Under the Autumn Sky

by Liz Talley

  She shoved herself up, rising more like a winged harpy than a fairy princess. Frustration made her dangerously angry.

  Abram sat there looking like a fish that had landed on the pier. If he had started flopping and gasping, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Louise,” he said, climbing to his knees. “I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t think anything. I just don’t—”

  “Don’t trouble yourself to screw me. It’s no big deal. I can go another three years without a date. By then I’ll be thirty. Hey, maybe I could hire someone. A gigolo to service me. Won’t that be novel?”

  He stood and grabbed her arms, giving her a shake. His charming grin was gone, as was likely his erection. He looked annoyed. “If you really want me to get the job done, let’s go. I’ll stop by the gas station, grab a box of condoms, and we’ll head to my motel room in Ville Platte. I’ll screw you until your head bangs against the headboard. Maybe we can keep the other motel guests awake all night. Then I’ll leave in the morning after I shower. Sound romantic enough for you?”

  She wanted to hit him. Tears formed in her eyes, and that pissed her off even more. She looked around at their magic, romantic spot that wasn’t even remotely beautiful anymore. Dead plants floated on the surface and spiderwebs clung to the railing. A mosquito bit her on the neck. She slapped at it.

  He shook his head before lifting a finger and wiping away a tear that must have escaped. “You don’t deserve that, Louise. Some stranger, some crappy-ass hotel room. I’m not saying you need champagne and strawberries, but don’t give it up to me, baby. You’re worth more than that. Give yourself to someone who cares about you. A guy who’s not a random stranger.”

  She brushed his hand away. “Don’t worry. I won’t force you.”

  And then she slid past him, feeling like crap. Feeling worse than crap. She’d let him in on her most embarrassing secret. He’d seen her desperation and longing, and though he hadn’t flung it in her face, he hadn’t done anything to help her with it.

  “Louise,” he called after her. “Stop. I don’t want to leave it this way.”

  She didn’t stop. Kept going. She couldn’t have stopped if she tried. The liquor she’d gulped down to give her boldness, churned in her stomach along with what was left of her pride. She reached the end of the pier and grabbed her shoes, not bothering to put them on even though the damp grass made her toes numb with cold.

  She would get someone to give her a ride.

  If she had to, she’d call Waylon and have him come get her.

  She stomped up the hill, hearing Abram coming behind her. But she didn’t turn around. Kept moving toward the light of Rendezvous, toward the merriment. The loud music. The normalcy of the real world.

  Abram grabbed her elbow. “Hey, wait a minute.”

  She turned. “Look. I want to forget about this. Okay?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. We were two strangers who became nothing more to each other than…strangers.”

  “I hurt you.”

  “You don’t have enough power to hurt me because you don’t mean anything to me. All you are is a missed opportunity to get this monkey off my back.”

  “Damn,” he breathed, shaking his head. “You don’t hold back.”

  “I’m being truthful. You’re a nice guy, doing a nice thing for a desperate chick. Saving me from myself and all that. Don’t feel guilty and don’t lose sleep over me.”

  He shook his head again. “Come on, Louise, I didn’t want things to end like this. Tonight was good. I enjoyed meeting you.”

  She inclined her head and gave him a sad smile. “I guess it wouldn’t have been so bad being your honky-tonk Cinderella if I hadn’t gone and made a fool of myself.”

  He lightly touched her cheek. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself. Let me take you home.”

  “No, I can get a ride. I’m sort of embarrassed and feeling emotional right now. It would be too uncomfortable for us both. Enjoy your stay in Ville Platte. It was nice meeting you.”

  She didn’t wait any longer.

  She turned and walked out of his life, thinking she was doubly glad he was a stranger. After all, what girl would want to live out the embarrassment of seeing a guy who didn’t want to sleep with her, or rather couldn’t, around town all the time?

  It would be brutal.

  She climbed the porch swinging her shoes and trying to come up with a plan for getting home. Her pride hurt too much to slip the vampy come-hither shoes on, so she set them near the railing and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She’d call Waylon. He was likely up playing war games on the computer anyway.

