Unbound (The Men of West Beach Book 2)

by Kimberly Derting

  EMERSON

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice!” My words came out in a breathless rush. “You have no idea what this’ll mean to these kids.”

  My dad glanced around at what passed as a gymnasium, and I looked around at it too, seeing it through his eyes. It wasn’t up to his standards. He was a man who’d spent his career in some of the best training facilities in the world—places where money was no object. Most of the schools he’d visited were ones that had invested in state-of-the-art equipment for student athletes who were Big 10 bound.

  Here, we were lucky to have a working air compressor to keep the balls inflated.

  Hell, who was I kidding? We were lucky to have balls at all.

  “I don’t know, Missy. I don’t like you spending your time here. This place seems . . .” He made that face again, his persnickety face.

  “Daddy, I heard you the first fifty times. Your complaints have been duly noted. But this is happening. You might as well get used to the idea—your daughter is a do-gooder.” I thought about my moment on the front lawn the night before, when, in a moment of weakness, I’d seriously considered taking advantage of a drunken Lucas. Maybe do-gooder was a bit of a stretch.

  But it got a laugh out of my dad, and the sound boomed off the echoey walls. “I guess you get that from me.”

  This time, I was the one who looked skeptical and I let my face reflect it. My dad, the do-gooder. Right.

  By the time we started ushering the kids in, my dad was gone and Electric Earl was in the house.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect from him. When I’d called and asked him to do me a favor, to come and meet some of the boys here, my dad had jumped at the invitation. Maybe because it was the first time I’d ever asked anything like that from him. Maybe because he wanted to see where I was living for the summer. Or maybe because my brothers had always been right, and I really was the favorite.

  Regardless, I was glad to have him here.

  I’d seen this shtick of his a hundred times before—his speech about the humble kid from Tennessee who’d grown up with nothing, worked hard, gone to college on a scholarship, and been drafted by the pros. How football had provided him an education. A future.

  But I watched these kids’ faces as they heard his rags-to-riches story for the first time.

  They ate it up.

  I suddenly realized why it was so inspirational to them. My dad had been just like them. Grann had been single when she’d been raising both her boys. They’d had nothing. So for my dad, college had been a pipe dream. If he hadn’t gotten that scholarship, he’d have ended up working at the hardware store or the gas station in his small town.

  Football had not only provided my dad an opportunity to make more of his life, but it had given my brothers and me everything we’d ever wanted.

  For the first time, I understood why retiring from the game had been such a blow to my dad. Why he couldn’t just relax and live off the money he’d made. Why he traveled the country and gave speeches and collected fat checks for endorsement deals.

  Sure, a part of him liked the attention of being Electric Earl, but it was more than that. He needed to know he would never go back to being that kid who had nothing ever again—I could hear it in all the key phrases he used—putting in your time, sticking with it, making your way. Phrases I’d heard my entire life and never really made the connection.

  After he was done talking, the kids gave him a standing ovation. My dad was grinning, always grinning, and I saw that he really loved what he was doing here.

  Then I dragged over the boxes he’d brought with him, and we opened them up. He spent the next two hours signing footballs and T-shirts for all the boys and girls who clamored around him. He took the time to make each and every one of them feel special.

  “Hey, Markus!” I signaled the big kid over. “Hang back with me a sec, will you?”

  We waited until all the kids had filed out and then I dragged Markus over. “Dad, this is Markus. He’s the reason you’re here.”

  “That true, son?” Electric Earl asked, holding his hand out to the kid who had a good six inches on my dad.

  “Yes, sir. I suppose so.” Markus’s hand quivered as he clamped onto my dad’s.

  My dad gave him an impressed look. “Good firm handshake you got there.” Then he surveyed the boy. “You play ball?”

  “Sometimes. When I can.” Markus hemmed and hawed over his answer. “My mama couldn’t afford the uniform this year, so I sat out.”

  I felt like someone had just clotheslined me. It took me a second to recover.

