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

by Claire Adams

  “You know, maybe you were right back at the park,” he says. “Maybe we are too different. You’re trying to live like your life’s already most of the way over and I’m trying to live like I’ve got a little bit more of it in front of me.”

  I sigh and rub my temples.

  “Ian,” I start, “the problem is that you’ve got every opportunity and you just blow it. Have you figured out what you’re going to do in the vert competition? Have you even managed to drop in yet, or are you going to hope for a game-day miracle?”

  “Just get the hell out of my head,” he says.

  “What does that even mean?” I shout.

  It doesn’t really occur to me until the shout, but we’ve been pretty loud for a while, now. This appears to have drawn the attention of pretty much everyone in the frozen yogurt shop.

  Ian, however, doesn’t seem so aware of the shift in the room.

  “You tell me that you don’t want to be with me, then you sneak into my room and we have sex three times over the course of eight hours, and then you don’t want to be with me again,” he says. “Have you ever stopped to think that maybe the problem has nothing to do with me?”

  “I never said it was all your fault,” I tell him, shielding the half of my face closest to the open restaurant. “Let’s just talk about this later.”

  “Excuse me,” a strange voice says, and I look up.

  A tall man with a mustache and a tie is standing over the table.

  “This is a family-friendly establishment, so I’m going to have to ask the two of you to take it elsewhere,” he says.

  “You’re kicking us out?” I ask, more confused than anything.

  “I would like you both to leave,” the man says, putting his hands on his hips. “Right now.”

  “Whatever,” Ian says, getting up from the booth. “We’re leaving.”

  I get up, unable to close my mouth, though I do manage to grab what’s left of my yogurt, and I follow Ian out of the shop.

  It’s not entirely clear whether we’re still going to try to get the final bit of planning done tonight, or if the smart move is to just go home and start cold-calling people to ask them if they have any prejudices that might fit my study. That being the case, I walk more near Ian than by him, just waiting for him to tell me to get the hell away from him.

  I don’t know what caused me to curse like that in the yogurt shop, but it was actually kind of liberating to just forget about everyone else and lace into somebody.

  “I’ve got to tell you,” I say to him, “I’m still pretty pissed at you, but it was pretty bad ass, us getting kicked out like that.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “I know we both kind of flew off the handle back there, but I still think we can work together and get this project done if we just sit down and do it and, you know, maybe try a little extra hard not to piss each other off,” I say.

  Oh, come on. I’m being really conciliatory right now.

  Finally, I get to the point where I’m feeling really strange walking, and I ask, “Are we going to try to figure some stuff out, or should I just give up for the night?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “Hey, you’re talking to me,” I say, falling a little short of the cuteness I was hoping to inject as a diffuser. “That’s some progress.”

  For a while, we just walk.

  The awkwardness dies down after a while, and it’s actually a little cathartic walking. We’re not talking. That probably has something to do with the peace of the moment.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I’m picking up my board and heading to the skate park,” he says. “I don’t think I’m going to be bringing back the gold, but I at least want to try to make a good showing.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Is that something you wanted to do on your own, or—”

  “You can come if you want,” he says. “I’m just on a schedule these last two weeks, and I have to get my time in at the park every day.”

  “Doesn’t really seem like you scheduled much time for our little meeting of the minds,” I observe.

  “I kind of figured it’d go the way it went,” he says. “It’s been a while since I’ve been kicked out of somewhere, though. It’s good to know I haven’t lost my chops.”

  “It doesn’t really seem that hard,” I say, faking a chortle. “All we had to do was sit down and try to talk to each other in a civil way.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Have you thought about maybe just backing out of the Midwest competition?” I ask. “I’m really not trying to be mean here, but if you can’t get a score out of vert, are you even going to be able to place?”

  “It’s really not an option,” he says. “I have to try for the sponsorship.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I know I’m not going to win,” he says. “I’m not stupid. Even with time on the board like I have, you can’t take up a whole new discipline and expect to have it down well enough in two weeks to pass up some of the best unknowns in the country. It’s just—I have to try.”

  “Why?” I ask. “It’s going to hurt you more than it’ll help you if you’re on ESPN, falling on your face.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “I’m not looking forward to that part.”

  We come up to a house and Ian says, “Wait here,” before going inside.

  It’s funny, even being so uncomfortable around Ian right now, while he was walking with me I didn’t even notice that we’d ended up in a really bad part of town. There aren’t really any parts of town where you’ll get shot just for going there, but when we’re on the news for something violent, the vans and the cameras they bring are almost always parked in this four-or-five-block radius.

  Ian comes back out after a minute and we start walking in the direction of the skate park.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but what are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I know I’m not your favorite person right now,” he says. “Why do you still want to walk with me?”

