Coast (Kick Push Book 2) (The Road 3)

by Jay McLean

  Copyright © 2016 Jay Mclean

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Jay McLean

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Jay McLean June 2016

  Cover Design: Jay McLean

  Dedication

  To Warwick McLean.

  There are no wounds you cannot heal.

  Transit umbra, baby.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART II

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  PART III

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  PART IV

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Jay McLean

  About Jay McLean

  Prologue

  Journal

  I woke up in a pool of sweat, my mind racing and my heart hammering in my chest. My heart—my poor, sad, broken heart.

  I dreamt about him—the version of him that had me thrashing against the sheets and my fingers gripping tightly to the covers surrounding me, suffocating me in my own thoughts. My own fears.

  I hated it.

  I loved it.

  Which pretty much describes everything I feel for him.

  My heart loves him.

  My head hates him.

  Even now, over a year later.

  The first thing I did when my eyes snapped open was clutch a hand to my chest wondering how my heart was still beating after the painful onslaught the visions my dream had created. Only they weren’t just visions, they were memories.

  True, life, memories.

  He stood over me, his eyes glazed from tears mixed with rage. “I hate you the most, Becca,” he’d said, and I’d stood still, afraid of him.

  Him.

  The boy with the dark eyes and shaggy dark hair whose smile had once lit up my entire world.

  And in that moment, I feared him.

  It’s an overwhelming feeling, one I can’t put down onto paper like Linda had suggested I do, yet here I am, trying to justify it.

  If there was a single word to describe it, it would be torn.

  My head.

  My heart.

  The two parts of myself ripping my being in two.

  I should be used to it by now, right? How many times have I woken up in fear, my nightmares grounding me to my spot?

  Fear.

  Love.

  Hate.

  Caused by two entirely different people and circumstances.

  One is dead.

  One is Joshua Warden.

  ~ ~

  —Becca—

  A knock sounds on my bedroom door and a second later, the now familiar male voice speaks. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper. “Are you ready, Becca?”

  I shut my laptop and slowly get up, turning to him as I do. His eyes are gentle, yet wary.

  I nod, even though we both know it’s a lie.

  I’m not ready. How can I be?

  But I made a promise to him that I’d try.

  Just like I’d try to drive; another item on my list.

  It didn’t go well, but at least, I tried.

  He’d sat in the passenger’s seat and shown me what everything was, and then asked me to ease onto the accelerator. I’d done it. But as soon as we were on the road, I’d panicked and hit the brake at the same time. The screeching sound of the wheels spinning but the car not moving had set off something inside me. It also set me back three months of therapy. I’d blacked out apparently—like I was living in the nightmare—and I’d just screamed. He’d held me until it was over and then he drove home, where I’d spent the next three days in bed, awake and alive but completely dead inside.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Just like my mother.

  He’d kept my bedroom door open, and at night I’d see him there watching me, coffee in his hand, his shoulder against the doorframe and he’d cry.

  He hadn’t known I’d seen him.

  I’d never tell him.

  He’d sat on the seat in the corner of my room and had continued to watch me. I’d thought about Henry Warden, the man who died with regrets, and I didn’t want that for him, so I’d agreed when my therapist had suggested the bucket list… but on one condition. I wanted him with me when I ticked off every one.

  Which I guess is why a half hour later he’s standing by my side, twenty feet away from a tour bus with the giant Globe Shoes logo on the side.

  “Is that him?” he asks, and I can feel everything inside me move faster, beat harder, and then drop.

  My heart.

  My stomach.

  Everything drops when I look at the bus, at the open door and the kid in his father’s arms, as he gets handed over to his mother.

  Tommy laughs, and Natalie smiles as she takes him from Josh, who steps out of the bus and wraps his arms around both of them. He kisses his son first, on the cheek.

  And then he kisses her.

  On the forehead.

  They laugh together—this beautiful family.

  Natalie places Tommy on the ground, her hand holding his and they turn and walk away.

  “Is it?” Dad asks.

  I nod once, tears pricking my eyes as I try to hold it together.

  I watch Josh.

  He watches his family.

  Time stands still.

  After a while, he drops his gaze and shoves his hands in his pockets, his broad shoulders lifting as he kicks the toe of his shoe on the ground.

  I close my eyes, trying to find some relief from the pain. Pain I was not at all expecting.

  Finally, I look up. Up. UP.

  And everything stops.

  Everything.

  My breath.

