many drinks as I'd planned to last night. Like usual.
If Jay had been there? He always cut me off when I was getting close to the line, especially during competitions. He knew when to stop me and he knew I'd listen.
But he wasn't around anymore and I didn't listen to anyone.
“Did I?” I asked. “Because I don't even remember.” I picked up my phone and checked the time. “I gotta roll.”
“You really don't want my number?” she asked, disbelief in her voice.
I wasn't going to stand there and explain myself. I could tell her it was me and not her, but that would sound like a line. Didn't matter if it was true or not. I could tell her I didn't know when I would be coming back through again and I didn't want to get her hopes up. But I didn't want to waste my time. Or hers. It all just sounded like bullshit and she wouldn't get it and then she'd start asking questions and then I'd get pissed and it would just get worse.
I hoisted the bag over my shoulder and opened the door to the room. I glanced at the girl in my bed whose name I couldn't remember and said the same thing I'd said a hundred times before.
“No,” I told her. “I really don't want your number.”
TWO
“Where the hell have you been?” Matty shoved my surfboard into my chest. “Fucking heat starts in ten minutes.”
I dropped my duffel bag on the sand and pulled out my rashguard. “Chill. I'm here.” I slipped into it, the cool fabric rippling my skin with goosebumps. The sun hung low in the eastern sky, the early morning chill still lingering in the air.
He lifted the sunglasses he was wearing and parked them on his mop of blond curls. His forehead, tanned and lined with age, creased into a frown. “Right from the bar, based on how you smell.”
I just nodded, ignoring him. I wasn't surprised to see him. Matty Bartholomew wouldn't miss a competition in Huntington. Especially if I was in it.
I stole a quick glance at my surroundings. The beach was already packed with people, even at that early hour. Spectators, reporters, a few straggling surfers who hadn't made their way out into the water yet. A couple eyed me curiously, careful not to make eye contact. We were competitors, after all. We were all there seeking the same thing. A championship. There were no friendships here. Not with Jay gone.
“I waxed it for you,” Matty said, pointing at my board.
I rubbed my hand down the bumpy surface. “Not a kid anymore, Matty. I got it.” But I had to admit, he'd done a good job. What had I expected? He'd been surfing for more years than I'd been alive.
He snorted. “Bullshit. You ain't got nothin', kid. And you know it.” When I didn't respond, he raised his voice, making sure I heard him over the waves and the buzz of the crowd as they moved into position around us. “I saw you last night.”
I picked up the ball of wax tucked inside my bag and kneeled down in the sand. Lightly, I rubbed it across the mid-section of my board, smooth wide circles, small to start, growing wider as I expanded my reach.
“You think Jay would have been happy?” His tone was gruff. “Seeing you last night? Knowing you're throwing all this away?” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. The sand. The ocean. The crowd of spectators and reporters, all gathered to watch the opening heat. “This is yours, Kellen. All this. And you're pissing it away.”
I didn't want to hear it. I sprang back to my feet, firing the ball of wax into the sand. Matty took a step back, probably expecting for me to take a shot at him. Instead, I grabbed my board and jogged out to the water.
The sand was lined with people as far as I could see in either direction and I heard people call my name as my feet hit the packed sand. Some whistles and clapping, heads turning in my direction. A couple of years ago, I would've eaten up the attention. I would've slowed down, strutted down the sand, let them all get a look at me, maybe pick a pretty face or two that I wanted to find after the heat.
But now?
I just wanted to get it over with. I splashed into the breaking waves, threw my board onto the water and jumped on top of it. I paddled out with strong, quick strokes, propelling myself away from Matty and the crowd, away from everything. My board glided across the glass-like surface of the waves and I fought the urge to keep paddling, to say fuck the heat and the competition and just go as far as my board would take me.
I saw the other guy in my heat, some dark-haired, tatted-up dude from Spain, but my head was spinning and I couldn't place his name. Gomez? Garcia? I'd cruised through the early round heats and had made it to the quarterfinals, more on luck than anything else. My heart wasn't in the competition and it didn't take a fucking rocking scientist to figure out why. At least not for me, anyway.
