Ties

by Campbell, Steph

The solution to every problem seems to be getting in my face and strutting around like he knows what the hell is going on.

  “We’re losing the lead!” Bex screams.

  I grit my teeth, calling out a few commands to the other sailors, capable guys who do and don’t share my philosophies. They’re a solid enough crew, and I’d be able to work with them just fine if I wasn’t also jumping in to stomp out every fire Bex seems intent on lighting.

  Amid the chaos, I get a sense, subtle and up the back of my neck, of a wind shift. A quick glance to the side lets me know the other guys--out for a practice run that’s become a high-paced informal race--are a step behind.

  I need to catch this, but I’m busy fiddling with the sail that refuses to cooperate. The one Bex says will do fine as long as we “keep an eye on it.”

  “Shit!” Bex kicks at nothing, and, though a guy overboard is the last thing I need, I half hope he’ll fall in.

  “What is it?” I release tension, increase it, and the sail finally tightens exactly the way I need it to. We catch the end of the gust, and it’s not enough.

  “Get your fucking heads straight!” Bex roars. “We missed the layline!”

  My hands tighten around the ropes by my ear, and I clench my jaw. I’m trying hard not to smash my fist into his face. The other guys around me fall dead silent. Everyone keeps working on what he needs to, but there’s no rush now. The wind is against us, we’re off course, and the other boats are flying by.

  The other boats aren’t even the ones we have to worry about. They aren’t our worst competition by far.

  I should rally.

  Bex glares at me like he’s waiting for it to come.

  But this is my seventh sixteen-hour-plus day in a row. I haven’t gotten more than three hours of sleep a night for the last two weeks. My muscles are cramping, I feel like my blood has ice chunks running through it, and my hearing and eyesight keep blurring in and out.

  My edge was always something elemental, something in me, but with a sponsor who’s constantly screaming on deck and a boat that looks like a million bucks but sails like shit, I can’t tap into what’s left and pull this together.

  I think about bringing up these arguments, but I’m supposed to be the come-back kid. I’m supposed to be the dark horse, the underdog, the one who makes everything right by carrying it all on my back against other guys who don’t have any weight to lug plus better crews, vessels, team leaders.

  Once we dock, dead last, so far behind time, it’s not worth clocking this one, Bex is livid.

  “That was inexcusable! That was a fucking joke, Byrne! I had a feeling you were all hype.”

  Rage burns through my veins. The other guys tie everything down as quickly as they can, then get lost, not so much as a good-bye from any of them.

  “Lay off,” I growl. I should be double-checking things, I should be making sure it’s all in order, but I just don’t give a damn right now.

  “Lay off? Do you have any idea how much I’ve already invested in this? In you?” he snarls, grabbing me by the arm.

  “Invested?” I laugh. “What, the money? Darryl threw a sixteenth of what you have at me money wise, and I beat my times on every run.”

  “Maybe you should go back to racing with Darryl as your only sponsor. But kiss your chances of winning good-bye. Kiss your dream of making it to the top good-bye. Because you may have some natural talent--some--but this whole world is about pushing yourself, Ryan. It’s about digging in when shit gets hard and you’re tired and discouraged. And today you gave up.”

  “I can’t hold it all on my shoulders!” I shake his hand off my arm and get close to him, face to face, not backing down. “I can’t do what I do when the fucking boat is falling apart around my ears and you’re distracting the crew!”

  “Distracting them from what? Losing every lead?” He stands back and crosses his arms, looking at me like he’s not remotely surprised that I came up short. I burn. Right down to my bones, I fucking burn. “Excuses are for losers. Winners get shit done.”

  Maybe it’s supposed to motivate me, make me want to jump up and do more. I have no clue, but it doesn’t work. It just saps the last temper out of my blood and leaves me even more exhausted.

  “Yeah. Alright. Well, right now this loser needs to get some sleep.” I turn to my truck, leaving Bex on the dock, glaring.

  I put the key in the ignition and turn it. Nothing.

  Fuck. Me.

