Page 4 of Chasing Lynda

Zane answers on my behalf. It’s the wrong fucking answer of course. “Carter, give him a fucking break. Will you? The dude’s in shock after what they told him at the hospital. I mean, his football career is over. Can you blame him for trying to hold onto his woman?” Ah, Zane and his psychology degree already paying for itself! I’m about to rib him about shoving his text book answer where the sun doesn’t fucking shine but I’m not fast enough.

Bennett chimes in. “I could if the woman wasn’t a grade A bitch! I understand that we grew up together but she’s been a pain in our ass since she was old enough to walk. I still don’t understand how is it possible that you don’t see her spoiled little princess attitude. She’s never cared about you, dude! She just wanted to be a rich baller’s wife. And the second she caught wind that it might not pan out, she—”

“I know all that, Ben,” I say in a furious, slightly slurred tone.

He tries to grab the bottle from me but I snatch it out of the way and the sudden movement makes me literally howl in pain and collapse on the damp, compact sand.

Thankfully the tide is low and the water just reaches this spot occasionally. On high tide, these pillars are under water.

The guys surround me and I know that I need to explain. There’s no point in delaying this. They say that misery loves company but I hate to drag the guys into this mess.

“Guys, I don’t even know where to start.” I sigh, hugging the bottle to my chest as if it can provide some level of comfort beyond its gut wrenching, cheap content. “Well fuck, of course let’s start from the tip of this fucking shit iceberg. My shoulder is shot. I should’ve listened to coach and not played on that injury all season. But scouts were out there and if I wanted to get drafted, I had no choice. I didn’t listen and now it’s all but busted. The rehab sessions and all the shit I’ve been trying since the end of the season and all the way to last week have done nothing. They could try reconstructive surgery but there’s a high chance that it won’t work and anyway, it’d take time and a shit ton of physical therapy to even get back half of its mobility. That’s my throwing arm, so I’m fucking done. There isn’t even any fucking guarantee that it’ll fix the problem anyway. I could get a second opinion, but we all know that coach got the best doctor in the field to consult on this.”

Carter immediately tries to commiserate me. “I know, dude. That fucking blows. But you got a business degree and your father just gave you Pleasure Beach as a graduation present. I know it’s supposed to be your first investment for after your football career but that can be our gig, completely independent from our families.”

“No!” I snap, feeling immediately like a dipshit because he was trying to help. “We can’t. The resort is in the red and I planned to use some of my trust fund money to rescue it since I’ll have to give back my sign up bonus from the Cowboys.”

The enormity of the situation begins to dawn on my friends but they don’t have a fucking clue about how shit things really are.

Zane tries to find a solution. “Can’t your dad help? I mean, your family has more money than all of ours combined, but certainly he can help you for a few months and then you get access to your trust fund when you turn twenty-one at the end of the summer, right?”

I almost don’t have the heart to dispute his idea that my father or my family money could help us out. That’s what I thought until a few weeks ago too. “Not quite, dude. My father did something really stupid, and as it stands he needs my help or he’s going to lose everything and he’s going to jail.”

Bennett asks the question that I’m sure is on the tip of all their tongues. “How is that possible? Your family is as old money as one can get. And the connections your dad has are excellent. He’s the town’s mayor, for fuck’s sake!”

I sigh. “Yeah. That’s part of the fucking problem. Remember how I told you that he was going out a lot, staying out till the wee hours of the morning? It got to the point that Mom thought he was having another affair. Turns out he has a serious gambling problem and he squandered all of his liquid assets. When that didn’t get him anywhere, he liquidated more and more of the family’s wealth. When that wasn’t enough, he helped himself to some of the town’s money. If he doesn’t replace at least what he took from Bridgeport’s public funds before the end of the financial year, he’s going down for embezzlement. So he needs my help. Help that I can’t give him without my sign up bonus or my trust fund. Not if Pleasure Beach has to close its doors, because as it is, it’s actually hemorrhaging money that we don’t have. I thought about selling it, but no one wants a hopeless money void.”

Carter runs a hand through his blond hair, making it stand up in every direction. “Fuck! That’s a shitty situation. But I mean, the resort doesn’t even matter once you get that trust fund, right? It’s millions we’re talking about here.”

I shake my head. They should know that when I say “shit storm,” I fucking mean it.

“It’s not so easy. I was pissed when I heard about this fucking shit but I agreed to help him out. Even though that would mean that to save the family fortune and his gambling addict ass, I’d see very little of the money I stand to get as part of my trust. But he’s my father and I know Mom would die if the family name was dragged into the mud. So about two months ago, we went to see Ben’s dad to find out if I could get early access.”

Bennett nods, because it all makes sense. “Yeah, if anyone can find you a loophole, it’s my dad. Our family firm has been working for your family for generations. I believe it can be traced to my great grandfather. He and your great grandpa met at Yale. So is there a way for you to get the money early?”

I laugh. It’s a bitter, sharp sound. “Nope.” I exhale and it doesn’t even sound slurred anymore. The situation is so bad that I can’t even keep my fucking buzz going. “Your dad though gave me a letter grandpa left for me and Callie. It was to be given to us by Spring Break of our senior year. So there was no reason to postpone. Grandpa put a condition on Callie and I getting the money.”

Zane’s smirk would be funny if my news were better ones. “So what did the old bastard decide to make you do to make you one of the richest bachelors in the country? I bet it’s funny, your Pop-Pop always had a dirty sense of humor.”

I don’t look at them when I break the news, staring at the bottle and playing with its oddly shaped cap. “Yeah, fuck. You can say that out loud, Zane. You know how Pop-Pop and Nana met at a poetry reading at college, right?”

My best friends all nod in unison. We’ve all heard this story a zillion times.

Carter finishes the story for me. “Yeah. They met on Spring Break of their final year at a poetry reading—by the way who the fuck spends Spring Break going to poetry readings?—and it was love at first sight. They were engaged by graduation and married by Labor Day that same year.”

I set the bottle down on the sand and finally meet their gazes. It’s getting dark and we’re far enough from the bright lights of Pleasure Beach that the only illumination on the beach is provided by those eco-lights that barely keep you from walking into a pier pillar. So I imagine more than see their expressions at what I tell them. “Yeah. And as y’all know, they had a long, happy marriage. Apparently Pop-Pop wanted the same for me and Callie. So he put a clause in both our trust funds. If we want to get any of the money, we need to be married by our twenty-second birthday. If we fail to do that, the money will go to some third cousins we’ve never even met.”

Yup. Like I thought, I’ve shocked them into silence. Every single one of ‘em.

Bennett is the first one to recover from the news. “Are you fucking shitting us?”

Fuck it, I open the bottle and down the last few sips of tequila. “I wish I was, dude.”

Zane sounds as reluctant to believe it as I was when Ben’s dad gave me the letter. He didn’t know about the clause either. Pop-Pop really played a funny prank on the family from beyond the grave. “So let me understand this correctly,” he drawls, as if speaking slowly his words will make more sense. “He demanded that you and your twin sister get married basically in the span of six months? Like he did with your Nana?”

When he says it out loud, it sounds even crazier than when I read it in that letter. “You can bet your ass on it, dude.”

Carter’s reaction is predicable. I know my oldest friend like I know the palm of my own hand. “Fuck! Is that why you proposed to Chrissie out of the blue?”

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