  “Louise, stop being stubborn and let me drive you home.”

  She looked at the time on her phone. 12:00 a.m. “Too late. The fairy tale is over.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ABRAM HAD WOKEN with a headache that had nothing to do with the 1.5 beers he’d drunk last night, and everything to do with the mildew present in the damp carpet around the air conditioner in the motel room.

  The motel hadn’t been the worst he’d stayed in, but it wasn’t a night at the Four Seasons. Not that he frequented the Four Seasons often. Holiday Inns and Courtyard Marriotts were his home away from home when out on the road.

  This one had no continental breakfast. He wasn’t a fan of rubber eggs anyhow, so he’d found a Waffle House with a smart-aleck waitress, decent coffee and a small-town crowd, then tried not to think about the woman he’d hurt the night before.

  He hadn’t been wrong in redirecting Louise’s intent on shedding her virginity, but it still felt like a bad deal. He’d dinged her pride and there was no telling the ramifications of his nonaction.

  But he couldn’t dwell on it. Louise would be a faded memory in little over a week, even if her innocence and beauty had struck a chord in him. She’d fall in love someday and find the right guy to hold her and love her.

  Something jerked in his gut at the thought of her in another man’s arms, but he ignored it. It was like missing the numbers on the lottery by two numbers. Regret. But what could a guy do?

  Move on.

  Today he started his recruitment of the top prospect on the athletic department’s tight end list. The Panthers needed Waylon Boyd, and Abram aimed to land the boy—starting with his high school coach.

  The diner moved around him, blue-collar sorts with white utility trucks parked outside along with older women and men reading the newspaper. Clinking forks, clattering dishes, and the low hum of conversation. This place suited him fine. Real people. Real jobs.

  He caught an older gentleman reading the sports section of the Opelousas paper glancing at him. Finally, on the fourth or fifth glance, Abram nodded.

  The man narrowed his eyes. “You by any chance with the ULBR program?”

  Abram wore an ULBR windbreaker, but that meant little. Almost everyone in Louisiana had something ULBR in his or her closet. “Yep, I’m with the program.”

  The man cracked a smile, stood and offered a hand. “I’m Tom Forcet. Forcet Construction. I’m godfather to one of your prospects—Waylon Boyd.”

  Abram stood and took the man’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Forcet.”

  “Tom, please.”

  “I’m actually here to meet with Coach Landry about Waylon. Always good to run into a friend of his.”

  “Good kid. That’s the most important thing. Raised right. His late father was my college roommate. Wish he could have seen what Waylon’s become. Of course, Lou’s done a fine job with him.”

  Abram hadn’t had much time to look over Sam Moreland’s notes on Waylon. He knew the kid’s parents had been killed in a plane crash about nine years ago. Rather than place the kids in foster care, an older sibling had stepped up to care for them. “Character counts. His talent is evident on the field, but we pay close attention to kids with good values who will reflect well on our program.”

  “Dang right,” the man
said, wiping his mouth with a napkin from an adjoining table. “Waylon’s the complete package. Does odd jobs around the construction site for me from time to time. Course Lou works for me so makes it easy to keep an eye on the boy. I’ll let you get back to your breakfast. Eggs aren’t good cold. Good to meet you.”

  Abram nodded and reciprocated the acknowledgment. Then he sat down to his breakfast, pulling the folder on Waylon Jennings Boyd and spreading it in front of him. Most of the information had been purchased from a reputable recruiting service but also contained comments from the Bonnet Creek coach—height, weight, times in the 40, bench weight, etc. There was a small section noting his personal information—basically address, contact information and name of guardian.

  Louise Boyd.

  Huh.

  Surely, it wasn’t the same person he’d danced with last night? The same woman he’d kissed and held in his arms. And nearly had sex with.

  The disturbing feeling sliding into the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with the eggs and waffle he’d gulped down. Louise. Not a common name, was it?

