by Shandi Boyes
"They looked together." Maggie steps closer to me, her eyes revealing whose side she's on. “I refused to serve him. I told him he was never to step foot in my bar again."
I remain quiet for several long minutes. Just the thought of Callum being anywhere near Lola makes me fucking furious. He hurt her—more than once, so why will she speak to him and not me?
“Maybe they’re just friends. Like Lola and you were friends,” Maggie suggests.
Friends, yep, that was all we were, friends who slept with each other, but I still can’t believe she'd take Callum back. He didn’t just attack her once; he did it twice, and the second time it was in the middle of the fucking day. How could she trust being alone with him if he can do something like that in public?
“Does Noah know?” I question Maggie.
Lola’s stupid decisions don’t just affect me; they also affect Noah since he’s dating her little sister.
“No, today was the first time I saw them together. Do you think I should tell him?”
I take a moment to contemplate her question. Noah’s life is finally working out the way he had hoped, so I don’t want to burden him with this, but Lola is Emily’s sister, so he’d want to know what’s happening so he can avoid the toxic people Callum could introduce to Emily’s life.
“Leave it to me. Once I figure out exactly what’s happening with Lola and Callum, I’ll talk to him.” I cock my brow. “But can I get that beer now? ‘Cause I’m real fucking thirsty.”
I came to Mavericks to have a quiet afternoon. Instead, I’m dealing with shit that shouldn’t be affecting me anymore. If only I could wash my hands of people who did me wrong as quickly as they do me. I loved Lola—I still do—so although she wants nothing to do with me, I’ll still look out for her when I think she’s making fucked-up decisions.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lola
Several eyes pop up from their meals when Callum and I enter Daisy’s. Daisy’s is a local burger and fries joint Callum and I frequented when we were dating. It’s a public place, but since it’s nearing 4 PM, it’s not overly crowded, making it an ideal location for us to continue our meet up without spectators.
My blood pressure is still sky-high from our near run-in with Jacob. I was certain he'd bust me hiding in the hallway the bathrooms are in. He most likely would have if Maggie hadn't distracted him. I loathe the spineless woman I'm portraying, but I've stepped too far into the shitstorm to back out now. Once Callum tells me what he has to say, I'll go back to the old Lola, the one who doesn't back down no matter what.
When we take our seats, Daisy, the owner, heads over to take our order. “My goodness, I haven’t seen you two in here for months. How is my favorite couple?”
Her eyes bounce between us as she flips open her notepad to jot down our order. She presses down her pencil so hard, the lead snaps when I mutter, “We’re not together anymore.”
With her eyes full of sympathy, they drift to Callum. “I’m sorry to hear that, sweetheart.”
I roll my eyes, not stunned the blame for our failed relationship was placed on my shoulders. Strong, independent women are to blame for every bad event in the world, didn't you know?
When Daisy goes to gather our order of coffee and donuts, Callum glares at me. “Why did you tell her that?”
“Because it’s the truth. We aren’t together anymore.”
Callum’s fists clench so quickly, the dishware on our table rattles. His fast descent into anger is disturbing, but not enough for me to forget why we’re here. “Enough stalling. I only agreed to meet because you said you had something important to tell me.”
He waits for Daisy to fill our coffee cups before asking, “How well do you know Jacob?”
“Better than I knew you—”
“Quit the fuckin’ attitude, Lola. I said I was sorry.”
My eyes will get an intense workout this afternoon with how my times I’m rolling them. Just because he said he was sorry doesn’t mean I've forgiven him. I’m not that forgiving.
While serving the donuts we ordered, Daisy smiles, but not even her bright grin can stifle the tension bouncing between Callum and me. It’s so repulsive, the usually fragrant donuts smell like they’ve been dipped in arsenic.
Once Daisy is out of earshot, I return my focus to Callum. “I know Jacob. He’s a good guy.”
