Under the Autumn Sky

by Liz Talley

  “Ahem.” Lou cleared her throat.

  “Oh, sorry, Lou,” he amended.

  Another friend pointed toward Waylon. “That’s why they need you, dude. Briggs has no hands. I swear even my grandma could’ve caught that.”

  “Could have just as easily happened to me.”

  “No way.” Brian shook his head. “ULBR needs you.”

  Lou searched the screen looking for a glimpse of Abram during the replay and then panned the deflated ULBR sideline. She didn’t see him, but she knew that as much as ULBR needed her brother, she needed Abram.

  Because Abram might very well have sent his steak back, but with a gentlemanly smile. He’d have paid the bill, held open the door and talked about anything other than football—well, maybe football would have been okay for a while—but he’d have listened to her. Just as he’d been doing the last few weeks each Thursday night.

  She’d waited over ten years to start her life again. Surely, she could wait four months, six days and eleven hours more until Waylon signed his letter of intent.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WAYLON TOOK ANOTHER draw on his beer and watched his teammates screw around in the headlights of the truck. They reminded him of clumsy puppies, fighting over a chew toy. Lou had let him take the old wreck out tonight, which was odd because she didn’t give the keys up easily. He guessed she felt crappy about the ULBR loss. Either that or her date must have really sucked.

  But what had she expected with Joey Fontenot? The dude was such a tool. She really needed to expand her horizons. Maybe she should try a dating website or something because there wasn’t much available in the way of decent guys in Bonnet Creek. Maybe Cory from the gym would work for her, even if he was kinda stupid. He had a good body at least—but the thought of Lou doing the kind of things he liked to do with girls who had good bodies made his skin crawl.

  Ugh. No need to go there.

  “Hey, here come some ass wipes from Ville Platte,” Brian said, releasing the Owls’ left guard from a headlock and snatching up his Texas Rangers cap from where it lay in the dirt. “What the hell they doin’ out here? They never hang at the pit.”

  The pit was an abandoned dirt pit on the outskirts of Bonnet Creek but close enough to Ville Platte that some of the kids from surrounding schools showed up occasionally to drink and hang out with other kids in the parish. For the most part the Evangeline Sheriff’s Department left the place alone because many of the deputies could still remember their days of hanging at the pit, drinking borrowed alcohol and raising what little hell a kid could in a small town. It was the go-to place for screwing, drinking and wasting time.

  Waylon tossed the beer can in the back of the truck. He’d already had two and knew he couldn’t risk another since he’d driven. The last thing he needed was a DUI, and Lou on his ass even more than she already was. If it wasn’t his grades, it was picking up his socks or knocking the dirt from his cleats. He knew she wasn’t being unreasonable, but it didn’t make him feel any better. For some reason he felt so itchy in his skin he wanted to scream at Lou, at Lori, at everyone who expected something from him.

  And that included the teammates he hung out with tonight.

  Half of him had wanted to blow them off after the Mississippi State/ULBR game; half of him wanted to cling to what he’d once had with the guys he’d grown up with playing Pop Warner and PlayStation.

  His eyes narrowed when he saw who drove the Jeep bouncing toward them. Hayden Verdun.

  “What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Waylon asked no one in particular. There were a few other cars parked out in the pit, some other teammates, some guys who had no stake in what was about to go down.

  Because something would go down.

  He tasted that in the night air.

  Waylon’s blood already heated when he thought about Hayden and the last words they’d spoken to each other. In the past few weeks, he’d woken to Hayden staring at him from the pages of the Ville Platte Gazette. He didn’t know who Hayden’s dad had dirt on, but he’d done a good job getting his son some press in the local papers. Hayden had even been featured in the Alexandria Chronicle and The Opelousas Journal. For some reason, it stuck in Waylon’s craw to see the smug smile of the dude he’d once lined up next to and called teammate. He wanted to plant his fist in Hayden’s face.

  “Yo, what’s up?” Hayden called through the window. “You numb nuts thinking about how bad you’re gonna get beat next Friday?”