  He thought hard. She’d said she’d remained a virgin because of circumstances. Or something like that. Raising a younger brother and sister would definitely squash dating. Not to mention working full-time to support a family.

  He glanced back at the file. No age given for the guardian.

  Tom Forcet had told him Lou worked at the construction company, but he couldn’t imagine the beautiful woman he’d met the night before working something as difficult as construction. And being called Lou. Maybe she did the books or something?

  Either way, if Lou Boyd was his honky-tonk Cinderella, he’d unknowingly committed a recruiting violation—and not just the slap on the wrist kind. This was the kind that could blow up into a scandal. Opposing fan bases and the press that catered to their neuroses were hungry for dirty tidbits like a coach messing around with a recruit’s sister, mother or cousin. If someone found out he and Louise Boyd had nearly done the dirty deed on a dock on Lake Chicot, there’d be shit hitting a fan. Really messy.

  But maybe he worried for no good reason.

  He took a sip of cold coffee. It tasted oddly of ashes. Or maybe it tasted like unemployment.

  “Check, please.”

  * * *

  “LORI, I CANNOT LEAVE work to bring you the essay. If I don’t move this dirt, they can’t frame up for the concrete, and Manuel will be all over my butt. We’ve finally had enough dry days to make progress. Sorry. You’ll have to take a lower letter grade.”

  “Lou, please. You don’t understand. Mrs. Rupple will not knock it down one letter grade, but two. Please. Just on your break.” Lori’s voice had dropped to a plaintive low whine. It was one she used often. Too often.

  Lou pushed her gloved hand against the gear of the front-end loader, knocking the loose knob back and forth. “You’re a big girl, Lori. You say you’re old enough for a license or working at Forcet, but want me to bring your forgotten—”

  “Pleeeease! I barely have an A in her class. I’ll wash dishes for a whole week.”

  “No.”

  “Lou, I’m begging you. Begging.”

  Lou pulled off her heavy gloves and tossed them on the dashboard of the large piece of equipment. “Fine, but you have to wash the dishes and do the laundry.”

  “Thank you, Lou. I mean it. You’re the best.”

  Lou pressed the button on her cell phone and sighed. “Sure I am.”

  So much for sticking to her guns this go-around. It was the seventh time this year Lou had taken her lunch by running home, grabbing something Lori had forgotten, and then speeding back to the school to deliver her sister from the horrible repercussion of leaving behind her practice uniform or the flash drive holding her PowerPoint presentation. Lori was a lovable, absentminded goofball with an angel’s face. And a pretty big heart. What else was Lou to do?

  “Manuel,” she called across the worksite.

  The project manager jerked his head up. “Yo?”

  “Taking my lunch early.”

  “Lori again?”

  She gave him the same look she’d given him the other six times that year. “I won’t be long. Then I’ll get that dirt moved and in place so you can start the framing after lunch.”

  “Go.”

  She walked toward the vehicle that had once been her father’s shining joy, a 2003 Tundra pickup. The silver truck now held a dent in the bumper, courtesy of Waylon’s first attempt at parallel parking, and a huge scrape along one side from a hit-and-run when she’d gone to the Opelousas Home Depot. But it ran well thanks to her second cousin Reeves who owned Taylor Auto and insisted on giving the truck a free tune-up every year. Reeves took care of what little he could for her, but Lou did her own oil changes. She had to draw the line somewhere.

  After banging her work boots against the front tire and taking off the bandana she wore to keep the baby-fine hair that escaped her braid out of her eyes, she climbed inside the cab. She saw one of the guys frown at her, and resisted the urge to give him a specific finger wave. That guy didn’t like her much anyway. He was old school. Women belonged at home, folding underwear and stirring peas on the stove. Didn’t matter that Lou could handle her heavy equipment like the finest surgeon. Some men were just shortsighted.

  Forcet Construction mostly worked the region north of Opelousas, but they built all over Evangeline Parish, even dipping down to Acadia Parish at times. Today they were working the foundation for yet another credit union in Ville Platte, so her hometown of Bonnet Creek lay twelve miles away. Just far enough so that Lou would have to eat on the way back and also far enough to give her plenty of time to think.

