The XOXO New Adult Collection: 16 Full Length New Adult Stories

by Brina Courtney

  I liked him, but based on the expression on his face, this didn't look like it was going to be a friendly conversation.

  He folded his thick arms across his chest. “What the fuck are you doing, Handler?”

  “Surfing.” I raised an eyebrow. “And winning my heats.” I motioned to the stranger standing next to him, a dark-haired dude in a suit. Definitely not from the surfing world. “Who is he? And why the hell did you call me in here?”

  “You blew off your interviews,” he said, his voice flat. His blond hair was long and shaggy, a holdover to his days in the water, and he pushed it off his forehead. “Again.”

  “So?”

  The frown on his sun-weathered face deepened. “So you're contractually obligated to grant interviews, Handler. You have to talk to the media.”

  I knew this. I wasn't stupid. It was part of the drill, part of being on the tour. And even though this was the Open, the rules remained. You surf, you talk to the press. Period.

  “I was busy.” Busy trying to stay sane, to not lose myself to the memory of Jay.

  “Bullshit.”

  I held up my hands in surrender. I knew he wouldn't let up until I talked. “Fine.” I looked at the suit. His dark hair was carefully combed, slicked back, his sideburns almost nonexistent. He didn't smile, just watched me, his eyes taking a mental inventory. “You want an interview? Let's do it.”

  “I'm not here to interview you,” the guy said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “No?”

  “No.”

  I shrugged. “Guess we're done, then.”

  “Hold up, Handler.” Mark raised his hand to stop me. “Johnson isn't media.” He paused. “He cleans up images. And yours needs a massive overhaul.”

  “Excuse me?” I didn't know where he was going but I was pretty sure I wasn't gonna like it.

  Mark nodded. “You heard me. You're a fucking mess. You know it. I know it. Everyone here knows it. And I get it. Jay.” I flinched and he continued. “But, dude. He wouldn't want this. You making a bloody mess of your life? It's the last thing he'd want to see happen.”

  “I'm winning,” I pointed out, my voice sharp. “I'm in the goddamn finals. You think he wouldn't want that?”

  “I'm not talking about that.” Mark looked at me and I saw something in his eyes that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was, and I just hadn't noticed. Sympathy. Pity. “We all know you can win this. You can conquer every wave out there. No one is questioning your talent. Bigger picture, dude. I'm talking about the bigger picture.”

  There was no bigger picture. At least not for me. Surfing was what I had left, was all I had left. The irony wasn't lost on me. The thing that had taken away the most important person in my life was the only thing I clung to. Desperately. Hating it and loving it and resenting it, all at the same time, a mess of tangled, fucked up emotions that still bowled me over.

  “What?” I asked warily. “What's the bigger picture?”

  “Life.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And this dude,” I said, gesturing to the suit. His face remained expressionless. “This dude is gonna make my life better? Perfect?

  Mark shook his head. “No. That's your job.”

  “So why the fuck is he here, then?”

  “Because if you don't shape up, no one's gonna want you.” He held up his thumb and forefinger and brought them close together. “You're running out of chances here.”

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling bitterly. “But no thanks. I've got this.”

  The suit stepped closer. “What if we could virtually guarantee an increase in endorsements? In income?”

  “I don't need any more money.” I had enough to live and to drink. That was all I needed.

  Mark frowned. “Handler,” he cautioned, his eyes boring into me.

  “This is bullshit.” I glared at him. “You want me to give a fucking interview, I'll give it. Point me in the right direction and I'll sit down with whoever the fuck I need to and I'll smile and play nice. But this?” I jerked my thumb in the suit's direction. “This is not happening. Ever.”

  SIX

  Kellen

  I started drinking at six. Duke's was slammed, wall-to-wall people after the tournament. I'd found a spot at the bar right after my confrontation with Peters, parked myself on one of the stools at the wooden counter and immediately ordered a shot of tequila. Another shot, a beer and my anger finally began to temper.

  “Lookin' good out there, Handler.” Kanoa grinned and slid another bottle of Pacifico across the bar.