  My dad didn’t miss a beat though. “What position you play?”

  Markus’s chest puffed up. “Fullback.”

  “Good man.” My dad grinned, giving Markus a hard smack on the shoulder. “Every quarterback needs someone like you.” He turned back to the box he’d been pulling balls and t-shirts from, and said, “Well, I’m sorry to say I’m fresh outta T-shirts your size . . .”

  Despite the dejected look on Markus’ face, he said simply, “It’s all right, sir. Most folks are.”

  “I brought you this instead.” He held up an official NFL jersey. “Em here guessed your size. Hope you don’t mind, I signed it already.”

  The boy’s eyes went wide as he held the jersey like it was made from delicate silk and might disintegrate if he handled it too roughly. His eyes welled with tears, and I hoped he wouldn’t cry. I wasn’t a crier, but I swear to God, if this boy did, I was gonna lose it. “Thank you,” he said to my dad. And then he turned to me, his voice much softer. “Thank you so much.”

  He left us alone, and damned if I didn’t feel my heart grow three sizes. Maybe I really was cut out for this do-gooder thing after all.

  My dad reached into his wallet and plucked out five crisp hundred-dollar bills. “You make sure that boy gets his uniform this season, you hear me?”

  Normally, this was the part where I’d insist I didn’t need his money—Miss Independent, Grann always called me. But this wasn’t about me. This was exactly why I was here, to help kids like Markus.

  I took the cash. “You got it.” Then, because Electric Earl was still in a warm and fuzzy sort of mood, I asked, “So? What’d you think?”

  “Of these kids? I take it back. This place ain’t so bad.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “I can see why you like it here.”

  “Better watch it, old man. Age might be makin’ you soft.”

  “Missy, ain’t no one ever told you? I always did have a heart of gold.”

  “Good. ’Cause I have a proposition for you.”

  “Uh-oh. Here we go. What kinda proposition we talkin’?” He sighed like I’d just asked him to shave his head.

  I flashed him my winningest smile. “The kind of proposition where you get to show off your fancy footwork on the field, and earn brand-new fans in the process.” I wiggled my eyebrows back at him. “I want you to lead an annual football camp. Right here.”

  He scowled. “Well, aren’t you just Johnny-on-the-spot?” He chewed his lip, his way of thinking the idea through. “What makes you think these kids’re even interested in a football camp with an old-timer like me?”

  “Please,” I scoffed. “You saw the way they swarmed you today. As far as they’re concerned, you could walk on water. Besides, these kids need something to keep ’em busy. Some of them may even have real potential, they just don’t have anyone who sees it.”

  “And you think I’m your man?”

  “I know you are. But if you’re too busy, I could give Steve Shill a call. I hear he’s got time on his hands these days.”

  He made a revolted face. “Aw, why even bring him up? Last I heard, he’d had a least three heart attacks. Besides, even when we were playin’, he was a hack. These kids deserve better’n a has-been like Steve Shill.”

  I pretended to consider his words. “Hmm, you may be right. And who knows better where they’re coming from than you?” I tapped my lip with my finger, deep in con
centration. “And if you do it, you could invite some of your old teammates, maybe even ask Seth and Drew to join you. You don’t have to make any promises to these kids. Just show up and show interest in them. This is your chance to give back—really give back. Show these kids what it feels like to have someone care about them.” I zeroed in on him now, dropping the whole I’m still working out the details in my head act. I knew exactly what I was asking of him. “I get it. It’s a big favor. Maybe just start with one camp and see how it goes. One week, next summer. It won’t even get in the way of your commitments during football season. After that, you can decide if you want to do any more.”

  That was all I needed—that single week. I knew he’d be hooked. My dad loved being on the field, it didn’t matter whether he was playing for a sold-out stadium on a crisp Sunday afternoon, or with a ragtag bunch of kids who just needed someone . . . anyone to mentor them.

  He needed this as much as they did. He just didn’t realize it yet.