“So you know he’s a street fighter?” He talks around the chunk of donut he pops into his mouth.
I laugh at the absurdity of him thinking Jacob is a violent person. “Jacob doesn’t fight.”
He must be mistaken. There’s no way Jacob would compete in anything illegal, much less street fighting. The only time I’ve seen him angry was when he beat the living shit out of Callum, but he’s too kind and gentle to participate in a bloodthirsty sport.
Loving my stunned expression, Callum smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You don’t know him at all, do you?”
“I know him. You’re the mistaken one." The confidence in my tone can’t be missed.
His tormented chuckle screeches through my ears. “I knew you’d say that.” He digs his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone. “That’s why I brought proof.”
After tapping on the screen, he hands his phone to me. There’s a video on the screen. Although the image is grainy since it’s paused, there’s no denying the physique of the man standing in the middle of the ring. It’s Jacob. I’m so confident, I’d put money on it. We were only friends, but I know every inch of his body, having studied it in depth at every given opportunity.
Callum shoves another chunk of donut into his mouth before instructing me to hit play. When I do, the air in my lungs leaves in a hurry. The video only goes for forty-five seconds, but in that short period of time, it shows Jacob knocking out his opponent.
I watch the video another three times before returning Callum's phone. He licks powdered sugar off his lips while returning it to his pocket. Once he has everything in place, he locks his smug eyes with mine. “He wasn’t who you thought he was, was he?”
Unable to speak through my dry, parched mouth, I shake my head.
Chapter Thirty
Jacob
Several hours later than planned, I’m heading home from Mavericks. I hadn’t intended to stay so long, but it took more beer to get me out of my funk than I thought. I could blame Lola, but what’s the use? My decisions are mine to make, just as her decisions are hers.
My prolonged visit to Mavs wasn’t all bad. I was talking to Flynn, the lead singer of the band that plays at Mavs each Saturday night. His group, Wanting Wombats, originated from Australia. They flew here nine months ago with the hope of making it big. He wasn’t fazed when I said he’ll need a better band name before that ever happens. The one they have is fucking hideous.
“It is what it is, mate,” he said in his deep Australian accent.
I’ll have to arrange a time to watch them one night when I’m not fighting because Flynn and his bandmates seem like a good group of guys.
When I stop at a red traffic light, a dark blue sedan pulls up next to me. The revs of his engine gain my attention, much less the illegal tint on his windows. It’s so dark, I can’t see any of the occupants inside. I don't need to see him to understand his request, though. Street racing was huge in Ravenshoe a few years back. Its long straight roads were perfect for rev-heads wanting to disperse some testosterone.
With my veins still thick with adrenaline, I flatten my foot to the floor, accepting his challenge for a race. I’ve always loved the thrill of pushing my car to its absolute limit. It's why Noah and I traveled these streets many times during our youth. Noah never participated in drag races, but he was more than happy to support me.
As soon as the light turns green, I flatten my accelerator before completing a quick shift change into second gear. The blue sedan and I stay neck to neck as we speed through the desolate streets of Ravenshoe. When my gauge hits seven thousand RPMs, I shift gears again, my car surging
in front of my rivals.
With victory within my grasp, I glance back at the blackened windows of my competitor. I've got a good twelve or so inches on him. He can't come back from this. I give him a playful wink before pushing my car to its absolute limit. She gives me everything she has, only stumbling when her ass end slides out.
What the fuck?
I glance over my shoulder, my heart rate picking up. My tires didn’t lose traction because of the furious speed. My competitor rammed me.
My grip on my steering wheel tightens when his bull bar veers toward the back-quarter panel of my car for the second time. This time, he hits me with enough force, my tires aren’t the only thing that loses traction with the road, my whole fucking car does.
As my car cartwheels down the street, I flatten my palms on the roof lining. My pride and joy crunching against the pavement is unlike anything I’ve heard before. It's nearly deafening, equally frightening and awe-inspiring. I didn't realize how tough she was until she became the only thing between me and death.
