Backfield in Motion (11 page)

“Dad, why are driving down this road again?”
Mac swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to the metallic
taste in her mouth. “I thought we were going to Port Townsend.”

“I just want to take one more look around.”
Her father’s determined expression resigned Mac to their side trip,
as much as she dreaded their destination. She gripped the armrests,
digging her still-painted fingernails into the cracked vinyl.
“We’ve looked a hundred times. So have the cops. We didn’t miss
anything.”

“Please. Since we’re in the area, let’s
check it out.” Her father smiled his sad smile that made her heart
bleed for him. What she would give to see a real smile on his face
once again, hear his hearty laugh, and listen to his teasing when
she lost yet another poker round to him and her brothers. Card
games were not her forte.

Craig pulled his truck off the logging road
into a small clearing. Moss hung from huge cedars and hemlock
trees. A slight breeze ruffled the boughs. The sound should’ve been
comforting, but it wasn’t. Not in this place—the very place hikers
found Will’s truck three years ago almost to the day, three months
after he went missing.

Mac sighed, feeling like shit for being such
a selfish bitch. She knew why this area drew her father back time
and again. It was the only connection they had to Will’s
disappearance, at least the only one they would explore. Sonja had
never let them back in the house after Will disappeared.

Mac watched as her father wandered around
the clearing, then disappeared down the same trail they’d walked
dozens of times before. With a heavy sigh, she got out of the truck
and poked around the area. Nothing seemed out of place; nothing had
changed except the grass was taller and the blackberry vines weaved
their thorny arms into the clearing, claiming more and more
territory as their own.

“Mac! Mac!” Her father’s urgent, frantic
tone slammed into her.

Mac’s head jerked up. She spun in the
direction of her father’s voice and broke into a run, crashing
through the woods. Tree limbs slapped her face as her feet hit the
narrow trail. Her heart pounded in her ears at the frantic sound of
her father’s voice. Lord, she wished she’d learned to shoot a gun.
She’d carry it on these trips. She slid to a stop, her chest
heaving.

Her father stood several feet ahead,
pointing at the ground, his face chalky white.

“Dad, you scared the crap out of me. I
thought you were in danger or something.”

Craig ignored her alarm, his entire
attention focused on a small pile of garbage on the ground. “Look
at this.” Agitated, his whole body vibrated.

She bent down to get a closer look but saw
nothing but a couple plastic garbage bags, empty tin cans,
discarded junk mail, and a broken child’s toy.

“Don’t touch it. It’s evidence.”

“Dad, it’s nothing. Someone dumped their
trash here. Happens all the time in the woods, unfortunately.” Mac
stood up and shook her head.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. Let’s get back in the truck.
It’s going to rain.” She started down the path then half-turned and
waited for her father. He stared at the pile of garbage as if
willing it to turn into the clue he so desperately sought.

But it wasn’t a clue, and no amount of
wishing could transform it into something it wasn’t.

Chapter 8

Bruiser cast his line and leaned back in the
seat of Brett’s fishing boat, a twenty-five-foot C-Dory Tomcat
built locally in Ferndale. The two friends often sat for hours on
the lake or Puget Sound in this boat, rain or shine, sometimes
talking, sometimes not, and often not catching a thing. Regardless,
Bruiser enjoyed it.

Eighty-degree warmth soaked into his T-shirt
as rays of sun bounced off Lake Washington like a million tiny
diamonds riding the waves of the large freshwater lake.

“So how’d it go with Mac the other night?”
Brett never took his eyes off the end of his pole, waiting for that
telltale tug that announced a fish on the line.

Bruiser gave a guilty start and sat up
straight. He forced his face into what he hoped was his best
innocent expression, even as he felt his ears getting hot. “Fine.
You know Mac.”

“Yeah, but the guys said she didn’t look
like Mac, she looked damn hot.”

“I guess.” Bruiser shrugged one shoulder,
even as he recalled how hot Mac had looked. Really fucking hot.
Throw-her-on-the-bed-and-bang-her-brains-out hot. He bet the sassy
blonde would be one wild lady in bed. Those mental pictures were
worth a million words.
Oh, yeah, baby, give it to me like only
you can.

“Did you get a pic?”