  His usual grin grew into something even wider and uncontainable. “You know I could never say no to you, Missy.”

  “That’s exactly what I was counting on.”

  “You wanna get outta here and grab a bite? I hear the sushi ’round these parts is real good.”

  A laugh bubbled up from my throat. “Sushi? Last time I took you to a sushi place, you accused me of feeding you bait.”

  My dad’s eyes twinkled. “When in Rome . . . ain’t that what they say? I figured you’d know someplace we could get us one of those shitshimi platters I been hearin’ about on The Food Network.”

  “It’s sashimi, Daddy.” I corrected. “And if you want sashimi, sashimi it is. But remember, you asked for it.”

  He planted a kiss on my forehead. “Missy, I ask for a lot of things. Don’t mean I ain’t gonna complain when I don’t like it.”

  That night, I lay awake thinking about that grin on my dad’s face. The way he’d turned into a different person in front of those kids. The way he’d looked when I’d asked him to come back and host a football camp. Like a man with a purpose.

  It made me realize my dad wasn’t the only one who could do something good around here. I still had unfinished business weighing on me.

  The idea struck me like a lightning bolt, forcing me to give up on the idea of getting any sleep that night, so I got up and paced. I tried to decide if there was any merit to this plan of mine. I needed the sun to rise, so I could start making phone calls. Talk this thing out. Maybe even to those I didn’t especially care for . . . those who’d caused me nothing but trouble.

  But. If my idea worked . . .

  Maybe I’d be more than just a Good Samaritan.

  Maybe I’d be a hero.

  Maybe I’d even have a day named after me.

  Then again . . . probably not.

  LUCAS

  “Dude, just come out with me.” Zane threw the offer out as he was scooping his keys off the counter. “Trust me, a little hair o’ the dog’ll do you good. Plus, I got a hot chick lined up. I’ll even share her with you.”

  I glanced up at him, but only barely. Hardly able to lift my head from my spot on the couch. “I told you. It’s not a hangover.” That was a lie, but the hangover was the least of my problems. “I’ll take a rain check.” Another lie. Being the third wheel on Zane’s date was my own personal version of hell. I’d rather sit here and drink alone all night. I gave him a get the hell outta here wave. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

  Zane beamed at me, and I worried about the female population he was about to unleash himself on. “I always do.”

  When the door slammed behind him, I let out a loud groan. I thought he’d never leave.

  I liked my roommate and all, but sometimes a guy just needed some alone time. Like now, when my head was being crushed in a vise.

  It was all Emerson’s fault.

  Scratch that. It was my mother’s fault. Mother, and her fucked-up control issues. If she hadn’t canceled all our deposits, the gala would still be a go, and I wouldn’t have spent the last four nights giving myself acute alcohol poisoning.

  But then there was Emerson.

  Fuck.

  Maybe it really was her fault.

  If I hadn’t screwed things up with her . . . if only she’d give me a chance to explain. To fix whatever was broken between us . . .

  That was the problem, though. I wasn’t entirely sure where I’d gone wrong. When I’d left her, after our night at her parents’ house, I was sure we’d had a breakthrough. Convinced her I was through playing games, and we’d gotten past our issues. Or at the very least, worked out enough of our shit so we could come home and sort things out.

  Then . . .

  Then, fuck if I knew what had gone wrong. I got home and every time I tried to get her to talk, tried to reach out to her, she gave me the cold shoulder. Told me, straight up, it was over.

  Nothing more to say.

  Period.

  The end.

  She’d left no room for discussion. That was it.

  So I guess I had both of them to blame for my sorry state—my mother and Emerson.

  I didn’t bother getting off the couch when I heard the knock on the door. “Come in,” I called. I didn’t even raise my voice, because . . . what was the point? I didn’t care whether they heard me or not.

  They did, though, and the door opened.

  Aster poked her head inside before letting herself in, and then she waved her hand in front of her face. “Ew! What is that smell?”

