HUDSON (The Beckett Boys, Book Six)

by Olivia Chase

  And of course, Gage assured me that even if she recognized me, she probably wasn't going to make it a priority to ask Becker or his sister what my activities might be. "She probably forgot two seconds after she saw you," Gage said. "If she saw you."

  It's nuts what this whole thing has been doing to my head. I'd agree with Gage in every other circumstance, but because I'm in a somewhat questionable relationship with him, I'm forever convinced that whoever sees me out, anywhere, is going to be keeping their eye on me and reporting me to someone.

  Gage keeps tellng me to chill, and I keep reminding him that I was confronted on the street in front of his house at quarter to six in the morning. Once something like that happens to you, you might be a little extra cautious. And it totally sucks. It's like my brain realizes most of it is paranoia, but throws in that niggle of doubt anyway. Like one red sock that turns an entire load of white laundry pink. And If Natasha could be that red sock-- she spotted us together and she doesn't even go to Bristowe-- then someone else could be, too.

  And half of that chill talk is just Gage trying to cover up his own fear of being caught. I know so because in his class, he just played a video recording of one of his first meetings with an investor, and he told us how much he was bluffing. Even gave line-by-line commentary. "I say that, but right here, I'm secretly going, 'Oh God Oh God.'"

  Speaking of Gage's class, it cracks me up how so many of the girls in there keep their doe-eyed expressions on him from start to finish. One of them, a girl named Haley, even answered her phone right before the lecture started with a hiss. "I'm in Gage Ramsey's class right now. Do not bother me while I'm in Gage Ramsey's class!" And the smug look on her face was hilarious. My classmates think they're getting an insider's view of Gage Ramsey, and maybe they are. But they don't know what he looks like when he's about to go over the edge because I've got his dick in my mouth. Or the throaty, half-groans he makes when I'm riding him, or that almost crazed look in his eye that he gets when he's on top of me and wants to go faster, faster, faster.

  Or what he looks like when he's sleeping, the covers tangled around his waist, his gorgeous chest on display, all chiseled muscle and broad shoulders.

  I dart into the bathroom to give my teeth a quick scrubbing, then wake Gage up by leaning over him and letting my black hair fall across his face. His nose twitches, and he opens his eyes.

  "Good morning," he murmurs as I kiss him.

  I push the covers off of his naked body and ease myself on top of him, facing his feet.

  "Ohhh," he says, definitely sounding awake now.

  I close my eyes and absorb the feeling of Gage's tongue caressing the backs of my thighs, working its way upwards, and teasing me in those little circles he's got such a knack for.

  I close my eyes and lose myself as he eats me out, enjoying the feel of his tongue in my pussy, letting myself believe, just for once, that maybe this is for real.

  As is our routine, Gage and I leave separately. I know I should be glad just to be able to spend time with him, but I'm looking forward to the day I can stroll right out of a venue with hy hand in his. Besides thinking about Gage, I feel guilty on my drive back to Deer Falls because in the time I've spent going from one rendezvous to another, I could have gone home and visited my parents.

  The last time I spoke with my dad, which was yesterday, he was still optimistic, and telling me not to worry again. And I felt terrible, because I'd been consumed with nothing but worry since Natasha accosted me-- but about that and not about my dad.

  Gage has been so sweet about it, asking me how my dad’s doing, if he needs anything. Every time he brings it up, I give my standard answer that I’m sure everything will be fine. Am I in denial? I wonder, my stomach sinking.

  My phone chirps with a new text, and I sneak a look at the next red light.

  Becker.

  Becker?

  The text is simple and concise: Sup?

  Is he kidding?

  No, I tell myself. That's clearly a wrong recipient kind of text. He's never greeted me with Sup. And the only times he's ever awake this early are when he's still up from the night before. Becker is known for a few things on campus, like the best parties and a bomb-ass housebout that his parents don't seem to care about, and also his innate ability to schedule all of his classes for eleven o'clock or later.