I don’t know how many flips we do before I spot a telephone pole in the corner of my eye. I brace for impact, sure I'm seconds from death. My passenger side door impacting with the pole immediately halts my car's cartwheeling action. It whiplashes back before teetering on its side for several seconds.
I pop open my eyes, surprised I haven’t been seriously injured. “Holy shit.”
When I detect the scent of gasoline, I yank on my door handle. It refuses to budge. I’m trapped in a mangled wreckage that’s leaking gas. This isn’t good.
Using my fists, I smash through the glass of the driver’s side window. Glass splinters my knuckles, but it could be ten times worse if the pole I’ve smashed into has an exposed wire. As I clamber out of my car, I notice the street is empty. The blue sedan I was racing is nowhere in sight.
Once I’m at a safe distance, I glance back at my car. Not one panel remains in its original condition. It’s completely totaled. After scanning the street to ensure I’m alone, I grab my phone and dial a recently called number.
Noah answers a few rings later. “Hey, Jake.”
“Hey, can I ask a favor?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
I try to think of a better way to explain my situation. When I fail to come up with anything, I keep it simple. “Can you come pick me up... and bring the car trailer with you?”
I’m only six months into my two-year probation period, so the last thing I want is a street racing charge added to my record.
The next morning, my dad comes barreling into my room, scaring the living daylights out of me. “What the hell happened to your car!” He smacks me over the head with a rolled-up newspaper. “Get out of bed, young man; you have some explaining to do.”
“Alright, alright, settle down!” I scamper out of bed, still half-asleep. When my dad’s eyes snap to my crotch, I cover my half-masted cock with my hands. I don’t know why he’s shocked. I’ve slept naked since I was fifteen. This is his punishment for kicking me out of bed so early.
When I hear chuckling, I peer past my dad’s shoulder. Noah is propped against my doorframe. His arms are crossed in front of his shirtless torso, and he’s smirking like a smug fuck.
He’s not so smug when my dad grumbles, “If I find out you and Noah are competing in illegal street racing again, you won’t know what hit you.”
I balk, but my ripple is barely felt through Noah’s shock. He bolts down the hallway so fast, Mexico just recorded an earthquake. My plan to give him hell for his cowardly ways flies out the window when my dad devotes his attention back to me.
“Did you think I didn’t know?”
My shrug sparks his agitation more than soothing it.
“I know a lot more than you think I do.” He smacks me over the head with his newspaper another two times before spinning on his heels and exiting my room even faster than he entered it. “Get dressed so you can move your now piece of shit car out of my driveway!”
I stand frozen in place, staring at my doorway in shock. I had no clue he knew Noah and I participated in drag races years ago. Well, Noah didn’t compete; he just sat in the passenger seat while I did.
I mosey to my drawers to grab a pair of boxer shorts when Noah snickers, “Is it safe to come in?”
“Yep.”
He makes it two steps into my room before his hands shoot up to cover his eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, Jacob! I asked if it was safe.”
Loving his mortified tone, I swivel my hips in a circular motion. “Helicopter, helicopter, helicopter.”
My cock stops swinging when Noah snags a football off my desk to peg it at my back. Air rustles between my lips when it smacks me in my right rib.
With my hands cupped around my mouth, I fake explosion noises. “Mayday, mayday, I’ve been hit.”
Noah tries to maintain his prissy attitude, but his broad grin gives away his true feelings. With my attitude not at its best the past six months, he’s loving the return of my playful personality... even if it arrives with my cock hanging out.
“What are you, five years old?”
When I nod, he shakes his head before bending down to pick up the football.
“If the singing gig doesn’t work out for you, you could take up football again. Your right hook is still as hard as fuck.” I strengthen my assurance by rubbing my aching ribs.
“Serves you right for swinging that thing around.” He doesn’t need to nudge his head at my crotch for me to understand his meaning.