  “Thinking about what you’re gonna look like with a toe tag. Your momma’s gonna cry, but I’ll be there to give her my shoulder.” Brian patted his slab of a shoulder.

  “Screw you,” Hayden said, slamming the Jeep into Park.

  “That’s what I was thinking. Your momma’s pretty.”

  Waylon shook his head at his friend. “Enough, Brian. We don’t need any talk of mamas. We can handle our business well enough without stooping to pettiness.”

  Brian grinned. “I like pettiness.”

  “You guys are losers.” Hayden grinned at the guys stacked in his Jeep. “Which we’ll be glad to prove in six days’ time. All it’ll take is 48 minutes.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Waylon turned away from Hayden and his idiot friends. They tempted him too much. Something deep inside, a primal need, hummed for satisfaction. As if by throwing a few punches, he could satisfy the anger. But he knew it would only complicate his life. Nothing good would come of kicking Hayden’s ass. Nothing. Except maybe momentary release from all the crap weighing him down. Better to heed the small kernel of sense planted in his brain and cancel the expectation of something going down.

  He slid into his truck and cranked the music up. He’d found an old Foo Fighters CD in Lou’s room and borrowed it so he could hear some of their early stuff. She’d probably had it since high school, yet it still sounded fresh and cool. Not his standard fare, but he liked it.

  “Where you going, Boyd? You afraid what I’m preachin’s the truth? Or maybe you got some recruiting calls to answer.”

  Waylon looked at Hayden. What a tool.

  Hayden’s door swung open and he climbed out. “That’s what I thought. Golden boy’s too afraid to do anything to get himself in trouble. Oh, yeah. Never mind. His sister’s already done it for him. Screwing the coach has advantages, doesn’t it? She get you a scholarship, Boyd? Your sister open her legs to get your ride, dude?”

  Waylon turned the music down. “Are you as stupid as you look?”

  Hayden’s eyes narrowed. “Stupid?”

  “Yeah. Stupid.” Waylon draped an arm over the steering wheel trying for nonchalance—another word he’d learned for the ACTs—but he was anything but indifferent. In fact, he could hardly keep his hand from forming a fist. “I could beat the ever-loving shit out of you with one hand tied around my back…and I don’t need Lou to sleep with anyone to get me my ride. But how’s your daddy like holding his ankles?”

  Hayden advanced. “Holding his ankles?”

  “Yeah, so he can take it up the ass to get you yours…’cause everyone in the parish knows your daddy’s bought your way from the time you were in diapers.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Hayden pulled at the truck door, reaching in toward Waylon.

  Waylon laughed and pushed Hayden in his chest. The boy stumbled before gaining his footing and coming back for more. “You’re just jealous ’cause you ain’t got no mom and dad. You wish every day you had what I have.”

  That was it. He didn’t know if it was the way his words rang true, or if he just wanted to beat the hell out of something, but Hayden would do.

  He waited for his rival to get close enough and slammed the truck door open, knocking him back. Quick as a cockroach, Waylon slid out. “I’m not jealous of you, Hayden. You’ll be playing in Lafayette while I’m breaking records in the SEC or the Big Ten. I may not have parents, but I have one thing you don’t—more stars behind my name.”

  His words were mean, but he didn’t care. Hayden had something
he wanted, but Waylon would never admit to missing his dad or wishing his momma waited for him when he came home. He couldn’t form the words I’m depressed. I’m scared. I’m alone. But he could kick Hayden Verdun’s ass.

  One of Newton’s laws bounced in his mind. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

  Hayden was about get some reaction.

  He barely had time to draw back as Hayden’s fist flew toward him. Instead of hitting Waylon on the jaw as intended, it crashed to his shoulder. Wasn’t a bad shot, but it wasn’t a good one.

  Waylon took a good one, delivering a strong right and connecting with Hayden’s nose. He felt a crack and it satisfied.

  “Hey, hey,” guys yelled around them. He felt arms grab at him, saw others reaching for Hayden. Hayden shrugged them off and landed an uppercut to Waylon’s solar plexus. He felt air whoosh out of his lungs, but was able to cock back his fist and hit Hayden firmly on the left cheekbone. There was no crack this time, but Hayden dropped to his knees.

