Page 23 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Rip

W ith our bellies full, the sun melting into the horizon, and the sky blushing wild shades of orange and pink, we gather around the fire pit. A salty breeze toys with our hair, while the kids gleefully offer marshmallows to the flames like tiny, sticky sacrifices to the beach gods.

“Want one?” I ask, leaning into Charley, brushing my shoulder against hers.

She rubs her stomach dramatically. “I am so full. I couldn’t put another thing in my mouth if I tried.”

I shift slightly, adjusting my pants with a silent curse, but then she bites her bottom lip, and that’s when I get it. She’s messing with me.

“You are sogoing to get it,” I whisper in her ear.

She grins. “Casserole,” she fires back. “Wait. No,that’sthe safe word, to stop. I meant.” She puckers her lips. “I’m looking for the opposite. The word that gets us outof here. Because I’msogoing to get it…”

The glow from the fire flickers across her face, her blonde hair catching the light like spun sugar. My throat goes tight.

“Did you have fun?” I ask, softer now. I don’t want to pull her away before she’s ready.

She nods. “Actually… yeah. I’m really glad we came.”

“Me too.” I reach for her hand, wrap mine around it, and hold tight. Across the circle, I catch a few knowing smiles aimed our way, but right now, I don’t care. I’m imagining her alone. Bare. Beneath me. My name on her lips. I’m about to suggest we “go check if we left the window open” when?—

“How about some music?” Mrs. Callahan shouts out, holding up a wine glass like a toast.

“Yes, music,” a chorus of voices chimes in.

Charley claps once and beams. She’s clearly not in any rush to leave now, so I stand, accept our fate, and grab her guitar.

Little Emma scoots closer, her wide blue eyes shining with marshmallow-fueled enthusiasm. “Charley, will you teach me how to play guitar? I’ll give you a marshmallow.”

Charley laughs. “A marshmallow for payment? That sounds fair.”

I lean in and whisper. “Didn’t you just say you couldn’t eat one more thing.”

She nudges me with a wink. “But how could I say no to that face?”

Honestly, even I would’ve agreed to teach her, and I have the musical ability of a potato. But that kid is so damn sweet as she looks up at Charley with pure adoration. I get it kid. Trust me, I get it.

“Oh, thank you.” Emma flings her arms around Charley, smushing her sticky fingers into her hair. “I’m so sorry,” Emma says quickly, eyes round with horror.

“Don’t worry,” Charley says, laughing. “It’ll wash right out.”

I hand over the guitar, and she takes it like it’s something sacred. Which, to her, it is.

“How about I sing a few songs,” she says to the group, “and then I’ll teach you a few chords, Emma. You can borrow my guitar if you promise to be very, very careful with it.” She smiles at me and it messes with my heart. “It was a special gift.”

Honest to God, Charley is the kindest, most quietly extraordinary woman I’ve ever known, and it pisses me off more than it should that her parents saw her as some kind of rebel.

How blind do you have to be to miss this?

This woman with a marshmallow in her hair, children looking up to her as she strums her guitar for the pleasure of others.

She’s generous. Nurturing. Soft in a way that makes you want to be better.

She catches my eye with a devilish grin. “Feel like singing? I believe this is your go-to jam.”

She strums, and oh God I know exactly what’s coming before she even opens her mouth.

A beat later, Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On floats into the firelit night. The whole group erupts with glee and join in. Even me. I’m off-key and half-laughing, but her grin when I butcher the chorus is totally worth it.

I glance over at Mrs. Callahan, who’s swaying with her wine glass and singing like she’s on stage at a Vegas lounge. The woman still kind of terrifies me, but seeing her this alive makes me weirdly happy. We brought a little magic to this night, or rather, Charley did.

The kids are clapping, twirling barefoot in the sand.

The fire crackles. Something about this moment, this whole scene, hits me in the chest. Hard.

I’ve always pictured the white picket fence life somewhere off in the distance.

A future thing. A Lyra thing. But right now, watching Charley here, glowing with laughter and warmth and music, I feel… different.

She plays a few more songs until Emma’s rubbing her eyes, blinking sleepily. Charley quiets the strings and gently rests the guitar in her lap.

“Want to go find a quiet spot? I can show you a few chords,” she offers.

“Yes, I would love that,” Emma whispers like she’s being handed the keys to a kingdom.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Callahan says, and I step back, watching Charley lead Emma a few feet away, sitting cross-legged across from her with all the patient of a good teacher.