  Stop thinking about Becker. Pretend he's dead.

  I turn my phone off and keep driving.

  My second class of the day, Venture Management, ends early, and I decide to go and see my mom and dad for a little while. I should really be doing that more lately. I'll be a little late to my leadership program for the high schoolers, but that's okay. I never miss a session, and I'd like to see my parents. I told my mom over the phone yesterday that Becker and I are kind of on a break. Like a long break.

  “Oh, darlin’,” Mom said when I told her. “C’est la vie.”

  With her pronounced drawl, it sounded all kinds of wrong. And no kind of comforting.

  I pull up to our smaller, ranch-style house and instantly notice that the roof is looking a lot worse since the last time I was home. My mom's flowerpots defy anyone to think negative thoughts upon stepping onto our front porch, and I hover in front of the big front window, in case one of my parents sees me and waves. They spot nine out of ten visitors this way and have the front door open before the doorbell is even rung. That's probably why the doorbell is the only thing in the house that still works properly.

  My mom glimpses me from inside and waves frantically with both hands, like she always does. "Hey there, darlin'," she coos as she wraps me up. "To what do we owe this honor?"

  "I'm sorry," I say, pushing down the tears that want to well up. I wasn't expecting to get this rush of emotion. "I'll start coming home more. I've just been really busy."

  "Never mind that. Get in here." My dad appears in the doorway, grinning like he has no problems in the entire world.

  "How are you feeling?" I ask, giving him a long hug. He feels a little thinner, which soothes me a little. Maybe he is taking better care of himself.

  "This ain't nothing," he responds. "Doctors just sorta like to freak out, and take your money, don't they? I figure I might not even bother with my next appointment."

  "Wayne!" my mom exclaims.

  Dad shrugs at Mom, then winks at me and I follow my parents into the house. "Banana bread," I say, inhaling the heavenly aroma wafting from the kitchen. I feel like a moron for not coming back here sooner. My mom couldn't stop baking if you paid her. She wastes no time hacking off a huge slice and setting me up with that. I carry my plate into the living room, where my parents sink back down into their La-z-Boy chairs, and I perch on the arm of the couch.

  "Keri, honey, that's not the part of the couch you sit on." Mom's smiling, but I swear she will still pounce on me for this even when I'm fifty. Half the gray in her once-black hair is from me doing gymnastics in the house growing up.

  "At least I don't do balance beam routines on it anymore."

  "Tell us about your classes," Dad says. "And the little girls. Don't you have to go deal with them today?"

  The high school girls we mentor aren't exactly little, but I gave up correcting him after my second year doing the program. "I do have to go deal with them today," I say. "Which is why I can't stay too long, but I wanted to see you."

  A familiar scrawl of handwriting on an envelope sitting on the coffee table catches my eye. I can see the envelope's been opened, so I pick it up. The angular, narrow penmanship is undoubtedly Becker's, confirmed by the return address. "What's this?"

  "That Becker," Mom says. "He sent Dad the sweetest get well card."

  Ugh! "He did? When?"

  "We just got it this morning," Mom says. "Maybe I should send him a ficus."

  "You don't need to send him any more plants, Mom." What's Becker doing, trying to charm my parents? "He still has that planter of yellow flowers from six months ago."

  "Well, all the same," Dad puts
in. "It was a nice gesture."

  "Who told him about that?" I demand. "Because it wasn't me."

  "I don't know, hun. We assumed it was you."

  "You know how stuff gets around," Dad offers. "Your mother can make sure everyone at church knows something in the span of--"

  "Wayne!"

  "I did mention it when a bunch of us went bowling," I muse. The knots of worry settle back into my stomach. I know how fast word gets out-- about anything-- on a college campus. For the hundredth time, I force my mind away from thoughts about Gage and me being the rumor mill topic. "I wasn't expecting Becker to send you a card, though."

  "It was awful nice of him."

