Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1)

by Lindsey Pogue

  I flail mid-stroke and come up for air. My heart beats wildly, and I’m disoriented as I scan the bank and tree shadows.

  A man stands at the water’s edge.

  “Careful.”

  Reilly. I’m treading, blinking away the water in my eyes as I try to collect myself. “What the hell are you—”

  Something tangles around my left arm, and it’s all I can do to stay afloat in my surprise. Fishing line. “Shit,” I hiss and try to extricate myself, but it’s moving around my limbs. I can’t touch the bottom here, and I can feel it coiling and tightening as I try to move. The potential horrors of death by ensnared line and the hook tearing into my skin and me drowning all flash in my mind, and I panic. I pull at the line as it wraps around my arm and one of my legs, but it only tightens more. “God dammit—”

  “Easy,” Reilly says softly. I vaguely hear him over my splashing. The line slackens, but it’s still wrapped around me. “Take it easy. You’re fine.” His voice gets louder as he draws closer, and before I realize what’s happening, he’s beside me, submerged in water. One of his arms is wrapped around me, holding me up and loosening the line around my arm; the other he uses to unwind it.

  The warmth of his body pressed against mine is unexpected, but has a calming, welcoming effect. His jacket floats around us, the fabric grazing over my breasts. I freeze, remembering that I’m utterly naked against him.

  He must feel my body tense, because he offers me a whispered reassurance. The brisk water suddenly burns like a hot spring, and I want to melt when Reilly touches the back of my arm . . . my back . . . my wrists.

  As he brings me closer to shore so I can stand, barking ensues again and I’m stirred from the wormhole of my imagination. Realizing I’m untangled, I jerk away from Reilly and step back into the water, submerging myself.

  Reilly frowns, dripping wet, his breathing labored. He ignores the dog running toward us and steps closer. “Are you okay?” he asks. Concern creases his brow, and I feel a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude.

  I rub my wrist where it stings. “Yeah,” I say a little breathily. “Thank you.” I wonder if my cheeks are flushing as much as they should be at the thought of my body’s response to his. It’s been a couple years since I’ve been intimate with anyone, but the remnants of his touch feel like more than a purely physical reaction to his proximity; the question of what that “more” is petrifies me.

  Just lingering memories.

  I wrap my arms around my chest and step further back into the water, putting more distance between us. “What are you doing out here?” I ask, completely unsure what the proper etiquette is after someone saves you—while you’re naked.

  Water drips from Reilly’s nose and the scruff around his jaw. He looks so different, but so much the same, it makes my heart hurt with wishes and regrets. His chest is still heaving a little when he points to his fishing pole.

  “Oh, yeah, right.” I wrap my arms tighter around myself, feeling more nauseous and naked by the second, and the dog’s sporadic barking as he comes up to the water’s edge makes it difficult to concentrate.

  “Quiet,” Reilly says with more authority than I ever could, and the dog seems to listen to him for a moment.

  But after a few more seconds and another barking fit, I can’t take the awkwardness anymore. I start swimming back toward the dock on my side of the lake.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Reilly calls.

  I wave him away between breaststrokes. “Yes, fine, thanks!”

  He says something else, but I’m swimming too hard, so fast I barely hear him above the water splashing with each urgent stroke.

  When I reach the shore, I sink my feet into the mud and hurry up the bank, covering my chest as much as I can as I scale the rickety steps of the dock. I can hear Reilly trying to get Petey under control, and I’m suddenly grateful for the dog’s presence.

  Shaking, I yank my shirt over my head, fumbling to dress myself while I’m wet and still partially in shock. My boxers cling to my legs as I try to shimmy them on, and I groan, impatient.

  Finally, I straighten and spare a glimpse in Reilly’s direction. His back is turned and he’s crouched down, holding onto Petey.

  I hurry over to Shasta.

  “Ah, what about your dog?” he calls.

  “His name’s Petey. Keep him, he’s yours anyway,” I call back, and then I’m on Shasta’s back and I can’t get her to run away fast enough.