  He'd been at Duke's for as long as I could remember. A burly Hawaiian, he'd come stateside back in the seventies. After a brief run in the pros, he'd picked up the bar-tending job, making just enough money to pay rent to park his single-wide at Pacific Mobile Home Park and keep him in new boards. He was a good guy, always friendly, and had been one of the first to reach out to me after the accident. He'd been the one to organize the memorial, the paddle out just off the pier the week after Jay had died. And he hadn't said a word when I didn't show up. Just greeted me with a hug and a smile the next time he saw me.

  I drained the first bottle. “Thanks.”

  “You doin' good?” he asked, raising his voice a little to be heard over the masses of people crowding close to the bar.

  I just nodded. I was doing fine. I was winning, wasn't I? Doing what people expected me to do, what I expected me to do. It didn't matter that Jay should have been there with me, both in the water at the competition and at the bar afterward.

  I took a swig of beer. Who was I kidding? It was the only thing that mattered.

  Kanoa moved to the other side of the bar and I sat and contemplated my beer. People surged closer, patting me on the back, trying to make small talk but I tuned them out, nodding half-heartedly at their congratulations. The bar was full of other surfers, guys I'd blown past in the heats, and I felt their eyes on me. I knew what they were thinking. Why him? What the hell does he have that I don't?

  The sad thing was, I didn't have the answer. I didn't try any harder than any other guy out on the water. I wasn't born with a surfboard in my hand, didn't have a dad who dragged me to the beach and into the waves before I could walk. Hell, my dad was an investment banker from Philly, had relocated us to the OC when I was three. I couldn't even say I was born into surf culture.

  But it had found me. Grabbed on to me and held tight and had never let go. I lived and breathed the ocean. The waves. No distractions, nothing to focus on other than finding the perfect wave. Riding it, becoming it, releasing it. And then finding the next one. And the next one. The ocean was always there. Would always be there. Always ready with the next wave, always giving.

  Except when it took things away.

  Jay.

  I reached for my beer again and drained it in one long swallow. The pain was sharp today, like a needle stabbing my gut. I knew why. The competition. Jay should have been there, I thought again. Laughing alongside of me, goading me, blowing through the heats with me. He'd been good. Better than good. Maybe even better than me.

  I took another swallow, hoping to flush out the memories. Drinking eased the pain. Sometimes. I wasn't sure tonight was gonna be one of those times.

  I signaled to Kanoa and he reached into the refrigerated case behind the bar. Held up another bottle and raised his eyebrows. I nodded.

  He brought it over to me. “Drink it slow, my friend.”

  I just nodded again. I couldn't. It was the only thing that dulled the pain.

  I shifted in my seat and my elbow bumped into something. Someone. Something soft. I turned to apologize and a massive set of tits came into view. Anyone else might have done a double-take. I just looked up.

  “Sorry,” I offered to the owner of the tits.

  She smiled at me. She was blond and tan, a killer body to go with the cleavage hanging out of her white tank top. “You can bump into me any time,” she said.

  I didn't respond, just re-shifted so I was facing the bar again. She s
queezed in next to me, her ass pressed against my thigh.

  “You're Kellen Handler.”

  “Yep.”

  She extended a hand. White-tipped fingernails. “I'm Mercy.”

  I shook. Her fingertips trailed along my palm. The alcohol was slowly working its magic and I felt my body respond a little to her touch. Maybe I needed a different distraction. And maybe she was offering one.

  “You here for the Open?” I asked.

  That was all the invitation she needed. “Maybe,” she said suggestively.

  I smiled at her and took a swig. She was hot. Blond hair falling over her shoulders, blue eyes lined with black eyeliner. A dusting of freckles she'd tried to camouflage with make-up. And tits the size of coconuts. Yeah, I could bury my face in those for part of the night. And bury the rest of me inside of her, too. “Maybe?”

  “Maybe I'm here for the contest.” She brought a glass of amber liquid to her mouth and took a swallow. She leaned in close to whisper to me and I could smell the rum on her breath. “Or maybe I came for you.”

