Loud: The Complete Series (A Bad Boy Alpha Male Romance)

by Claire Adams

  “How much do I already owe you?” I write back.

  Some favors, naturally, are smaller than others and don’t always necessitate the purchase of a full bag. That being the case, Abs measures her favors in ounces.

  A one-ounce favor is something like passing the salt where she’s just as likely as not to count it.

  Most favors tend to be more in the three-to-five ounce area. This accounts for everything from, “Hey, could you run to the kitchen and grab me a soda?” coming in at three ounces of cat food and, “I’m short on tampons, could I get one from you?” at a solid five ounces worth of cat food.

  The good news here is that Abs only ever buys cat food in quantities of five pounds or more. That being the case, a person such as myself has eighty ounces to work with before any repayment ever need be made.

  Unfortunately, she can be a little stingy when she’s feeling unappreciated, and it usually comes out in the form of extreme favor tariffs.

  The biggest payout I ever gave was a result of borrowing Abby’s car for a couple of weeks while my dad was out of town. For that, I agreed to a twenty ounce fee. When I ended up running her car into a thankfully-empty phone booth three days into that rental period, well, I’m not sure I’ve paid off that particular tab yet.

  My phone buzzes.

  The message reads, “I think we’ve whittled it down to six or seven forty-pounders. Call it seven and tack one more on and you’ve got yourself a ride.”

  I write back, “Why so steep?”

  I’m only asking for a ride. I can see her tacking a few extra ounces onto the bill for choosing to hang out with Ian instead of her, but a whole forty-pound bag is ridiculous. I don’t know if I can live in that kind of favor economy.

  She writes back, “Take it or leave it.”

  This is so annoying.

  * * *

  “All right, do you know what happened last time?” I ask.

  “I lost my focus and my confidence?” he asks.

  “That’s right,” I tell him. It helps that I’ve been repeating that to him for the last twenty minutes. “Try running through it in your mind again.”

  He closes his eyes and I look down over the park.

  More than anything, I’m trying to give Ian a few seconds’ break from the small crowd that’s grown to watch the Incredible Falling Man. I can understand the allure of people falling, don’t get me wrong: seeing people fall is one of life’s most precious treasures, but at some point, it’s just mean-spirited.

  “Okay, are you ready?” I ask.

  “I’m still falling off at the bottom every time,” he says. “If I can’t even get my own imagination to—”

  “We’ve been over this,” I tell him. “You’re expecting something and, because it’s what you’re expecting, you’re getting it, over and over. Try expecting something else: expect that you’ll drop in and roll out without a problem.”

  The advice is a little pop-psychology for my tastes, but I’m seriously running out of ideas with Ian. He cannot get past his own image of failure. Every time he looks like he might get it, he either comes off his board or overcorrects in some bizarre way he’s never been able to sufficiently explain to me and crashes.

  The last two times he’s managed to run out, much to the chagrin of the still-growing audience. If I can convince him that running out is somehow an improvement, maybe I can get him past his mental block.

  “All right,” I tell him, “you’re doing great and you’re making progress—I know you may not see it right now, but you really are. You haven’t started bleeding once.”

  “Do you think they’re taking bets?” he asks.

  “I haven’t seen any money changing hands, but we have been standing up here for about five minutes, so maybe they’re just waiting for your next run,” I tell him. “If it helps at all, if they are taking bets, I’d put five bucks on you nailing this thing in the next three tries.”

  “Really?” he asks, every inch of his posture in some way drooping.

  I gotta feel bad for the poor guy.

  “Yeah,” I tell him, “really. So, why don’t you give it another three tries and we’ll see how quick I’d win.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I got this shit.”

  “That’s right,” I tell him.

  After the excruciating and rather public collection of humiliations he’s racked up today, I don’t think I’m going to chastise him about the language for a while. It’s just simple mercy.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’m going to show everyone down there that I’ve got this. This isn’t a problem.”

  “You show ‘em,” I tell him, remembering the heights of ecstasy he’s brought me to in the last twenty-four hours to refill some of the patience and understanding I’m presently hemorrhaging.

  “All right,” he says.

  He just stands there.

  “Ian?” I ask.

  “Yeah?” he returns.

  “You’re not going,” I tell him.

  “I know,” he says. “I’m just waiting until the mood is right.”

  I just purse my lips and nod. If that’s what it’s going to take for him to take another run so that we can be one step closer to putting this whole grating process behind us, then that’s what it’s going to take.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’m on it.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” I say after he stands there another twenty or thirty seconds, “you keep trying and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “What?” he asks, shaking his head a little.

  “Did I pull you away from something?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just, don’t you think they’d have better things to do with their time than hang around here waiting for me to fall on my ass?”

  “I’m serious,” I tell him. “Give it three more tries, and I will make sure you are very handsomely rewarded.”

  He looks over at me, his eyes wide at first, but after a few seconds, I see his eyes drift from my face downward and I finally know that he’s paying attention.