  “The smell of defeat.” It should have been a joke, but I wasn’t laughing.

  When she pursed her lips, she looked like one of those Victorian dolls. Stiff and cold. “That’s not a real smell. No. It’s more like . . .” She sniffed the air again. “It’s cold pizza and . . .” She wrinkled her face, looking less stiff. “Stale beer?”

  “Sounds about right.” I shrugged. “How do you even know what stale beer smells like, anyway?”

  She lifted her chin. “You think I’ve never had beer before?”

  “Not stale beer.” When she didn’t give a response, I asked, “What do you want, Aster? You didn’t come here to swap beer stories.”

  She lifted a dirty sock off the arm of the couch and held it out like it was radioactive waste before tossing it aside. “No. I didn’t. I came to get the files from the gala.”

  At the mention of the gala, I stiffened and sat up. My head throbbed, and it tasted like there was stale beer coating the back of my tongue. “What the hell for?”

  Perching on the arm of the couch, and trying to act like she wasn’t completely grossed out by the sock that had just been there contaminating it, she crossed her arms. “The accountant says if the gala isn’t happening, he can take the paperwork and get everything filed early. We might be able to salvage some of the donations we’ve already received.” Her tone had turned nasally, and I realized she was trying to hold her breath.

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever you need.” I waved toward the hallway. “The box is somewhere over there. If you can find it, you can take it.”

  She hopped up and started scouring the wreckage that had become my life this past week—discarded takeout boxes, piles of unsorted laundry, empty liquor bottles, and sand I’d carried in from the beach. I’d given up on housework the same way I had on the gala. What was the point in trying?

  She kicked a stack of wet towels out of her way and came up holding a cardboard file box. “Got it!” she shouted triumphantly in her stuffy-nosed tenor.

  I bent forward, plucking a warm beer off the coffee table and lifted it in a cheers motion. “Go, you,” I replied sarcastically.

  EMERSON

  When Aster dropped the box on the table, I glanced up at her hopefully. “Did he buy it? The whole accountant thing?” It was almost impossible to believe Aster, of all people, was going to be my partner in crime. It was hard trying to see her in a different light. Trying not to judge her, the way she had me. But she was the only pers
on who knew as much about the gala as Lucas.

  “Of course he did,” she answered snippily. And then, when I raised an eyebrow at her, she softened her response and her words came out in a rush. “I think so. I hated lying to him, but I don’t think he suspected a thing.”

  “Good.” I lifted the top off the box and started dredging out files, handing them over to Aster. “Now, let’s start at the beginning. Explain everything to me.”

  When our server came by, I ordered for us—a large supreme pizza and a pitcher of beer. Aster claimed she’d lost her appetite, but I ordered enough for both of us anyway. I had a feeling this would be a long night.

  Two hours, another pitcher, and eight slices later, I was finally up to speed.

  I’d had to cut Aster off after only three glasses of beer. Apparently three was her limit. Good to know.

  That was when the giggles had set in—yeah, surprised me too. Uptight Aster actually knew how to giggle.

  She’d also gotten a little loose lipped and admitted some things. Super-weird things.

  I should have stopped her, to save her dignity and all, but . . . who was I kidding? I wanted to know every juicy tidbit she was willing to confess. Who knew when I’d get another opportunity like this?

  So when she admitted that she’d never had an orgasm, I gasped out loud as if she’d just confessed to burying bodies in her backward. No way was that true. She was at least my age . . . plus, she’d had sex with Lucas—my Lucas, the guy with the magical tongue—and never, not once, not ever had a single orgasm!

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the opposite was true for me. That Lucas had made me come each and every time. Most times, more than once. I might be crude, but I wasn’t completely heartless.

  She also confided that sex wasn’t really her thing. That’s how she said it, the way someone tells you they’re not into yoga or politics or frozen yogurt. That’s when I got it, there was something wrong with her. She was broken. Faulty plumbing. Because who in the world didn’t like sex?