  "I know, Dad." I notice when he shifts in his chair that he's definitely lost some weight. "I know."

  I think Dad wants to ask me if Becker and I will work it out, or if we still talk much. But to his credit, he doesn't. My dad might not be the best at maintaining his health, but he's pretty sensitive to personal stuff.

  We talk for as long as possible before I have to jump back into my car and make the second half of the leadership session. I made Dad promise to keep taking care of his medication and his diet, and I made sure to show Mom appreciation for doing significantly less frying in her meal prep.

  Maybe Dad will be okay, I think as I drive back down our modest neighborhood streets towards Deer Falls. Maybe he'll be completely, absolutely fine.

  It's right after our leadership activity for the day ends when I see him. The high school girls are heading back out of the Student Union Building-- the BUB-- when I notice his blonde hair and his annoyingly muscular calves.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask from my table, where I'm cleaning up a bunch of art supplies the girls used.

  Becker's smile is half mischief, half delight. "Just wanted to come say hey. You didn't answer my text this morning."

  So that wasn't a misdirected text. "I guess I just got busy."

  "No worries." He nods toward the art stuff on the table. "What's all this?"

  "We're making signs for a 5K."

  "Uh huh." Becker leans his head sideways. "Will you be running in this 5k?"

  "Um, not this one, no."

  "Why not?"

  "Becker, really. What are you doing here?"

  "Can't I come say hello to someone I used to be very close to?"

  His choice of words whack me in the chest. "Used to be," I parrot. "That's probably why I'm curious why you're here. I mean, you haven't tried to talk to me until today since-- you know."

  "I wanted to ask about your dad." Becker's tone is suddenly serious. "Is he okay?"

  "Yeah, he'll be alright. And about that. You sent him a get well card?"

  "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Because we broke up?"

  "Does that mean I can't like your dad anymore?"

  "I didn't say that." I shove the markers back into their boxes with maybe a little more force than necessary. "I just don't... you don't have to do that."

  "I didn't mind," Becker says, totally not getting it. "I was happy to. And that's why I came by. Next time you go see them, can you let me know, so I can come?"

  "What?" I feel like everything in my life is a gigantic what?! lately. But it's all I can think of to say.

  "Yeah." Becker eyes me, an inkling of doubt finally dawning on him. "Would that be okay? I mean, I'd love to see him."

  Oh, God.

  "What the hell?" He's got some nerve, after the heartless way he abandoned me. "You forget I'm alive, basically. And now you pop back up and want to go see my dad?"

  "Heart problems are a BFD," he insists, conveniently not addressing the rest of what I said. "I just thought he might like to catch up."

  "I'm not sure that would be totally appropriate," I say, and his smile finally falters. "Seeing as the way you dumped me wasn't appropriate."

  And with that, I grab the crate of art supplies and turn my back on Becker, trying not to stomp out of the SUB.

  Chapter 13

  GAGE

  I get a little stretch of time in the middle of the week to relax, which, in all honesty, doesn’t happen very often. Keri’s in class, and has to head to that leadership thing she does with high school girls right after that.

  She was pretty shy when she told me about that job.

  “When you were my age, what were you doing?” she asked. “I know you were still at Harvard or Stanford—”

  “One of those,” I cut in, amused.

  “You like to interrupt, don’t you? But you were already knee deep in Pharoah, even if it didn’t look like it does now.”

  She was right, as she tends to be.

  Still, I think her job working with the girls is really cool. I came across it right after I first met her, because like any normal person, I did an online search for her to see what cropped up. And the Bristowe page featuring that project for girls came up, and I clicked on it.

  Feeling overwhelmed about college application? Want to develop real, viable leadership skills? Want to make friends and have a ton of fun? Come join our club! Who runs this mutha?? GIRLS!!

  And there were plenty of photos. Keri smiling away, arms draped around high school kids. Keri holding some sort of baked good, I’m presuming, that went to a bake sale and not her kitchen. Keri sitting with a high school girl, helping her to write something. And my favorite, Keri holding flash cards for what would have to be the SAT. The word on the card she’s holding is churlish.

