Skygods (Hydraulic #2)

by Sarah Latchaw

  Cover

  Title Page

  Skygods

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  Sarah Latchaw

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  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  Skygods, Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Latchaw

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  ...

  First Omnific eBook edition, August 2014

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, August 2014

  ...

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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  Latchaw, Sarah.

  Skygods / Sarah Latchaw – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623420-87-1

  1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Skydiving—Fiction. 3. Bipolar Disorder—Fiction. 4. Authors—Fiction. I. Title

  ...

  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  For Nathan,

  who keeps me grounded and makes me laugh—

  usually at the same time.

  I love you.

  Skygods

  A skydiver,

  arrogant in his ability to navigate the heavens, rejects his fragile state

  and calls himself a god of the sky.

  Chapter 1

  Blue Sky, Black Death

  A skydiver’s mantra or greeting.

  Enjoy the exhilaration of the open sky,

  but never forget the mortal earth below.

  Hydraulic Level Five [working title]

  Draft 1.22

  © Samuel Caulfield Cabral & Aspen Kaye Trilby

  22. An Inheritance and State

  THREE MILLION DOLLARS. All of it in a trust fund left behind by his dead parents, which now that he is eighteen, is at his disposal. According to the lawyer, the fortune would’ve been nine million if the estate hadn’t been obligated to pay his mother’s debts after she jumped. Not that he wants a dime of it. Caulfield snarls at the memory of the piggish man with squinty eyes and a stupid-looking bowtie that choked his fat neck. He doesn’t need a stranger to remind him his mother had preferred ski slopes, sports cars, and spending sprees in Boston’s Back Bay to her son.

  “Caulfield, hit the on-deck circle!” Coach bellows from the opposite end of the dugout. Caulfield scoops up a bat and sprints to the circle for warm-up swings. He has to get his head in the game, his last ever with Bear Creek High. He’s wanted the state title for so long, and now it’s three colossal runs away—so impossible just fifteen minutes ago, yet Bear Creek managed to load the bases in a ninth inning rally.

  Bright stadium lights wash the field in white, heightening the exhilaration of the night game. He pushes his hat brim down to shield his eyes from the glare.

  “Straighten out that swing. You’re a little wild today.” Caulfield nods to the hitting coach and focuses on the next pitch, clobbering the imaginary ball. “That’s better.”

  The odd thing is, baseball has begun to lose its sheen of magic. The University of Colorado, along with several other colleges, offered him baseball scholarships. He turned them all down. The idea of playing ball another four years seems daunting. Really, all he wants to do is plow through the next two years until Aspen graduates from high school and he can once again see her every day.

  She’s up there in the stands like she always is—screaming his name when he’s up to bat, waving as he takes to the outfield. To her, he’s Caulfield: attentive boyfriend, hell of a ballplayer, and best friend since five. How would she feel about Caulfield: child of a disbarred lawyer and nutcase socialite? Or Caulfield: sack-of-shit millionaire who’s too scared to touch his inheritance, even to buy his girlfriend a reliable ride? Caulfield tears through another swing.

  “Number Nine, you’re up!” Caulfield shoulders the barrel as the hitter before him strikes out. A thrill shoots through him every time he hears “Number Nine.” Ted Williams—the Splendid Splinter himself—wore the number nine for two decades in Boston. Someday he’ll see that retired number flying high above Fenway Park. Maybe he’ll use his mother’s money to do it and hope she burns with revulsion, wherever she is. The more he learns of her, the more he can’t stomach thinking of her as “mother.” He should just call her Rachel Caulfield. No, just Rachel.

  Caulfield digs one foot into the batter’s box, then the next. Time to focus. Ninth inning, down two runs. Runner on third, runner on second, runner on first. He has to hit it deep. The crowd behind him is a roaring machine, all squeals and shrieks. He hears Aspen’s voice, and Maria’s and Esteban’s. Zoning them out, he studies the pitcher as he shakes his head once, twice, and windup. The ball’s coming in high—too high. He holds his swing. Crud, slider.

  “Strike!”