  Exactly what she needed. More time to think about what a colossal idiot she was.

  No.

  Lou refused to let her thoughts travel back to the night before. To the embarrassment of throwing herself at a perfect stranger. What had she been thinking? Or better phrased—what had she been drinking? Because her stupid actions had to be blamed on the strong mojitos. She wasn’t a drinker. Couldn’t handle the woozy, giggly euphoria that had wrapped her up and made her think naughty impossible thoughts. Yes. Blame it on the booze.

  Stop it, Lou. Stop thinking about Abram. The moonlight. The fact you can’t get a guy to do the deed.

  As she turned into the drive of the house she’d been raised in, she made the same promise she’d made five times earlier that morning. No more thinking about last night.

  She grabbed the paper, hidden beneath a yearbook on Lori’s unmade bed, and hightailed it to Bonnet Creek High School, which sat only a mile away. She pulled into the visitor spot and killed the engine.

  She didn’t want to run into Coach Landry.

  The man was driving her crazy about hiring someone to make a professional highlight reel of Waylon’s best plays. Like she had the money for that.

  Waylon was an incredibly talented athlete, and if college coaches couldn’t see that on the amateur reel she’d pieced together with her own two hands for Coach Landry, then they were stupid. She wasn’t hiring a professional service to film him next year. It was an enormous waste of money.

  But David Landry was a force to be reckoned with, and with a four-star, blue-chip recruit on his team, he’d taken too personal of an interest.

  “Hey, Lou. Lori forgot something again, didn’t she?” Helen Barham ran Bonnet Creek High School from the sleek modern desk of the front office. Helen had once been in the garden club with Lou’s mother and she was exceedingly competent, if unyielding. The woman had never married nor had children, so she tsked every time Lou brought in her sister’s forgotten homework. She was a little hypocritical and gossipy, but many in the small town were. “You know she’s—”

  “—never going to learn?” Lou finished for her with a wry smile. “I know. I suck at parenting.”

  Helen wagged a finger. “I’ve seen worse, Lou-Lou.”

  “I think she’s in Mr. Smith’s English class right now,” L
ou said, darting a glance out the door of the office and pretending she didn’t hear her father’s old nickname for her trickle so casually out of Helen’s mouth. Hearing it made her sad. “Coach Landry’s not around, is he?”

  The man was notorious for prowling the school hallways, and Lou really didn’t want to deal with him today. Really didn’t.

  “He has some college coach in with him.” Helen pointed to her in-basket. “Just leave Lori’s assignment with me and I’ll page her to the office.”

  Lou handed the paper off and slipped back out the door. She waved at Mr. Edwards, the custodian whose son played on the football team with Waylon, and nodded at a couple of students who hurried by clutching papers in hand.

  She’d just pushed the front door of the school open when she caught sight of the stranger she was never supposed to see again down the hall to her left.

  What the hell?

  The door came back and nearly nailed her in the nose. She stepped back and watched Abram shake Coach Landry’s hand. He wore khaki pants and a purple windbreaker. She was nearly certain ULBR Athletics was appliquéd on the breast even though she was too far away to read the actual letters.

  He was a coach.

  For ULBR.

  His reason for being in Bonnet Creek was her brother.

  Hot shame coursed through her body, followed quickly by the desire to flatten the man’s nose. He knew who she was—that’s why he’d stopped last night. He led her down the merry primrose path, using his charm, his extraordinary good looks to put her at disadvantage, possibly even as leverage, to land her brother, but reining himself in before committing the ultimate in douche-baggery.

  What a slimy bastard.

  Her boots turned toward the coaches before she could think better of it.

  “Hey,” she called out, her voice echoing in the hallway.

  Both men turned—David with a wide crocodile smile; Abram Whatever His Last Name Was with an “oh shit” lift of his eyebrows.

  “Lou, glad you’re here. This is—”