  His foot.

  My heart
.

  His mouth.

  My world.

  Everything.

  Stops.

  Then he takes a step forward.

  And everything starts again.

  Only now, it’s all amplified.

  He comes closer and closer, all while I stand still, afraid—not of him—but of the devastating love I still feel for him.

  “He sees you, Becca.”

  * * *

  sense

  /sɛns/

  noun

  1. any of the faculties, as sight, hearing, smell, taste, or touch, by which humans and animals perceive stimuli originating from outside or inside the body.

  He stands two feet in front of me, his eyes as intense as his stare. He looks the same as the image I have of him forever burned behind my eyes—eyes that have wept for him.

  His hands are in the pockets of his shorts, his T-shirt stretched across his chest. Physically, he hasn’t changed a lot in the year since I’ve seen him. But it’s his presence that has my feet glued to the ground beneath me.

  He’s no longer the sad, beautiful, mourning boy who had needed me like the last time we were together. Now, he stands a little taller, a little more confident. I guess when you work hard to make your dreams a reality, you have every reason to walk with your head held high.

  My gaze drifts to the faded gray Globe logo printed across his chest, and I don’t know how long I stare at it, my heart thumping harshly in the walls of my chest before I realize the image is still.

  Frozen.

  My brow bunches as I look down at my top, watching the rise and fall of my chest created by my heavy breaths before looking back at his.

  Still frozen.

  I inhale sharply, my eyes snapping to his, and I blink once, twice, forcing back the tears threatening to escape.

  He’s holding his breath.

  Slowly, I raise my hand, my mouth parting, his name—silent—forces its way out on my exhale.

  Then he does the same, his lips spread, his shoulders dropping with his outtake of breath. It’s loud, forceful even. But his single exhale doesn’t just release the breath he held within him, it releases a jumbled mess of memories. Hundreds, thousands of them. All of us.

  Josh takes a step forward at the same time my dad’s hand lands on my back. He knows I want to run.

  Josh takes another step.

  And then two.

  Three.

  He’s close, almost too close, as he bends at the knees, his nose level with mine.

  My hands fist at my sides.

  Then his lips curve, his eyes widening. “Emerald Eyes.”

  The two words are a prayer as they fall from his lips, his voice like a symphony teasing my ears, ears that have roused for him.

  He’s so close, I can feel his breaths on my forehead, smell the slight scent of cologne mixed with everything Josh. My head spins, my mind becomes lost in the thousand memories of us. From the first time he knocked on my door, wearing the same exact cologne, to the first time I sat in his car wanting nothing more than to breathe him in. I told him I loved the way he smelled. And now, just like then, I want to get lost in it. In the way it wraps itself around me, making me dizzy, making me needy for him.

  I kissed him that day, his lips warm and soft across my mouth. The taste of his kiss forever scarred on my lips, lips that have longed for him.

  His mouth moves, and I know he’s speaking, but the thumping in my eardrums has turned the world silent. My dad’s touch is gentle, urging me forward, and I force the chaos out of my mind. Josh raises his eyebrows waiting for my response, but I don’t have one. Dad, however, clears his throat and steps forward, half blocking me from Josh’s view—something Josh senses right away because he straightens to full height, his chest rising with his intake of breath.

  “We’re here to see Josh Warden,” Dad says, even though he knows he’s speaking to Josh Warden.

  Josh Warden, Josh Warden, Josh Warden. His name replays in my mind, over and over, while his shoulders slump, his gaze switching to me quickly before going back to my dad, taking in all 6’4” of him. “That’s me, sir,” Josh murmurs, the confidence he exuded only minutes ago no longer visible.

  I step away from behind my dad’s protection and lift the tag from the lanyard hanging around my neck. I tap it twice and then look up, waiting for his response.

  His eyebrows bunch and he reaches for the tag, his fingers brushing mine.

  His touch is like fire. Sweet, torturous flames setting off too many emotions. I struggle, and I fight, and I fight some more, to not move away, to not fear his touch.

  But I fail.

  Because I’m Becca Owens—a broken girl.

  And he’s Josh Warden—the boy who broke me.

  PART I

  1

  —Joshua—

  I can hear them following behind me as I lead them to my bus, their footsteps crunching on the gravel now the soundtrack to my fear.

  Every day I thought about her, missed her, craved her, and now she’s here, and her presence has me struggling for air.

