by Teagan Kade
“They fled with fifty bucks,” Coach continues, “a purse and an iPad. Cops caught them six hours later. The incident itself was hard enough on Tia before she had to relive the whole thing in courts six months later. It was really fucked up for a while there.”
“But they got put away?”
“Life, no parole—both of them. Won’t be seeing those scumbags again.”
“And Tia?”
Coach looks at me, fingers drumming on his desk. “She performed CPR on her mother for over an hour. There was a mix-up with the ambulance, wrong address or something, not that it would have done much good. The detective working the case told me later that Jen was dead pretty much the instant those shots tore her chest apart. There’s some comfort in that, knowing she didn’t suffer, but Tia… It broke her.”
It’s so abstract, so extraordinary that I can’t imagine Tia, peaceful and placid as she is, being involved. God, what she must have been feeling when she gave me CPR at the pool, the fear that must have been running through her, going through it all again, living it all over again. “What do I do?”
Coach shrugs his shoulders. “You’re already doing it. You’re there for her. We both have to be there for her.” He stands, coming around his desk and extending his hand to me. “Promise me you’ll look after her and maybe I can shelve that baseball bat.”
I stand and take his hand. “You have my word.”
He pulls me close, close enough I can smell the bologna he had for lunch. “You’re like a god-damn son to me, Blake, but listen carefully, because I won’t say it again: Be with her, love her, but if you break her heart, I’ll break every damn bone in your body.”
I have to laugh. You take the man out of the military, but not the military out of the man. “I got it the first fifty times, Coach.”
He lets go and takes a seat on the edge of his desk. “Now, to the news.”
I’d forgotten all about it. “Good or bad?”
“Both, I’m afraid. A campus security guard out on his morning stroll found a metal baseball bat stuck in a drain down by the old gym, noticed the blood. He fished it out, handed it over to the authorities.”
Hope rises. “And?”
“Ethan’s toast. The blood matched yours, only his prints on the bat itself, which might not have been enough to put him away until a kid came in the same morning saying he witnessed the whole thing through the windows of the pool complex. It’s enough.”
“You think his parents won’t bail him out somehow, pull some strings?”
Coach lifts his shoulders. “Probably, but he won’t be swimming at the Games, that’s for damn sure. USA Swimming would never allow it. They’re useless, but they’re not that useless.”
It dawns on me. “And the bad news?”
“Ethan dropping out opens up a spot, but it’s Cutter’s, not yours.”
“Fuck!”
Coach is smiling.
“Hardly something to be happy about, is it? Good for Cutter, but how do you think I feel?”
He’s still sitting on the edge of his desk just like he did the day he told me about his daughter, the girl who would become my everything, my very reason for living, for pushing ahead no matter how hopeless the situation appears. “Seems your squad buddy Cutter couldn’t stay away from that damn dirt bike of his.” His smile widens.
“Cutter?”
“Got beat up real bad after he came off on a track down-state—broken collarbone, compound fractures left and right. They’ve got him over at St Augusta’s. He’ll be fine, but he won’t be back in the pool anytime soon either.”
It dawns on me. Holy shit. “I’m back in? I’m on the Olympic team?”
Coach stands, placing his hands on my shoulders. “You’re in. Better sharpen up on your Portuguese.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TIA
The Olympic Aquatics Centre in Rio is a temporary structure built specifically for the games. It reminds me more of a soccer arena than a swimming complex, which would make sense given how soccer mad everyone is over here.
Lacey and I are perched high in the stands, the competitors readying themselves down by the pool.
Lacey leans forward, almost spilling her coffee over the woman in front of us. “You’d think the fiancé of the number-one swimmer at the Olympics would get better seats. Am I right?”
I don’t care. I’m simply happy to be here for Blake. I see him stretching in lane five, jumping up and down on the spot to loosen up. He’s got his headphones on, probably pumping Metallica or, his darkest secret, Beyoncé.
It’s the men’s hundred-meter free—one of the star events of Olympic swimming. It’s the finals, Blake’s first chance at a medal, but I’m not nervous. I’ve seen him in training—in and out of the pool. He’s ready.
Lacey’s bouncing on her seat beside me. Blake offered to buy her a ticket over, which has proved both a blessing and a curse, though it is nice to have another familiar face here. Dad’s no doubt down near the action. Magnus is in the finals as well, but it’ll be Blake that Dad’s gunning for. Hell, all of America’s gunning for him now. He hasn’t shaken off the ‘bad boy of swimming’ title yet, but after this he’ll be well on his way to redemption.
The light glints off my ring. I look down and still struggle to believe it’s there—ten carats of super-bling. I mean, I’m not the kind of girl who cares about the size of a diamond, but it is pretty as all get-out. When Blake proposed in front of the whole Olympic swimming team, I practically fell into the pool.