  “Yeah?” I said. I reached out and touched her ass, my fingers squeezing lightly.

  She pushed back into my hand and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And what exactly do you want?” I stopped, trying to remember her name. “Mercy. What do you want, Mercy?”

  Her hand covered mine. “You,” she breathed.

  The alcohol lulled me a little more and I smiled. “You got a place around here?”

  I was pretty sure she wasn't local. I'd remember her if she was. At least I thought I would. But then again, faces and names had started to blend together, even more so after Jay had died.

  She nodded. “Yeah. The Hilton.” She looked around for a minute before bringing her eyes back to me. “You wanna go now?”

  I drained my beer and set it on the counter. “No. One more.” I raised my hand for Kanoa and he frowned. I held up the bottle and he shook his head. But he brought me one.

  “Last one for a while, brother,” he told me.

  I looked at the chick next to me, the chick whose ass I was still rubbing. “You good?” I asked, nodding at her drink.

  She giggled. “More than good.” She reached down and placed her hand on my thigh. Her fingers trailed lower until she was groping my crotch. “And I'm gonna make you feel more than good.”

  I picked up the beer and chugged half of it in one swallow. I was almost ready. In multiple ways.

  I slammed the empty bottle on to the counter and stood. “I gotta take a leak,” I told her.

  She nodded and reached for my hand. “I'll come with you.”

  I pulled her behind me as I wove through the crowd, smiling and nodding as people slapped my back and offered congratulations. More surfers, some press, but mostly, chicks who watched enviously as Mercy walked with me, a triumphant smile on her face as we navigated our way toward the bathrooms.

  I stopped in front of the men's room. “I'll be right back.”

  She pressed up against me and I felt my body respond. I wasn't on fire but she was starting to hit the right buttons, her hands moving up my chest, snaking their way around my neck. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me, her mouth open, her tongue leaving a wet, hot trail on my lips. “I'll be waiting,” she murmured.

  I covered her breasts with my hands and squeezed gently. “Better be,” I said, nipping her bottom lip with my teeth. I pushed away and turned toward the bathroom door and ran smack into someone.

  “Oh, shit.” I crouched down. A dark-haired girl, slightly built, lay crumpled at my feet. “You alright?”

  The girl got up on her hands and knees and pushed herself off the floor. She reached for her purse and glared at me for a long moment. “I'm fine.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  She straightened her shirt. It wasn't a t-shirt or a tank top but a blouse. White, all soft and billowy like a cloud. No cleavage to speak of. For half a second, I wondered what a chick like her was doing trolling Duke's. She wasn't in the restaurant area, the part where tourists came to eat and take in views of the pier. She was in the bar with the locals and the hangers-on.

  “It's fine,” she snapped, her dark eyes flashing. “I'm fine.” She pushed past me and disappeared back into the bar.

  I didn't watch her go. Just made my way into the empty bathroom, pissed and pulled open the door that led back to the bar.

  Mercy wasn't waiting where I'd left her.

  But a group of guys I didn't know was. A throng of them, standing in a semi-circle, their eyes trained on me. Just behind them, I could make out a tall, slim blond. Mercy.

  “What up?” I said, my eyes scanning the group. Not a friendly face to be found.

  The guy in the center, a thick-necked dude with a shaved head, probably a year or two younger than me, stepped forward.

  “I'll tell you what's up,” he growled. He jerked his head in Mercy's direction. “She's what's up. What the fuck are you doing hitting on my girlfriend?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Your what?”

  “You heard me.” He stepped forward, his arms crossed over his massive chest. “Saw you at the bar. Hitting on her.”

  I laughed. “You got your story all wrong, dude.” I wasn't gonna waste my time. “And I'm outta here.”

  He moved closer, maybe a foot away from me. “No one fucks with my girlfriend.”

  “No?” I said. I shook my head. “Maybe you should talk to her, then.”

  He waited, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “Why's that?”