  Chris’s eyes widen when I open the door, and Becca comes into view, his mouth opening, closing, opening again. He pushes off the table he’s leaning on and taps away at his phone. After a while, he looks up, first at me, then at her, and then her dad behind her. “Becca Owens,” Chris says into the thick, tension-filled air. “You’re doing the interview for Student Life?”

  Becca nods, her gaze everywhere but on me.

  “Right.” Chris returns her nod before looking over at me, his demeanor changing from being my agent to being my friend. “You good?”

  I hesitate to answer because I don’t know if I am. That’s a lie. I know I’m not good.

  “Why don’t you guys set up?” Chris says, pointing to the couch. “We just need a minute.”

  He’s trying to save me, and I appreciate it. But all the minutes in the world couldn’t save me right now. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and swallow hard. “I’m good, man,” I tell Chris, then to Becca, “Do you need anything? Water or…”

  Her head shakes as she points to the table behind Chris.

  I move out of her way so she can get past. Her dad follows, and I wonder for a moment if he goes to all her interviews or if he’s just here because it’s me. Because I’m the reason she is the way she is, the reason she can no longer speak. Becca sets up on one side of the table, her dad standing next to her, his arms crossed over his massive frame, doing everything he can to elicit the fear inside me. But it’s not him that has my heart hammering, making it impossible to breathe.

  It’s Her.

  It’s always been Her.

  I take a step forward and offer her dad my hand. “I’m Josh Warden, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He takes it, shaking it harder than necessary. “Martin,” he grunts, and it’s that moment I know he knows. About as much as I know that there’s not a damn thing I can do about it now, so I suck it up and take the seat opposite his daughter. I wait, watching her set up her phone, iPad, and computer on the table. Then she sits back, her hands on her lap, and she looks right at me, her eyes searing mine. After a moment, her lips curve into a smile, and I die. A thousand deaths. Over and over. Because while on the outside, I’m living the life, living my dream, it had never felt real and I had never felt worthy. And for that split second when her eyes were on mine, and her smile was directed at me, she gave value to my existence.

  Her smile fades when she leans forward, her fingers frantic as they press down on key after key of her computer. She hits one, then pauses and looks up at me, waiting for the mechanical voice to sound. “I should probably start by introducing myself. I’m Becca Owens, and I’m a student at Washington University here in St. Louis. I’ll be interviewing you for Student Life newspaper. The interview will run a little different than what you’re probably used to because I’m speech impaired. I’ll be communicating via my trusted old friend Cordy. If this is going to be a problem,
please let me know now.”

  I stare, unblinking, feeling my worth, my value, being sucked into a black hole along with the rest of me.

  “I’ll be using my computer to speak with you. My iPad is for recording, and my phone has my notes. Again, if this is a problem, please let me know.”

  Wiping my palms on my shorts again, I glance up at her dad before leaning forward, my forearms on the table. “It’s no problem, Becs. Whatever you need.”

  Her dad sighs, and Becca’s gaze drops.

  “Sir?” Chris says, his voice loud as he shoves his phone in his pocket. “What size feet you got?”

  “Excuse me?” Martin asks.

  Chris points behind him. “I got a bunch of shoes out back. The sponsor likes it when we hand ’em out. You interested?”

  For the first time since I saw him, Martin seems to relax. “I got big feet…”

  Chris smiles. “I got plenty of sizes. Plenty of styles.” He motions to where we keep the shoes. “Take your pick.”

  Martin places his hand on Becca’s shoulder. She doesn’t flinch, unafraid of his touch. “You good, kid?” he asks her.

  She smiles up at him and nods once, then shoos him away with a wave of her hand.

  We both wait until they’re in the back part of the bus, the door closed behind them, before she types and I speak. “You look good, Becs,” I say, the same time “Cordy” says, “Sorry about my dad.”

  I laugh.

  She frowns.

  Then her fingers are moving again. “I haven’t been following your success, so I had to have someone else on the newspaper write up the questions. He was supposed to be here, but he had a family emergency come up, so you’re stuck with me.”

  I clear my throat and push aside my disappointment.

  “Ready?”

  “Not really,” I mumble.

  Her frown deepens, her fingers tapping. “You took quite the hiatus for a few years there, and you’ve made it known in previous interviews the reason you did—your son Tommy—but you’ve never been clear on why you came back. Feel like giving a small time college newspaper an exclusive?”

  Her chest rises and falls as she keeps her head lowered, waiting for my response. “You want an exclusive?” I ask.