Rebound (Boomerang #2)(20)

The memory sobers me, and I feel myself draw away. I’m listening, but on the outside of the bubble of warmth created by his enthusiasm. Maybe it’s for the best that there’s a Julia. Not that I needed another reason to keep a distance between us, but I’m grateful to have one. I can be cordial; we can do the work we need to do together. But that has to be it. That’s my purpose here. My only purpose. Anything else would be a mistake, and I absolutely refuse to make another one of those.





Chapter 10



Adam


Saturday mornings surf sessions at County Line with Grey are the best part of my week. Usually, we surf the point break, but we’re not up for sharing today and it seems like everyone and his brother, or half-brother in my case, is here. So we take the beach break, which can be mushy and gutless on weaker days.

Today is not a weak day.

The rides are incredible, steep and fast, but carrying lots of power. Just how I like them. I pull myself onto my board after surfing yet another spectacular wave and check my diver’s watch. Almost eleven o’clock. Grey and I have been out here since eight. It’s no wonder my arms feel like lead weights.

Eighty yards out, Grey is just standing up. I watch him carve the face of a wave like he weighs nothing. I do fine out here, but these are his kinds of waves, tailor-made for a fearless nineteen-year-old shredder on a shortboard.

Grey sees me and rides my way.

“Adam! Oh no, Adam!” he yells as he draws closer, waving his hands. “Look out! I can’t stop! Look out!”

He charges right at me. A few non-locals nearby don’t know what to think, especially an older man on a longboard. They’ve seen him surf and know he’s awesome. The best guy on the water. But Grey has a way of making you believe things even when they’re clearly not true.

With fewer than a dozen feet between us, he cuts back and rides over the break. I have to duck dive under the wave, so I only see the beginning of his backflip into the water.

We surf for different reasons, Grey and I.

I come to find peace. He comes to raise hell.

We surface close together, and he’s laughing. “Did you see that old guy’s face? He thought I was actually going to hit you! What a moron! Like I couldn’t surf circles around that old geezer!”

“Yeah, the old guy. Moron.”

Grey shakes his head. “Aw, c’mon, Adam. I wasn’t trying to give him a heart attack.”

“Yes, you were.”

“But it’s not like I could actually do it. And I can’t believe you’re ditching me tomorrow,” Grey says, in his classic way of changing subjects with zero warning. The kid barely graduated high school, but his mind’s always churning, going a hundred miles an hour in ten directions at a time. He’s brilliant, but most people can’t tell. They don’t see past the swearing and partying, or the tattoos. That’s how Grey likes it.

“Have to,” I tell him. “It’s a work thing.”

“Whatever. Responsibility sucks.” Grey rubs his eyes, bloodshot after three hours in saltwater. We have the same father, so we look the same in a lot of ways, but he’s olive-skinned and darker than me, which makes the signature gray eyes common to all Blackwood men stand out more on him.

“We need to eat,” he says. “I’m so hungry, I’m about to throw up.”

“Ten more minutes.” I’m starving too, but I’m not ready to give this up yet. The water’s turning glassy and calm, so I stretch my arms out and hang them off the end of my board.

“I’ll be at the car,” Grey says and paddles into the next wave.

I watch him stand up and fly toward shore. Eye color isn’t the only Blackwood trait we have in common. When our minds are made up, they’re made up.

A wave of tiredness hits me, a mix of sleepiness and muscle-fatigue. This is the feeling I love. I know I’ll sleep well tonight. Hopefully a full night without nightmares. Without waking up at the crack of dawn with the sound of Chloe’s laughter in my ears.

I try not to think about the question Alison asked. About what happens after we die. I can’t think about it. Can’t let Chloe seep into more of my waking life.

Out of the blue, I remember telling Alison what this means to me. The surf. How she’d closed her eyes, imagining it. I wonder if she’s ever tried it.

I’ve caught myself thinking about her too much this week. Or watching her as she worked at the conference table in my office. Or sitting right next to her during meetings, when there were other seats available. I’ve been observing her. Creating my own Alison Quick profile.

She dresses to kill. Designer stuff, but she puts some flair into things, managing to look classic and modern at the same time. The only constant in her wardrobe seems to be her diamond “A” studded earrings, which works great. When we talk, I always have somewhere to look.

She hums to herself when she prepares her coffee—always with cinnamon dusted on top. She talks to her horse trainer every morning and smiles the entire time. She’s good with names—she had everyone in the office down by the second day—but she isn’t exactly friendly with them. Even with her own team, she’s courteous and cordial. It surprises me. She admitted to me that she liked horses better than people at the Gallianos’ party, but all week I’ve seen glimpses of the girl who was spontaneous and sweet that night. And fun and sexy as hell.