The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

Nick’s abundant use of profanity rivals almost anyone on my team, and we are all notorious for being unable to have a conversation without at least a fuck spit out every other sentence.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Where’s Charlotte?”

“She’s in fucking San Diego. I just told you that.”

“I’m not bringing anyone home to Mom,” I say. “Where in San Diego? This is a big fucking town.”

“I don’t know,” he huffs. “I’m guessing wherever it is you buy rings because she apparently believes you are planning to propose to some Southern California girl that none of us have ever met.”

I filter through his words, turning them over in my head, trying to grasp the full meaning of them, and as they tumble into place, I’m both elated and worried. “I’m only ever going to marry one girl, Nick.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. “Well . . .” he says. I’ve apparently dumbfounded him. “Well. Good. Good.” He begins to laugh, a loud but almost kind of painful sound. “I can’t fucking believe it. It’s taken you longer to get your head on straight than the mission to the moon, but you have, right? I got her cell phone number. You need that?”

“No.” I stole it from his phone the last time we saw each other.

“She usually stays in those boutique hotels, so who knows where she’s at in the city. Fuck. Let me check my messages again . . . no, she never said where she was staying. Hold on. Let me text her.”

While I wait for a response, I feel a burn of jealousy toward Nick. He knows where she is. He can text her with ease. But all of this is a situation of my own making. I’m the one who broke us, and I’ll be the one to put us back together.

“She’s at the Del,” he says finally with a laugh. “You lucky son of a bitch. She’s right next door.”

“Thanks.” We spend the next fifteen minutes catching up on everything else. He doesn’t like the rookie wide receiver they drafted, thinks he spends too much time yukking it up to the media. Nick likes everyone to keep their excesses on the down low. Want to bang a supermodel? That’s fine, just don’t brag about it when you do. He thinks it’s a distraction. The only thing you should be known for is your play on the field, not off of it.

After I ring off, the blonde hair I saw in the window at Tiffany’s when I was holding one of the diamonds up to the light springs to mind. I didn’t even consider at the time that it could have been Charlotte, because what were the odds? But she’s here and, like Nick said, next door. The Hotel Del Coronado is an institution that sits right up the beach from where we train. The island of Coronado is a small postage stamp piece of land across the bay from San Diego.

I settle in for the night. Tomorrow I’ll shave, put on one of my service uniforms, and throw myself at her feet.

The next morning, a knock at my apartment door while I’m shaving sets my heart thumping. I know it’s not Charlotte, yet I can’t stop hoping.

“From the look of disappointment on your face, I’m guessing you thought I was the pizza delivery guy,” Cabby says. “Want to go for a run?”

I glance at my watch. It’s barely past six and, though the sun is shining, begging forgiveness probably works better if I don’t wake her up too early. “Yeah. Let me finish up, and I’ll be out.”

“You really going to propose to letter girl?” Cabby asks, following me to the bathroom.

“Charlotte,” I say. “And yes. Why not?”

“Because relationships don’t work for guys in the field. You got to have the ability to de-stress yourself in the time-honored fashion of fucking.”

I scrape the soap and hair off my face, tapping my straight edge against the sink. I want to be smooth when I see her again so that if she allows me to kiss her—no, when she allows me to kiss her—I don’t scratch one inch of her smooth skin.

“That’s not a problem,” I say.

“Are you fucking serious?” Cabby asks in astonishment. “Have you really gone without sex for nine fucking years? Are you even human? I thought the Monk nickname was a joke. Like calling a tall guy Shorty or the lean guy Fat Bastard.”

There’s no reason to respond. I look at him steadily in the mirror while finishing my business. “More to life than getting your rocks off.”

“I’ve seen you with women. I’ve seen you leave bars with women,” he accuses and trails behind me as I move to the bedroom to pull on shorts and a pair of running shoes. There’s no such thing as privacy around Cab. After spraying myself down with sun screen that will be sweated off around mile six, I grab my keys and phone. “Are you impotent?” he finally whispers.