Hard Tackle (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel)

by Loren, Celia

  "I know, right?" I say, putting the computer back down on the mahogany wood desk and peering at my older brother. Whenever we have the chance to talk via Skype, I can't help but scan him for signs of new injuries or stress. He's in Afghanistan on another deployment with his SEAL team. As always, he sits on a cot in front of a burlap backdrop, revealing nothing of his location.

  "What do you think of him, really?" he asks. I pause, wanting to give him a truthful answer. Carter and I never bullshit each other.

  "I think he loves her…" I start. "He's hard to read. It's like he's always got a poker face on, like he's always in a business negotiation."

  "Huh," Carter replies, ever a man of few words.

  "But I didn't tell you the worst part. His son Jack is living—" I stop as Carter's face jerks toward the right of the screen. His jaw sets in a familiar way and I know he's being called away. "It's OK," I say as he turns back toward the screen. "Talk to you later."

  "Talk to you later," he repeats, his expression stony as he shuts his computer and my screen goes black. There is so much more to say, but we both know not to say it. I can't ask him where he's going, or if it's dangerous, or when he might be able to call again. He won't tell me goodbye, in case it really is goodbye. So it's "talk later" every time.

  "Did I miss him?" my mom asks, not bothering to knock as she hurries into my bedroom.

  "Sorry, he just left," I tell her. She nods, a look of grief passing quickly over her face before she swallows it. She clears her throat. "Not bad, huh?" she says, indicating the room's sumptuous furnishings.

  "Yeah, I never knew there was so much money in shipping," I admit, looking around.

  "Well, Burke Shipping is one of the biggest, and oldest, shipping companies in the United States. It was started by Clara's great-grandfather."

  "Who?"

  "Clara. Ray's wife, who passed. Alexa and Jack's mother."

  "How come Alexa's not here?"

  "Ray says she's 'gallivanting around Europe,' but I'm not sure that's the whole story," she says with a smile. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a…you know, sister?" she asks shyly, sitting on the bed and holding onto one of the intricately carved posts.

  "Sister?" I ask, my eyes bulging out of my head.

  "Well, yeah. I thought you realized how serious Ray and I are about each other."

  "I…I mean, I did…. I guess my mind just hadn't gotten that far," I stammer.

  "And that would make you…happy?"

  "Um, I don’t know," I reply honestly. "He's better than Louie," I decide, naming one of her exes. "And definitely better than Drew, or Max, for that matter—"

  "OK, I get it!" she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm glad I raised such an honest daughter. Most of the time," she adds jokingly as she walks to the door. She turns in the doorway, her hand on the knob. "And you'd have another brother, too."

  "I already have one of those!" I call back as she shuts the door. Ugh, my step-brother could be Jack Stratton. I haven't seen yet since we moved in this morning, so I'm not sure how well his supposed break from partying is working out.

  I lift my head unconsciously as the breeze changes. The AC's on in the rest of the house, but I have my windows wide open. What's the point of having this mansion right on the water if you can't smell the sea?

  I stand up and walk to the French doors leading out to the balcony. Yup, that's right, a private balcony off my very own bedroom. I swing the doors open and step out onto the tile, my eyes fixed on the twinkling lights of south Tampa across Hillsborough Bay. A crack of thunder peals across the water, sending a shiver of excitement running through me. I love the thunderstorms during the summer here.

  A woman's giggle drifts up from below me, and my attention snaps down to the deck next to the pool. The only lights on are the ones underneath the pool's surface, casting a ghoulish blue light into the dark night, and barely illuminating the two figures intertwined in a lounge chair next to it.

  "Shit, that scared me!" the woman's voice exclaims.

  "Shh, I'm not supposed to be partying so much." Even in a whisper, Jack's voice floats up to my second story bedroom in the still air between thunderclaps.

  "Let's go in, it's about to pour," she whines.

  "Wait, the view of the lightning over the water is amazing out here. I love watching it," he replies. A half-second later, a white bolt splits the night sky in two, piercing from out of nowhere to the dark expanse of the bay. Jack was right. It's spectacular.

