The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

I frown. “Thought you were doing no touch practice with no pads.”

“Rookie clipped me.”

“Did you cut him?” The health of a starting quarterback is the foundation of every successful football team. Whenever I’ve watched Nick practice, which wasn’t often and sometimes only via videos I could find on his team’s web page, he was wearing a red scrimmage vest that designated him as off limits.

Nick laughs. “No, but he got an ass chewing from everyone from the coach to the kicker. You know it’s bad when the punter chews your ass. He’s feeling a little raw.”

“Harsh, man.” Then without any more preamble, I blurt out, “I asked her to marry me.”

Without skipping a beat, he retorts, “Are you calling me to cry about her saying no?”

“She said yes.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. Finally he exhales. “You’re going to take her away, right? From Dallas?”

It’s resignation, not hurt that I hear. He could be hiding it, but I don’t think so. We’re too close. He always knew I loved Charlotte, even when I stayed away. He just didn’t understand it. “Only for a short while. I’m going to leave the teams as soon as I can. I’ll put in for separation. It’ll take maybe six months at the longest.”

“What the hell, man? You left for nine years because you wanted to be a SEAL, and now you’re saying you’ll just up and quit? That sounds like a fucking terrible idea. What happens a year from now when you’re sitting in some suburban home, looking at your stupid ass neighbors arguing about whose lawn is nicer? You’ll want to shoot yourself in the foot, and you’ll start taking it out on Charlotte.”

I don’t like what I’m hearing, but it’s only because he’s voicing what I’m too chickenshit to acknowledge. “What’s this all about, Nick?”

His retort is hard-edged. As much as I hate what’s coming out of his mouth, I swell with pride at his protectiveness over my girl. “I love Charlotte like a sister. Never loved her any other way, but she’s my best friend and other than the time I went to Notre Dame, we’ve been damn near inseparable. You’re taking my best friend away, and you’re talking about shoving your dream under your bed like it’s an old shoe you don’t like anymore. I’ve spent a long time watching you hurt Charlotte, and it’ll kill me if you do it again.”

“I know.” I can’t say more because my heart’s in my throat.

His voice is lower, hoarser because it pains him too. “I kept her safe for you. Watched over her like you asked me to.”

My head’s full of emotion too. “I know,” I choke out. “I couldn’t ask for a better brother or a better friend.”

A noise at the doorway catches me attention. I jerk toward it and see Charlotte there, still wearing my T-shirt. Her eyes are big and watery, but she yells out, “I’m still going to be at all your games, you asshole, so you better play good this year. And don’t get sacked. I hate that. You hold on to the ball way too long.”

Nick bursts out laughing, and then I do too. It’s going to be okay, I think. By the time I hang up, I’ve got myself convinced that I’m not even lying.

Mostly.

38

Charlotte

My clothing choices don’t give me many options for a night with a bunch of rowdy sailors. I have suits, dressy tops, and slacks along with a pair of very worn denim shorts and a tank top. I opt for the denim shorts and a silk sleeveless blouse.

Nate frowns. “If you bend over I can see your ass cheeks.”

“Then I won’t bend over, but I’m not wearing a suit to a bar where all your friends are hanging out.”

“I’m okay with the suit,” he offers. “Besides, if you wear those shorts, I’m going to be walking around with a semi the entire time, which is okay in the apartment but frowned upon by the general public.”

I hook gold hoop earrings through my earlobes. “Blah blah blah. I can’t hear you over the blanket of paternalism that is suffocating me.”

He spins me away from the mirror and wraps his arms around me. They are tight bands, but not suffocating in spite of what I said. His eyes are glittery, a mix of need, banked jealousy, and a helluva lot of love. When his lips crash down on mine, it’s hard to stay upright. His mouth is doing things to me that spin my head and make me question every decision but ones that keep me between his legs and in the circle of his arms.

In the long years of our absence, my memories of him had become faint. I tried to hold on to them for as long as I could, but things such as the motion of his hard body moving over mine and the rough but soft way he handled me were hard to conjure from the images and emotions I’d stored up in my head.