  This is the absolute last thing I need right now. The last thing. I get out and pop the hood. The battery is brand new. Damnit.

  “You need a jump?” Bex’s voice comes from behind me.

  There’s not another soul in the parking lot. “Sure.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m seriously considering just sleeping in the back of the truck so I can round out this miserable day with some shitty sleep.

  “It’s not working.” Bex glares at the engine, his crap mood an exact reflection of mine. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Pass.” I check my phone. Mom and Tommy are at work. Caro is in class. But they’ll all be free in another hour, so I can definitely wait.

  “Look.” He shakes his head, looking like the coach of the losing team at the Super Bowl. “Competition, getting to the top, it’s not easy. I’m sorry to ride you so hard, but I’ve seen my share of guys who have so many elements, but they never make it. You’ve got more than most, but you have to stop cracking under the pressure. Got it?”

  “Sure.” I reach under the hood and unclip the jumper cables. “I’ll try harder tomorrow. Seriously, I need sleep. Badly. I’m going to be worthless. So I’ll chill here until my brother can come pick me up. Fresh start tomorrow.”

  Go. Team.

  “I’ll take you home and pick you back up in tomorrow morning,” Bex offers. “C’mon. I lost it a little back there. Let’s put it behind us. No hard feelings.”

  I nod, just barely, and follow him, zombie-like, to his tricked-out Tundra and slide onto the leather passenger seat. Something old school punk blares when Bex starts the car, and he doesn’t turn it down enough to ease my throbbing headache.

  “I know I get off on winning more than I should.” He shrugs. “The thing is, I’ve got everything I want. I make more money than I need. My girlfriends--and, yeah, I’m juggling three right now--are hot as hell and don’t nag. I travel. I eat and drink the best that money can buy. There’s not a lot left. Trust me, my money could buy me a sure win in this race.”

  “Why not buy it then?” I ask, staring dully out the window as the sky cools with the sunset.

  I think about watching the sunset with Hattie on the beach. Right now, I can’t make my mind believe I ever felt as alive as I did that day. I’m so tired, it doesn’t seem possible I ever wasn’t this exhausted or even that I won’t be again after some sleep.

  “Because there’s zero thrill in that. Same in all aspects of my life. Used to be one hot girl was enough. The richer I got, the easier that got. There was no chase. Now having three is how I keep it fresh. Knowing I could afford to win means nothing to me. Knowing I can cruise the finish line on a boat manned by an unknown? That gets my blood flowing.” He looks over at me. “Tell me what does that for you.”

  I roll my head to the side and suppress the urge to tell him to just pull the fuck over so I can get out and never look back at him.

  “Well, I guess I’m working a little backward according to your theory. As an example, I got as many girls as I wanted for a long time, a lot of times more than one a night. Sometimes more than one at a time. There was nothing but chase. But that got tiring. When I race, it’s not all about the win. It’s also about being there, being a part of it all. It’s...elemental.”

  I knew she was smart, but holy shit, Hattie nailed so many things right on the head.

  “Not about the win?” He snorts. “That’s because you’ve never won yet. Once you do?” He hums low in his throat. “Damn, there’s nothing--not a high, not an orgasm, not anothe
r experience in this world--that can compare.”

  I’m tired as shit. That’s my reasoning. Because all I can think about is holding Hattie in my arms and not having to stop, never having to let go. I find it hard to believe there could be anything that would be able to top that.

  “I guess I’ll never know til I try,” I concede, because that very well might be true.

  We stop suddenly, and I sit up. “What are we doing here?” I ask, because, once my eyes adjust, I realize I know this place, but I have no idea why we’d be here.

  “I need to drop something off. I’ll be a minute. Trust me, this place can get claustrophobic quick. I love my father, but he’s been on my back since I was sixteen and hasn’t ever let up.”

  “Your father?” I repeat, my tongue so heavy and dumb in my head. “Your father lives here?”

  “Yeah.” He looks at me, and I see it.

  Dimples when he smiles. Eyes a dark burnished gold. The arrogant grin.

