Riptide Publishing
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Double Up
Copyright © 2014 by Vanessa North
Cover Art by L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
Editors: Sarah Frantz, Carole-ann Galloway
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-62649-159-5
First edition
August, 2014
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Knowing he’s loved can make any man fly.
Fifteen years ago, Ben Warren was a wakeboarding champion, king of big air, ballsy tricks, and boned grabs. Until a career-ending injury left him broken in ways he still has no hope of fixing. Now he takes his thrills where he can get them, and tries not to let life hurt too much.
Then Davis Fox arrives in Ben’s sporting goods store with a plan to get in touch with his estranged brother by competing in the annual wakeboarding double-up contest. The catch? He’s never ridden before. It’s crazy, but Ben’s a sucker for the guy’s sob story—and for his dimples too—so he agrees to coach Davis.
Davis is everything Ben isn’t: successful, confident, and in love with life. And he wants Ben to love life—and him—too. But before Ben can embrace a future with Davis, he needs to remember how to hope.
To my husband, Mark, who taught me to ride wake.
This one is all on you, baby.
About Double Up
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Also by Vanessa North
About the Author
Enjoy this Book?
know his type the minute he walks through the door.
He’s at least twenty-five, has more money than God, and recently decided his dick is measured by the air he can catch on a board. He’s wearing khakis and a polo shirt, as if he came from a golf course. Or work. Do guys like him work? Or just milk a trust fund?
He’s also cute. Really fucking cute. Dark hair, freckles, dimples, a lean body. I can’t help but take an interest. Or my cock can’t.
But I know better. He’s probably straight, and even if he isn’t, he’s way the fuck out of my league. The guy has eyelashes for days and that mouth? Holy hell. Get it together, Warren.
“Welcome to Legend Wakeboards. Can I help you?”
“Yeah … I need to see Ben Warren.” He looks down at a card in his hand—likely from the boat dealership that occupies most of the building—then back at me. “I want to talk about some private lessons.”
Of course you do.
“Well, I’m Ben.” I flash my the-cash-register-made-me-do-it smile. “What can I do for you?” It’s pretty typical: these guys make some money midtwenties, when they aren’t too old to show their asses at extreme sports. Guys like him think it’s going to be easy. Then, you get them on the water, they get frustrated, and somehow it’s your fault they can’t ride. They’re all wallet, no action. I should know: I got into this gig because I had something to prove to guys like him.
Even with sponsors, my wallet wasn’t very big, but I showed my ass all right. We sell the video. For three years running, I was the reigning champion of the Lake Lovelace Tournament and Double-Up Contest. I was no slouch on the pro circuit either; I even won an X Games medal. That was fifteen years ago. Now I teach lessons and summer camp and hardly ride at all—only when I have to demonstrate something during a lesson. I miss it, sure, but mostly I’m content to sit behind the counter at the world’s smallest pro shop, and sell boards to guys with more money than brains. Unless they’re cute. Then I just want them the hell out of my shop before they can remind me that no one wants a washed-up old has-been.
He leans on the counter and flashes me a dimpled smile. The effect ricochets right off my brain and down to parts south.
“So you’re the legend himself?”
Why did I let Eddie name the shop? “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Okay, so my kid brother is practically a fish. Born and raised on the lake. There’s talk of him going pro and he’s only thirteen.”
Oh. A pang of disappointment surprises me. “If he’s that good, I don’t know that I have anything to teach him. What’s his name?”
“Ridley Romeo.”
Oh shit. Yeah, his kid brother is that good. He hits a double-up and he flies. He doesn’t just get big air, he makes his tricks beautiful, not to mention just plain sick. The kid is all balls, no bones.
“You’re Ridley Romeo’s brother?” They don’t look alike. Granted, there’s at least ten years between them, and I’ve never seen the Romeo kid up close, but Ridley is blond haired.
“Yeah. I’m Davis Fox. You can call me Dave.” He glances down at the card again, tucks it into his pocket, and extends his hand for a shake. “Riddles is my half brother. We’re not close—I just moved here from Charleston. But the lessons aren’t for him. They’re for me. I figure if I can do this double-up contest thing, maybe he and I could spend some time together and get to know each other a bit.”
“Hold on. You want to enter the double-up contest?”
He nods, flashing that smile again.
“Have you ever ridden before?”
He shakes his head.
“You’re fucking nuts.” Yeah, it’s not polite to cuss at the customers, but seriously? “Look, I know you want to impress your kid brother, and you think it’s just water, how bad can the crash hurt? But it fucking hurts. People are fragile.” I’m fragile. I point to him. “You’re fragile.”
“I’m tougher than I look.” Dimples. Is he flirting?
