by Nikki Ash
Table of contents
Copyright © 2019
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Epilogue
Excerpt from Tapping Out
Excerpt from Unbroken Promises
Other books
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Pickup
Copyright © 201 9
Nikki Ash
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Cover design: Jersey Girl Designs
Cover photograph: Sara Eirew Photography
Dedication
To Brittany—You might be an asshole, but you’re my asshole. <3
Prologue
Nick
Twenty years old
I’ve just gotten back to my dorm, and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m ready to take a hot shower then go see my girlfriend, Samantha. I throw my gym bag on the bed and grab a change of clothes and a towel. Stripping out of my sweatpants and shirt, I turn the water on as hot as it can go and wait for it to heat up. Once I can see the fog filling the bathroom, I get in. Standing with my back toward the hot water, I let it rain down on my sore muscles. Between sitting on a crowded, uncomfortable-as-fuck bus for the ten-hour trip to and from D.C. for our first football game of the season, the lumpy king-size bed I had to share in the hotel with my teammate Killian, and the two-hour meeting I had to attend once we returned to go over the game tapes, a hot shower is exactly what I need.
I grab my shampoo and wash my hair, then squirt some body wash into my hands. As I scrub the dirty feeling from the nasty bus off my skin, I try to think of everything I need to get done. With it being the beginning of my junior year at North Carolina University, it feels like my to-do list is never ending. I need to pick up the textbook I ordered for the British Literature class I’m taking, go by the library to see if I can check out The Hobbit and The Neverending Story for my Fantasy Lit class… Shit! I also need to go by the writing lab to schedule the required tutoring session. Some days it feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day, and today is definitely one of those days.
After rinsing off, I get dressed and head to the writing lab. “Excuse me, my name is Nicholas Shaw. I’m taking Professor Hughes’s creative writing course, and he said we have to schedule a tutoring session.”
“Yep! Let me pull up your name. What’s your student ID number?” I give her my ten-digit number, and she types it into the computer. “Hmm…it seems you’re no longer enrolled in that course.” She types some more on her keyboard. “It actually shows you’ve dropped the course and switched your major.” She prints something out and hands it to me. I read over it, and sure enough, my degree seeking states business and not English Literature. My classes are all basic accounting and business management shit. What the hell? I just picked my damn major not even two weeks ago when I met with my advisor.
“Okay, thank you. I’ll get this figured out.” I fold up the paper and put it into my back pocket and start heading toward Samantha’s dorm, furious as hell. There’s only one person who would do this. I hit his name on my cell phone, and not even one ring later, my dad answers.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
“Nick, I’m glad you called. I saw your game, and I’m not the only one. There’s chatter from several teams. If you continue to play the way you did yesterday, you’ll be entering the draft this year instead of next, and most likely go in as a first round—”
“Did you change my major?” I ask, cutting him off.
“What?” my dad responds incredulously. “Did you hear what I said? There’s a damn good chance you will be drafted this year.”
“Yeah, I heard you. But I thought I was going to stay in college all four years so I can graduate with my degree.”
“We talked about this, Nick,” my dad says, frustration evident in his tone. “Football comes first. Your coach called and told me that you asked for permission to leave your practices early this semester because you need to attend some writing bullshit.”
“Writing lab.” I sigh. Since I was little, I’ve always felt a pull toward literature. When I’m not reading, I’m writing. Horror, Mystery, Fantasy, Nonfiction, I don’t care what it is. When I was a kid and didn’t really believe I stood a chance at playing pro ball, my dream was to one day delve into the world of books. My second grade teacher gave me a writing journal, and that year I filled the entire thing with story after story. Growing up, I read everything from The Boxcar Children and Harry Potter to 1984. As an adult, I’ll give anything a try. From James Patterson to Stephen King. Hell, I’ve even given Nicholas Sparks a go-round. I’m not sure, if given the opportunity, what I would do in the field—maybe write or edit. All I know is I love books.
Not that it matters at this point. I’m not being given the opportunity, and I won’t be in the future. How many football players do you know of that have written a novel? And I’m not talking about the millions of autobiographies. Exactly…
“I don’t give a shit what it is!” my dad yells. “We talked about this. You’re majoring in business.” I stop walking and sit down on the bench outside of Samantha’s dorm. With my face in my hands, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Does it even matter what I’m majoring in if I’m not going to graduate anyway?”
“It does when you’re having to cut out of practice early.” I want to argue with my dad, but I don’t. It’s pointless. It was stupid of me to sign up for those courses in the first place. When I met with my advisor, I thought maybe my choice of major would go under my dad’s radar, and truth be told, had the creative writing class not required a tutoring session at the same time as practice, I might have gotten away with it. But it does, and I didn’t.
