Hard Tackle (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel)

by Loren, Celia

  The hostess stops at a table overlooking the water. I look around. It's probably the best table in the place, with completely unobstructed views of the ocean. I might have been more impressed a couple months ago, when I didn't live in a bedroom with the same view. Uh-oh…I'm becoming jaded, which must be one of the worst traits for a writer. I need to make sure I see everything with new eyes, or I'll never produce anything worthwhile.

  "Let Arthur know we're here," Ray instructs the hostess. I recognize the name from the car ride. He's one of the investors in this swanky new restaurant, and apparently he owns places all over town. And of course he's one of Ray's close, personal friends.

  Ray orders champagne for the table and I look at my mom questioningly as the waiter places a flute in front of me. No one's asking for my ID, but I want to make sure it's OK. She nods, and I smile up at the waiter as he pours.

  I scan down the menu, which is freshly printed on fine paper and ensconced in leather, not laminated like ours at the diner. "What's ceviche?" I lean over to whisper to my mom. I see Jack try to cover a smile and flush.

  "Raw fish that's drizzled with lemon, or lime or something. The acid in the juices cooks it," she replies quietly.

  "Right," I whisper, sitting back in my chair.

  "I might need to go to Spain in a couple weeks for business," Ray casually mentions to my mom. "You should come. We could take a couple extra days in Ibiza, or maybe rent a yacht and sail around…"

  My mom laughs. "Sounds lovely, but I've got a restaurant to run."

  "Just sell it now," Ray says, taking a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table. I glance sharply at my mom. Is there something she hasn't been telling me? Were Andrè and Silvio's concerns well-founded? But she looks as surprised as I do.

  "What do you mean now? As opposed to later?" she asks. Her voice sounds quiet, a bit restrained.

  "Well, yes," Ray replies, tearing off a bit of bread and dipping it in olive oil. "You obviously don't need the money anymore."

  There's a short silence. "I built up that restaurant when I had nothing," my mom says, her voice rising slightly. She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again, her voice is more controlled. "I made the mistake of being dependent on a man before, and I had to start from scratch. I'm not prepared to do that again."

  Ray shrugs. "All right, I just thought you might enjoy a little more freedom. The value of the surrounding real estate—"

  "No, Ray," my mom cuts in, taking a sip of her champagne. "So, Bree, when's your date?"

  "Um, day after tomorrow," I reply, surprised by the abrupt and awkward change of subject. I glance quickly at Ray, but he looks as unruffled as ever.

  "Do you know where you're going yet?" my mom asks.

  "Not yet," I reply, wracking my brain to try to think of something more to say. The conversation feels so stilted now, but I can't think of anything to add. Thankfully, the waiter reappears, and Ray orders the appetizers for the table but leaves the entrees up to us. I go for something safe, something I know will be cooked in the traditional sense, and order the salmon.

  When the appetizers arrive, the waiter places them in the middle of the table, as Ray ordered them for everyone. I glance at the plates and quickly realize I'm not interested in any of them, but take some vegetables from the plate of octopus tentacles and nibble at those.

  I'm not that hungry anyway. As out of place as I feel at the mansion, I feel even more like an outsider at this restaurant. And even though my mom and Ray are starting to talk more naturally again, I begin to quietly fume over what seems to me to be Ray's presumption. How could he assume that my mom would sell a place that was her lifeline, that she spent years building up so that it could sustain our family after my dad's alimony checks stopped coming? He has no idea what our life was like then, in the days of hearing my stomach grumble from hunger and knowing there was nothing to do about it.

  When our entrees arrive, I'm glad to see a normal-looking fish in front of me, and happily pick up my fork. We all begin to eat, and with our mouths full the tension begins to ease a bit. About halfway through the meal, the waiter comes over with another bottle of champagne.

  "Excuse me," the waiter says, addressing Jack rather than his father, "but that table over there sent this over for you. It's not quite as good as the one you ordered…" he adds, turning to Ray.