  Waylon allowed his friends to pull him back.

  Hayden struggled to his feet, wrestling himself from his friends. He launched one more punch Waylon’s way, managing to draw blood. Waylon felt his lip split and tasted copper pennies.

  Hayden went back for a second helping, but Brian blocked it and shoved him back. He fell into the arms of his friends.

  A siren split the night air.

  Waylon wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and turned his head. Why were the cops here?

  “Shit,” Brian breathed. “Who called the po-po?”

  Waylon broke free from his friends’ hold and straightened. Hayden also stood and turned toward the deputy striding their way. Waylon didn’t know this guy though he wore the familiar brown and khaki uniform.

  As the deputy moved toward them, he shouted, “Okay, bust this up. Bust it up!”

  They had busted it up.

  The deputy stopped, hand on his piece as if he might draw down on someone. He looked at Waylon who’d stepped back in line with his friends, and then he glanced over at Hayden, who really did look as if he’d come out on the short end of the stick. His lip swelled, his nose bled and even in the dim light afforded by headlights and a full moon, Waylon could tell he’d likely have a black eye.

  “Someone called in a fight. What’s this about, gentlemen?”

  The radio at the hip of the deputy squawked but those gathered around said nothing.

  “Oh, I see. It’s gonna be that way.” The man reached for the radio.

  “Naw, just a misunderstanding,” Brian said, waving a hand the size of Texas in a call-off motion. “We stopped.”

  “A misunderstanding?” the deputy repeated, raising the radio.

  “Ain’t no damn misunderstanding,” Hayden said, ripping himself from the arms of one of his teammates, pointing at Waylon. “That son of a bitch attacked me.”

  “The hell he did,” Mason Vidrine said, emerging from around the truck. Mason didn’t play football, but he was the vice president of the student council and son of the mayor of Bonnet Creek. “Hayden started it, riding in here like he owned the place and ragging on Waylon.”

  Waylon didn’t say anything. He merely stood akimbo, refusing to apologize for smacking Hayden around. He should have remembered everything his Sunday school teacher had told him about turning the other cheek, but he didn’t feel so holy lately. In fact, he felt so far from the boy he’d once been he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to remember him. Plus, he refused to answer to the snot-nosed asshat’s accusations.

  “That true?” The deputy studied Hayden, wagging his head like he studied horseflesh or a tricked-out sportscar.

  “No. We came here like anyone else. We weren’t looking for trouble.” Hayden crossed his arms and spoke in his best “my daddy is rich” voice.

  Brian faked a sneeze. “Bullshit.”

  A few guys laughed, but the deputy didn’t seem to find it funny. “Enough.”

  Everyone shut up.

  “Okay, this little party is over. Some of you have been drinking and, in case you hadn’t figured it out yet, you’re underage and it’s illegal. I want the drivers of the vehicles to line up so I can ascertain whether you’ll be allowed to drive home. You’re all getting a verbal warning, but next time, I’m gonna haul your asses in.”

  A few people groaned. Waylon saw a couple of kids slink off, afraid to be seen out partying and participating in things that would make their mommas cry…or put them under lock and key until they turned eighteen. He’d do the same if he could.

  “And you two.” The deputy, whose name tag might have said Soileau, pointed at him and Hayden. “I’m calling your parents to come and get you, or I can take you in for public drunkenness and resisting arrest. Your choice.”

  “But we didn’t—” The deputy silenced Hayden with his eyes.

  Then he lifted the radio to his mouth and called for backup.

  Yeah. This was a complete bust-up and Lou was about to come down hard on him. Just what he needed.

  * * *

  LOU PULLED OUT OF Coach David Landry’s driveway and headed toward the pit. Inside, she was a mass of anger, disappointment and fear. Outside, she was as she always was—calm and collected. “Thank you for coming with me. I don’t know what to do with him, but I’m hoping you can help.”