After flashing him a cheeky grin, I put on my pants. Although Noah was quick to shut down my comment, I can see his mind ticking over. He tried out for quarterback when he was a junior. He was successful, but no amount of skill could force him to fall in love with a sport he wasn’t passionate about. Noah’s passion has, and always will be, music.
His placement on the team was fun while it lasted, though. During practice, when I was on the offensive line and Noah was the QB, I kept letting our opponents slip past me just to witness Noah getting slammed. It didn’t take him long to catch on to what I was doing. If you look hard enough, I swear I still have an imprint of a football on my back from when my ruse finally caught up with me.
Even though football wasn’t Noah’s thing, he played half a season, then Michael died, and he stopped coming to practice altogether. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him touch a football since that day.
After putting my football back in its rightful place, Noah sits on my bed. “Your dad is pissed.” He waits for me to nod before adding, “When did you tell him about us racing in our teen years?”
“I didn’t. I have no fucking clue how he knows.”
Noah eyes me curiously before notching his shoulder up. “Then I guess we better move your car before he returns to give us one of his famous lectures.”
I shadow his chuckling ass out of my room.
It fucking kills me, but after going over my car with a fine-toothed comb, we tow it to the local wreckers. A car once worth thousands of dollars pockets me only five hundred dollars for scrap metal. It will have me thinking twice about street racing from here on out.
Huh?! Who am I kidding? Where’s the fun in that?
On his way to rehearsal, Noah drops me off at Hank’s so I can squeeze in a workout. I put in a solid three hours before hitting the showers. As I switch off the faucet, I hear my phone ringing. I shuffle across the tiled floor, trying not to slip ass over tit to answer my call before it goes to voicemail.
Just as I dig my phone out of my gym bag, it stops ringing. “Fucking typical,” I murmur to myself.
As I dress, my phone dings, announcing I have a voicemail. Curious, I quickly throw on my shirt before seeing who it is.
“Hey, Jacob. It’s Casey... Are you free tonight? Call me.”
After lowering my phone from my ear, I stare at the screen, trying to figure out who the fuck Casey is. It’s not a common name, but for the life of me, I can’t recall her.
It takes m
e getting dressed, leaving Hank’s, and waiting for Noah to pick me up before recognition dawns. I met a Casey a few weeks ago at Mavericks. She was a Rise Up fan. If I remember correctly, she has perky tits and striking blue eyes. To start with, she seemed a little shy... until I offered her a ride home. Then it was like unleashing a tiger. We didn't slide past second base, but she was more than eager. It was only me removing the bat from her hand before she got close to home plate that stopped us. I probably wouldn't have if our hookup were occurring anywhere but in my car. That place was sacred to me. I don't know why. It's clear Lola moved on months ago, so why the fuck am I sanctifying any place we hooked up?
With my blood still hot with annoyance, I return Casey’s call. She answers on the very first ring, like she was waiting by the phone. “Hey, thanks for calling me back.”
I play it cool, pretending I didn’t forget who she was. “No worries.”
“How are you?”
“Good. You?” I inwardly curse. This couldn't be any more awkward if I tried.
“I’m good... now.” The need in her voice can’t be missed. “Do you have any plans tonight?”
“I could—if you need me to?” Same crappy line. Same crappy result.
“I’d like that very much.”
When Noah’s truck pulls into Hank’s gym, I clamber inside before covering the speaker of my phone. “Can I borrow your truck tonight?”
“Yeah, sure.” He jackknifes back before arching a brow. “Hold on, what do you want it for?”
I waggle my brows. “I have a date.”
My jest has the effect I’m aiming for when Noah looks seconds from being sick. “You better not have sex in my truck, Jacob. If I even smell a hint of it, I’ll kick your fucking ass.”
Pretending my heart isn’t racing a million miles an hour, I drop my hand from my phone. “Can we meet at your place?”