  "We'll still drink it," Jack says with a smile. We all glance over at the table that the waiter indicated. Six women are seated around it, all done up and beautiful. They look like they're out on a girl's night, and quite excited to have run into the famous, and famously good-looking, Jack Stratton.

  Jack gives them a nod, and I feel my jaw clench. Why didn't they assume that he was here with me? Or maybe they did, and just don't care. I glare at them, but they only have eyes for the NFL star sitting next to me.

  Ray and my mom shake their heads, smiling, and it looks like any tension between them has been eased. They chat for the rest of the meal, and I contribute every now and then, though I'm distracted. As Ray puts his Black Amex card down for the check, Jack stands up.

  "I'm just going to go say hello," he announces. "It's only polite." He walks off toward the table of women, who are enjoying some post-dinner cocktails, and are positively giddy about his approach.

  "Ah, to be young," my mom sighs, and Ray laughs. I try not to stare as Jack sits at the table, casually draping his arm around one of the woman's chairs.

  We are not in a relationship, we are not in a relationship, we are not in a relationship, I repeat to myself over and over. As Ray signs the receipt, I steal another glance, and watch a woman place her hand midway up Jack's thigh and slide a napkin across the table to him. Ray and my mom stand up, and I follow suit. Jack sees us rise and tucks the napkin into his inside blazer pocket. The woman's phone number. I know it.

  When we get back to the house, I hurry to my bedroom and shut the door behind me with relief, feeling exhausted from the effort of having to hide my true emotions. I ball my fists at my sides, unsure if I want to cry or stomp my feet. I pull my pretty cotton dress off, and find my old, stained workout clothes.

  The feeling of my legs pumping the pavement underneath me calms me down. I run without music, like I always do. The sound of my breath is almost meditative to me, and I lose track of time. I think I've logged six or seven miles when I finally reach the house again, based on the markers I pass around the neighborhood and the way my legs and lungs are burning.

  I head into the kitchen and fill up a glass of water, then ascend the stairs to my bedroom. My knees begin to shake and I worry I overdid it on my run. I pause just before my door and frown. There's a light coming from under it, but I don't think I left any on. I take a long gulp of my water, and then slowly push my door open and poke my head in.

  Jack is sitting on my bed wearing only boxers. He leans back against my headboard and stretches his long arms out across my pillows.

  "Are you nuts?" I hiss as I hop inside the room and shut the door behind me. "What if my mom came in to check on me?"

  "I get hit in the head a lot…I guess I'd just say I ended up in the wrong room," he says with a grin. Maybe I might normally smile, but his arrogance is just needling at me right now.

  "You and your dad are really cut from the same cloth, huh?" I snap. Fuck. As soon as it comes out of my mouth I know it was too much, but it's already out there.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, his eyes narrowing.

  "I just…" I whip off my damp shirt and toss it in the hamper. Now would be the time to change course, but my pride isn't going to let me. "You two both think the world was made just for you. I mean, why would he assume my mom would sell the restaurant?"

  Jack swings his legs off the bed and pulls on his clothes. "I don't know, but maybe you should bring that up with him, Bree." He stalks over to the door and reaches for the handle.

  "Guess you'll have to get that woman from the restaurant to keep you warm tonight," I mutter.<
br />
  He spins around. "Oh, so that's what this is about."

  "No, I was just saying…" I backtrack. But he's right. I can feel it in my gut.

  "If you're jealous, just say so, but don't bring up some other bullshit to pretend you're mad about. I knew you'd get attached."

  "I have a date on Friday!" I remind him huffily.

  "Great, have fun," he says with a shrug. He stares at me for a moment before shaking his head and walking out of the room.

  Almost immediately, a wave of guilt and sadness hits me. Why did I just pick a fight with him? He's not responsible for his dad's actions, and we both decided upfront that we could both pursue other people.

  But the fact remains that I care that he just walked out of the room. I want him to be here right now, and he's not because I pushed him away. Do I have real feelings for him, or is my brain just tricking me into it because we've been getting physical so often?

