SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,64

able to surf.”

His friend stretched, then settled back in his seat. There was no man more laidback. “Like I said, I have a feeling this is where I’m supposed to be.” Then he smirked. “I don’t need to be looking at you to know you’re rolling your eyes.”

Shaking his head, Mad chuckled. “I still don’t understand why, if you’re clairvoyant, you don’t win the lottery every week.”

“Cooper’s our lucky man. I definitely do get feelings on occasion, though. About a situation or a person.”

“What about the new woman you’re seeing?” Mad tried to forget Raf and his search for the perfect vanilla-almond oil. “She’s special?”

Shane pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked over. “That girl is going to bring profound changes to my life.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe such a grand statement coming from you unless you end it with ‘dude.’ That girl is going to bring profound changes to my life, dude.”

“You think you’re so funny.” Shane frowned. “But I’m serious. I can’t shake the notion that—”

“She’s going to shake up your world. Women have a way of doing that.”

“Dude,” Shane added with a smile, then paused. “So what are you going to do about your own personal shake-up?”

“I don’t have to do anything. She’ll do it for me.” Come, go, break his heart. “I’m just letting things ride.”

“You’re slow-playing it then,” Shane said.

“What? I recognize the poker term, of course, but…”

“You’re playing it cool. Allowing her to think she has control of the table—in this case your relationship. She goes along believing she has the better hand and then wham, you’ll throw down your full house. And win the big pot.”

Mad stared at his friend, but that didn’t cause the metaphor to make any better sense to him. “Whatever,” he finally said.

“The response of wise men everywhere.”

“Hey…” Mad’s voice trailed off as he saw two young men, carrying surfboards under their arms, stroll from the sand to a junk heap of a car parked a few rows behind Shane’s van. From the sideview mirror, he watched them strap the boards on the roof rack, then peel off their wetsuits. “That’s those two little shitheads.”

Shane glanced around then adjusted his rearview mirror and looked there. “Oh, yeah.” Then he rubbed the back of his neck. “What’s their story?”

“Nineteen, no jobs, no nothing good going for them.”

Shane grunted.

“Where do they get the scratch to fill the tank of their crap ride—guzzler for sure,” Mad mused aloud, “or those custom wetsuits or those shiny new boards that cost at least a G each?”

“Good questions.”

“I don’t like not knowing the answers.” Mad narrowed his eyes as they climbed into the car.

Shane started his van. “Let’s see where they go.”

“What?” He looked at his friend. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

Mad shook his head. “From Beach Boy to Hardy Boy in the blink of an eye.” But he was more than curious himself. He gestured with his hand. “Onward.”

For an amateur, Shane did a fine job of tailing the pair, and they followed them through the drive-thru—enough tacos and drinks for a group, the server said when Mad flashed his badge at the window—and then into the foothills. Shane had to pull back to avoid detection on the narrow roads, but there were few turnoffs so they kept on going at a slow but steady pace.

“There,” Mad said, as they passed a dilapidated dwelling with a sagging roof and boarded-up windows. He’d almost missed it, because they’d driven their compact across dried weeds to stash the car behind the house. “They must be in there.”

Shane traveled a little farther then made a U-turn and pulled over, parking fifty yards away. “Do we have a plan, Detective?” he asked as they climbed from his van and quietly shut their doors.

“I don’t know, Frank, do we?”

“I’m Joe Hardy,” Shane said. “The cute blond brother.”

They approached the front door, and Mad noted a padlock broken off and hanging from a metal loop. Through the plywood covering the windows, music pulsed.

“Guess we didn’t need to tiptoe through the tulips,” Shane said.

Mad shot him a look. “Stay behind me.”

“Right.”

They were shoulder-to-shoulder when Mad turned the knob then nudged open the door with the toe of his shoe. If the hinges squealed, the sound was lost in the bass that seemed to drum against his breastbone.

On the floor of what he supposed was the “living room,” was scattered fast-food wrappers, the surfboards and wetsuits, a handful of beach chairs, and a portable sound system. Four young people with absolutely no idea their