Page 32 of The Unfinished Line

In a few months, I was going to be knee-deep in shooting the biggest blockbuster of the decade, but as forward as Iwas looking to the paycheck, and creating something more memorable than aGilletterazor commercial, the thing I wanted more than anything was to make my parents proud—even if I tried not to admit it to myself. But my self-preservation tried to keep that hope on the back burner, because I also knew, no movie I ever made would trump that little slip of paper with UCLA’s embossed seal.

What else couldn’t I say? I loved the beach. My credit score was over eight hundred. I’d tried for years to be a vegetarian but repetitively failed due to my addiction to sushi. I hung out in a lot of circles, but consistently felt like I never fit in. My best friend was a spoiled brat who’d dated every chisel-jawed jock in Northern California before finding a man who was certain to keep her coffers overflowing. I spent months avoiding calls from my high school boyfriend, only to call him back when life got too lonely and I wanted his familiarity to fill that void. I hated my boring brown eyes. I had a tendency to cry when I was angry. My favorite color was salmon. And even though I was 120lbs, if the liquor was free, I could drink most of the guys I knew under the table.

And that was about it—my entire life story.

Aside fromSand Seekers, it was nothing interesting. Nothing like Olympic medals. Famous girlfriends. Hair the color of sunset beaches. Confidence radiating through every breath.

I couldn’t tell her any of that.

So instead, I flopped down beside her, our shoulders touching, my hand still in hers. Her eyes were still closed, and I wondered, for a second, if she’d fallen asleep in my silence.

“I have a bad tattoo of my own,” I finally said, watching her face out of my periphery. I saw her eyes twitch beneath their lids. She wasn’t sleeping.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

Propping myself onto an elbow, I looked down at her, absorbed in the stillness of her sunburnt face, the faint freckles highlighting her cheekbones, the unruliness of her still-damp hair. Without allowing myself to overthink it, I leaned down and kissed her lips—still faintly tasting of ginger beer.

“Maybe later on in the screenplay, you’ll find out.” I whispered against her mouth, and felt her smile, never opening her eyes, before I forced myself to my feet—back on script, Kameryn—and headed to call it a night.

Scene 12

“Bloody scorcher!”

Kyle dropped into the folding chair, his long legs upsetting the beers littered across the table. “Whose brilliant idea was it to race in Sydney in December?”

There were a few murmurs of agreement from surrounding athletes, but Dillon—directly across from him—offered no acknowledgment. She knew the comment was intended for her. He was testing the waters, gauging her mood.

He took a long draught of his beer. “I’m positively melting!”

Dillon finally broke her silence. “Is that your excuse, then? The heat?”

Kyle met her glare. There was no possibility he hadn’t known this was coming. His performance in the mixed relay had been farcical. Not only had he been bested by every other male competitor on the field, he’d somehow managed to come in twenty seconds slower than Dillon. A feat which—as a woman, up against the superior strength of a man—shouldn’t even have been possible at this elite level.

There was no excuse. He’d cost Team GB the win.

“We were second, Sinc. By less than 15 seconds. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Yourfifteen seconds.”

Harry Boyles and Georgina Potter, the other two members oftheir team, remained silent. Both competitors were younger and knew better than to get in the middle of an argument between them.

“You were fine with second yesterday,” Kyle challenged, referring to Dillon’s results in the individual women’s competition. Alecia Finch had arrived in Sydney intent on retaliation. After her loss in Key West, she’d laid out a textbook performance, and no matter how hard Dillon pushed, she’d been unable to catch her.

She considered telling him to fuck himself. He knew damn well she wasn’t ’fine’ with a silver podium finish. But what was the point? Kyle was Kyle, and no matter what she said, it wouldn’t change the placings.

Seeking a truce, she reached across the table and dipped her finger in his beer, flicking foam in his direction. “Just stop whinging about the heat, will you?” She uncapped her water and brushed a trickle of sweat off her brow. Itwashot. But she’d be damned before she complained about it.

“Incoming.” Georgina gave a nearly imperceptible nod, just in time for the pinched voice of Isaac Fortin to ring over Dillon’s shoulder.

“Tough luck today, eh?”

Dillon’s grip tightened on her water bottle. It was bad enough to run into the vapid prick after a win in Florida. The last thing she wanted to do was listen to him gloat after their loss.

“Can’t win them all, though, right?” The Canadian swept a glance around the table, before fixing his gaze on Kyle, seemingly oblivious to his unwelcome intrusion. “How are you holding up, Wood? Can’t imagine how I’d feel, losing to a woman.” His eyes flicked to Dillon. “Though, I suppose, in the case of Sinclair, I’m using the term loosely.” He laughed, pretending to soften the jab with a wink. “She might just be the manliest member of your team.”

Before Dillon could tell him to get stuffed, Harry was on his feet.

“How about you jog on, old man?” He crossed his heavily inked arms. Despite being the youngest member of their team, there was little doubt the twenty-year-old London boy could hold his own on the streets.

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