Maverick

by Cruise, Anna

  “And the tour,” I said, my voice bitter.

  He nodded. “Yeah, absolutely. Because like it or not, Kellen, you are the face of the tour. As you go right now, we go. So you're right. We have an interest here. But our interest also includes your well-being. It's your choice as to whether or not you believe that, but it's true.”

  He sounded like he was telling the truth, but I wasn't sure whether to believe him. I did believe, though, that he had the power to end my career. I didn't know if I wanted a career anymore as a professional surfer but I did know one thing. I didn't want someone else making that decision for me. And he was ready to if I didn't step up and do what he asked.

  “So what do I need to do?” I asked.

  It was like they all breathed a collective sigh of relief. They all stood except for Gina.

  “Gina's going to explain the plan,” Bruce said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Basically a thirty day deal. You stay out of trouble, do some things that shore up how the public views you, and then we all move forward.”

  “What about surfing?” I asked.

  “After today, you're out of the water until Gina gives us the all clear,” Bruce said.

  I hesitated. “But I can surf today? In the finals?”

  Bruce exchanged another glance with Mark, then nodded. “Yeah. You can finish out today.”

  I hated that I felt relieved. They weren't letting me surf for me. They were letting me surf for them. Pulling me out of the finals would've screwed up everything for the tour. No television, no competition, no nothing. So I knew it wasn't about me.

  But I was relieved that I'd get one more run in the water. Not because I wanted to win. I suddenly felt a wave of guilt wash over me. It had nothing to do with letting the tour down. I did feel a little twinge of regret about that because, despite their hard-ass attitudes, Mark and Bruce were still guys I considered friends. No, the guilt I was feeling ran deeper. This was the first competition since Jay's death. And he wouldn't have wanted this for me. Like Matty and Mark and everyone else had tried drilling into me, Jay would have wanted me to focus, to get my shit together, to win. And I was determined to do it. For him.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Okay.”

  “So,” Bruce said. “We're going to get out of here and let you get acquainted with Gina.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “And make no mistake, Kellen. What she says goes. Period.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Good luck this afternoon.”

  I watched them all walk out the front doors of the hotel.

  Then I took a deep breath and prepared to get acquainted with the chick who now controlled my future.

  EIGHT

  I slumped in the chair next to Gina. “Let's get this over with.”

  I couldn't believe I was sitting there, waiting for some chick to bark orders at me. I had a surfing competition to win—for Jay—and I felt like I was in detention, waiting to be chewed out by my teacher.

  “So,” she said, reaching for a black briefcase sitting next to her on the floor. She set it on her lap, opened it, and retrieved a thin manila folder. She opened that and rifled through some papers. “I've been doing a little research and have some ideas to run by you.”

  “Ideas to run by me?” I glared at her. “Pretty sure I don't get a say in any of this.”

  She looked up, her face expressionless. “Perhaps not.”

  I sighed. “Alright. What kind of endorsements do you have for me?”

  Her lips quirked a little, a hint of a smile on them, but she reined it in. “No endorsements. Not yet, anyway.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Well, what's in there?” I asked, motioning to the folder on her lap. I tried not to notice the legs only half hidden by the black skirt she wore.

  She reached for a lock of dark hair and absently began twirling it as she studied the papers in front of her. It wasn't done to entice me or to get my attention; instead, it just looked like a habit she'd picked up. But I noticed.

  “Alright,” she began. “Your endorsements aren't the problem here. You work with solid companies with good reputations. The problem is that you're probably on thin ice with a few of them. The drinking, the women,” she stopped, her cheeks flushing a little. She swallowed and continued, not looking at me. “And then last night. The fight. You have a reputation, Mr. Handler. And we need to turn that around. Not with new endorsements.”