“Not that tough. There’s got to be a better way to bond with your brother than entering a contest in an extreme sport you’ve never tried before.”
The dimples disappear. “I’m not allowed to see him.” He looks down at his feet. “My stepfather doesn’t want a ‘dumb fucking faggot’ around his kid.”
Ouch.
; “I’m sorry. That’s a raw deal.” My sympathy is tempered by my dick throwing an “oh yes, he’s gay!” party in my pants. I shouldn’t encourage him—or my dick—but what the hell. “That name—Romeo—your stepfather is in politics or something, right? I think I saw the signs last November.”
“Yeah. That’s him. Those signs were probably paid for by some antigay, antiwoman, anti-everybody-who-isn’t-them hate group.” He takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “Look, my own mom won’t return my calls, and Ridley … I just want to get to know him. If I can talk to him for a few minutes …”
Ah, fuck. “Okay, I still think entering the contest is a bad idea, but I can get you started. Do you have access to a wake boat or will we be using the shop’s?”
“I bought a Super Air Nautique last weekend.”
Nice boat. Who throws that kind of money at making nice with family?
“Okay. You have a board? Vest? Helmet?”
“Helmet?” He raises an eyebrow. “For real?”
“Yeah, a helmet. No helmet, no lessons.” I stare him down, but he doesn’t pick a fight.
“Okay, just tell me what I need and I’ll get it. I have a boat. Nothing else.”
“How much do you weigh?” I ask, coming out from behind the counter. I’d put him at about one seventy, he’s taller than me, maybe six feet, six foot one, kinda slender but muscley.
“One sixty-five. Why?”
I gesture to the boards. “You need one in an appropriate size for your height and weight, otherwise it won’t hold you up or get good air. You ought to be learning on something like this—” I gesture to one of the beginner boards “—but it won’t get the pop you’re looking for off the wake, so against my better judgment—” I pull out a pro model board “—I’d recommend this one.”
He looks it over. It’s not pretty. I carry some pretty gear. The artwork on this one looks like it was done by a stunningly untalented toddler. But it’s got a great ride and plenty of pop.
“It’s …”
“I know; it’s fugly. No one will be looking at the board. Shoe size?”
He actually looks down at his feet and blushes.
“Twelve.”
“Really?” I glance at his feet too. Really. I bite back against the temptation to ask if it’s true what they say about big feet. Why do I want to flirt with him so damn bad?
I find some large bindings and hand them to him. “Try these on. They should be snug, but not so snug your feet can’t slip out of them in a bad crash. Don’t worry; it’s easier to put them on in the water. We use lube.” I set a bottle of it on the board.
“Lube?” He blushes again, tries them on, nods, and sets them aside. While he tries them on, I walk through the shop collecting all the stuff he’s going to need—like the helmet with ear flaps. The only thing worse than popping an eardrum when your head hits the lake is the ensuing infection from getting lake water in your inner ear.
The pile on the seat next to him grows steadily, but I save the best for last. When I hand him the rope, he bites his lip. Damn.
“You can’t ride wake without a rope.” I pitch my voice a little low just to see if I can bring his blush back.
Dayum.
Those pretty pink cheeks make me wonder how far down his body that flush goes. Focus, Ben. I ring up his purchases and try not to flinch when I tell him the total. You’d think after all these years I’d get used to telling guys they need to pay to play. Wakeboarding is definitely not a poor man’s sport. But he doesn’t say anything, just hands over his credit card.
“Okay, Davis Fox. You’re ready to ride. What do your mornings look like this week?”
“My mornings?”
“Yeah, for the lessons. We head out first thing, when the water is like glass. That’s the best time for learning.”
“Oh. Well, I have meetings Monday and Thursday, and I’ll be out of town Friday. You can have me Tuesday and Wednesday.”
Is that right?
“Have you? Like with tea? On toast?”
He ignores my flirting. “Tuesday then? I live on the lake, I can write down my address for you.”
I hand him my phone. “Add yourself to my contacts. I’ll be there at seven.”
He enters his information, and then surprises me by snapping a photo of himself. He’s still a little pink faced, and I have a feeling I’ll be jerking off to that picture later. What is it about a guy who blushes?
I help him carry his purchases out to his car—a Range Rover? Maybe what they say about big feet isn’t true after all.
He smiles at me. It’s a nice smile. The kind that makes you want to do something nice back. “Thanks. I know you think I’m crazy to learn how to wakeboard just so I can spend a weekend hanging out with my own brother. But it’s all I’ve got.”
“Yeah. Crazy is a good word for it. Lucky you, I have a weakness for guys who blush.”
Yeah, that gets another blush out of him.
here are three types of houses on Lake Lovelace.