I’m probably grinning like a damn fool, because suddenly Jensen’s at my side, clapping a hand on my back. I wince, my skin sore from the burn.

“Dude,” he says, smirking. “She’s something special, huh?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. My voice is low. Distant. “She really is.”

I’m still watching her when Jensen leans in. “You really marrying her?”

I turn slowly, every part of me tensing. There’s a look in his eye I don’t like. Not one bit.

“You do know who she is, right?” he laughs.

My stomach drops. My fingers curl into fists. “What the hell are you getting at?”

Jensen snorts. “That’s Indie Rhodes, man. She can cut her hair, ditch the makeup, wear a Sunday school dress all she wants. But I’d know that face anywhere. And…” He grins, crude and knowing. “Well. Some other parts too.”

I’m this close to swinging, fist clenched, heart hammering, ready to knock that smug look clean off Jensen’s face. But I drag in a hard breath through my nose, forcing myself to cool down. Hitting him won’t help Charley. It’ll only bring her more trouble, more eyes, more questions.

“That’s not her,” I bite out, jaw tight.

Jensen snorts like he’s already won. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, man.”

My blood spikes hotter. “Does your wife know what you’re watching after she goes to bed, Jensen?”

His eyes blink once. Then again. He shifts back half a step, and just like that…I turned the table on him. Put him in the spotlight and not in a pleasant way—which is what he deserves.

“Does she know what you’re paying for?” I add, voice low and lethal.

He says nothing.

I only ever saw the damn video because I’d dropped down beside Theo at a bar in Florida.

He was getting off on it like a creep while the Bucks were in his new town, playing his new team.

I didn’t say a word at the time. Didn’t see the point.

I recognized her from The Spotlight, but didn’t know her personally.

If I had… if I’d known who she was back then, I would’ve broken Theo’s nose without a second thought.

But now? Now I know exactly who she is. I know the weight she carries in that bright smile, the bruises hidden under her strength, the way her whole damn career is balanced on a razor-thin edge because of what her ex did. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone—anyone—use that against her.

I lean in just enough to make sure Jensen hears me, and only me. “Now, why don’t you fuck off and shut your goddamn mouth.”

There’s a beat. A long one.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally mutters. “Maybe it wasn’t her.”

“It wasn’t,” I say, dead serious.

“Right.” He nods, backing away like the coward he is. “It wasn’t.”

Just then, Charley comes up to me, her brows pulled together in concern. “Everything okay?”

I tug her into me, needing her warmth like a fix. “Yeah,” I say, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Everything’s fine.”

Her eyes flick to where Jensen stood moments ago. “You and Jensen looked like you were having a very... intense conversation.”

I shrug, trying to keep it light. “Just shooting the shit. You know—sports, life, sunscreen application technique.”

She doesn’t entirely buy it, but before she can press, Jensen reappears with a grin that’s trying way too hard. His arm’s looped around his wife like he’s the goddamn picture of domestic bliss.

“We’re heading out,” he says cheerfully. “Great meeting you both, Charley. Rip. Hope to see you around more.”

“Night,” we say in perfect unison, waving like the happy couple we are—minus the part where I’d still like to knock his teeth in.

Mrs. Callahan swoops in next, wine glass in hand, cheeks flushed with laughter and too much rosé. “Thank you for the music,” she says, dreamy-eyed. Then her smile falters. “Wait—you’re not leaving, are you?”

“Window,” we blurt out at the same time.

I bite my lip to hold back a laugh. Charley recovers first, always the quicker thinker. “Ithink we left the window open at the cottage,” she says sweetly. “With this ocean breeze I don’t want sand blowing in.”

I yawn for effect, stretching like a man in desperate need of aloe and silence. “Also,” Charley adds, patting my arm, “I need to get some ointment on Rip’s sunburn.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” Mrs. Callahan perks right up and plunges a hand into the deep pocket of her floral dress—one that looks like it came straight from a Mrs. Roper fan convention in Vegas—and produces a tube like a magician with a rabbit.

“Here. Miracle cream. Made it myself. Smells like feet but works like a charm.”

I take the tube warily, fully expecting the label to read: Not Approved by Any Medical Board Ever.

“Thanks, Mrs. Callahan.”

She squints up at me like I’m a disobedient student. “You have to reapply SPF after swimming. This is basic stuff, Ripley. Do you want to look like a baked ham?”

“Yes, I know,” I mutter, already feeling twelve years old again.