  Coach hollers at him to watch for breaking balls, as if he doesn’t already know. He plants his feet, pure fury pulsing through his veins, his heart pounding Ra-chel…Ra-chel. Fuck her. Fuck her for distracting him during the biggest game of his life, for keeping him from Fenway Park, and for despising her only child. He hates her money. He swings hard.

  Too early.

  “Strike!”

  “Fuck!” Caulfield growls, earning him a warning glare from the umpire.

  “Come on, Caulfield! Get your head out of your ass and in this game!”

  “This isn’t tee-ball, this is State!”

  The crowd behind him jeers, and Caulfield knows they will hang, draw, and quarter him, then stick his head on the fence post if he screws this up. He narrows his vision to the pitcher, watching his windup, the angle of his arm, bracing himself. This one’s coming in low. He holds his swing.

  “Ball!”

  He whooshes out. There we go, Caulfield. Eye on the ball—first rule of baseball. Channel the rage. Carry it through in your swing. Windup…no break, coming in fast, just how you like them. Swing through…

  Crack!

  Yes. Caulfield tosses the bat and sprints for first as the crowd’s untamed screams propel him forward. He rounds first as the other team’s outfielders stumble around the fence, the ball out of the park and lost to them. A manic grin claims his face as he slows to a jog, savoring the trip around the bases. One runner crosses home plate…then two…then three. Caulfield’s grand slam pushes the score to six-to-four, bottom of the ninth. The game is over.

  His teammates flood from the dugout and Bear Creek students and parents spill onto the field, but the only face Caulfield seeks is Aspen’s. Strong arms lift him and he can see above the hundreds of heads. He spots her, wildly waving her arms and jumping with sheer joy. Gone is the inheritance. Gone is the piggish lawyer, his father, and Rachel. It’s only her. Always her.

  Caulfield stiffens.

  I love her.

  Not some high school crush or infatuation with her hair, her eyes, her body. He loves her. Enough to forget everyone else. Enough to give her everything he can. Enough to protect her, to marry her.

  He slides down from his teammates’ shoulders and whips Aspen into his arms, clinging to her.

  “You were…Ack! Amazing!” she cries into his ear, heedless of the sweat dripping from his f
orehead, his neck, his arms. “So brilliant, so perfect!”

  He laughs and set her down, plopping his soaked ball cap on her lovely blond head. Framing her face with his hands, he kisses her, hard.

  “Let’s do the fairy tale. All of it.” His voice quakes with adrenaline and emotion. She can’t miss his meaning. Don’t scare her, you idiot. She’s not even sixteen. But it’s not fear in her wide eyes. Nothing but joy stares back, and it fills Caulfield’s own heart with trepidation.

  He smooths her cheek, eases his agony. “That’s a long way out, though, getting married? Far, far in the future.” She nestles beneath his arm. He stoops and pecks her cheek.

  “Only you, Firecracker. Don’t forget it.”

  Kaye—Well, here it is. One hundred plus pages of our story, told as truthfully as I can recall. I know it’s one-sided. It’s missing your thoughts, your memories. Thank you again for agreeing to share them with me.

  You should know: I feel like that eighteen-year-old kid again, terrified you’ll read this memoir and lose respect for me. I’m ashamed of how I resented my adoptive mother. How I both idolized and hated my birth mother. Or the secrets I kept from you, for years. The way I longed for a thirteen-year-old girl who was little more than a child. But this is life, and we make choices and we suffer (and grow) because of them.

  Read our story. Give me your honesty. Question everything, not just the passages I’ve marked, because this is us and I want it to be right. ~Sam

  Neelie Nixie was a whip-toting, stiletto-sporting dominatrix. Stupid Hollywood, had to sex up poor Neelie. But still, I was giddy to finally get a glimpse of her long-awaited image. Indigo Kingsley’s soft, full lips curled in the publicity photo, as if she were about to say, “Why yes, I am the only woman in the world who can wear skin-tight leather and not chafe my ivory thighs.” Her sleek platinum hair was now a wild mane and previously blue eyes were some smoky, unidentifiable color. Mist and shadow swirled behind her toned, action-hero body. In the background, a beat-up road sign proclaimed BEAR CREEK: Population 4,182.