  “OK.” I watched her. She wound the lock of hair tightly around her finger, then released. It bounced to her shoulder, unraveling as it fell and she picked it back up, winding and releasing it again. It fell against her blouse, a silky blue shirt that clung to her. I realized I'd been wrong about something the night before. She did have cleavage. Very nice cleavage. I brought my eyes back to her face. “Then what do you have in mind?”

  “We need to convince the world that you're not a bad guy.” She handed me a sheet of paper and I noticed her hand was trembling.

  I smiled. Good. I hoped like hell I made her nervous. I took it from her and scanned the contents. “Community service?” My voice was flooded with disbelief.

  She nodded. “To start.”

  I read the press release in front of me. It was dated for tomorrow. It said that I'd be spending my day at Huntington Beach State Park, running a surf clinic for underprivileged youth.

  “I don't like kids.”

  “That's not really the point,” Gina said.

  I handed the paper back to her. “You have me spending all day teaching kids how to surf. Not my thing, sweetheart.”

  She bristled at the empty endearment. “None of these are negotiable, Mr. Handler.”

  “Call me Kellen.”

  She squirmed a little in her chair and her black skirt rode up just a bit, revealing more of her thigh. Her legs weren't tan but I didn't care. I couldn't stop looking at them. Slim but curvy, her skin soft and smooth, her toes peeking out of a pair of high-heeled sandals, her nails painted shocking pink.

  “Kellen,” she said, tripping over it a little as she said it, like she was saying the name of some revolting insect. “As I said, none of these things are really choices. I've tried to find events and opportunities for you that stay inside your comfort zone— ”

  “You know my comfort zone?” I interrupted.

  Her cheeks flushed a deeper red. “Well, no. But I tried to focus on things where there might be some familiarity for you. Surfing. Swimming. Things of that nature.”

  I could tell I made her uncomfortable and I wondered why. Was she a little star-struck? I doubted that. She worked PR—she must have had her fair share of dealing with people in the limelight. But maybe I was her biggest client so far. Or maybe her biggest fuck-up, I thought. Maybe she didn't think she could turn me around. Maybe she'd drawn the short stick at the PR firm that week and ended up with me and didn't know how the hell she was going to fix my rep.

  As far as I was concerned, she was the person standing between me and freedom. I needed to ignore the legs and the hair and the dark eyes that, combined, made one delectable package. A package I'd definitely want to get to know better under different circumstances. If I could convince her to sign off on me, then I was free to do whatever the hell I wanted. And that might be easier to do if I intimidated her.

  “There's nothing else?” I asked. “Maybe I could sign autographs or something at a surf shop? A mall?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not yet. We need to keep you out of the spotlight for a while. Especially with news reporters and cameras.”

  “So no one will be covering the poor kids' surf clinic?”

  Gina frowned. “Underprivileged. Not poor. That's not a politically correct term.”

  “Fine. Underprivileged,” I said, enunciating the word carefully. “No reporters there?”

  “No, there's bound to be.” She reached for the lock of hair again. “Especially after today.”

  “Yeah, they'll be there regardless of whether I win or lose,” I said.

  She looked at me. “That's not what I
was talking about.” I must have looked confused because she motioned to the folded-up paper Mark had tossed on the couch.

  “Oh.” For some reason, I didn't like the fact that she knew about the previous night. It was illogical—after all, the fight was the main reason she was sitting across from me—but it was how I felt.

  I tried to make sense of what she was telling me. “So if there'll be reporters there at the beach...” She wasn't making any sense. If she wanted to keep me out of the spotlight, a public event didn't seem like the best way to accomplish that.

  “There will be press,” she said. “But you won't be allowed to talk to them.”

  I stared to speak but she cut me off. “I'll talk to them. Me. Me only. Not you. And not that...that manager of yours. Heath.” She said his name with even more derision than she'd said mine and I smiled. “You won't say a thing to anyone without going through me first. Got it?”

  I'd never met a woman like her before. Firm. Decisive. Ordering me around. I didn't know whether to be irritated or amused. “What happens if I do?”