“What if I can save that class for another semester?” I ask as a last ditch effort to convince my dad to let me keep my major as English Lit. When he sighs, I think for a moment that maybe he’s going to relent. How stupid am I?
“Nick, you go to North Carolina for football. Your scholarship covers your classes and dorm. I pay for everything else. Your books, your food, your car, insurance, cell phone, clothes. Are you prepared to pay for all of that?” He already knows I can’t. Not if I want to graduate debt free. What if football doesn’t work out? Then I’ll be stuck with loans, and who’s
to say I’d even be approved for a loan big enough to cover everything. And getting a job is out of the question. I can’t even attend a damn tutoring session twice a week.
Without waiting for an answer, my dad continues, “Besides, an English degree is a waste of time and money. I went to law school, and so did your grandfather. The men in our family don’t major in English,” he scoffs. “Your coach has notified your professors that you’ll be starting your new classes on Monday, and they know to give you time to get caught up. I need to go, I have a client calling. Don’t forget we’re having a dinner at the house for your mother’s birthday next Sunday.” And with that, he hangs up.
Just as I’m about to stand, my phone rings. Surprise, surprise, it’s my mother. I consider not answering, but figure I might as well get it over with so she won’t continue to call me while I’m hanging out with Samantha.
“Mother.”
“Nicholas, please tell me your majoring in English was a joke.” C’mon, who the hell picks a major as a joke? Clearly her question is rhetorical, but fuck…
“Yeah, Mom,” I say dryly. “It was a joke.” And so were all of the books I had my nose stuck in throughout my entire childhood…
“And what exactly would you do with that degree? What if, God forbid, you got injured? What would you do with a degree in English?”
Oh, I don’t know…maybe write a book…work in publishing…maybe I could teach English…Of course, I don’t say any of that to her. Speaking to her is the same as speaking to my father. A waste of time and energy.
“According to Dad, I won’t even be getting my degree.”
“I heard!” she exclaims. “Can you believe it? Not many football players get drafted their junior year. I told all the women at the country club today. Helen Grotowski, of course, tried to trump my news with news of her son’s early admittance to law school. But I heard from Bertha Stein her husband had to make a rather large donation to the school.” I sit back on the bench and close my eyes, knowing my mom won’t be done gossiping any time soon. Once she starts, she can go on for hours.
I grew up in Piermont, a small town in North Carolina. It’s split down the middle by a set of railroad tracks. On one side is where my dad grew up, in a wealthy gated community. On the other side is where my mom grew up—in a rundown trailer park. My parents met when my mom was eighteen and my dad was twenty-five and fresh out of law school. He had just moved back to Piermont and had begun working at Shaw Management—a sports management agency my grandfather started. He met my mom when she was waitressing at a restaurant he stopped into one night after a meeting ran late. They hit it off immediately. While my grandparents weren’t thrilled about my dad and her dating, she apparently adapted into my father’s life quickly, and soon she was the perfect Stepford wife—although, I’m pretty sure her getting knocked up by mistake has something to do with why he married her. I also think he loved that he was able to mold her into what he wanted her to be. I imagine when you come from nothing, if given the opportunity, you’d do whatever it takes to become something.
“…so then I told Bertha that if Sherry plans to come to my birthday dinner with her mother, she needs to leave that good for nothing boyfriend of hers at home. All those tattoos. It’s a disgrace. I can’t believe she’s dating him.”
“Hey mom,” I say, cutting in before she can continue. “I need to get going. I’m sorry. I’ll see you Sunday, though, for dinner.”
“And will you be bringing Samantha?” If my mother had it her way, Samantha would be out of the picture. While she approves of her coming from wealth, she hates that Samantha wants to work. According to my mother, women belong in the home. Which is ironic since my mom was home my entire childhood, yet I spent more time with my nanny than with both of my parents combined.
“She’ll be there, Mom. Please be nice.” She lets out an annoyed huff but agrees. We say goodbye then hang up. Standing, I take one more calming breath before I head into Samantha’s dorm. We’ve been dating for the last year, and she’s a junior like I am. She’s majoring in business and planning to work for her father’s company after she gets her MBA. Hence, the reason my mom isn’t thrilled about us dating.
When I get to Samantha’s door, I wiggle the doorknob, and when it doesn’t open, I knock. I hear shuffling and then she opens the door slightly. Her hair is messy, and her lips are puffy. She looks like she always does when we finish having sex.
“Nick! Wh-what are you doing here? I thought you had a game.”
“I did have a game…yesterday. We got back a couple hours ago, so I came to see you.” Samantha’s features contort into a pained expression, and I’m slowly putting the pieces together. Pushing the door open, I walk into her room to find Jesse, a friend of mine, shirtless and sitting on Samantha’s bed.