  I wondered if Samuel had seen Indigo’s publicity shot yet. Heck, he probably attended the photo shoot during their romantic stint. Bald, red, and unbecoming jealousy flared as I studied, with the eyes of a competitor, limbs lithe and long, freckle-less complexion, ample cleavage. I sniffed. Airbrushed.

  A clap of thunder rattled the TrilbyJones walls and the lights flickered. Thank goodness for backup generators. Double-checking my surge protector, I turned back to my work and ignored the sheets of rain pelting my office windows. More rain. More gray darkness. We’d had nothing but a constant barrage of the cold, wet stuff—a peculiarity for midsummer Boulder.

  It had been ten days since Samuel and Caroline had driven the suitcase-laden rental out of the Cabrals’ driveway to resume his book tour. Ten days since his sister and her new husband, Danita and Angel, boarded a plane bound for a Maui honeymoon. Ten days and I was still digging out from hundreds of emails that had collected in my time away from TrilbyJones, my boutique PR agency. We were patroned by the local tourist industry, from Wild West museums to spelunking clubs. Assembling marketing plans often required shadowing our clients, like the upcoming caving expedition detailed in the email I was supposed to be answering, rather than fretting over Indigo’s come-hither pout. Minimizing the Water Sirens images, I fired off another response.

  Re: July Caving Trip

  To: Kevin@GreatWestCaves.com

  Kevin—Groovy Adventures caving expedition is still on. Can you please provide gear for four instead of three?

  I tapped a fingernail against my coffee mug and dreamed of Samuel decked out in spelunking gear…heavy-duty overalls, hard-hat, carabiners. If understanding our client’s business meant donning harnesses and ropes like bondage enthusiasts and delving into the depths of the earth, so be it.

  I opened another email. As I attached artwork files, my mind floated to the cautious kiss Samuel and I had shared on the ball diamond. So warm, despite the chill of the night. So soft, despite the hard ground. My gut twisted. Ever since I broke my resolve, I’d worried that my actions could be misinterpreted as “friends with benefits.” When I shared my concern with Samuel in our brief conversation last night, he laughed it off.

  “If this is ‘friends with benefits,’ Trilby, I think I’ve been cheated out of the benefits.”

  “But I kissed you.”

  “And it was hot, and wonderful, and…well…left me with a big problem when I returned home. Trust me, I don’t feel as though you’re using me for sex.”

  “A big problem, huh, Cabral? Someone’s bragging.” I’m positive he could feel my warming cheeks across the sine waves. Who was this bold girl?

  “By the way, I mailed the manuscript today. Keep your eyes open for a FedEx package…”

  My email notification dinged and snapped me from my daydreams, just as I loosened Samuel’s tuxedo tie and flicked open those little buttons, ready to trail a line of wedding cake frosting from neck to navel. I was a pitiable bundle of hormones. Sighing, I buried myself in my client accounts until it was home time.

  Shutting down my computer, I grabbed my briefcase and dodged from my desk, the last one to leave. I’d decided not to return to my hometown of Lyons this past weekend. After our intimate little show during Danita and Angel’s wedding dance, small town gossip was rampant. According to my disapproving mother, her farmers market customers had commented how exciting it was “to see those kids back together,” and had asked how she felt about her “small-fry daughter going after that Cabral boy again.”

  Dodging Lyons gossip wasn’t the only reason for burying myself in work. It kept my mind off of other things, like Samuel’s grand kiss-off note from seven years ago. I’d finally mailed it to him, knowing he wouldn’t see it until he returned to New York from his latest publicity gig.

