Jacked - The Complete Series Box Set (A Lumberjack Neighbor Romance)

by Claire Adams

  “How long do you have?” Mia asks, pulling on my shirt sleeve.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “About five ‘til,” she says.

  “Five ‘til five?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “Then I guess I have about five minutes,” I tell her. “Do me a favor: If you see Nick, tell him that his mom should really start scheduling more than five minutes between events.”

  “Are you up for this?” she asks.

  “What are you doing?” I return.

  “What?” she asks, looking up at me with a furrowed brow.

  “I’m pretty sure I was a hundred percent up for it until you asked me if I was up for it,” I tell her. “Now, I think I’m closer to seventy, sixty-five percent.”

  “You got this,” she says, changing tactics.

  I smile.

  “Fifty-five, fifty…” I say.

  “Oh, just shut up and get over there before we have to listen to Nick’s mom thanking the cast of the A-Team again,” she tells me.

  “She what?” I chuckle.

  “When she was stalling for you,” Mia says. “I wasn’t entirely sure until she actually thanked Mr. T for his very generous donation, but yeah, she was going through the cast of the A-Team.”

  “What’s most impressive about that,” I tell her, “is that you’re that familiar with 80s gonzo crime shows.”

  “It’s not a gonzo crime show!” she protests, but stops. Her hand almost goes over her mouth, but she compels it down to her side.

  Apparently, I’ve struck a nerve.

  “Go,” she says.

  I go.

  There are a couple of people, including myself, who are doing both street and vert. I’m happy for all the wrong reasons that vamp kid is one of them.

  I wonder what happens if he crashes. You’ve got to think those teeth, even if they’re made of shitty plastic, would end up going right through one or more of his lips if he were to come down wrong.

  Hilarious.

  The way the competition is scored, from what I understand, is the result of a compromise. There were those in whatever meeting where they decided these things who thought the two contests should be scored completely independently of each other as not everyone who signed up for street signed up for vert and vice-versa.

  This was thought unfair by the other curiously dedicated fashion who believed that the competition should be scored by taking the combined score on both vert and street, and that those who wouldn’t compete in both would just take the hit of scoring a zero in one or the other disciplines.

  The consensus, was that they would take the best individual score and add that to the overall score, then divide that by two. This, of course, produces a number that has no real meaning, other than it happens to still favor someone with a decent score in both vert and street (which are scored using a different method even than each other,) thus accomplishing none of the original goals and convoluting the whole process.

  I just love the fact that it’s going to take someone with a calculator to figure out whether a skater is doing well at any given time after the vert scores start coming in.

  My focus snaps back to the present moment and what’s actually happening as I climb up to the top of the vert ramp.

  I’m really doing this.

  After that initial drop in, I seem to have pretty effectively broken through my mental block. I’ve only come off the board a couple of times since.

  That said, I now have to do it in front of a shitload of people who are more than capable of ruining my future by posting videos of me breaking my leg before actually getting around to catching any air.

  No pressure.

  As I won the street competition, I’ll be the fourth person to go.

  I have no idea. This whole demo structure is a train wreck.

  When I was on the street course, all of my competitors looked so inept, so green. There’s a lot of potential, but it’s years from fruition for most of them.

  As the first three skaters go ahead of me on the vert ramp, though, everyone looks like a pro.

  I’ve broken with my tradition of freestyling my runs at the last minute, and have meticulously planned out all three of my vert runs, even going so far as to plan out what to do if I finish a run faster than expected.

  It’s just a matter of actually being able to do it.

  There’s nothing huge on the docket, and I don’t expect to come away with an overall win today, but as the clock resets and I get into position, the tail of my board on the lip, it’s not an idle moment.

  The world around me seems to go silent as I put my front foot on the board and start leaning in.

  The front wheels come down and I’m to the bottom before I can even think about it.

  I’m still on the board as I reach the flat, and I’ve got good speed coming up the other side.

  I physically can’t breathe as I catch my first few feet of air, and I do a simple indy grab, coming down switch.

  The landing doesn’t scare me in any way like the drop in does, and I land smooth enough, pumping my body, trying to get that extra bit of speed.

  Air beneath my wheels, I’m pulling for a lien 540, but I don’t have enough speed, so I have to drop it down to a 360 on the fly.

  I’ve spent so much time worrying about how to start a vert run that the other relevant points have taken a bit of a hit, and I’m in my head as I come down and try to remember every tip I’ve ever heard or read on getting more speed on a vert ramp.

  Next, I’d planned an easier 360 heelflip for my next up, but after coming out a half-turn early on the last one, I kick a 360 kiwi flip into a tail grab, pulling my hand off the back of the board what can only be a foot or two before I land.

  Time’s running down quickly, but I’m starting to feel a little more confident as I work to maintain my speed coming up the other side, and I’ve got decent air coming into my first and only 720 of the run, and I manage to land the 720 melon before the buzzer.

  It was nothing groundbreaking, but it was decent, respectable.

