SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,29
stupid, he’d likely noticed—and remembered—that Mad had been somewhat…surly after she’d gone. “Look, Dad, I’m not interested in—”
“Why did she leave? Six years ago, I mean.”
To see the world? To escape Sawyer Beach? To get away from him? “She got a job teaching in Korea. Then some other places, I think.”
“But you never looked her up on your own travels?”
And bash his healing heart with a sledgehammer? “No.”
Peter stood back, assessed his work while stroking his chin. “Why didn’t she come back?” he asked absently. “Before now, I mean.”
Avoiding Sawyer Beach? Avoiding him? “I have no idea.”
“You could always ask her,” his father suggested.
Mad’s temper sparked. “I’m not going to get involved with Harper again, Dad.” He shoved his hands through his hair. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Oh, I never worry about you, Maddox.”
The claim didn’t cool him. “Dad—”
“You are a levelheaded, cautious man. Why, there’s probably not an impulsive bone in your body.”
“Coming from you, who’s always aware of every angle, Dad, that’s quite a compliment.” But somehow it didn’t feel complimentary. It felt…dull. Lifeless. Burned out.
No, that’s how he’d felt right before Harper Hill had blocked the road in front of him several days ago.
His father fished another piece of oak from the wheelbarrow. “Aren’t you going to be late for your beach party?”
“What?”
“Your mother stashed a six-pack of that hard cider you like in the kitchen. Take that with you.”
“I already bought some of that hard cider I like.” Mad decided getting away from his father sounded like a good idea about now. Levelheaded. Cautious. “I’ll borrow an ice chest, though.”
“Go right ahead,” Peter said.
“I’m on my way then.” Mad turned.
“Son?”
He paused. “Yeah?”
“If you see Harper again, say hello for me.”
Grunting, Mad continued on his way. He wasn’t going to see Harper again because that was a bad idea. Incautious. Un-levelheaded. Impulsive.
Not something a man like him would pursue at all.
He reached the beach, dragging one ice chest behind him with another propped on his shoulder via the narrow path that took him through marshes and sand dunes. You had to know the place to find it. The late afternoon sun turned the shallow cove the temperature of summer, though he could smell smoke from a couple of fire rings already lit.
His poker buddy Boone approached on his huge feet. “The cop is here!” he shouted, then lifted the cooler off Mad’s shoulder. “Your usual hard cider?”
“Yeah.”
The big man yanked on the grocery bag tucked under his arm. “Pork rinds, of course.”
Okay, they’d been his snack of choice since those three weeks in Costa Rica. “I don’t always bring pork rinds.”
“Sure you do.” Boone punched him in the arm. “To the beach, hard cider and pork rinds.”
Rubbing his bicep, he frowned as his friend trudged off in the direction of the patchwork of blankets and beach towels spread over the sand. A crowd was gathered there, around drinks and food set out on portable picnic tables that someone had packed in from the lot where they’d left their cars. Music blared over the sound of the surf from a rhinestone-encrusted boombox that had to be a leftover from junior high.
“Hard cider and pork rinds?”
Mad glanced over, frowning deeper at his friend Hart. “I don’t always bring hard cider and pork rinds.”
“Sure you do. Pork rinds and hard cider to the beach.” Hart grinned. “You’re predictable.”
“Well, you’re too damn skinny,” Mad said. “Boone’s going to start bench pressing you instead of going to the gym.”
Instead of taking offense, Hart punched him in the same arm that still throbbed. “Let’s get something to eat.”
“Ow,” Mad complained to his friend’s back, then followed him, towing the second cooler.
Predictable. Levelheaded. Cautious.
Dull. Lifeless. Burned out.
He shook off all the labels. Damn it, he was going to join his friends, have a great evening, enjoy the fuck out of the hours. Be himself.
His boring, burned-out, lifeless self.
Continuing onward, he squared his shoulders and took a second look at the knot of people. If Sophie was already here, then there’d be good things to eat.
Besides pork rinds.
He stowed the cooler beneath the nearest table and wandered over to his friend Shane who was looking at the setting sun, his expression doleful. “Waves are flat,” he said.
“Why I didn’t bring my board,” Mad replied. “I checked the surf report before I came.”
“I don’t check the report.” Shane shoved a hank of hair off his forehead. “I don’t need to check the report. I feel the waves, see?”