Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,61
horizon—saw our dusty field, the shabby equipment, everything looking old and cheap.
Luna’s pictures were colorful and hopeful. We looked like a happy place for happy dogs that needed a little bit of extra help. There were portraits of every single dog we had with funny captions. Silly photos of Wes and Jem, training sessions with Elián.
“She’s good, man,” Elián said.
“Is that a lie?” I asked. “What she posted?”
“I don’t think it is,” he said. “I think she really loves it here. You can tell how she talks about it. Donors want to give to her because she’s authentic. She’s not trying to guilt them into giving. I think she’s trying to inspire them.”
I ran a hand through my hair, pondering that. “She is good,” I admitted. “I feel bad that my family is fucking things up for her this week.”
“Media that bad, huh?” he asked, squinting at the setting sun.
I shouldn’t have brought it up—I had to clamp down on my anger to keep it from boiling over. After that paparazzi shot, the Devils were back in the public eye, though mostly it was re-posting the same mug shots or sharing bizarre theories. About ten years ago, I’d kicked around the idea of sealing or expunging my juvenile record—a real clean slate. But I hadn’t gone through with it, mostly because I wanted to avoid even talking about it at all costs.
Now I wished I had.
“Bad. It’s all fake. They’re trying to drag her down. Dragging up old stories about me that I’d forgotten about. Or aren’t real.”
“Have your parents reached out to you?” Elián asked.
I huffed into my beer. “No,” I said. “I’m only useful to Rip and Georgie if I come back begging. They’ll stay away until that happens. But the MC’s letting me know they’re around. Couple times. I think they rode past here the other morning. A couple guys on the beach giving me the eye, that kind of thing.”
“Jesus, man,” he said. “If they give you problems, tell me, okay?”
I nodded. The first five years after I’d left the MC, I was looking over my shoulder all the time, worried they’d drag me back kicking and screaming. But twenty years was a long time and before Luna I’d felt—finally—safe.
Luna da Rosa was a disruption to my life in more ways than one.
One of them was that I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for seven days straight and the thoughts were so filthy I had to fuck my own hand every single night.
“We need to talk about what’s next,” Elián said. “The money is amazing. We’re probably out of the crisis. Now we gotta do something about it.”
“What do you mean?” I opened two more beers, passed one to him.
“Those foundation people were assholes. But they kinda had a point, Beck. I know you don’t want to do it because it seems risky, but we have to invest now. We have to develop a strategic plan and formalize our goals. All of these donors”—Elián pointed at the screen with the tip of his beer—“will want accountability for this massive public interest in us. We have to court them. Make sure they’ll give again.”
“More kennels, more dogs,” I shrugged, wanting to clam up.
But he wouldn’t let me. He threw an arm around my shoulders, patted my back. “Not having a high school diploma doesn’t mean jack shit and you know that. Everything I just said we can get help with. Board members. Volunteers. Shit, Luna can do this stuff for us. If you asked her she’d rally together the best brains in the business.”
Elián handed me a stack of square envelopes. “Like these. What are all these?”
“Invitations to community events and other fundraisers.”
They were all addressed to Mr. Beck Mason, Executive Director. “Don’t they know I’m a violent criminal or whatever?”
“Not everyone cares about trashy gossip,” Elián said, grinning as he took a swig. “You’re starting to be in high demand. Well, maybe not high. But like a low-to-medium demand.”
I flipped through the stack. Foundations, Rotary club meetings, church groups.
“Some of them want you to speak,” he said, tapping an envelope.
I grimaced. “That’s too bad.”
Elián sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you remember when I met you at the Miami SPCA? I’d never seen someone so angry and unsure. You were like Beatrix over there, snarling at anyone who got too close.”
I lifted a shoulder. “Hazard of juvie. Hazard of the club. If you don’t come out swinging, the other person will.”