“Are you guys serious?” I ask even though it’s a dumb question. There’s a fucking condom wrapper on the nightstand. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what the two of them were doing.
“I’m sorry, Nick, it’s just that you’re always playing football, and even when you’re not, you never have any time to hang out.” I thought she understood how important football is to me. It’s not like I suddenly started playing. I’ve been playing since the day we met. Hell, I’ve been playing pretty much since the day I could walk. I’m attending NCU on a football scholarship, which means on top of taking a full load of classes, I have practice every day and games every weekend during season.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since the beginning of summer. You’re just always so busy and—”
“And instead of talking to me about it, you decided to fuck my friend?” I yell before I look over to Jesse. “Way to have my back, bro.” I cut across the room and deck him straight in his face. He falls backward onto the floor, then stands but doesn’t attempt to retaliate.
“I swear, we didn’t mean for it to happen,” Samantha cries, but I’m already halfway out the door.
“Spare me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re both fucking dead to me,” I shout before I walk out of her room, slamming the door behind me.
I get back to my dorm and see my friend Celeste is waiting for me. Growing up, Celeste was always around. When my mom left the trailer park, she left everyone from her old life behind, except for her best friend, Beatrice. Beatrice and my mom grew up next door to each other—two peas in a pod. The only difference between them is while my mom got knocked up by my dad and crossed over the train tracks into a life of luxury, Beatrice fell in love with a biker in a motorcycle club. The story I’ve heard is that he told her he had something to take care of and promised he would return. Over the years, Beatrice had the opportunity to be with several wealthy men, thanks to my mother, but she’s chosen to pine after Celeste’s dad, hoping one day he will come back. Seventeen years later, and he still hasn’t returned.
For whatever reason, she doesn’t seem to care that she’s living in a trailer park, and Celeste resents the hell out of her for that. She doesn’t understand why her mom would choose love over money, especially choosing to love a man who left and never returned. Her mom might be content living in a trailer park and pining after the love of her life, but Celeste isn’t. While she’s sixteen and still in high school, because she looks a lot older, she only gives her attention to wealthy guys. Her goal is to marry a man who is the opposite of what her mother fell in love with—wealthy and emotionless. Her plan is to show her mom that money, and the comfort it brings, is more important than love.
Celeste is beautiful, and she knows it. She’s five-ten with jet black hair and big black eyes. She has a model’s body—thin and leggy with minimal curves, but a decent rack—and she wants a modeling career. I don’t doubt one day she’ll have it. She’s determined. She’s already been in several commercials and ads for local stores and such.
“I saw you play on TV. Good first game.” She’s sitting on my bed in a pair of tiny shorts and a low-cut shirt, despite it being chilly outside
. “Did you go see Samantha?” Her voice is smug, which means she already knows.
“Yeah, I caught her cheating with Jesse.”
“Don’t worry…I won’t say I told you so.” She lays back against the headboard. “I saw them last night at the club all over each other. Smart girl, Jesse’s loaded.”
“Whatever, Celeste.” I sit on my bed next to her. Between Samantha cheating and my dad fucking up my major, I’m annoyed as hell and not in the mood for Celeste’s shit. Some days, despite our four year age difference, she’s my best friend; other days, she’s more like the annoying little sister I never had. “And why the hell were you even at a club? You’re sixteen years old.”
“It’s called a fake ID. And even if I didn’t have one, every bouncer in North Carolina thinks I’m of age.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t change the subject. Everyone knows Jesse got his trust fund at eighteen, and he has no problem spending his money on whoever he’s fucking. Maybe you should come with a warning label: I’m rich but broke.” She cackles at her dumb joke. She’s right, though. My dad is rich, but I’m not, which means that while my parents have always provided for me, I don’t have a stuffed bank account I can access anytime I want. Hell, even after being married to my dad for over twenty years, my mom still doesn’t have her own bank account. She might spend her days socializing at the country club, dining at expensive restaurants, going to the spa, or shopping for shit she will never use or wear, but it’s all done with my dad’s credit cards. Henry Shaw lives for control. Giving my mother or me money would mean losing a slice of that control, and that’s definitely not happening.
In all honesty, I’ve never really cared. I have everything money can buy. I drive a nice-ass Audi A4, courtesy of my father. I have unlimited funds for food and clothes. My schooling is paid for. What I don’t have is money to spend on women, and apparently, that’s all women seem to care about. All through high school and college, it’s been the same shit with every female. They hear I’m rich, so they expect me to be their meal ticket. They hear I’m the quarterback, so they want to latch on to my status. I’m so fucking sick of all the fakeness.