  It’s not that I’d been reluctant to unearth it. I spent every night last week tearing through memento boxes and yearbooks. (I had a good chuckle over Angel’s and Samuel’s gelled comb-overs and silk shirts.) It wasn’t with my keepsakes. I’d found the slightly yellowed envelope several days ago, stuffed in TrilbyJones’s basement, along with other divorce papers I hadn’t wanted to taint my new home. I don’t know what I’d expected when I’d unfolded the note, perhaps some big, neon arrow pointing to a clue: a misshaped Y, an open O that told me Samuel hadn’t been the author. Ever since he’d questioned his ability to write such a missive, I’d fished for someone else to blame for the ugly words. But when I held the thing between shaking fingers, smoothed the wrinkled paper marred by water marks, I saw Samuel’s handwriting—wilder than normal, but still elegant, still precise:

  Kaye,

  Go home to Colorado. I don’t want to see you again. The roots between us are dead, we are dead…

  I swiped a stray tear and jammed the unwanted memory back in the envelope. I’d forgiven him. It was the past. I’d made a photocopy and mailed the original to Samuel, waiting with baited breath until he returned to New York and saw it…

  Had he picked up the mail, yet? Maybe he was still on his flight or in a cab. My fingers itched for my phone. Locking TrilbyJones, I flew up the Victorian’s dark stairwell to my second-floor apartment. Samuel had been in Toronto, meeting and greeting fans at some sort of convention. When we last spoke, I asked if he’d visited the CN Tower. His only response was a groan and a mumbled “I didn’t even have time to shave.”

  The publicity tour was hard on Samuel, though he rarely complained. He enjoyed crowds almost as much as he enjoyed lumbar punctures. Caroline was cramming as many book appearances as possible into the months before the movie premiered, and with Water Sirens fervor creeping like ivy across America, his events were packed. I’d read on a celebrity gossip website how an off-kilter fan all but accosted him at a book signing because Samuel Cabral had well and truly put Water Sirens to rest. Horrible visions of a sledgehammer-wielding, wild-eyed Annie Wilkes swung through my imagination.

  I caved.
Punching in his number, I jiggled my knees and waited. No answer. I left a generic message, something cringe-inducing like “hope you didn’t need the barf bag on your flight,” and settled in for another Wednesday night of televised ghost hunting and wine. I was already biting my thumbnail as night-vision cameras swept through Irish castles, so when there was a sudden rap at my door, I flew from my chair with a yelp. Without waiting for an invitation, Molly barreled into my apartment, followed by a scowling Jaime Guzman. Both shook rain from their jackets and slipped out of their muddy shoes.

  “Hi, Kaye! We’ve come for a night of drunken debauchery and popcorn.”

  Jaime snorted. “She tackled me in The Garden Market and promised to buy a Labrador if I came along.” Jaime housed a pack of Labrador puppies under the auspices of breeding and selling them, but I suspected she vastly preferred their company over that of the human populace.

  “Oh please, you went willingly.”

  How…odd. Was misanthropic Jaime actually being social? If temperaments were placed on this earth with diametric opposites, then Molly Jones, my bubbly best friend and business partner, and Jaime Guzman, my scorned and scathing divorce attorney, were such. Yet they’d somehow clicked in their incompatibility, and I suspected it was a mutual appreciation of mischief. Ever since Molly orchestrated my prank night kidnapping several weeks ago, Jaime seemed to gain respect for her. If Molly ever knocked over a bank, Jaime might even invite her to coffee.

  I reached sunburned arms around my friend. She stooped her towering ponderosa frame and returned my hug, her frizzy wet hair tickling my neck. “So, what have you been doing outside the office?” I asked. “I’ve heard nothing from you at all since the wedding!”

  Her eyes sparked. “Shouldn’t you be asking who—”

  “Never mind, I set myself up for that one.” I shuffled to the kitchen to make popcorn.

  Molly mooned like a schmaltzy schoolgirl, sprawled on my sofa. “Oh, Kaye, Cassady is…argh! He’s such a gentleman, and he’s smart, and reads a lot and only has documentaries in his Netflix queue, and his pecs! Oh, and he says he’s had it so bad for me, he was ‘as useless as gooseshit on a pumphandle,’” Molly prattled on. “He would have acted sooner, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d stay in Lyons…”