  I push the door shut. Even if it's the former, it wouldn't matter anyway. Jack Stratton doesn't do relationships.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I stop at the top of the stairs and glance down the hall toward the stairwell up to the third floor and Jack's room. We've been avoiding each other for a couple days, and I don't think he's even home now. I walk slowly down the steps into the foyer so that my heels don't click too loudly on the marble. My mom hears me coming down anyway, and emerges from the living room.

  "You look great," she says with a grin. "And heels! Very nice."

  "Thanks," I say, glancing outside to see if Miles's car is there. "Does he have to come in?"

  My mom pauses for a moment, considering. "I met him at the diner, so I guess not. And you are eighteen now," she adds, brushing a strand of my hair back over my shoulder. "Just take it slow, OK? But still have fun," she adds. "But not too much fun. But know that there's nothing wrong with a woman in the twenty-first century—"

  "Mom," I groan, laying my hands on her shoulders. "Don't worry about me."

  "That will never happen, but it's a nice idea." We both look toward the driveway as lights sweep across the portico. I give her a quick hug and place my hand on the doorknob, but my mom stops me. "Never hurts to make him wait a minute. Don't want to look too eager," she suggests with a wink.

  "Oh yeah? What other tricks you got?"

  "So many…you don't even know," she says with a mischievous grin.

  "You know, I'm not sure I want to," I reply, eyes widening. She only giggles in reply before glancing at her watch and then out at Miles.

  "OK, that should be enough time," she says, opening the door. My heartbeat skips as I see Miles in his old Jeep, but I walk slowly toward the car. He leans over and pushes open the door for me, and I hop in.

  "Hey, I was just going to call you," he says.

  "I hope you weren't waiting long," I reply.

  "No, no. You sure you're OK with going to this gallery thing?" he asks as he steers the car around the circular driveway.

  "Yeah, sounds fun," I reply. He's taking me to the opening of his boss's new show at some hip place in South Tampa. I smell cigarette smoke in the car, but it quickly dissipates through the slightly open windows as we circle around the bay.

  "That's some house you've got," he comments.

  "Oh, it's not really mine. It's my mom's boyfriend's. Or fiancé, rather."

  "And he's some football player?"

  I smile, appreciating his innocence. It's nice to be around someone who doesn't know anything about the game. "No, his son is the football player. But he lives there, too."

  "Oh? How's that going?"

  A ream of thoughts scrolls through my head. "Um, he pushed me in a pool once," I finally offer.

  "Fuck! What a jerk," he replies, shaking his head.

  "No, it was—yeah," I stammer, not wanting to agree, but also not wanting to explain the strange intricacies of our relationship. I glance over at Miles and see a dark lock of hair has fallen across his forehead and is sitting just next to his eye. I resist my impulse to brush it away.

  "So what are Julian's photographs like?" I ask, shifting my gaze to watch the taillights in front of us.

  "I want you to see them first, without knowing anything about them," he says with a secretive smile.

  "OK…"

  "What are you writing lately?"

  "I'm not sure yet…I mean, I'm working on something, but I'm not sure quite what to make of it. It's a novel."

  "Well, there's a start."

  We pull up to a line of cars and I spot a throng of photographers up ahead. "Is this where we're going?"

  "Yeah. Julian's stuff always draws a crowd." I nervously adjust my white cotton shirt, wishing I were a bit more dressed up. Julian's just got on a t-shirt, too, but he looks purposefully dressed-down, like he just couldn't be bothered. He has a level of coolness that I think people just have to be born with, and I certainly wasn't.

  As we reach the front of the line, Miles opens his door without turning off the car. I follow suit, and a valet hops in. I guess nobody parks their own car anymore.

  To my surprise, some of the photographers turn toward us and begin snapping photos, perhaps mistaking Miles for an off-duty movie star. He hangs a relaxed arm around my shoulders and I smile awkwardly. Thankfully, we don't stand there long, and soon he takes my hand and leads me into the gallery.