  I lost it, because she’s just too adorable.

  She told me about her family, and I know that’s why she works. Not just to look good for grad school.

  I think about writing her a check and tucking it into her purse, and might do that if she wouldn’t throw it back at me. Or get mad and accuse me of considering her a charity project or something.

  I guess there’s also the worry of having a paper trail. My name and her name together on a check?

  Not yet.

  My phone starts blowing up while I’m in my kitchen scrounging up sandwich fixings.

  I go over to the spot on the granite counter it’s lying on, and see that it’s from Dave Silversmith, one of the board members of Pharoah. Dave and I have always had a bit of a strained relationship. He didn’t attack me after the whole blowup at Drummond with Natasha, but he didn’t defend me, either.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Ramsey,” Dave says. “How you doing?”

  Pretty fabulous, except for this one tiny thing involving that Natasha chick. “Can’t complain, you?”

  “Good, good. Just checking on you.”

  This is typical Pharoah board. Not the Pharoah I began, but the Pharoah it became. I went from having autonomy to being checked on. “I did notice you weren’t on the conference call the other day,” I point out, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. If he had been, he wouldn’t need to check on me.

  “Yeah, well, I just wanted to touch base and see how things are going down there.”

  “Pretty great,” I say. Would be really great if not for that nightmare. And for the fact that I’m violating a major rule for faculty.

  “You keeping to our arrangement, then. That’s good.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Alright.” Dave sounds convinced. I hear someone exclaiming over who fucked up with a double bogey in the background. “Well, I’m gonna run. My tee time’s in ten minutes.”

  “You do that,” I tell him. “Thanks for checking in.”

  I push the End Call button, and stare at the patterns in the glossy granite surface.

  I’m absolutely sticking to our arrangement. Not getting into any trouble or scrapes of any kind.

  Just, you know, completely involved with one of my students.

  Chapter 14

  KERI

  I don't hear from Becker for the next couple of days, except once in the dining hall, when he winked at me from the burger line. I do, however, spend some more time with Gage, who rented a huge Escalade with tinted windows
. "For cruising," he tells me, as I slip into the SUV after parking my own across the toy store parking lot.

  We cruise up and down the back roads surrounding Deer Falls, finally parking somewhere out of sight, behind a huge cluster of pampass grass, in what used to be the trailhead for an old hike that doesn't get used anymore.

  We're like sixteen-year-olds. At first, we can't stop laughing at the utter absurdity of it, that we were two adults driving around in a care nobody knows to associate with either one of us, trying to find a makeout spot. But then Gage leans over and unbuttons my green top, taking his time with my bra. He does this thing that I'm not sure he's aware of, but it's like he's mesmerized by my breasts. He stares at them, even before the bra comes off, like they're the first pair he's ever seen.

  Car sex has never been my favorite kind, but Gage's rented Escalade solves most of the issues I remember having in Becker's Mustang. And there's something super erotic about sitting upright while Gage negotiates the angles necessary to please me. We end up in the back, of course, where Gage meticulously spread out a blanket.

  "Can't have you getting too used to fancy hotel suites," he says, kissing my forehead after my second climax.

  My phone had buzzed a couple of times during sex, which I ignored, but after Gage drops me off in the parking lot and I get back in my car, I check my messages. Two texts from Becker, asking me what I'm doing now, and what am I doing later?

  I don't answer them. Which might be why the following day, he shows up at my front door.

  "Hey," he greets me, a touch of shyness in his voice, like he's suddenly realizing he's overstepping a line by just showing up unannounced. His eyes sweep over my body. "You busy?"

  "Sort of," I tell him. The truth is I've been lounging on my bed sending naughty texts to Gage while half-assedly studying, but Becker doesn't need to know that.

  "Oh. Well, check this out. My dad's selling the houseboat."