First, you have the eyesores. Built in the fifties and sixties just after the lake was made, most of them are only used on weekends. Some are little more than camping cabins with a dock. The land was sold cheap back then, but it’s worth a fortune now. The eyesores are goldmines.
Next, you have the McMansion monstrosities. Probably eighty-five percent of lakefront lots sport one of these houses. Nearly identical to each other, all ubiquitous gray stucco and columns, metastasizing across the landscape like the tacky cancers they are.
Last, you have the objets d’art. Designed by real architects, not picked out of a catalog, sometimes they spring up from the lakefront like a jewel in an exotic setting. Sometimes they nestle quietly into the landscape—a tribute to nature, all glass and stone and wood and gorgeous. Before my career imploded, I fantasized about owning one of those houses; waking up at dawn and slipping out my back door, down the dock, and into the lake for a swim or a ride or a lusty fuck in the morning fog.
Standing in front of Dave’s house, a house right out of my sweatiest, dirtiest, most hope-infused fantasies, I shiver. The building is elegant, not flashy—a simple stone façade shows off large wood-framed windows, a gently sloping roof, and a shaded walkway offering a glimpse of the lake. The whole thing is set off by a carefully groomed yard and tiered flower beds. Even the palm trees manage to avoid looking kitschy. Dave’s house looks like it was crafted with love and pride—it looks like home. Seeing it makes my stomach do a sad little roll. I don’t know if I’m just jealous—cause I’m sure as fuck jealous—or nostalgic too.
He opens the front door while I’m still gawking on the front lawn and flashes his dimples.
“Well, hey. You’re fifteen minutes early. I was going to sneak out for Starbucks but you’ve blocked me in.” He gestures to my truck, parked behind the Rover. “Now you’ll have to give me a ride.”
“Don’t worry, I brought caffeine.” I smile back at him. And yep, he’s still really fucking cute. He’s wearing board shorts—simple black, knee length—and a white T-shirt. No fuss. His legs are toned and more tanned than I would have expected from a guy with freckles. His hair is still messy from bed, and little creases line his face. Cute isn’t a strong enough word. He’s fucking adorable.
“Coffee?” He walks toward me, his expression so hopeful I want to kiss him. But how he can even think about drinking hot coffee on a summer morning in Florida is beyond me.
“Monster.” I hold up my cooler.
He shudders. Honest to God shudders. “But …”
“But nothing. You spill hot coffee on your lap when you hit a wake, it sucks. Trust me. You do not want to burn the wedding tackle in front of all your friends.” I wince theatrically. “No dignity, dude.”
“So, is that a prerequisite to wakeboarding?” He takes the cooler as I heft my gear bag onto my other shoulder and follow him toward the house.
“Energy drinks?”
“No.” He looks over his shoulder and grins mis
chievously. “Calling people dude and using words like ‘wedding tackle.’”
“Oh, now you’re making fun of the way I talk? See if I bring the energy drinks tomorrow.”
He opens the door and gestures me through. I set my board down and take a look around.
Wow.
I’ve never been in a house like this one. I mean, he’s got clutter—don’t we all—but it’s classy clutter. It’s a few architectural magazines collecting on the counter. It’s a jacket that probably costs what I make in a month’s commission, slung haphazardly over a chair. It’s a pair of coffee-brown wing tips kicked off next to the recliner—and that ain’t no ugly carpet-covered thing like mine; it’s some high-end leather deal.
It’s like I stepped out of my regularly scheduled life and into one of his architectural magazines. The whole space is open. The wall facing the lake is solid windows, and the opposite wall is floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, complete with library ladder. His slate floors should seem cold, but instead they’re rustic and inviting, especially with that ginormous fireplace and the—
“Is that a bearskin?”
He glances at the rug and then back at me. “Yeah. My decorator picked it. You aren’t some vegan hippie guy, are you?”
“No.” I stare at the bearskin, a rush of fantasies rolling over me. Him spread out on that rug before me, completely debauched, groaning as he thrusts into my mouth, my hands. I can imagine the fur’s softness on my knees, my back. I can almost feel the weight of him on my tongue, pressing back into my throat. Damn. “It’s gorgeous.”
It is. The whole house is.
“Thank you.” He shuffles from one foot to another. “So …”
“How does a guy your age afford a place like this? This house is amazing.”
The blush that spreads across his face isn’t bashfulness like back at the shop. It’s different. It’s pleasure—no, pride.
“Thank you. I designed it.”
Record scratch.
“You designed this place? Gawd, I’ve never …” I can’t find the words. “You’re really talented.”
Talented. The word seems inadequate as I stand here gaping.
Double Up Page 1