  I’m up to the top of the ramp, coming off the board at the top and grabbing it as I walk to the far edge, and it’s not until this moment that, with all of the pride I’m feeling at actually completing my first full vert run in a sort-of competition, I’m competing against kids five, even six years younger than me.

  My first score comes up and it puts me somewhere in the middle, I think.

  My next run doesn’t go quite so smooth, ending as I come off, attempting a fakie 540 varial, but I got a few decent tricks in.

  The final run, though, is a mess.

  I come off on my first attempt, and it’s not even something difficult, just a rock to fakie that was meant to set up the rest of the run.

  There’s plenty of time left, but even after getting back on the board and regaining enough speed to start getting air again, I can never get the momentum to pull anything larger than a 360 nose grab.

  Back at the top now, I’m still in the middle of the pack on vert, fourth overall. That is, until my final run scores come in.

  I drop down a couple of spots which, at first isn’t that big a problem, but my final run killed my score enough that every single skater going after me tops my score, and I end up second to last.

  The only person I beat was the vamp kid, who did end up injuring himself. Sadly, it was a twisted angle and not a fake-canine-inspired injury, but basically, I came in last.

  I was expecting this. It’s not such a big deal.

  I knew I wasn’t going to win vert, and I knew because of that, I wasn’t going to win the overall, but even after trying to prepare myself for the probability that I’d come in at the lower half in the vert competition, I’m a little gutted at having come in so close to the bottom.

  In fact, it’s a fluke that I didn’t come in last.

  You wouldn’t think any of this from the way Mia runs up to me after I’m back on terra firma.

&nbs
p; “You did so great!” she says loudly, smiling and throwing her arms around me.

  “I came in last,” I tell her.

  “You did great, though!” she says, giving me an extra squeeze before pulling back. “There were a couple of hiccups, but I’m just so proud of—”

  “Could we get out of here?” I interrupt.

  Her mouth’s still open a little from where I interrupted her, but she closes it and quickly nods, saying, “Yeah, sure. Let’s take off.”

  I appreciate the enthusiasm as a concept, but when surrounded by hordes of people and having only managed to defeat a guy who’s letting a line of tomato juice roll down his chin as the paramedics wrap his foot.

  Even though I don’t say any of this to Mia, she seems to understand, as we don’t talk until we’re almost back to the car.

  “You left some of your stuff back there,” she says quietly.

  “I’ll have Rob grab it,” I tell her, my eyes on the ground as I wait for her to unlock the car door.

  “You left your helmet,” she says, and I look over at her.

  For some reason I can’t begin to understand, the pure, caring look on her face fills me with an indescribable anger, and I explode, “Will you just unlock the fucking car already? Jesus, I’m not your fucking kid! You don’t have to keep telling me I did great when I skated for shit!”

  “Ian,” she says, holding up her hands, “calm down. I’m just trying to be supportive.”

  “I know!” I shout, and it’s not lost on me that I’m doing more to humiliate myself right now than I ever did back in that skate park. “It’s condescending as shit and it’s fucking pissing me off! Can’t we just get the fuck out of here already?”

  Her sympathy dries up pretty quickly and she’s gritting her teeth as she says, “Fine,” and presses the button on her key fob, unlocking the doors.

  I toss my board in the back and slam the back door before opening the front, getting in the car and slamming that door, too.

  “What is with you?” Mia asks. “We knew you weren’t going to take first.”

  “It would have been fine, not taking first,” I seethe. “Skating like shit in the street competition, effectively coming in last on vert, and having you tell me it was something to be proud of is about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know you’re upset,” she says harshly, putting the key in the ignition and starting the car, “but you don’t have to take it out on me. That’s not fair and I’m not just going to sit here and let you do it.”

  “Well then quit blowing smoke up my ass,” I tell her.

  “Okay,” she says and pulls out of her spot, slamming on the gas once she’s in drive and I know I should dial it back.

  It’s not her fault. She’s been supportive and, without her, I don’t think I would have even been dropping in by now.

  Still, I can’t let it go.

  “I mean, it’s like going to a kid’s soccer game where the kid just sits down in the middle of the field picking his nose and his parents tell him he showed good hustle out there; it’s just bullshit,” I tell her.

  “It’s not bullshit,” she says, “and I want you to stop taking this out on me. We can talk about it if you’re upset, but—”

  “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” I ask. “I’m just surprised you didn’t come up to me and ask me if I had any boo-boos from falling down.”

  “You need to stop,” she says. “I’m not kidding.”

  “Well, you can’t seriously tell me that you’re really that proud of me,” I jab.

  “No,” she says, pulling over to the side of the road, “I can’t. Get out.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Get out,” she repeats. “I’m not going to play your chauffeur while you sit there and berate me and tell me three different times that I’m acting like a mom—well, you’re acting like a child. Get out.”

  “You’re seriously kicking me out of your car?” I ask.