Bruiser jumped, almost dropping his pole.
“Uh, yeah. On my cell.” Like he hadn’t looked at it dozens of times
since last Saturday night. Putting his pole in the rod holder, he
fished his phone out of his pocket, flipped to the photo, and
handed it to Brett.

“Wow. That’s Mac?” The asshole practically
salivated as he stared at the picture.

Bruiser’s stomach clenched with something
that felt like jealousy. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“Damn.”

Bruiser snatched the phone from him. When
Brett cast a strange look his way, Bruiser fought to come up with a
plausible explanation. “Hey, she’s like my sister, and you’re
drooling all over her.”

Liar.

He’d sure as hell not treated her like a
sister Saturday night. And this morning she’d been spreading bark
near the practice field and he’d stopped to admire her fine ass in
those tight Wranglers. Since when did he lust over a woman in
Wranglers of all things? Only he sure was now.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect her.”
Brett had the common decency to appear embarrassed, which made
Bruiser an even bigger jerk. “You always get the girls.”

Bruiser shrugged. “Not Mac, we’re not like
that.” Oh, but part of him wanted to be like that in so many
dishonorable ways.

“I’d love to go out with her. I’m every
woman’s second choice, you know? Sometimes it gets damn old being
number two all the time, being the backup, even when it comes to
women.”

“I know, it sucks.” Bruiser shot a wry smile
at his buddy.

“What would you know about being number two?
I bet you’ve never taken a backseat in any situation. Top draft
pick. Starter from the beginning. All the ladies want you.”

Bruiser studied his pole and wondered how to
rouse Brett from his pity party. Rarely did Brett complain about
his position, so Bruiser figured he deserved a little wallowing
once in a while. “I was always second choice, up until I turned
thirteen.”

Brett met his gaze, honestly surprised.
“You? Second to who? I find that hard to swallow.”

Hesitating, Bruiser weighed his options. He
never talked about his past, even with his ex-wife, and his family
avoided any mention as if broaching the subject would be enough to
detonate a nuclear bomb and lay waste to the planet. So no one
knew. The press never unearthed it thanks to an incredibly good
agent with scary-good spin-doctors.

Brett waited patiently. His friend had never
one tried to force information, content to let Bruiser talk or not
talk. Yet today, he wanted to tell Brett about the most painful
part of his past. After all, he’d heard a few of Brett’s
stories.

Releasing his held breath, Bruiser fingered
his pole. “I had a twin brother.”

Brett sat back as if hit by a strong right
hook. His mouth dropped open in shock. For a moment, he couldn’t
seem to find the words. “You had a twin?”

“Yeah. Brice. He was everything I wasn’t. Or
wasn’t at the time.” It felt better to talk than he’d expected. “We
were both athletic, but he was better. I was a good student; he was
a perfect student. I had a lot of friends, but
everyone
wanted to be his best friend. My parents favored Brice, especially
my father, a two-bit movie producer who craved fame. My sister and
I were afterthoughts, sometimes annoyances. You see, Brice was
going places, and they spent all their time grooming him to go
those places.”

“Like the Kennedys groomed their oldest son,
Joe, to be president?” Brett loved history so it figured he’d make
that comparison.

“Yeah, until he died.” Bruiser watched Brett
digest that bit of information.

“After he died, the Kennedy patriarch turned
to his next oldest son to be the president.”

Bruiser nodded, the vise gripping his chest
making it impossible to speak. He clenched his jaw and stared at
his line dangling in the water and bobbing with each wave. Water
slapped against the boat’s fiberglass hull—usually a soothing
sound, but right now it grated on his nerves.

“And Brice is gone, too?”

Bruiser couldn’t say the words. Even after
all the years, he couldn’t describe his complete devastation when
he found Brice with a bullet hole in his head. Brice—the perfect
brother, son, friend, athlete—couldn’t live with his imperfections
after the accident. A selfish way to go, leaving his friends and
family to blame themselves—they hadn’t done enough, hadn’t seen his
depression, hadn’t been able to prevent his suicide.

The guilt lived inside Bruiser like a vital
organ.

“I’m sorry. I guess you do know what it’s
like to be second-string.”