  “Yeah?” he asks. “How so?”

  “You’ll have to find out,” I tell him. “It’s a surprise, but I can promise you will like it.”

  I have nothing planned, but I’m sure I can throw together some sort of sexual favor he’ll find as suitable reward for his efforts.

  “Okay,” he says. “Three tries.”

  “Don’t think of them as tries, think of them as opportunities to practice your new skill,” I tell him. “Just think of it like you’ve already done it a million times before. You know what to do, right?” I ask.

  “Yeah?” he more asks than answers, but it’ll have to do. Money actually is starting to change hands down below and it’s going to be difficult convincing him it doesn’t have anything to do with him.

  “All right,” I tell him. “First run, you’ve got this thing.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

  He puts his front foot on the board, leans in, rolls down, and runs out just as he’s about to be on level ground.

  “That’s all right,” I call down. “You’ll get it next time.”

  I’m not unaware that I probably sound like one of those perma-optimist parents who are always telling their kids—who are always, always, always, just terribly bad at everything—that any shortcoming is just a hiccup in an otherwise impeccable career of doing things right. It’s got to be a little extra dose of humiliation, but at least it’s getting him up the ladder a bit quicker.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he says as he finally reaches the top.

  “Do what?” I ask dumbly.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Two more and then we can go, right?”

  “Two more and then you’ll have a reward coming to you when we’re in a much, much less public place,” I tell him. “After that, we’ll see where you are with things and go from there.”

  “Okay,” he says curtly.

  It’s unclear whether his clen
ched jaw is a signal of determination or just annoyance that I’m being such a dictator. I’m not going to make the guy keep doing this if it’s just going to screw with his head more than his head has already been screwed with, but just up and leaving in shame isn’t going to do him any good, either.

  He’s just become my new psychology project.

  “We’re probably going to have to figure out a time to figure out where and how we’re going to do interviews,” I tell him. “You know, for school.”

  “Is there any way we could not talk about school right now?” he asks.

  “Well, I’m still waiting for you to take your second run, so…” I just let the sentence hang, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Before last run, I was all advice and modest encouragement. This run, I’m unimpressed and stern. Next run, I haven’t really thought it out, but I’ll probably just end up in some stage of groveling just to get him down the ramp one more time.

  “All right,” he says, his front foot coming down and he’s about halfway down the slope when he comes off the board again, though he somehow manages to stay on his feet as he runs out of it.

  I’m really at a loss here.

  I’ve tried everything short of blowing him before he takes a run at it and nothing seems to be doing any good. There’s the old adage that you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, but psychology’s supposed to short-circuit all that. He’s supposed to be my lump of clay.

  He’s impervious.

  When he gets to the top, this time, I don’t give him any advice. I don’t talk to him or even look at him.

  “One more and I get my reward, huh?” he asks.

  I don’t answer. I pretend like he’s not there so maybe he can pretend I’m not here. Exactly how that’s going to translate into him forgetting that there are about two dozen people waiting and hoping for blood, I don’t know, but I’m doing what I can.

  “Fair enough,” he says, and I can hear him get the tail set in position.

  When I hear the clap of his front wheels hitting the concrete, I turn to look and my eyes find Ian just in time to see him come off his board, only this time, he’s pitched way too far forward to get his feet underneath him and he crashes with the sick noise of air being forced from lungs by impact.

  I make my way down the ladder, trying to block out the laughter coming from across the way as I try to get down to Ian.

  When I’m finally down to ground level, he’s already up and walking toward me, but it’s easy enough to see that he’s just done for right now.

  “Can we go?” he asks. “I know I have to get this if I’m going to compete, but I really think I’d do better without all the—”

  “Yeah,” I nod, “yeah. Maybe take a quick street run to clear your head and remind yourself that you know what to do on a board, you know, maybe help remind some of the other people around here of that as well so you don’t have that look on your face like you want to punch a baby.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Hey, thanks for sticking it out with me on this. I know it can’t be that rewarding seeing me come off my board every single fucking time I try to—”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “We all have our gaps. Don’t even worry about it, all right? Just go clear your head and, if you want to take another run or two down the vert ramp, that’s cool, if not, we can go.”

  “All right,” he says. “Thanks.”

  He leans forward a little as if to give me a kiss, but hesitates, his eyes wandering in the direction of the thickest part of the group that had been watching him, but they’ve all lost interest.

  Still, he’s indecisive, so I pop my head forward a little, give him a quick peck on the lips and send him on his way.

  He’s got a sheepish smile on his face as he rides off, and I’m taking a deep breath.

  He’s screwed.

  Unless everyone else in the competition has at least one area they can’t score in at all, there’s no way mathematically that he can make any kind of positive showing at the competition.

  I’m not sure if there’s any way to justify him competing if he’s going to risk becoming known as “that guy who fell on his face repeatedly.” That can’t be good for a career, even if he were to never go near another vert ramp or anything resembling it again.

  He wants it so bad, though.