  I thought for a minute. Maybe I was going to waste my time, I decided. Because I'd stopped drinking and it wasn't looking like I was going to get laid. And I needed an outlet. Even if it was this.

  “Because I wasn't fucking with her,” I said, my voice calm. “She was the one ready to do the fucking. And I'm pretty sure it wasn't gonna be with you.”

  I ducked just as he took a swing. Mercy screamed but I didn't look at her. Stupid bitch.

  He was off balance after missing me and I grabbed him by the neck and shoved him head first into the door at the end of the hallway. The door flew open as he stumbled outside and I followed him.

  The parking lot was crowded and people seemed startled as we barreled out of the back of the bar. The guy turned around and I smashed my fist into his jaw before he could get his hands up. He fell to the pavement, his hand clutching his face.

  I spun around, knowing his friends were coming. The first one, a skinny guy with shaggy black hair wearing a Guns and Roses T-shirt, was already charging. I stepped to the side and punched him in the ear as he went past. He fell on top of his pal.

  The third one came at me with more caution, shuffling his feet as he tried to move to the side. I feinted like I was going to swing at him, then swung my foot hard into the side of his knee. His knee buckled and he yelled, dropping to the ground on his good knee.

  I took a step toward him, my vision blurred with rage, the adrenaline pumping.

  “Enough.”

  I looked up. Kanoa stood next to me, a bat in his hand, his arm flexed, ready to strike.

  My chest heaved and sweat rolled down my neck. I glanced to my right. A crowd had gathered, clusters of people standing in groups, wide-eyed, pointing and whispering. The two guys on the ground rolled on their sides, rocking, trying to get themselves up.

  “Come on,” Kanoa said to me, motioning back toward the bar. “Let's get you inside.”

  I took one more look at the carnage around me, then looked at Mercy. Her hands covered her mouth and her eyes were widened in horror. Her expression was decidedly less suggestive than about fifteen minutes earlier.

  “Thanks for a good time,” I said to her before following Kanoa back into the bar.

  SEVEN

  Kellen

  My phone wouldn't stop ringing. I fumbled in the darkened hotel room, my hand finally encountering the nightstand next to the bed. I grabbed the phone and glanced at it with half-open eyes.

  Mark Peters
. I tossed it back on the nightstand. A minute later, it rang again, signaling a voice mail. I reached for it again and glanced at the screen.

  He'd called three times. And left three messages.

  I sat up and stretched, rubbing the base of my neck. I hadn't been the one to get the shit kicked out of me but the tension of getting in a fight and then actually brawling meant I'd need to loosen up a little before suiting up. In more ways than one.

  The phone rang again.

  “Jesus Christ.” I picked it up and tapped the screen. “What?”

  “What the fuck is right,” Mark yelled. “Get your ass down here. Now.”

  I sat up a little, my muscles tensing. “What's up?”

  “I'll tell you what's up,” he said. “The goddamn paper is what's up.”

  “What?” I was confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I'm in the lobby. Just get your ass down here. Now.” The line went dead.

  I pulled myself out of bed and crossed the hotel room to the front door. I cracked the door and reached for the paper at the threshold. Opened it up as I walked back into the room. Saw the top of the sports page. And sighed.

  Surfer Involved In Assault blazed across the front page. I sank back down on the bed and scanned the article. Apparently, Mercy's boyfriend just so happened to be the son of a Nike executive. And daddy hadn't been pleased that his son had gotten the shit kicked out of him, courtesy of me.

  Witnesses report star surfer Kellen Handler instigated the fight. Representatives from Duke's were not available for comment. Keith Branagan, the victim, is in communication with local authorities but it is unclear as to whether he will press charges at this time.

  I tossed the paper across the room. “Shit.”

  I groped the floor for my shorts, found them and pulled them on. My duffel bag sat unopened on the desk and I unzipped it and dug out a t-shirt and slipped into it. I stumbled into the bathroom, a combination of sore muscles and a slight hangover making me a little unsteady on my feet. I pissed and rinsed my face, then glanced up at the mirror.