  Nine

  Reilly

  The sound of heavy hoof steps quickly fades as Sam’s horse races away. And here I am, soaking wet, still standing in partial shock at what just happened, with a mangy, stocky dog panting beside me. I lean over and pull a bur from his coat. He’s covered in cattails, too. “Great.”

  I straighten and sigh. “Well, that was exciting,” I say, shaking my head. The dog, “Petey,” takes a break from panting and tilts his head, perking his ears up like he knows what I’m saying.

  My dog, huh? Great. One more addition to the list of things to take care of while I’m back—and to figure out what to do with when I leave. What the hell was my dad doing with a dog?

  Petey barks as he stands, and his tail starts to wag again.

  “You don’t listen very well, do you?” I turn to head back toward the house. “Come on,” I say. When he doesn’t listen, I pick up a small, dead oak branch and toss it in the direction of home. Petey runs after it, allowing me a moment to think.

  I glance back at the matted grass I’d fallen asleep on until I heard Sam in the water, and a thought crosses my mind. I wonder if I’d secretly wished I’d catch a glimpse of her by coming down here—knowing she spends so much time at the lake, or at least that she used to—or if I simply had needed to get out of that unwelcoming, quiet house, like I’d told myself.

  So far, my run-ins with Sam have left me questioning a lot of things I’d hoped were left in the past. The plan was to ignore everything that happened between us and just get through this month with my head still on straight, but Sam’s hesitation and distance around me is so foreign and strange it’s almost like we were never together at all. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking.

  I wish, more than anything, that everything about being home didn’t remind me of her—the truck, my friends, my house and the arguments I’d escaped from to be comforted by her.

  Kicking a rock into the water, I let out another deep breath, wishing it would cleanse the bubbling, unwelcome thoughts from my mind that I can’t simply huff away. Part of me wishes we could just go back to before, the first night things began to change and my life got a lot more complicated.

  Five Years Ago...

  I pull my beat-up Chevy, recently purchased from Cal’s auto shop, into the gravel drive and curse inwardly when I see the old man’s El Camino parked out front. “Great,” I mumble and grab my bag from the passenger seat. Although I hope he’s passed out in his chair with the news blaring so loud it will drown out any noise I might make, I know I’m not that lucky.

  It doesn’t matter that baseball practice ran late, and as MVP I was asked to stay and help Ackerman with his pitch. The old man wanted me home right after school, like always, even though he never had a good reason other than to make me more miserable.

  The driver’s side door groans open as I step down from the truck, the frame creaking without my weight. At least I have something of my own, finally. Although the Chevy barely runs now, it’s perfect for my senior project—learning how to rebuild something of my own from the ground up that can take me far away from this place. I heave my gear bag over my shoulder and head toward the house. Nick offered for me to stay at his place tonight, knowing the old man wouldn’t be happy I was getting home so late, but I made up an excuse about needing some stuff at home, not wanting to be his problem.

  Removing my ball cap, I scratch my head, take in a deep breath, and brace myself for the inevitable. When I open the door, I find him passed out in his chair, and I let out a ra
gged exhale. Good. I’m too sore and exhausted to deal with him tonight. And by the looks of the mostly empty twelve-pack on the floor beside his chair, he wouldn’t have been much company.

  Keeping my eyes down, I head for my room. The last thing I want is to look up at the dark shambles I live in, another reminder of how badly I need to get out of this hellhole. Six months . . . I’ll be eighteen in six months . . .

  The floor creaks beneath me as I step into the hallway to my room.

  “Look who decided to grace me with his presence.” The old man’s voice is gravelly behind me, and he clears his throat.

  I stop mid-step but don’t turn around. “Practice ran late,” I say, my voice flat. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “It’s always one excuse or the other,” he grumbles.

  I hear his chair squeak as he shifts, and I turn around to face him. “You want me to go to college, don’t you?” I bite out. “You want me out of your hair?” I know I should just ignore him and head into my room, but his unearned anger is too much tonight. I’m tired—of him, of this. “Baseball is the only way any of that is happening.”

  “Watch it,” he growls.

  I roll my eyes and head toward my room. “Whatever.”