  “If you can keep your mouth shut unless it’s opening for an apology, you can stay in the car. Otherwise, yes, I want you out right now,” she says.

  So there’s my choice: Realize that the only person I should be mad at right now is myself for the way I’m treating Mia or just keep being mad at anything and everything and end up having to call Rob and Nick for a ride back home. It’s really not a difficult decision.

  I’m in the wrong.

  Only problem is, someone forgot to tell my mouth.

  “Fine,” I tell her. “If you need me to sit here and blow sunshine up your vag so you can feel better—”

  “Out,” she says. “Get out of my car right now.”

  The vein throbbing in her beet-red forehead convinces me that she’s not messing around, so I open my door and get out.

  As I’m pulling my board out of the back and dropping it to the ground behind me, Mia turns around in her seat and says, “By the way, one of the things you forgot to grab was your cellphone. It came out on your second run, and I didn’t see you retrieve it. Have fun getting home.”

  With that, she slams on the gas and it’s not me, but the force of her acceleration that closes the back door as she drives off, leaving me about two miles from the skate park. By the time I’m there, Rob and Nick won’t be.

  I can’t begin to explain what the hell I was thinking.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Project

  Mia

  I’m wading through the mess of empty beer cans that is Rob’s front room, and Ian and I still haven’t said anything to each other. I knocked, he opened the door, I came in.

  We haven’t talked since the demo, although I think it’s pretty clear I made a mistake. If it wasn’t for this stupid project, I don’t think I’d even be here.

  Ian indicates a chair in front of the only cleaned-off portion of Rob’s dinner table, and I sit.

  “Are we down to the interviews?” he asks.

  “We’ve been putting it off,” I tell him. “We need to get it done. The deadline’s next week.”

  “Okay,” he says and we sit there uncomfortably for a minute.

  “You look good,” he says.

  “You really don’t have to do that,” I tell him. “It’s not like I’m an ex-wife you happened to spot in public.”

  The one good thing about Rob’s unwillingness to clean his house and the strange reasoning behind his insistence that nobody else do it is that you can always hear someone coming.

  Ian and I are both looking at the open doorway before Rob ever makes it there. When he finally does, he comes in and heads for the fridge.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I know you two are working. I just needed another beer.”

  Ian and I don’t answer, but look at each other a moment.

  He looks good, too.

  “How’s it coming?” Rob asks.

  “It’s, uh…” Ian starts.

  “We’re pretty close,” I answer.

  Then there’s silence.

  Then more silence.

  “Holy shit the two of you are awkward together,” Rob says, laughing.

  “Would you mind?” Ian asks.

  “Oh,” Rob says and quickly leans back down, reaching into the fridge and pulling out four beers between his two hands. “Have fun, kids. If you’d rather not speak to each other, I think we have a notebook lying around here somewhere—”

  “Rob,” Ian interrupts.

  “Right,” Rob says and walks out of the room.

  “How do you not have things living in all this garbage?” I ask Ian, hoping to lighten the mood a little.

  “We probably do,” he says, and we’re back to having nothing to say to one another.

  “So, the one thing that’s been holding us up from doing the interviews is that it’s hard to get bigots to admit their bigotry and come together for a college psychology assignment,” I start again, really working at keeping this professional. “Do we have any ideas on how to get past that?”

 
There’s nothing: No answer, not even a nod of acknowledgement.

  “I don’t think we can,” he says finally. “I think we’re going to have to just do as many interviews as we can in one day and hope we get at least a few people who match the description, so we can make some sort of point.”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  There’s another long pause, and I’m really wondering if it wouldn’t be better for us to both just figure out our own way to do the interviews, have him give me whatever he’s got when he’s done and finish this off myself just so we don’t have to endure this seeming inability to communicate to each other anymore.

  “You know what it was?” I ask.

  “What it do you mean?” he returns.

  “It wasn’t the skateboarding,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair. “I mean, I was impressed and everything—kind of mesmerized to be honest—but that’s not what made me want to give you and me a shot.”

  His bottom lip recedes into his mouth for a second before he speaks. “Okay,” he says. “What was it?”

  “Why haven’t you ever brought up working at the animal shelter?” I ask.

  “Oh,” he says, his eyes moving back and forth.

  “It’s really not that difficult a question,” I tell him.

  “I guess I just never thought about it,” he says.

  “It’s kind of funny that we ever thought something could work between the two of us, isn’t it?” I ask, hoping my timid smile can manage to keep him from overreacting.

  “I didn’t think it was so far-fetched,” he says. “We have a lot in common.”

  “We do,” I agree. “When I saw you in there, though—I don’t know, I guess I just felt like there was more to you than I knew, and that I hadn’t really given you a fair shake.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he says.

  “You didn’t,” I respond. “Well, not until…” Neither one of us needs me to finish that sentence. “How long have you been working there?”

  “I’m a volunteer,” he says. “I started there the summer after high school, but they were already over budget, so I offered to just come in and volunteer when they needed the extra help.”