  He grabs two champagne flutes from a tray as we walk in and hands me one. I nervously sip it as I look around. The photographs are huge, each one taking up several square feet on the white walls. There's a burst of excitement from the photographers behind us, and Miles starts toward a photograph on the wall nearest to us.

  "I helped with some of these prints," he explains, gesturing toward the colorful work in front of us.

  "Is it just one photograph?" I ask, leaning forward to look for seams.

  "It's a photograph of many photographs," he says proudly. "And each of those photographs is of a piece of art."

  "Julian's art?"

  "No, no, other people's."

  "Oh," I say, feeling stupid. I hear the crowd around us bring to murmur, and look around to see what's causing the fervor. "No fucking way," I grumble as I spot the one and only Jack Stratton walking in with a model on his arm. No wonder the photographers went crazy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "What is it?" Miles asks, following my gaze until he lands on Jack. "He looks familiar."

  "He's my future stepbrother, the football star," I explain. "You saw him once at the diner."

  "Right," he says, nodding.

  "I think you're the only person in Florida who doesn't know who he is."

  "I don't really follow sports," he replies with a shrug.

  "I'm glad to hear it," I say with a smile. "I try not to, but they seem to follow me." I look back at Jack and wince as he catches my eye. He turns toward his model friend and guides her by the elbow over to us as she reaches in vain for a passing tray of champagne.

  "What are you doing here?" he asks as he nears.

  "I could ask you the same question," I reply. "I'm on a date. This is Miles Felden," I say.

  "Hey, man," Miles says, extending his hand. They shake and I raise my eyebrows at Jack.

  "Did they lift your house arrest?"

  "It's an art gallery," he says, his jaw twitching. "I don't think I'm in any danger of overdoing it."

  Shit. I really shouldn't be teasing him after giving him such a hard time the other night. "Miles works for the artist," I offer, by way of changing the subject.

  "Is this his stuff?" the girl next to Jack asks pointlessly, nodding toward the photograph.

  "Yes," Miles confirms, and goes onto explain how Julian put it together.

  "So it's not an original," Jack says after a long pause.

  "The photograph is original," Miles explains. Jack leans toward the small card next to the photograph with the price of the work on it.

  "I don't see the credit for the pieces in the photograph," he notes. "And they appea
r to be by lesser known artists who probably would have appreciated the exposure."

  "Julian thought that would take away from his commentary on aggregation. Also the way he chose to put the photographs together forms a lot of what's important—"

  "Where's the bathroom?" Jack's date asks him in a stage whisper.

  "Back there, to the right," Miles says, nodding toward the rear corner of the space. The model teeters off and Miles looks across the room. "Excuse me, I just want to let Julian know I'm here."

  "So, you're not an art fan," I say to Jack as Miles walks away. He moves to the next photograph, studying it quietly.

  "Actually, I am. My penthouse is decorated with works by Florida artists, much of it modern. I just think sometimes people are too scared of looking stupid that they're afraid to admit they don't like something. I mean, how this isn't plagiarism, I don't know," he adds, lowering his voice.

  I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he scans the next photograph. "Sorry," I say, taking a deep breath. "For misjudging you, and also for the other night. I lashed out at you, when I was really mad at your dad. But I wasn't jealous," I clarify.

  "Oh no?" he says lightly, turning to me with an inscrutable look in his eyes.

  "No. I mean, I'm on a date right now, Jack."

  "True."

  "Did you know I'd be here?" I ask, the idea suddenly occurring to me.

  "No," he says with a grin, raising his hand Boy Scout-style. "I'm not in the stalking business, I swear."

  "You never introduced your date, by the way."

  He clears his throat. "I, ah, I actually can't remember her name."

  "Are you serious?" I chide him. "Well, at least you have the grace to look embarrassed."

  "I feel like a dick, honestly," he says with a chagrined smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle and he looks around to make sure no one can hear us. "I had her in my phone as 'green dress'." He turns back toward the photograph as his anonymous date reappears.

  "I'm so sorry, I forgot your name," I lie to her, shaking my head at my alleged mistake.