  David stroked his upper lip. “I might make it worse. Things haven’t been tight between me and Waylon in a while, and I’m not sure there’s much I can do about it.”

  She heard the resignation in his voice. “Why won’t he talk with you any longer? You’ve always been the guy he’s gone to for advice. I just don’t get it.”

  She glanced at the coach, but he refused to look at her. He seemed almost aloof, not particularly pleased to be pulled from his bed at 11:48 p.m. to go talk some sense into her blockhead brother, but could she blame him? “I’m really sorry I had to ask, but a few of the college coaches recruiting him have suggested I talk to you. Waylon’s not handling this year well.”

  “Nope, but I’m not sure I can help.”

  “Yeah, you keep saying that,” Lou said, swinging the car onto the blacktop and pressing the accelerator. She’d lucked out, Mary Belle had been home with a cold and let her borrow her car. Lou needed to get another car soon since the truck had seen better days and Waylon would eventually need something to take to college. Hopefully, the construction business stayed strong and gave her plenty of overtime so she could get something smaller and more fuel-efficient.

  Miles disappeared beneath the little green Corolla, and if it had been another night, the drive would have been nice. The full moon lit pastures now yellowed with anticipation of winter and showcased the swaying trees rustling with the first true cold front of the year. Something heavy and hot burned in her stomach as she neared the pit, and she said a little prayer Landry could do what she could not—break through the barriers her brother had stacked around himself.

  “Well, here we go,” breathed David as they bumped toward the cars and trucks clustered in the raw dirt.

  Lou climbed out, not bothering to wait on the coach. His attitude told her she was likely on her own.

  The crowd parted and she saw Waylon leaning up against the truck across from a fuming Hayden Verdun. They both looked rough, and she figured they’d done some waling on each other.

  “Who are you?” a deputy she didn’t know asked.

  “I’m Lou Boyd, Waylon’s sister and guardian.”

  “Okay, wait over there by your brother, please. Officer Sloan and I will be with you after we make sure these kids aren’t too impaired to get their sorry butts home.”

  “Hey, Matt,” Lou said, nodding to Matt Sloan, a guy she’d dated before he went to the police academy, married the academy director’s daughter and then came back home to work for Sheriff Guidry.

  Matt gave her a wry smile. “Sorry about this, Lou. Glen Soileau’s been after these kids for a while and your brother gave him the rea
son he’s been looking for.”

  Lou nodded. Waylon refused to look at her. Instead he studied his boots.

  She leaned next to him on the truck for a few minutes, both of them silent—until her brother registered Coach Landry had come with her.

  “What the hell’s he doing here?” His brown eyes met hers and she could see something dark flicker to the surface.

  “You need someone besides me to talk to.”

  “Not him.” Waylon’s reply sounded like glass ground underfoot.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she hissed under her breath. David stood near a few of his other football players, thumping a few on the head and giving some choice words.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, this is exactly what nothing looks like.” She crossed her arms and tried not to yell at him. “Way, you got in a fight and I got a call from the sheriff. Something is wrong with you.”

  “I defended myself. I tried to walk away, but Hayden wouldn’t let me. And, so you know, some of it was about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, someone told him you hooked up with Coach Dufrene and he’s trying to use that to start something.”

  “I haven’t hooked up with Abram,” she whispered heatedly. Okay, she wanted to get down and dirty with the sexy tight ends coach, but that opportunity had skipped by her and she wouldn’t give in again until…well, she wasn’t thinking about that right now.

  “I know, but people like to smear the truth around to suit themselves, Lou. Hayden doesn’t like me ’cause I’m getting more offers than he is, and his dad is just as bad. That makes them both dangerous.”

  Lou felt her heart gallop at the thought of someone making a mountain out of a molehill. Part of her realized the hooking up bit could easily have been true. If Abram hadn’t had the good sense to set her aside that night, there might have been a seedy motel, tangled sheets and a hollow feeling of disappointment in her past to solidify claims of misbehavior. Surely a few kisses couldn’t count against them? Surely. “You still shouldn’t have hit him. That’s going to make it worse.”