I turned to look at him again. He was already in position at the break line, straddling his board, watching and waiting. He shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the shore and I was pretty sure his eyes settled on me for a minute. Gonzalez? I should've known his name because I should've known his tendencies, what he'd be looking for out on the water. But I was too hungover and I wasn't sure I cared. Matty would've punched me in the face if he'd known I was heading out so
unprepared.
A wave swelled underneath me and, instead of riding up and over, I duck-dived, letting the cold water shock my system. I popped back up, shook the water from my hair and face, took a deep breath and tried to focus. Not for me. For Jay. I would do this for Jay.
The name came to me. Santiago Guerrero. That's who was out there waiting for me at the break. I could hear Jay whispering to me, could see him, his eyes intense, his hand gesturing wildly as he reminded me of the goofy footer from Spain sitting on his board, waiting to surf against me. And I remembered. Santiago Guerrero. Technically sound, but didn't have a creative bone in his body. He'd take what the waves gave him and he wouldn't make a single mistake. But if I was on, if I could get my shit together and focus and do what I was capable of doing, I'd outscore him ten times out of ten.
I reached the break line and he lifted his chin in my direction, acknowledging me. I nodded back at him.
The horn sounded on the shore, signaling the start of the heat. He immediately looked behind him, shifted slightly to his right and started paddling. The wave picked him up and carried him away.
Do it. Do this.
Jay was there, urging me on. It wasn't a reminder of what had happened, of how the whole fucking world had come crashing down on me six months earlier. It was just Jay, telling me to focus, telling me to do what I needed to do. And maybe it was the beer that still lingered in my system, but I wasn't nervous and I wasn't sad. It was just me and the water.
I paddled over to where Guerrero had been and turned parallel to the shore, watching the water out in the distance. The swells were small. There wasn't going to be much for him to work with. These were waves that were going to require creativity.
I let one set pass beneath me, then saw one coming that rose up just right, setting up to push me nicely toward the pier. I pointed the board toward the shore, took a deep breath and started paddling.
The water picked me up and I bounced to my feet. I hunched low, gathering some speed as the water pushed me down the line. I swung my hips and snapped the nose of the board hard off the lip, the white water chasing me from behind. I slid down the face again, then immediately snapped back up. I hit the bottom of the wave again, letting the momentum of the water push me along before angling back up to the top. The board lifted out of the ocean and I floated along the top of the wave for a few moments before dropping down the face again. It began to close out and I snapped back up one more time, shooting up and over the top. The wave passed beneath me as I landed on the water and I hopped off the board, submerging myself in the ocean.
I popped back up, the roar from the shore telling me all I needed to know.
Santiago Guerrero didn't have a chance.
I spent thirty minutes decimating the water, carving up the blue ocean and white foam. I never glanced at Guerrero again. I didn't think about competing or being hung over or the girl whose name I couldn't remember. I didn't even think about Jay, who should have been cutting up waves right along side of me.
It was just me and the water.
When the horn blew to end the heat, my arms and legs were heavy with fatigue and I paddled in slowly, letting the small waves push me toward the shoreline. The massive crowds on the beach pushed toward the water, craning their necks, calling my name again.
I ignored them, shook the water from my face and trudged up the narrow strip of sand cut between the spectators that was specifically reserved for the competitors.
Matty was waiting for me. His sunglasses hid his eyes but the grin spreading across his face told me all I needed to know. “Well done.”
I shrugged and dropped my board to the sand.
“You didn't surf like a vodka bottle,” he said, his voice gruff. “Imagine what you could do if you ever hit the water sober.”
“Yeah,” I said, stripping off the rashguard. “Imagine.”
He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “They want a word with you over in the main tent.”
I squinted into the sunshine. “What for?”
He shrugged. “Got me,” he said. “They just sent a runner over to me and told me to pass the word to you.”
I bit back a sigh. I knew it wouldn't be good. Tour officials weren't calling me in to congratulate me on making the semifinals. You got called to the tent, it was almost always bad.
I just wondered what they knew I had done.
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