  She raised her eyebrows, perfectly sculpted, dark like her hair. “You really want to take that risk and find out?”

  I thought for a minute. What the hell did I want? I wasn't sure what I cared about anymore. Before January, before that day at Mavericks? I would have been on board with whatever Gina was telling me. Grudgingly, to be sure, but I'd do it. Because, back then, I'd cared. But, I reminded myself, I wouldn't have been in this position. I wouldn't be the fucked up mess sitting across from her in a hotel lobby, getting my ass chewed out for all the stupid shit I'd been doing.

  Now? Now I was just going through the motions. I was surfing because it was what I did, what I'd done for as long as I could remember. And because, despite the pain the ocean bathed me in each and every time I stepped foot in the water, it was the only thing I had left. It didn't just tie me to Jay in some twisted pleasure-pain way but it tied me to myself, to the only identity I had.

  “Alright. A surf clinic.” I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “Tomorrow. Got it.”

  NINE

  I hated that he made me nervous. Sitting in the hotel lobby across from Kellen Handler, my knees knocking together and my hands shaking, I was acting like some starstruck little grommet. Or worse, some fangirl who wanted to climb into bed with him.

  I'd tried holding my ground, doing my best to keep my voice steady as I told him about his first public appearance. It wasn't his ridiculous good looks that did me in. I didn't care that he was probably the best-looking guy I'd ever sat across from. In any setting. Ever.

  I was nervous because of what he represented. What he stood for.

  And what he reminded me of.

  But I'd done what I needed to do. He slouched in his chair, his fingers pinching the space between his eyes.

  “Alright. A surf clinic,” he said, closing his eyes. “Tomorrow. Got it.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I gathered up the papers and arranged them neatly in the manila envelope. One thing at a time. We'd do the surf clinic the next day and then I'd let him know what else I had planned.

  “And that's it?” he asked.

  I glanced at him. He was watching me, his blue eyes questioning. “That's what?”

  “That's all I have to do to...” he paused for a second. “...to improve my reputation?”

  I almost laughed. I was pretty sure he'd need a month's worth of back-to-back public events—that went well—to dig himself out of the mess he'd created.

  “That's all for today,” I told him. I shoved the folder back into my briefcase.

  “Is there going to be more?” he asked. “More shit like this?”

  His attitude was beginning to grate on me but then I remembered his history, what he'd been through. There wasn't cockiness or disdain in his voice. It was something else, something I couldn't quite place. “Yes, there will be plenty more shit like this.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and I tried not to watch the way it fell right back onto his forehead, a perfect blond mess. “You gonna tell me what I'll be doing? So I can, like, plan?”

  “You don't have to plan anything,” I said. “That's what you're paying me for.”

  He sat up a little straighter. “I'm paying you?” he asked, amusement flavoring his voice.

  “Who'd you think was footing the bill?”

  A smile tugged at his lips and, eventually, it won. It transformed his entire face and suddenly I was looking at the boy-man I'd seen in those magazine ads spread out on my bed two nights earlier. A free-spirited, happy-go-lucky surfer who just happened to be walking perfection in the looks department, even with the cut under his eye and the stubble that dotted his cheeks and chin.

  “I guess I didn't think,” he admitted. Softly, his voice almost a whisper, he added, “I've been doing a lot of that lately.”

  I busied myself with my briefcase, latching it shut. “Well, it's you. Paying, I mean. Heath and Mark made the arrangements.”

  Kellen nodded. “Are you cheap?”

  I froze. His tone was casual enough but I knew his history, was well aware of his reputation.

  “No,” I said curtly. “I'm not.”

  To my surprise, he laughed. Not some soft chuckle of amusement but a full belly laugh.

  He hoisted himself out of his chair. “You know what?” he asked. When I sat there silently, waiting for him to continue, he laughed again. “Despite all this bullshit you've got lined up for me, I think...I think I'm gonna like you.”

