The Second Jam Page 19

  I stood and took the two steps to the window to face the swamp. I could almost hear the fluttering of the catfish’s fins in the murky bayou, the teeth of the nutra rat chattering, and the bowing branches of the Cypress tree in the beginning winds of a Louisiana thunderstorm. The swamp called to me, begging me to allow it to soothe the beast and the stress. I wished it could. But I didn’t even have time to run anymore—I hadn’t shifted in weeks. The neglect of my inner animal made my skin crawl and itch.

  Let me out, he pleaded.

  He didn’t answer my rhetorical plea for him to further his rebuttal, so I continued my side of the debate, “What else can I do? Have you seen the other clan members? They’re as mature as a newborn cub. If I don’t take over as their Alpha, they’ll scatter to the winds. And with the other clans vying for our land already—they would take over the LaFourche land and be a heartbeat away from our boundaries. I won’t have it.”

  He grabbed the arms of the chair and leaned forward, and I could see his reflection in the window.

  “Then something has to give. Things are getting out of hand. We respect you, Alpha and will obey anything you ask of us. But the Betas and clan are restless, the males and the females. You know our ways dictate that our inner animal obey an Alpha pair, not just a male. We need the strength of a pair. If you intend to do this, we should be stronger, at least.”

  Didn’t I know it? If they were restless for a pair to oversee them—if restless was the word they were using, then I was downright violent with my need for a mate.

  The craving almost consumed me.

  My bear needed a mate, and I as an Alpha, needed the balance of a female—plus, even with my warmer body temperature; my bed, of late, seemed to grow colder and colder.

  But who had time to seek out a mate when the clan was in a spiral of disorganization and failure?

  It wasn’t like there was a dating and mating website for bear shifters. If there had been, its mascot would have been that yellow Care Bear with the heart on its stomach. The commercial would have him doing the Care Bear stare or some shit. I hated Care Bears.

  Why am I thinking about Care Bears?

  I knew he could feel my malcontent over bringing up the issue of a mate, so he relented and moved on.

  “There’s another issue, Alpha.”

  I turned to my friend with a fake smile, “Oh great, what more?”

  “There’s been a report of a black bear, a rogue, in South Dakota. She seems to be part of a grizzly clan, but is not mated. They have seen her working on clan lands and running perimeters on their boundaries at all times of the night.”

  I shrugged, “It’s the female’s choice if she wants to keep clan with grizzlies.”

  “The thing is—she’s thin—worn. The wolf pack Alpha who reported her says she’s unhealthy. He says he can see her ribs when she shifts and she’s maybe eighteen or nineteen but none of the kids in his pack have ever seen her in school. And they all attend school together up there, shifter and human. He assumes—he assumes she’s being held captive. He sent a formal request that you visit and see for yourself as the Alpha over all bear Alphas.”

  I snorted in his direction, “I’m sure the grizzlies would be much obliging.”

  “They don’t have a choice. We outrank them. Black bears outrank Grizzlies, you know that. They have no choice but to grant you entrance.”

  Of course I knew that. I was just grasping at straws, trying to talk my way out of going to South Dakota for any reason.

  “How can I leave now, with the clan in turmoil?”

  “It will take us three days. It’s not gonna fall apart in three days. If she is what the wolf says she is, then we have to save her. We protect our own.”

  I slammed my fist down on the table, more in frustration with the entire situation than towards my Beta. He jumped anyway, “I know we protect our own. Make the arrangements with the rest of the clan. I want you and Flint on my flank. Three days, no more.”

  He didn’t answer with words, simply bowed his head in acknowledgement.

  I couldn’t believe this. I was in the middle of a turf struggle, on the verge of taking on a new clan, and trying to calm the mate-craving animal inside me—and there was a lone female in cold South Dakota who’d gotten herself kidnapped and enslaved.

  Perfect.

  And now enjoy the first chapter of my contemporary romance Until She Walked In

  Available on all platforms.