  He looks more like her brother than her.

  “Holy shit.” I sit forward, my head spins. “Bex is short for...?”

  “Beckett,” he says slowly. “It’s a nickname from high school. Ryan, what the hell is up?”

  “You’re Hattie Beckett’s father,” I accuse.

  His entire face goes slack with...maybe shame. Not surprise. “Hattie.”

  “She’s here,” I tell him. Once again, there is no surprise on his face. “Are you fucking kidding me? You knew she was here? Are you going to see her now?”

  “Is she staying here? I thought she was with Marigold. She’s young. She’s probably out partying, enjoying the LA scene.”

  I have no idea who Marigold is, but something cold and slick coats my guts. And the thought of Hattie out partying? Enjoying “the LA scene”? He really doesn’t know her at all.

  “Why the fuck haven’t you seen her yet?” I demand.

  “Why haven’t I seen my daughter?” he asks, his features going tight. “First of all, I fail to see how any of this is your damn business. Let’s start with that.”

  “Because I...” What? What am I to her? “I care about your daughter. She came here to find you, you know.”

  He rests an elbow on the steering wheel and holds his face in his hands. “What are the chances? I swear to God, my life is one insane coincidence after another. You and Hattie, huh? Guess I better stop being such an asshole to you on that boat. I don’t need my girl hating me before she even meets me.”

  He says it like a joke. Like a fucking joke.

  He wants to know what gets my fucking blood pumping? Some asshole treating Hattie like a joke sure as fuck does.

  I get out of the truck and slam the door shut. It’s then that I notice the cars parked up and down the street, too many for a regular gathering. One of them is Hattie’s unmistakable blue Volkswagen. All the lights are on in the house, and I can hear the swell of music when I listen close.

  A party?

  This is the last place I should be. What the hell is my plan? To march in there and what? Be her knight in shining armor? I’m well aware Hattie doesn’t need that. I’m also clear on the fact that, no matter how intense I feel about her, we’ve only known each other a few weeks, and the last time we talked was really fucking messy at best.

  I’m pretty sure I’m overstepping my bounds big time.

  But I find myself marching up to the door, completely uninvited, anyway.

  Why?

  Maybe just because the thought of seeing her again is exciting enough to blunt any rational thought.

  Bex is still in the truck, and I officially regret my decision the second the door swings open.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Deo Beckett growls.

  I hold up both hands. “Listen, man, I’m not looking to start shit--”

  “Really?” He gets up in my face. “Then why the hell did you show up here? Was I not clear enough the first time? You’re not welcome around my family. So fuck off.”

  “Deo!”

  I consider bolting when I hear that voice, but I’m determined to see Hattie and explain before this gets out of control.

  “Ryan.” Whit stares at me, but her look isn’t the same as it was the last time I saw her. She steps around Deo, determination apparent in every move she makes. “She’s in the back room.”

  “Whit?” Deo glares like he wants to murder me with his bare hands, but looking at her makes him go soft. “Babe, what the hell is going on?”

  “Later,” she says, dragging me into the house. “You won’t like it.”

  “Then let’s deal with it now,” he argues.

  Whit leads me through groups of people drinking, laughing. A barefoot woman with long, wavy hair dances in the middle of the floor with a short, muscled guy wearing Buddy Holly glasses. There’s a crowd around them cheering and clapping. It’s clear why: their moves are straight out of Pulp Fiction.

  Whit leads me right to a closed door, and Deo puts his hand on the frame, half blocking her. “Whit. I’m not cool with this.”

  “Not your call, Deo,” she says between gritted teeth.

  I just want to get in there, see her and tell her...all of it. Every damn thing I’ve been feeling, rules be damned.

  “She’s my sister, Whit. I’m not going to let this douchebag hurt her, too.” When he looks at her, his eyes have this wild shine to them, and I gear up to probably get socked in the face.

  “I never...Ryan never hurt me, Deo. He just wasn’t right for me. He wasn’t you.” She puts a hand on his arm. “I know. This is weird. But I love Hattie. You know I do. I’d never expose her to anyone who wasn’t quality. Trust me.”