  “Hey! Get your ass back out here . . .” I hear the springs and clinks of the recliner ottoman closing, soon followed by his footsteps, barreling toward me, but I don’t care. I slam my bedroom door shut behind me, only to have it shudder back open, the old man’s wobbling figure in the doorway. His unshaven face is pinned in an ever-present snarl. “Who do you think you’re talking to, boy?” He looks haggard, his skin shining and sallow, almost sickly as he grips the doorframe. I’m not sure if he’s trying to steady himself or the anger that gleams in his eyes. “Who do you think puts food on the table, puts this roof over your ungrateful head? You’ll speak to me with some respect.”

  “Okay,” I say automatically and unload my bag onto the bed. We’ve had this conversation so many times I allow my mind to wander. I need to finish my homework if I’m going to keep a C in Mr. Marco’s class . . . and I need to do a load of laundry.

  “You even listenin’ to me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you.” I turn around to face him. “I said okay.” I watch the old man a moment as he tries to steady himself. He’s not wasted, otherwise he’d still be in his chair; he’s in that in-between stage that makes him confrontational and unrelenting. “Why don’t you finish watching the news and have another beer,” I mutter. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

  “I told you to mind your tone!” He takes a step further into my room.

  “I would if you’d just leave me alone!” I shout, and my heart is suddenly thudding in my chest and roaring in my ears. I just want him to disappear. I want him to disappear and let me live my life in peace, for once. “What the hell do you want from me? To be here? Not be here? To talk to you or leave you alone?”

  He snarls and takes a step closer. “You’ll speak to me with some goddamn respect.” His jaw clenches and shifts, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. “You’re walking on thin ice, boy.” His eyes shift over me, head to toe, like he’s sizing me up.

  I’m tired of doing this every night. Tired of his threats and his bullying. Without a second thought, I close the distance between us. “You want to hit me?” I ask. Though my voice is cold and daring, I’m trembling inside with anger or fear, maybe a little bit of both. “Do it,” I say. “Hit me.” He’s done it twice before, but threatened it dozens more than that.

  The old man’s muddy green eyes bore into me. “You’re—”

  “What? Hit me already. Do it! Or are you afraid I’ll hit you back this time?” I take a step closer, getting right into his face. “Do it,” I taunt him, more quietly. I’ve never been sure whether he regretted both times or if he even remembers them.

  The old man’s eyes shift over my face wildly, and he bares his teeth. “Don’t tempt me, boy.” I know he’s warring with himself. If he hit me, he’d at least leave me alone, and I’m stronger this time; I can hit him back.

  Finally he turns on his heels and smashes his hand against the wall. “Get the hell out of here,” he says, his voice strained and gruff. He bangs on the wall again, then starts thrashing my room—pushing everything off my desk and bookshelves. “Get the fuck out of here, you ungrateful son of a bitch! Get out of my house!” The pain in his voice is audible, but I don’t care what demons taunt him tonight. My heart is hammering in my chest and my throat burns and constricts. I don’t want to be here any more than he wants me to be.

  I swallow and brush past him, stalk down the hall, through the living room, and head out the front door, slamming it shut behind me. Three strides later, I reach my truck but stop at the driver’s side door. As much as I want to leave and never come back to this dump, I can’t leave like this, not without clothes, my backpack, my gear . . . I have school tomorrow, I have homework. I have an image to maintain, grades to keep up. I know it’s my only hope of anything changing. Besides, tomorrow he’ll probably have forgotten everything anyway and things will go back to being how they usually are.

  Glancing back at the house, I decide to give him an hour or so until he’s passed out for the rest of the night, dead to the world until dawn, when he heads for the mill.

  With only one place left to go, I walk up the hill and head toward the lake. The evening breeze is chilly, but it feels good against my clammy skin, covered in dried sweat from practice but still heated from the fading adrenaline.

  My stride is wide and determined, consuming the distance between me and the lake—the one dependable thing in my life. The ground is soft from recent rain beneath my shoes and the tall green grass of spring dampens my baseball pants, but I don’t really notice.