  "Jack," the woman protests. I hear him sigh, but then she laughs. "Put me down!" I can't see them now, but I assume he's carrying her off into the bowels of the house.

  Another peal of thunder fills the air, followed more quickly by a bolt of lightning. The storm's getting closer. I dart back inside to grab my computer, then shut the doors as I hear the rain begin to pelt down. I draw my desk chair up to the glass and watch the storm close in.

  I've been drawing a blank when I try to think of what I want to write. But all of a sudden, an image just popped into my head: a young girl, running toward a thundercloud. I begin to type. She's pursued by a man…maybe her father. Behind them lies a revival tent where the man is the preacher. A bolt of lightning hits a tree, throwing up sparks, but she keeps running.

  There was no creative writing class at my high school, so anything I've learned how to do has been from books. During school, I wrote mostly on weekends, but now my goal is to write a novel. My concentration is broken by a laugh from somewhere inside the house – my mom or Jack's mystery woman? Too far away to tell. I tap my pencil on the pad. Everyone else is paired off but me. Loneliness wraps itself me for a moment, but I resolutely shrug it off.

  Maybe I could make an effort to be less of a loner, but most of the time I'm happy by myself. It's only every now and then that it overwhelms me, and I start to imagine what Miles is doing…what it would be like to lie curled in bed next to him, talking about our next projects together while soft music plays in the background.

  I drift off to sleep with my laptop sitting on my legs. At some point in the night, I stir and manage to make my way over to the bed, flopping down into its soft sheets.

  The morning sun wakes me, shining without a hint of the thunderstorm the night before. I yawn and stretch, pushing my mess of hair back off my forehead. I look down at my stained t-shirt and consider changing it, but most of my shirts look like this one anyway.

  The massive foyer of the mansion has two staircases that wrap around either side of it, leading to the north and south wings. I take the one closest to my door and yawn as I traipse down. Through bleary eyes, I manage to remember the location of the kitchen toward the rear. Coffee. Must have coffee.

  I stop in shock at the scene in front of me as I turn the corner to the kitchen. Jack's standing shirtless over the sizzling stove, sweat dripping down his bare chest, clearly post-workout. He's wearing only red athletic shorts and headphones over his ears, attached to his iPhone on a band around his thick bicep. His head bops to a beat I can't hear, and I cover my mouth to keep from laughing as he begins to mouth the words.

  The movement catches his eye, and he glances up, yanking the headphones off his ears as he sees me. From their spot dangling on his neck I can now hear the music.

  "Is that Taylor Swift?" I ask gleefully. His hand flies to his iPhone and the tune cuts out.

  "What? No, I—" he clears his throat, looking caught. "There's coffee," he finally says.

  "Oh, thank god," I say, heading over to the fresh pot sitting under the complicated-looking chrome coffee maker on the counter behind him.

  "Late night?" he asks, and I can see him glancing over my rat's nest of hair, my baggy, stain-covered t-shirt, and my cotton pajama pants. I realize I'm not wearing a bra…not that I've got enough going on for him to notice. I hope.

  "Not as late as yours," I retort, grabbing the half and half from the fridge.

  "Meaning?"

  "You'd be surprised how much I can hear from my balcony."

 
; "Oh, so you were eavesdropping," he says, flipping a giant omelet over in the pan in front of him.

  "No, I…" I shake my head, tossing off the very idea. "Do I get to meet her?" I ask, glancing toward the deck, wondering if she's taking some early morning sun.

  "I don't like for them to stay the night," he replies with a smirk, and my jaw drops.

  "Wow. Wow. There's so much to unpack there," I gasp. "You make the women sound like a harem or something."

  "Hey, there's as happy to be there as I am, and they know not to expect anything from me."

  "Yeah, they're just honored to be able to spend a couple hours in the company of the Jack Stratton."

  "Well, it's how we're spending the time that's important. Believe me, they leave satisfied," he says, looking up at me and holding my gaze, a promise inside his eyes that makes me shiver.

  "Ugh, gross," I say, pulling myself away. "Besides, I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy on that stuff. Your coaches would be pretty upset if they found out, huh?"