  “It’s disgusting,” I parroted her; she always got nasal when referring to all things pestiferous. The top items on her list of foul objects: Ground beef, roaches, carpet of any kind, and of late, me—well, my growlery in particular.

  “Don’t you sass me Breaker James. I could care less about your detest for my meddling. Get it cleaned up before I show up next week or I will hire a maid myself,” she quipped.

  The shudder ripped through me at the thought and she knew it. She couldn’t hire someone—she wouldn’t. Damn her for knowing how to hit below the belt.

  “Fine. I’ll take care of it, Mom,” I groaned back at her. It wasn’t that bad. Yes, the dishes were piled up in the sink and something growing a fur coat on one plate in particular—I think it was spaghetti, was being the operative word. And maybe the dust could be seen flying in formation when the sun shone through the splice in the curtains. There was no soap scum ring around the bathtub, but that was because I never took baths, that has to count for something. If I were a regular person, I would keep up with the everyday chores. I would keep up with chores like emptying the dishwasher and washing my clothes.

  If I were a regular person, I could actually walk out of this prison—house, it’s a house.

  “Test me not Breaker. I will not be moved on this. And I get what you’re going through, I do. But no son of mine will live in filth—period.” She hung up the phone, unwilling to hear my response. I had to clean this place up. I had a week.

  I didn’t used to be like this. I was that guy who did the dishes after dinner because my girl had cooked. I spent Saturday mornings cleaning the house and making sure the grass was mowed. I got dressed in the morning and ran—outside. I went to visit my mom and my sisters. I went to school where there was a real classroom and the phrase virtual classroom was unheard of. There were lots of things I used to be and do.

  During the week that followed, I did some things, none of which I would call cleaning. I wrote. I journaled. I stayed in chat rooms constantly, my only method of social interaction. I expected a knock at the door telling me I’d been catfished any day now. I studied and worked on classwork. I didn’t clean. In fact, I would say the mess had doubled in volume and stench. I just didn’t care. Why should I? In this chasm, not quite living and not quite dead, no one, except my mother, gave a rat’s ass if my house was clean.

  I did do my laundry, mostly because I was out of things to wear. I didn’t wear real clothes anymore. I wore basketball shorts and old band and sports t shirts. Who was gonna see me? And my bedroom was clean for the most part. The rest of the house—no one came over, so why would I care if it was presentable? Anyway, she wouldn’t hire a maid. She knows how I feel about—people. I really didn’t mind people one on one but eventually they would want to go out into the world. And that was where my part ended. I never left this house, not even to go to the mailbox. I never went to the grocery store or the park. I didn’t get to hear concerts or leave a lame party early.

  It had been two years, three months and nineteen days since the party. Subtract three days spent in the hospital for monitoring and that’s the length of time since I’ve been out of these walls.

  I threw a t-shirt on, since Mom would be at the house any minute and tried to scroll excuses through my head, picking the most lucrative options as to why I hadn’t obeyed her request as I tore down the stairs. I plucked ‘I had a ton of schoolwork’ out of the mental pile and decided that was my story.

  I heard her car in the driveway; it was the only car which made an appear
ance in my driveway. I smirked to myself. She was soooo not hiring a maid. I had this in the bag.

  She walked in and I hugged her, kissed her cheek and smiled that gooshy sweet grin I knew she loved.

  “It smells like a garbage dump in here,” the look of determination on her face terrified me. She was dressed like she was a high level executive, all pencil skirt and pearls even though everyone knew she was a country club rat.

  I laughed it off, “Come on, you’re being dramatic.”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled, “Breaker, I have to.” She looked down and shook her head.

  “No, Mom. I’ll take care of it,” I could feel my innards begin their quaking and quivering at just the thought of a new person in my house. An elephant sat on my chest and the little beating mouse thumped furiously against the weight. God, what if I had a panic attack in front of them and they thought I was a freak?

  “No Breaker, I’ll take care of it. This,” she pointed to the kitchen behind me, “is what happens when you take care of things lately. This was not part of the deal. I’m sorry if you don’t like it. Just one more thing to talk to Angela about. Tell her your mother forces you to be hygienic.”