  It’s good to see him where he’s more comfortable, though. He just makes everything look so strange, but achievable. It really is a sight to see.

  Ian’s coming off a 5-0 grind with a shove it when I hear someone else calling my name from close by. I turn to find one of Ian’s friends—a guy about my age, maybe a year or two older with long blond hair, whose name I don’t readily recall at the moment—skating toward me.

  “Hey,” he says, rubbing his open palm over his nearly bald head. “You’re Mia, right?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “I’ve seen you around.”

  “I’m Rob,” he says. “I’m Ian’s friend.”

  “Rob,” I respond. “All right, yeah, Ian’s told me about you.”

  “He’s told me about you, too,” he says. “You must be one hell of a woman.”

  I can feel my face growing hot. “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “You know, with Ian’s dad the way he is and all,” Rob says. “That can’t be too easy.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I tell him. “We seem to be hitting it off pretty well, though.”

  “That’s good,” Rob says, and I take a moment to clap and cheer as Ian tre flips on the flat of the fun box, landing in a manual on the downward slope and riding it all the way out.

  “Why am I getting the feeling you’re trying to tell me something?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Rob says. “Ian said you were smart, though.”

  “So, what is it?” I ask, watching Ian get some speed and roll all the way up the vert ramp, planting his nose on the top and riding all the way down without any problem whatsoever. “I seriously don’t know what it is in his head that isn’t clicking, but he basically just did what’s been making him crash for who knows how long.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing,” Rob says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, but before he can answer, I’m shouting, “See, you got that, Ian!”

  All right, now I’m starting to embarrass myself.

  “Ian isn’t exactly in a position to go without his dad’s help right now,” Rob says. “I don’t know, maybe he’ll get his shit together by the competition, win the thing, and never have to worry about it again, but…” he trails off.

  I really don’t know if he’s trying to be helpful or if he’s just trying to be a jerk, but I really wish he’d just say what he’s going to say.

  “Well,” I tell Rob, “I know that Ian’s dad doesn’t necessarily think I’m right for his son, but he’ll come around.”

  “He didn’t tell you, did he?” Rob asks.

  “Tell me what?” I respond and finally turn to look at Rob.

  “His dad cut him off last night,” Rob answers. “He called me right after it happened. I guess the old man’s giving him a week and then Ian’s gotta be outta the house. The guy’s smarter than he lets on and everything, but I don’t think he’s really cut out for a normal job, you know?”

  “What do you mean his dad cut him off? He’s kicking Ian out of the house, too?” I ask.

  Somewhere in the distance, there’s the loud slap of four hard wheels coming down together on concrete and a couple of people interject various non-lingual sounds of approval and I just know it’s Ian bringing everyone back around to his side.

  “Dad kicked him out of the house,” Rob says. “No more money for college, no more money for, well, anything, really.”

  “This is because of me?” I ask.

  “Don’t take it the wrong way,” Rob says. “Like I said, you must be one hell of a chick. Now, that boy doesn’t get his shit together and actually win that competition, he’s going
to end up living in my basement, and you know what the worst part about that is?” he asks.

  “What’s that?” I return.

  “I don’t have a basement, so he’s going to end up sleeping on my couch, and you know, I’m more of a morning person, he’s more of a night person—I’m glad to have him and everything, ‘cause that’s probably what’s going to have to happen. I just hope we don’t end up killing each other,” he says.

  “Well, at least he’s going to have a place to stay,” I tell Rob, who is definitely not just telling me this as a courtesy. “You’re a good friend.”

  “Well, it’s not really decided as far as all that yet, exactly,” he says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought Ian wasn’t going to have anywhere else to go. I’d let him stay with me if I didn’t think my dad would have a conniption, the kind of which would likely yield a body count.”

  “I was just giving you a glimpse into Christmas future,” Rob says. “His dad’s made the threat, but Ian’s still hanging in there by a thread. I just don’t want to see the guy’s life fall apart, you know?”

  “The problem I’m having,” I tell Rob, “is that I’m not sure if you’re telling me this because it’s actually the truth or because you’ve got something against me. Have I done something to offend you?” I ask.

  “No. We haven’t met, but you seem nice enough and I know Ian’s got it out to about here for you,” Rob says and illustrates his meaning by holding his hand about a foot and a half straight out from his crotch.

  “How romantic,” I say.

  “Just, I don’t think it’s really that cool for someone he’s only known for a few weeks or however long the two of you have known each other to come in and try to make his life difficult, you know?” Rob asks. “Ian’s not meant to be just another skater bum until nobody invites him to competitions anymore. He’s smart. He’s got a lot of things he could do, but you’re just riding all in and putting yourself in the place of all that.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do,” I tell Rob.

  “I know, I know,” he says, his palms up and facing me. “Like I said, I’ve only heard good things, but I’m just tellin’ you how it is. So, unless you’re really looking to stick it out and be there after his old man’s cut the cord, I think it might be better for both of you if you just called it a day.”