Tia Reed, hitched at twenty-one. Who would have thought? Certainly not Dad. When Blake told him I wasn’t sure if he was going to hug him or look for a rifle. I think he’s getting used to the idea of having a son-in-law, maybe even a grandkid or two—well, down the road, we’re in no hurry.
I look down as the competitors stand up on the blocks, Blake and Magnus in their white caps. Ethan’s not there. He’s busy awaiting trial. Even his parents wanted no part of it. That will prove to be a testing time, but with Blake by my side I can handle it. We both can. After what we’ve been through, we can handle fucking anything.
“Take your marks.”
Only seconds now, the entire world watching.
Lacey holds her breath.
It’s all yours, I tell him, my love, my world.
Take it.
EPILOGUE
TIA
FIVE YEARS LATER
As he stands on top of the podium, I have never been so proud. The lighting’s bright, the crowd cheering with enthusiasm. It’s the culmination of months and months of training, and he’s happy, beaming away as the medal is slung around his neck.
Our baby boy’s very first swimming carnival and already he’s cleaning up, doggy-paddling like a pro.
“Whoo!” shouts Blake beside me. “That’s my boy!” He looks even happier than he did when he won his first Olympic Gold, the torrent that followed landing him with the nickname ‘Superman’. It’s stuck, not that I mind. He is my superman—a father, a husband and the most compassionate man I know. When I think back to the first time we met in Dad’s office, I can’t believe this is the same guy. He stills pulls out the cheek on occasion, can’t help a dick joke… or dad joke. ‘Pull my finger’ has become an all too common phrase in our household.
Jayden, our four-year-old, was born in water and remains, like his father, a natural. I still swim, but only to clear my mind, to breathe. Competition was never my thing. Besides, I’ve already won the jackpot.
Running’s where it’s at for me now. I’m ten marathons down and counting, the trophy cabinet growing every month. Soon we’ll need a whole room just to house Reed gold, especially if Jayden keeps up his form. I see Blake in him every day, in his eyes and dimpled cheeks. He’s going to be a Daddy’s boy alright.
Lacey crouches down in front of Jayden by the pool, the rest of the kids leaving with their parents. She’s become something of an impromptu godmother, always up for babysitting duties—as long as we pro
vide food. Ever since she dropped out of Carver she’s been a lot more liberal with her eating. I think she’s eaten her way through decades of repression over the last few months.
“You’re going to give your Daddy a run for his money, little buddy,” she says, pulling on Jayden’s chubby cheek.
“Aunty Lace-Lace!” he beams, almost toppling her over in with one of his crushingly cute cuddles.
“What about Grandad? Doesn’t he get any love?”
Blake sniggers. “Not if Grandad keeps feeding him donuts and ice cream.”
Jayden jumps out of Lacey’s arms and into Dad’s, Dad who has all the time in the world now he’s actually retired. Problem is, I don’t think he knows what to do with himself, though I see the looks he gives Mrs. Avery next door. I cringe to think what kind of sparks will fly there.
Dad sweeps Jayden up into his arms. “Grandads are allowed to spoil their grandkids, are they not?”
“Just remember,” adds Blake, “kids tell their parents everything”.
It’s been nice seeing Dad take on the grandparent role. My pregnancy was an emotional time. My hormones were all over the place. I craved Skittles twenty-four hours a day, whatever that was about. Car commercials made me burst into tears. These days I don’t even have time for that. Between Blake’s training, taking Jayden to preschool, swimming lessons, soccer, waking up at five at doing it all over again… It’s insane, but it’s our insane and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Blake gets down to Jayden’s level. “So, little man. You going to the Olympics one day like your dada?”
“Jayden go to the O-wym-pics!” he announces, and I have no doubt he’ll get there. He’s just as determined as his father, just as stubborn. The girls are going to love him.
I got pregnant immediately after our shotgun wedding in Hawaii. All I remember about the honeymoon is spending a lot of time in our hotel suite, day blending into night and a lifetime’s worth of sex squeezed into three days. Surely there has to be a law against climaxing that much.
“How are my two favorite ladies doing?” says Blake, wrapping his arms around my fast-ballooning belly.
I feel her kick inside me, never getting sick of that special connection only mothers and their unborn know. “She is going to be a lady… and a kickass gamer.”
“She can join our guild!” Lacey beams. “It could do with more females.”
“Hey,” says Blake, “I’ll have you know Billy and I do all the heavy lifting when it comes to getting that sweet orc gold.”
I have to laugh. “You spend a little too much time in front of that computer, if you ask me.”
He puts his hands up. “Nowhere near as much time as Billy does, thank you very much.”
Billy—I don’t think that boy’s ever going to change. He has a new girlfriend every time I see him. Like Lacey, the pressure at college became a little too much for him. He was destined to be his own man, tread his own path, and he has. If you had of told me five years ago he’d be the proud owner of three burrito shacks, I’d have laughed you out of the room. The guy makes more than all of us combined, not that we’re on the poverty line thanks to the mysterious Aunty Linda. Blake even made a point to stop by her grave and pay his respects.