  He pauses. "You won't say anything. Will you?"

  "Probably not. Probably," I say with a careless shrug as I head outside with my coffee.

  "Bree!" I hear him call after me as I shut the patio door behind me.

  He sounds worried. Good. I like having something to hold over his head.

  Chapter 3

  After breakfast, I wash out my bowl and put it in the dishwasher. My mom said that there's a housekeeper, but I feel strange leaving out my dishes for someone else to clean up. I glance toward the backyard, and down at the ocean beyond. The only thing breaking up the view is Ray's huge boat, which is tethered to the private dock.

  My mom's at the diner, and I assume Ray's at work, so I'm left to my own devices today. I wander out toward the foyer, figuring I'll give myself a tour since I focused on unpacking my stuff in my bedroom yesterday. I start on the first floor, wandering through the high-ceilinged spaces. When I come to the third sitting room, I begin to wonder what Ray needs this many rooms for. With Jack usually in his penthouse or on the road, and Alexa away, I'd find the space lonely all to myself.

  I find a door to the basement in the hall between the formal dining room and a coat check room and head down. The main area is a filled with games…a ping pong table, billiards, and vintage-looking arcade games. I see a few doors leading out and head for the nearest one and poke my head into the dark room. As my eyes adjust, I realize I'm in a small movie theatre, though the seats are each individual recliners. I shake my head and cross to the other door, which is heavier than the others. The air in the room feels different, and I see bottles of wine covering the walls.

  I head back into the game room and toward the third door. It leads down a short hallway into a brightly lit home gym, though it looks just as well-equipped as the one my mom used to belong to when she was on a health kick. I spy a white towel draped over a weight machine, and catch the faint whiff of sweat in the air – Jack's sweat. I shiver involuntarily and head for a door on the opposite side of the room. It leads up a small stairwell and into the side of the backyard.

  There's a bunch of football equipment spread across the grass, and a wire basket filled the balls to my left. I feel my stomach clench and circle around toward the back of the house. I know it's not fair, but I feel a surge of annoyance at my mom. We've both spent so much time distancing ourselves from football, and now she's dating the father of one of the biggest stars in the NFL and forcing me to live in a house with him.

  I know that's not fair. I know that her falling for Ray had nothing to do with Jack, but I can't help but think that Freud would have a field day with the situation. I take a deep breath and will the anger out of my body. It's toxic, and it won't help anything.

  I open the door nearest to me on the ground floor and walk inside. I stop short, realizing I'm in a room that I must have missed on my first tour of the ground floor. There's a huge oak desk to my right, and a seating area to my left. This must be Ray's home office. I walk around the desk and look over the photos he has displayed. There are only two, and they're the only personal items in the room.

  One shows a photo of Jack with his helmet raised over his head, his face covered in sweat, and the other is a photo of Ray with Jack and a young woman. By her age, she must be Alexa, Jack's sister. I lean closer to study her face. She's strikingly beautiful. Tall, like Jack and Ray, but with dark brown hair that flows over her shoulders. The phone on the desk trills a harsh ring, and I jump back, startled. I reach toward it, unsure if I should answer.

  "He doesn't like anyone in here," says a voice from the doorway to the backyard. I squint as Jack strides out of the sunlight to the desk and picks up the handset. "It's OK," he says immediately, as though he knows who's calling, and what they're calling about. "It's just Bree, she wandered in. Yup," he says, and hangs up. "My dad doesn't like anyone to come in here," he says and gestures toward the door. I walk out, feeling indignantly like I'm being chastised.

  "I was just taking a tour of the house," I explain. "And how did he even know I was in there, anyway?"

  Jack nods toward a black box on the doorframe as just before he shuts the door. "Those are motion detectors. They're all over the house, but he has them set up here so that he knows personally if anyone goes into his office."

  "Yikes," I murmur. Talk about a control freak.

  "He deals with large amounts of money," Jack says with an easy shrug as we walk back across the patio to the kitchen doors.

  "What did your mom look like?"