Bruiser bit his lower lip and said nothing.
He reeled in his line, re-baited it, and cast it back out. Yeah, he
did, and he still played second string—to a ghost. Shaking off his
melancholy, he raised his head, changing the focus back to his
friend. “You need to get together with Mac.”

“I guess.” Brett’s reluctance didn’t
surprise Bruiser. After all, the guy seemed pretty shy around
women, which bordered on next to incredible for an NFL player, but
Bruiser had seen Brett in action —or maybe inaction was a better
word.

Brett and Mac. Any dating site would pair
those two up in an instant. No one in their right mind would pair
Bruiser with Mac. On so many levels his attraction to her was so
wrong. First of all, Bruiser was too damaged. He hid it all behind
his fake smile and party-boy persona. Secondly, Brett was better
suited for Mac. He’d be loyal, faithful, devoted, and he’d love her
like—

Shit. Bruiser didn’t deal in love, he dealt
in lust, and Mac deserved a man who’d treat her like she was
special. And Brett deserved a woman who’d do the same. If Bruiser
was smart and a decent guy, he’d fix Brett and Mac up, call it
good, and move on.

Perfect idea.

Now where to start—even if part of him
didn’t want to?

* * * * *

Mac looked up as Bruiser stopped in front of
the picnic table where she was eating her lunch. “Hi.”

“Hey, beautiful, what’s up?” He pointed at
the stack of papers in front of her.

Mac rolled her eyes. “These are the forms
for the scholarship.”

“Paper? Who does paper anymore?”

“I think it’s a test of our commitment. We
have to do it all from scratch, no cutting and pasting from similar
forms we’ve filled out.”

“Leave it to Veronica. So you’re going for
it?” Bruiser smiled that lopsided smile that made his blue-gray
eyes twinkle and her heart thump a little harder. His perfect white
teeth contrasted with his dark tan and blond hair. Mac swore he
looked better every time she saw him, maybe because as she got to
know the man inside, she liked him even more. It’d be so much
better for her if she didn’t.

“I’m going to try.”

“Good luck. You deserve it. If I got a vote,
you’d be in.” He put one foot on the bench and re-tied his shoe.
Even his ankles and feet were sexy.

Mac looked down, oddly embarrassed. When she
glanced up again, he was studying her.

“Did you change something?” he asked.

“No, nothing,” she blushed, surprised he
noticed. She’d applied makeup this morning, put her hair in a tidy
ponytail, tucked in her polo shirt, and wore a clean new pair of
jeans. Stupid, because she’d just get everything dirty, but
hopefully the decision-makers would notice. Vince always looked
neat and tidy because he barely did a stitch of work, but she
didn’t expect Veronica to be astute enough to figure that one
out.

Bruiser continued to stare at her like he’d
never seen her before. She knew she looked better than usual for
work, but not as good as Saturday night. Her clothes did fit
better, the highlights his sister put in her hair made the strands
glow like bars of gold, and the subtle makeup Kelsie taught her to
apply made her eyes bigger and cheekbones higher—or so Kelsie
claimed. Yet Bruiser looked at her almost as if he didn’t like what
he saw.

“Is something wrong?”

He shook his head as if coming out of a
trance, but Mac wasn’t the type of woman who put men into trances,
even momentary ones. Her lovesick imagination must be playing games
with her.

“So I was wondering…” He hesitated, as if
the words didn’t come easy.

“Yes?” Her heart leapt to conclusions and
her head followed.

“I have tickets to the Mariners behind home
plate tomorrow night.”

“I’d love to see the Mariners.” She spoke
too fast, sounding way too much like a desperate woman. Even if she
was one.

Bruiser frowned, the action wrinkling his
forehead. Damn, if even his forehead wasn’t sexy. “Oh, good. I, uh,
I wondered if you’d be interested in a double date.”

“A double date?” Mac frowned and looked down
at her sandwich.

“Uh, yes. I’m taking Veronica’s cousin as a
favor to her, and you’d be going with Brett.”

Brett? This was about Brett? Not her and
Bruiser? Mac swallowed and forced a smile. “I’d love to go with
Brett.” Fighting her disappointment, she met those smoky eyes with
her own steady gaze.

“You would?” He seemed incredulous.

“Sure, but why doesn’t he ask me
himself?”

“Brett’s a little shy around women.”