  Damn.

  I always knew Whit was a stand-up person, and I always wished she’d go on to better and find someone who truly appreciated how amazing she is. But I never realized how much I also wanted to know she didn’t look at me like a piece of shit user. I feel a swell of redemption, and I want to thank her.

  Maybe I will.

  Later.

  When her ferocious husband isn’t growling at me.

  Deo stares at her and they have this whole silent conversation that’s so common with people who have been together for a long time. Megan used to be able to have entire arguments with me with just a few looks across a crowded room.

  “Fine,” he finally says, jabbing a finger my chest. “You hurt her, I rip your spine out through your back.”

  “Deo,” Whit sighs, dragging him away.

  And I’m left outside the closed door Hattie is behind. I knock softly and hear her voice call for me to come in.

  She’s sitting cross-legged on a twin bed, a cup of something that looks like tomato juice in her hands.

  “Ryan?” She squints when I walk in, and I think at first it’s because the room is so dim. I realize it’s actually because she’s in pain.

  “Are you alright?” I sit next to her without really thinking.

  “Too much grappa.” She holds up the cup. “This is supposed to fix me up, but it smells like vomit.”

  “Grappa, huh? That’s pretty hardcore.” I don’t know if it’s within my rights to touch her, but I take my chances and push a strand of hair back off her shoulder. “You look like you’re hurting. Who gave you the cup of vomit?”

  “Marigold. Deo’s mom.”

  “The plant lady?” I ask. She nods. “My mom said that herb Marigold grew is one of the hardest herbs to keep in this region. I’d wager she probably knows her shit, and you should drink the vomit.”

  She gags a little, then nods. “Okay. Down the hatch. On three.”

  I take her hand, smooth and soft, in mine and her eyes fly to my face. I can feel her pulse drumming hard in her wrist.

  “One,” I say, my voice sounding scratchy to my own ears.

  “Two.” Her voice is barely a whisper.

  Damn, I want to drag her across this mattress and kiss her until she moans. I want to strip that little dress off her body and run my hands up and down ever
y perfect curve. I want to hear her pant my name, and I want to bury myself deep inside her.

  But I can’t. Not yet.

  “Three.” I watch as she flattens her lips, and then tosses the drink back, choking and coughing after.

  I rub her back, her skin hot through the thin fabric. “Do you need water or anything?” I’m half up, ready to get what she needs when she grabs my arm.

  “Don’t leave.”

  I sit back down, close to her, and try not to think about the fact that we’re on a bed, that her hair is all messy and sexy, that her dress is made out of cotton so thin, I can see the outline of her purple bra, and it’s making things hard.

  Literally.

  “I didn’t mean to barge in on a party,” I start, and I can smell her skin. It smells sweet and clean, like her, but just woken up, and it makes me want to inhale that smell every damn morning.

  Her fingers are still resting on my arm. “What are you doing here?”

  “You remember I told you I’m preparing for a sailboat race? And that I have a sponsor?” I watch her nod and try to work the words out in my head before they blurt out of my mouth. “My truck died on me after practice. And my sponsor gave me a lift.” I cup her cheek with my hand.

  “Ryan, say what you need to say,” Hattie says, biting her lip. Her words are impatient, but she presses her cheek into my hand.

  Like she’s looking for comfort.

  “My sponsor brought me here because he needed to bring something to his dad.” I watch her process.

  Her mouth goes tight. Her eyes drop down, then flash back up. She looks like she wants to whoop with joy and also like she actually did drink a cup of vomit.

  “My father? My father is here?” Her voice shakes, and she stands clumsily.

  I stand too and catch her in my arms.

  “He’s in the driveway as far as I know.”

  He could have left, could have peeled out like the chickenshit he seems to be. Hattie doesn’t wait to ask me more questions.

  She bolts out of my arms and through the door, letting it swing open with a slam, and races past the partygoers and into the darkening night. Deo looks up from the spot where he was sitting on the couch, brooding, and rushes me.