  It wasn't what I wanted to hear. I didn't want Kellen Handler to like me. I wanted to do my job—fix his tarnished reputation—and get the hell out of there. I'd told Gavin Johnson that I didn't want the gig. I'd been working at the PR firm for less than a year and wasn't qualified for that high-profile of a case. Hell, I was twenty-three years old, fresh out of college, employed there as a favor to my dad. I knew it and Gavin knew it. The job should have gone to someone far more experienced. I'd told him that repeatedly.

  But Gavin hadn't cared.

  “You know the scene, Regina,” he'd said, calling me by my full name, the name my dad always insisted on using. The name Luke used to use teasingly. I'd swallowed back the unexpected surge of tears.

  He'd called me in to his office and I'd parked myself in the leather chair across from his desk. He'd handed me the file and told me to start preparing. And then I'd opened it.

  “That was years ago,” I protested. It had been. I'd skipped out of the surfing scene three years ago. On purpose, no looking back. I was done.

  But Gavin had known. He knew my history. “Doesn't matter,” he said. “I want someone young handling this one. Someone who'll appeal to that crowd. Someone who will appeal to Kellen. You're the one.”

  “And what if I don't want to do it?” It was the last job I wanted to take. And Kellen Handler was the last person I wanted to appeal to.

  Gavin smiled. “You'll do it.”

  And I had. I'd taken the box full of papers and information and gone home to my one-bedroom apartment in Encinitas and studied, as impartially as I could, all of the information Gavin Johnson had given me. Every article and picture available of Kellen Handler.

  I blinked a couple of times, pulling myself back to the present. Kellen stood in front of me, a half-smile on his lips. I looked away, fumbling for my sunglasses and keys, remembering what he'd just said.

  I think I'm gonna like you.

  Gavin might not have been right about me being the best person for the job. But he had gotten one thing right.

  Kellen Handler liked me. He'd just admitted it.

  Out loud.

  And that admission scared me to death.

  TEN

  Gina was waiting for me outside the hotel, idling in a shiny black Honda Accord. She'd rolled down the passenger window, her sunglass-covered eyes focused on the hotel entrance. I'd grabbed a cup of coffee from the lobby and stepped out into the bright morning sun
shine and immediately spotted her.

  She leaned down out of view and the trunk popped open. “Throw your bag back there,” she said.

  I did as I was told, tossing my duffel bag into her immaculate trunk. There was nothing inside of it and I decided it was probably a new car. I loped toward the front of the car and two women appeared out of nowhere, Surfer magazines and Sharpies in their hands.

  The first one, tall and thin, wearing a skimpy black bikini top and cut-off shorts, shoved the magazine toward me. “Autograph?”

  The other girl giggled. “Me, too.”

  “You were amazing yesterday,” the tall one gushed. “Amazing.”

  I had been. Despite all the shit that had gone down prior to the finals, I'd suited up and grabbed my board and carved up every single wave sent my direction. For thirty minutes, I didn't think about what I'd done or what was waiting for me when I finished. I didn't think about Jay and I didn't think about myself. I just focused on the water twisting and moving beneath me. And that was all—that was everything—I'd needed to do to secure the championship.

  Before I could say anything, Gina was at my side. She smiled at both women. “He'd be happy to sign but we need to be quick. We're on our way to a charity event.”

  The tall woman raised her eyebrows. “Charity event?” I could hear the unasked question in her voice: since when did Kellen Handler do charity events?

  “Yes,” Gina said, her voice smooth, as if she was explaining something I did daily. “A surf clinic at Huntington Beach State Park. It's open to the public if you ladies would like to stop by.”

  “You can teach us how to surf?” the other girl, a red-head, practically squealed.

  Gina smiled. “Not quite. He'll be teaching kids how to surf. But you're welcome to come and watch.” She turned to me and, even through her sunglasses, I could feel her eyes bore into me. “Sign their magazines and let's go. We don't want to be late.”