  She always did this. She thought that the psychologist came to the house and all we did was talk about how bad of a mother I had and that must be the root of my challenge. That wasn’t it at all but there was no convincing her lately. She’d convinced herself if she’d paid more attention to Holly’s antics she could’ve prevented my downfall. Hell, I couldn’t stop it, how could she?

  “What are you gonna do,” Come on logic, work your magic. “Put an ad in Craigslist? What would it say? Wanna clean for a guy who is a slob and—insane?”

  “Don’t do that Breaker. But yes, that’s exactly what I intend to do. I’ll have to ask Navy about it since I’m not good at the computer stuff. She’ll know what to do. I’m also going to put some flyers up at LSU. So, I will narrow the people down to a few and then I will send them over here for interviews,” she held up her hand before my mouth could protest, “I will schedule it so you know they are coming but this is happening, honey, so just get over it.”

  She left me silent and stunned until the reality of what she said crashed down on me, “Shit!”

  Chapter One of Dethroning Crown:

  Chapter One

  Crown

  To be haughty is to be heavy.

  I’d do anything—anything—to further my career.

  As I looked into the mirror, my moving jaw resembling a cow chewing on cud, I spoke the oath to myself.

  The coach did a shit job of pumping the team up before a game. He always quoted someone or told a stupid-ass open ended story. Those things didn’t give me the warm and fuzzies.

  He could’ve reminded me of how I never miss a goal.

  He could’ve told the story about how I was the shit.

  That would be uplifting.

  Because Crown Sterling didn’t lose—ever.

  I reached in my bag for some pre-game hydration. Chewable electrolyte replacements—that’s how little time I had to myself and in general. I didn’t even have the time or gumption to open a bottle and down a drink. Thank God, I’d never been signed to be sponsored by the company that made this shit. I wouldn’t ever be able to chew it on camera without gagging.

  Popping one of the tangerine flavored, Starburst-looking cubes into my mouth, I finished lacing up my cleats. I hated my cleats. I didn’t hate cleats in general, obviously. I hated the ones they made me wear. They were neon green, the tint of some radioactive shit you’d see on TV. It looked as if I’d kicked in the head of a Ninja Turtle. They were so damned bright and ugly, I nearly regretted signing the contract with the shoe company in the first place—nearly. That was probably why I’d not been shown the shoes when they handed over the check, the glare would’ve blinded me. Not to mention, they hurt like a bitch. Each stud indented itself into the bottom of my feet while I played, even though I’d padded the bottom with those orthopedic shoe inserts meant for old geezers with bunions. They also swindled me into wearing a fake tattoo with their brand on my damned arm like I belonged to them—like some cattle brand.

  Like a tramp stamp.

  But since they’d paid up and I’d bent over—maybe a tramp stamp was fitting.

  Hell, I’d sold my soul to soccer a long time ago—might as well give up what was left to the sponsors.

  I’d signed onto a professional team right after my eighteenth birthday. I was set to go to college on a full athletic scholarship to the University of Akron. My mother had died during childbirth and my father had not taken up drinking or bouts of madness as a habit to cure his woes. He made me and my training his habit. I took up every free minute of his time.

  The first time I kicked a ball was when I was two—he filmed the whole thing. Ever since then, I’d joined every local team and soccer association he could get his claws into. I spent my breaks and summers in various soccer camps and training facilities. I knew nothing else. Those shirts that read ‘Soccer is life. The rest is just details’ were made for me. So when the contract was placed on the grand oak desk, even though I’d wanted to contemplate the choice—my father had put the pen in my hand and bought out the team’s internet fan store before the ink dried. There was no choice as far as he was concerned. I was born and bred for the game that he loved with all his heart—the same game that his body refused to play up to standards.

  Sometimes, I wished for my body to fail me.

  But who would I be?

  No clue—no damned clue.

  Play on mothereffer—play on.