  “It’s something to do,” I tell him. “I blocked out a couple of hours for us to work on getting this thing finalized before we start doing interviews next week. Really, we should have had that done a while ago. Now we’re not going to have a lot of time to extrapolate from the data.”

  “Have you ever noticed how scientists really love saying ‘these data?’” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Data is both the singular and plural form of the word, right?” he asks. “Whenever any scientist is giving a lecture or an interview or speaking casually with someone, at some point, the phrase, ‘these data’ is bound to come out of their mouth. Do you think it’s a status thing, like people who aren’t scientists don’t really use it, therefore it’s a sign that you’re in the club if you do sort of thing?”

  “Why am I still walking with you?” I laugh.

  “Hey, I know we haven’t really been getting together as often as we were going to and all that, but I was wondering if you’d still be all right handling most of those interviews,” he says. “With the competition coming up and everything—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “I’m not going to let you capitalize on how weird our situation is by making me do your work for you. How about you do about half and I’ll do about half?”

  “It’s just, this competition’s different, you know,” he says. “There’s a lot more on the line. I mean, you enter any amateur competition, there’s always a chance someone’s in the crows that can do something for your career, but they’re flat out offering a killer sponsorship here. That could be the boost I need to push me into pro status.”

  “I know that’s a big deal and everything, but you’re acting like this is your last shot,” I tell him. “Why not skip this competition and wait for one that’s not going to make you do vert in order to get what you want?”

  “I don’t know how much time I have,” he blurts.
Before I can respond or even fully process the statement, though, he’s on his board and skating off ahead of me.

  The park’s still about half a mile from here, but I just keep walking after him.

  I told my dad about Ian and I breaking up. He was so thrilled that he took me out for a nice, fancy dinner at the local fast food establishment.

  There’s no good reason for me to keep walking after Ian—he’s not turning around—but I just keep going.

  I didn’t tell my dad that I cried the night I broke it off with Ian.

  Maybe it should change things that his dad pulled the trigger and cut him off, but I’ve got to believe there’s some way for the two of them to mend fences. Yeah, his dad’s a prick, but he’s still family. That’s how it goes.

  About ten minutes pass in the cool evening air, and I can hear the sound of Ian’s wheels on cement before the skate park comes into view.

  Ian’s there, doing grab tricks down the six-stair set, and I just watch him as I come closer, trying to organize things in my head enough to at least be able to say something when I get over to him.

  He’s rolling back up to the stair set when I get close.

  “You left me there,” I tell him.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry about that. I just—I have a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Well, what’s going on?” I ask.

  He glares at me before a smirk creeps up one side of his face. “You’re really something, you know that?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “It’s all about the back and forth with you,” he says. “As soon as I’m convinced you want nothing to do with me, you start acting all sweet and caring and then when I invariably let my guard down and something starts to happen with us, all of the sudden you don’t want to have anything to do with me again. I think I’ve already been on this particular rollercoaster.”

  “Something’s obviously bothering you,” I tell him, “and I don’t think it’s just that you’re pissed at me.”

  “Why do you care?” he asks. “Seriously, I want to know. That’s not an idle question or just my attempt at making you feel shitty. I really want to know why you care.”

  “Because I do,” I tell him, my voice wavering. He looks away, but I continue. “I never said I didn’t want to be your friend. I just don’t want you to blow up your life because you’re with me.”

  “We’ve already been over this,” he says. “Besides, it wasn’t even you that got me kicked out, it was the work Rob did on my face. The old man was not pleased.”

  I try to explain, saying, “We’ve been over this, but I don’t think we’ve taken the complications as seriously as—”

  “Is there any way we can just drop it?” he asks. “It doesn’t look like either of us has any new information to share or a new position to take, so why don’t we just call it a day?”

  “If you want me to go, I’ll go,” I tell him. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  “Then why is this competition so important?” I jump back in. I know what button to press, it’s just a matter of pressing it. “Why are you willing to risk humiliating yourself in front of a live television audience just for an outside shot at a sponsorship? Why does it have to be this competition?”

  “Because she’s getting worse,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, blinking.

  He puts his hand to his forehead like he’s going to run it through his hair, but the hand comes back down a moment later.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “It’s not your problem and it’s not your responsibility.”

  “I’d like to help if I could,” I tell him.

  “Okay, seriously,” he says. “You’ve got to stop bouncing between accusations and comforting. It’s making it even more difficult to know where we actually stand, and it’s really starting to bug the shit out of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”’

  “Just pick a personality and stick with it,” he snaps.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head. “You know, sometimes people can feel more than one way about something,” I tell him, letting that tone from the fro-yo shop return to my voice. “You make me very angry sometimes,” I tell him, “but at the same time, I still care about you. You can be really thick-headed, but that doesn’t mean that I want to stop trying to get through to you.”