  I’ve never known why the old man’s so angry all the time, why he hates me even though he barely knows me. I barely know him. I heard a rumor he was a Marine in another life, but when I asked him about it a long time ago he simply walked away from me. All I know for sure is he likes to drink cheap beer and whiskey, has worked at the lumber mill for as long as I’ve been alive, and doesn’t have any friends, at least not that I know of. Not even the bartenders at Lick’s like him all that much. Oh, and according to him, I’m a burden—and I get it, but I’m also his son, and I would’ve thought that counted for something. Then again, family—at least between us—has never really meant anything.

  Moments pass until finally I’m stepping onto the dock at the lake. It’s the Millers’ side of the property, but I know they don’t mind. Mr. Miller has been more like a father to me than my own has ever been, and working for him is how I could afford to buy my new truck in the first place. Without his help, I’d be stranded and even more destitute.

  I grab a faded cushion off a deck chair, deciding I have a while and should make myself comfortable. After lowering myself down to the edge of the dock, I ball the cushion up behind my head and lie back with an exaggerated exhale.

  The cool air and the splintered wood, barely warm from the diminishing rays of the afternoon sun, stick to my shirt, but it’s better than sitting in my truck or driving all the way back to town.

  Like usual, I can appreciate the quietness here, the distance this place puts between me and my life. Here everything just is; the sounds are comforting. All of that is better than stale silence and building tension in a house that’s never felt like home. Out here I can think about my options, about what to do next and how I’m going to get there. Nick was joking around when he brought up the Army, but it doesn’t sound half bad. I don’t want baseball to be my life—I only joined initially because Nick wanted me to and it keeps me out of the house. So what if I’m any good at it? I don’t want it to be my life. Do I? All that matters is getting away from this place, and I’m not sure I have the patience to wait much longer.

  I hear a rustle in the grass behind me and peer over my shoulder. I’m not sure why, but I’m surprised to see Sam standing there,
her brown eyes wide behind her glasses and her hands tapping anxiously at her sides. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  I sit up and shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s your dock, I was just sort of squatting here for a bit.”

  She smiles meekly, both of us quiet for a few seconds. “Right, well,” she breathes and turns on her heel. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Wait, you don’t have to go. I’m the one that should leave you to . . . whatever you were gonna do.”

  I move to climb to my feet but Sam takes a step forward, her palm out. “No, really. It’s fine.” She shrugs. Her smile is small and awkward. “I just needed to get out of the house. You should stay.” She gazes around the lake until finally she gestures to the space beside me. “Do you mind if I sit?” There’s something in her eyes I haven’t noticed before, something soft and innocent, something intriguing.

  “Please,” I say, and watch as she slowly lowers herself beside me, a couple feet away, at least. Of all the times I’ve seen Sam over the past eight or so years, I wonder if there’s ever been a time we’ve been alone like this. She’s sort of majestic in her own way, I realize as she tucks her blonde and brown-streaked hair behind her ears. The brown color’s new, and I wonder if it’s some sort of statement and if it has anything to do with what she’s escaping from at home.

  There’s uncomfortable silence for a minute before I force myself to say something. “So, how’s the beginning of junior year treating you so far?” It’s a stupid question, but I’m finding it strangely difficult to think of something to say, despite the hundreds of conversations we’ve had over the years. This time there are no distractions, no interruptions. It’s just me and Sam, a situation I find a little unnerving.

  “It’s going,” she says. “Not really what I expected it to be, but it’s okay.”

  “Yeah? And what did you expect? To feel older or something?”

  She shakes her head and smiles a big, genuine smile when she looks at me. “No—well, sort of—but I mostly pictured high school to be this glamourous thing, you know? That there would be more boys and dances and”—she lifts her shoulders and glances at me like she’s said too much—“I don’t know, that maybe getting closer to my senior year I’d just feel different.” Her eyes brighten with something wistful that makes me smile back at her. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting the smell of stale body odor lingering in every classroom to be a staple of everyday life or my grade to be based on whether or not I’m the teacher’s favorite student. And the food . . .” Her face scrunches and she shakes her head. “High school is gross, and everything is so boring. It’s sort of overrated, you know?”