  "Why?" he asks, stopping to frown at me.

  "Oh, well, I just noticed that your dad doesn't have any pictures of her, and I was wondering if she had brown hair like Alexa."

  "Alexa takes after my dad. His hair was brown before he went gray," he explains shortly.

  "I didn't mean to pry."

  "I guess we both have parents we don't like to talk about," he says with a wry smile. "Is that why you go by Driscoll?"

  I nod. "It's my mom's maiden name. It wouldn’t confuse someone who was really determined to look up Steven Riley's wife and kids, but it helps."

  "I used to have his card," Jack confesses with a smile.

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. I was so excited when I found it in the pack. He was great, in his day."

  "Not that that's what anyone remembers," I reply. "Nor should they," I add. "Where's your bedroom?" I ask, wanting to change the subject.

  "Why do you want to know?" he asks, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

  "Just asking," I stress. "Like I said, I was looking around."

  "Third floor," he says, pointing to the top of the house. "Right in the middle. You swim?"

  "Sure."

  "Been in the pool yet?"

  I look up at him and notice an evil glint in his eyes. "Jack…" I say warningly.

  But it's too late. He reaches out quick as lightning and grabs me around the waist, then flips me into the pool. I close my mouth just before I hit the surface of the water and sink under. I kick back up to the surface and slap my palms on the water angrily.

  "Ugh, how old are you?" I snap, pushing my hair out of my face.

  "Hey, at least it's heated. That's for your little blackmail threat earlier," he adds with a smile.

  I grumble to myself and swim to the side of the pool and extend my arm out demandingly. He takes it and begins to pull me out, but I swing my legs up against the side and extend them out suddenly. He's huge, but I've taken him by surprise. He tumbles over my head and into the water with a splash.

  I grab hold of the edge and watch as he surfaces, spluttering. "Oldest trick in the book, Jack. You better up your game."

  Chapter Four

  I tap my foot on the marble floor as I wait for my mom in the foyer. What is taking her so long? She's the one who's making me get a dumb dress for the party and now she can't tear herself away from the caterers.

  "Mom?" I call toward the kitchen impatiently, though who knows if she can even hear me f
rom this distance. This big house is dumb. This party is dumb. Everything's dumb. I hear her shoes clicking on the floor, headed toward me. Finally, I walk toward the door, expecting her to be right behind me.

  "Sorry, hon," she says. I turn back around and frown. She's not carrying her purse. "There's this issue with the dance floor…I don't think I'm going to be able to get away right now."

  "So I don't have to go shopping?" I ask hopefully.

  "No, you still need something to wear tonight. It's black tie. I knew I shouldn't have let you keep postponing it. Just go, and find something that looks—" she stops as she sees my expression. She knows I never have any idea about fashion. Jack leaps down the southern set of stairs, surprisingly nimble for his size, and breezes past us.

  "Bye!" he says, opening the door.

  "Where are you off to?" my mom asks. Jack stops, clearly surprised to have someone asking him this question.

  "Gotta go pick up my tux," he explains.

  "Oh! Where?" my mom asks.

  "Um, Gucci…" he replies, looking puzzled.

  "Perfect! Take Bree. She needs a dress for tonight," she instructs him.

  "But—" he protests.

  "You and your father always look like you stepped out of GQ so don't even tell me you don't know how to help. See you two later!" she replies firmly, and walks quickly back toward the kitchen.

  "Let's go," I sigh, knowing the conversation is closed.

  "She…she's…" Jack mutters as he shuts the front door behind us.

  "She's run a restaurant for the last ten years by herself. She has a way of getting things done."

  "She reminds me of my coach," he says, and I'm not sure by his tone if he means it as a good or bad thing. I clamber up into his Escalade as he eases himself in, his seat pushed way back from the wheel to accommodate his size.

  "Nothing too frilly," I tell him as he begins around the circular drive.

  "Frilly? It's Gucci," he replies like I've just said something incomprehensible.

  "So?" I can see him trying not to smile. "What?"

  "Sorry, it's just…I've never met a woman who cared less about what she looks like."