  “We’re not together,” he says. “I think I got that one loud and clear.”

  I look at the ground and sigh.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” I tell him. “We can be friends if you want to be.”

  “I’ve got a lot of friends,” he says and drops his board back to the ground. “Now, I’ve really got to get some practice time in, so…”

  “Like I said, I’ll leave if you want me to leave,” I tell him.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” he asks.

  “I think I’ve only said it twice,” I answer, hoping to break at least some of the tension. “If you’d rather I wasn’t here, if I’m distracting you or otherwise impeding your ability to do what you need to do, just say the word and I’ll be on my way.”

  “I don’t,” he says. “I don’t want you to go, but can we just drop the relationship talk? It’s only going to end in an argument where we’re both repeating a few of our favorite points over and over again and neither one of us is really going to be listening to the other, and I just don’t see the point in doing it if we can avoid it, so can we avoid it?” he asks, throwing on a condescending, “Please?” just for good measure.

  “The competition isn’t about our relationship,” I say. Hey, if we’re not going to be able to get our personal issues worked out, the least he can do is answer the question I’ve been asking. “What’s the story?”

  Ian closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and his foot off of his board. He walks the few feet over to the top of the six-stair set and sits.

  It takes me a couple of beats to realize he’s waiting for me to sit next to him. I make my way over and take a seat.

  “It’s my mom,” he says. “Dad, he—I don’t know, he doesn’t mistreat her or anything like that, but he doesn’t give her the kind of interaction that’s going to help her make the most of the time she has left.”

  “May I ask what’s—”

  “She has early-onset Alzheimer’s,” he interrupts.

  “Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Dad’s got the money,” he says, “so he hired a home health worker to take care of mom, but she needs more than that. When I’m not there, I just know he’s not giving her the kind of attention that she needs. That’s why I really need to do something in two weeks. Maybe I’ll end up doing an abridged reenactment of Evelyn McHale’s most famous act and end up a laughing stock in the skating world that everyone forgets about after a few hours, but I’ve got to try.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I tell him. “How does winning the competition, you know, change any of that?”

  “There’s a place here in town, it’s kind of like a nursing home, but it’s a day thing. I can’t always be there for her physically, but I’ve gone by the place a few times, and they’re fully staffed with psychiatrists and medical doctors and therapists and counselors and nurses and other people for mom to socialize with,” he says. “They said that keeping an active social life can help prevent the degeneration of memory. I know she’s got Alzheimer’s and nothing’s going to make that magically better, but when I can’t be there with her, it would just be nice to know that she’s got more than a glorified maid watching out for her. Then, whenever I’m back from whatever, I can pick her up and bring her back home, so when she does have a clear moment, she’s not so far away that we can’t make the most out of it. Those moments are getting fewer and farther,” he says. “If there’s anything that might slow the progression, or at least bring her back a little more often—I know it’s a pipe
dream, but it’s got to be better than being left in her own little wing of the house with only me and Jackie for her to talk to.”

  I look off into the darkness. “I had no idea,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

  “It is what it is,” he says. “It sucks. It sucks really, really bad, but all I can do about it now is try to make sure that whatever time she has left is as easy and pleasant as possible for her.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, though,” I say in a small voice, feeling a little bad about persisting. “How does this competition figure in to all of that? Why not just tell your dad that your mom would be better taken care of if she was—”

  “I tried that,” Ian says. “He says he can’t justify the expense. He says that when people say ‘you have to spend money to make money,’ they’re talking about investments. God, sometimes I hate that son of a bitch.”

  “Wow,” I say and lean back, my hands on the ground behind me for support.

  “Yeah,” he says. “If I can make the money on my own, we’re all good—and it’s not really that much in the grand scheme of things, only mom’s insurance won’t cover it. Apparently, social interaction in a day program like they have at the center is an experimental medical procedure.”

  “That’s fucked up,” I say.

  He smiles. “You know, it just tickles me to hear you say that word,” he says.

  “What word?” I ask.

  “Right,” he says. “A sponsorship doesn’t mean I’m a millionaire or that I’m going to start getting royalties from skating games or anything, but it’s the last big step between me and actually being able to give something to my mom that might be really good for her. Maybe it won’t do anything for her condition, maybe it will, but I have to think that she’d be happier spending some time with people who know what she’s dealing with and can help her when she needs help and encourage her when she needs improvement—god! This is so stupid.”

  “What’s stupid?” I ask. “I think what you’re doing is very sweet.”

  “Yeah, I’ll try not to take that the way it came out,” he says vaguely. “I worked my ass off to get good so I could give her the best chance to get out from under dad’s roof, at least for a little while each day, but as usual I missed that one little thing that’s going to make all the difference.”