  He’d tried as a kid and in high school to play as well as he could, but he just couldn’t hack it. Hailing from Brazil, soccer was in his blood. Except a few thing: his reflexes weren’t swift enough—his legs not fast enough. So he watched it on TV the way most Americans watch football. He called American football, handball. He scoffed as people around him got up in arms about American football. He’d cackle and complain, ‘They call it football but their damned feet never touch the ball.’ The World Cup, in our home, was a life stopper. All activities—church, practice, and even school, came to a halt every four years so we could watch the world celebrate the sport.

  How could I not play soccer?

  He oozed pride and I soaked it up.

  Soccer consumed me.

  I felt like my jaw would soon break as the taffy-like energy candy’s flavor diminished into something that had the consistency of those wax lips I used to chew as a kid. I hocked the wad onto the floor in front of me and watched as it melted against the floor and stuck to the locker. I ignored the glare of the old guy who cleaned up after the team as he unfolded a napkin from his pocket and picked up my mess from the floor. It was his job. He could get over it. If I didn’t do shit like that, he wouldn’t have a paycheck.

  Let’s face it, if I weren’t here, this team wouldn’t even exist.

  I thought his name was Ellis—or maybe Elmer.

  I wasn’t really good with names.

  A tinge of guilt swept through me as I realized how much the older man resembled my grandfather. He was the one person who wasn’t incessantly interested in how I played or how many goals I’d made that day.

  He was long gone.

  Ignoring the janitor’s scowl and disapproval, I listened to the coach and the owners feed us their repetitive line of crap while I checked out my hair from different angles. There were mirrors all over the locker room and from where I sat I could see my hair’s every dimension. I’d gelled it up just right. The spikes were in all directions and my hairdresser had shaved my hairlines perfectly. That’s what I paid her for. With the cameras constantly on me, I had to keep up my appearance. Half of the reason I’d gotten so many endorsements was because of my looks—no argument. It was just a fact—I was a fine assed man.

  A clearing of the throat got my attention and I knew who it was. My gaze flicked over to Davey. He was gunning for my position on the field an
d in the coach’s good graces but he’d get nowhere with that pansy hair of his. He’d become one of those players who grew their hair out long and now sported one of those stretchy headbands.

  He stretched out the tongue of his equally ugly cleats and popped his chin out at me in some semblance of greeting.

  I rolled my eyes and went back to looking at my hair.

  It’s not like his hair impeded his playing. He was a good player, but lazy. That’s where I had the advantage in life and on the field—I was a machine through and through. I was the first to show up at practice and the last to leave. I ate only out of necessity and always strict on the carb to protein ratio. Food didn’t even have a taste anymore. Even though I was sure the Kobe beef I had delivered in from Japan was cooked to perfection by my personal chef—I wouldn’t know. I forked it into my mouth along with whatever other regimented portion of food was on my plate and left the table within ten minutes. Then it was back to working out and running hard.

  I was a goddamned machine.

  My life was stacked with employees who made my life easy. I had a personal chef and a maid. Since becoming a pro, I hadn’t touched a piece of laundry, picked up a stray sock, or even bought soap. It was all done for me so I could focus on my career.

  My career was my life.

  We made it out to the field and I focused on the crowd. I smiled, feeling the swell of pride as several signs and other fan-made praises were waved in the air.

  That’s right, ladies and gents, I’m a god in this arena. Shout my name, clap and gasp when I make a brilliant move. Fuel me with your worship.

  Headband elbowed me in the ribs, “Yo man, the national anthem.”

  I scanned the crowd to see they were now standing, right hands over their hearts.

  Shit.

  I quickly slammed my hand over my chest and pretended to mouth the words to the anthem of the United States even though I had no clue what most of the words were. I knew ‘home of the brave’ but that was about it. And I knew after they sang that part I’d get my couple of hours of glory. After that was my favorite part. The parties for the team were unrivaled. Cold beer, loud music and hundreds of females clamoring for my attention and my bed. Which was fine by me, a guy’s gotta get his aggression out somehow.