We’ve got a nice place on the coast with a large infinity pool. The endorsements flowed in thick and fast after Rio. Everyone wanted a piece of American swimming’s biggest hero. During summer I swear we spend more time in the water than we do indoors. We love parties, entertaining people. Cutter and Magnus are around non-stop. They’re both still swimming competitively, have their own medals to show off.
While the others busy themselves with Jayden, Blake slips up behind me, hands running down the back of my jeans and squeezing. I thought being pregnant might turn him off, but if anything it’s made him even hornier—if that was even possible.
“So,” he whispers, lips hot against my ear, “How about we have our own little pool party later?”
I can’t help but roll my eyes, turning and taking his face in hand. “Whatever you say, superstar.”
Dirty Debt
Teagan Kade
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Sennah Tate
Copyright © 2017 by Teagan Kade
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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DEDICATION
For Linda. I know you like the really naughty ones.
CHAPTER ONE
MAX
“Please,” he says.
It’s a word I’ve become all too familiar with.
The poor schmuck presses up against the lounge room wall so hard I think he’s hoping he’ll sink right through it.
The place stinks. There are takeaway boxes piled up in the corner and a teetering pile of dishes on the kitchen counter that looks like it’s been there for decades. This individual clearly isn’t making ends meet living like this, but I have a job to do.
The teeth I just loosed from his mouth crunch under my boots as I approach. I try to be as gentle as I can, reason with him. “Mr. Garcia, I don’t enjoy this. I don’t want to mess you up, but my employer needs his money. It’s business, pure and simple.”
How many times have you used that line? I think.
In truth, there’s nothing simple about it.
He’s shaking now, the inkpot eyes of a junkie staring back at me. “Tell Saul I’m sorry. I don’t have it. I swear on my mother’s grave. Please,” he begs.
I close and open my fist. I like the jobs where they fight back. At least there’s sport in it. This? This is sad—no other word for it.
I exhale, shaking my head. “Alright, Mr. Garcia. Let’s simplify things, shall we?” I snap him across the wall with a hard right.
Blood pours from his mouth. He spits another tooth out, his hand rattling against the wall.
I take hold of his jaw and squeeze, a pitiful groan following. “I’m going to need something, sir. I can’t leave here empty-handed. That would be very bad, for both of us. You either find me some money, or I find a bag to collect the rest of your teeth in.
I raise my fist.
He flinches away, hands raised, cowering in my grip. I should feel power, strength, but there’s only pity.
“Jesus,” he blubbers. “Wait.”
I tense for the blow and he begins to blubber again.
“The toilet,” he says.
“The toilet?”
“Under the lid. There’s five large in there. Take it. Just fucking take it.”
I let him go. He slumps against the wall breathing hard. “Stay there.”
I head to the bathroom. Like he said, there are rolls of cash taped under the toilet lid. I pocket them and return to the lounge. He’s watching me with something new now. I know it well.
Hate.
I pat my pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Garcia, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, this does not cover your full debt. I’ll leave, but I don’t want to return. Am I making myself clear?”
He nods, spitting out a wad blood.
I nod back and start for the door.
The second I do I hear him rush forward and swipe an empty bottle from the coffee table. There’s a whoosh as he goes to smash it into my head, but I’m already turning.
I grab the wrist holding the bottle and twist until something snaps. He screams, the bottle falling free. I drive a balled fist deep into his stomach, drive it so hard his eyes almost pop out of his fucking head.
He smashes against the wall and drops, gasping. He was never going to let that money go so easily, but I’m wise to these things now, wiser than I’d ever hoped to be.
I help myself to a beer from the fridge and leave, my only witness a pearl-eyed tabby watching from the kitchen counter.
*
Frank’s setting tables when I enter the restaurant. He stands when he sees me. “Max, my boy.” He spots my bloody and broken knuckles. “Working hard?”
I force a smile. “Something like that. Is he in?”
Frank looks to the back of the restaurant. “Sure. Go on through.”
“Thanks.”
I head through the kitchen and down the back stairs, knocking three times on the plated door at the bottom. “It’s Max.”
There’s a groan as the door swings open.
Jerry stands there in all his six-foot-two, three-hundred-pound glory. “You don’t look like a leggy blonde with double Ds.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “I do know how you love the ‘D.’”
He pushes me, laughing. “Fuck you.”
“How is he?” I call back.
“The boss? That fucking horse of his actually won a race this morning. He’s good.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” I salute and walk on.
The boss’s office used to be an old WW2 bunker. The walls are three-feet thick. Close the door and even if someone’s screaming at the top of their lungs you can’t hear a damn thing. The places gives me the fucking creeps.
Saul sees me in the doorway. He’s sitting behind his desk, the wing of a DC-9 airplane. I’ve always thought that was kind of ironic for a guy terrified of flying.