Under the Autumn Sky Read online

  Besides, he didn’t smoke the weed Leesa scored from her older brother, a total loser pothead who lived in a room over her parents’ garage. He guessed that was the main reason Cy hung out with her. For free pot. Or maybe she just put out when Cy needed quick action or something.

  “Stop,” he whispered in Morgan’s ear as she made contact with her goal. He didn’t want to sport a boner in front of Leesa. Too weird.

  His girlfriend of three months pulled her head off his shoulder. “What?”

  He smiled. “You know what.”

  She laughed and he realized he probably loved her. Maybe. Her long brown hair and big blue eyes had him wrapped around her little finger, and he liked being there. Not just because she was the first girl he’d had sex with, but because she didn’t really care if he played football or not. She wasn’t the kind of girl he’d dated before. Morgan wasn’t a cheerleader or a captain on the dance line. She wasn’t on student council or in any club. Morgan was Morgan. She liked heavy metal music, had a tattoo of a mermaid on her back and smoked Virginia Slims because that’s what her grandmother smoked.

  And she’d never been to church camp.

  Which had been evident from the first time they’d hooked up. She’d kind of blown his mind.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Cy looked over his shoulder. Cy’s friend Rory sat in the passenger’s seat, where he always sat when Cy’s girlfriend Lucy Chong, who lived in Alexandria, wasn’t beside him. Rory was a punk and pretty jealous of Waylon. He constantly made fun of Waylon, dropping smart-ass comments about jocks and Christians every time he addressed him.

  Waylon felt sorry for Rory ’cause he was nothing but a wannabe and an asshat. Always hating on everyone else, but not bothering to do anything with the person he was. He was like dust mites. Just sort of disgustingly there, but not anything anyone really bothered with.

  “Hell, yeah, we’re doing this. I’ve always wanted to try it and I didn’t wear my boots for nothing,” Leesa said, popping the lock on the SUV and swinging the door open. “Nothing better than dumbass redneck activities. Bet you’ve done it, Way-way.”

  He didn’t like her even calling his real name, much less the moronic one she insisted on tossing at him.

  “Sure,” he said, tilting Morgan back so her hair spilled across the leather seat. He deliberately looked at Leesa before he kissed Morgan’s neck. “I was cow tipping champ of 2010.”

  Leesa watched him like a freaky gargoyle. Something pinged in her dark gaze and he knew his little show had bothered her. He just wasn’t sure if it was because she wanted to devour him—or Morgan. “Bet you were, stud muffin. Another trophy to put on your shelf, huh? Gotta love a jock whose great claim to fame is pushing dumbass cows down when they’re asleep.”

  “That’s not my claim to fame. Just a side talent. One of many. And cows don’t sleep standing up.”

  Leesa snorted and slammed the door.

  Morgan looked up with glassy blue eyes. “I think she’d totally do you if I weren’t here.”

  Waylon grinned down. “But you’re here, baby. I ain’t doing nobody but you.”

  He laid Morgan on the seat because she was too drunk to try and push cows over. She moaned in protest and reached up and hooked him round the neck for a kiss. He made out with her a little, until she gave up and started snoring, then he stepped from the SUV. Rory and Cy were propped up against the hood, and the truck lights spilled across the pasture, highlighting large clumps of clover and an old wooden fence.

  Cy took a swig of beer. “Look at that stupid ass. She thinks she’s going to push a cow over by herself.”

  Rory laughed. Unpleasantly.

  “We need to help her, I guess,” Waylon said, watching Leesa climb through the fence.

  “Ain’t you just the team player,” Rory drawled, giving another nasty laugh. At that moment, Waylon wondered why in the hell he’d lied to his sister and snuck out with Cy and his two loser pals. Not only that, but he’d dragged his girlfriend out with him. Maybe he had lost his marbles. Or maybe he was tired of who he was. Maybe he didn’t care anymore.

  “Yeah, I am.” Waylon grabbed one of the beers Cy had set against the bug guard, popped the top and gulped down half. Then he set it on the hood, climbed over the fence and walked over sixty yards or so to where crazy Leesa crept toward a still cow. It was obvious she didn’t know anything about cow tipping.

  He started running full speed at the huge bovine. He and Leesa hit it together. Of course, he hit it a lot harder. The cow didn’t stand a chance. It stumbled, legs buckling as it struggled to gain its footing. Hitting the cow felt like crashing into a defensive end in his quest for the end zone.

  “Oh, my God!” Leesa screamed. “Did we kill it?”

  A loud moo split the night air and other cows started moving around them. The cow they’d tried to tip hadn’t gone down.

  “I don’t know, but she looks mad. Run!” he yelled.

  He took off toward the headlights of the truck, realizing there was another wire fence they hadn’t seen separating the pasture into two parts. Leesa shrieked and he heard her behind him, so he didn’t feel like he was a total jerk for hauling ass out of the pasture. If she’d have fallen, he would have gone back for her. Maybe.

  “Oh, God. It’s chasing us!” Leesa screamed, sounding like she was about to pass him up, which was impossible. He ran a 4.6 in the 40-yard dash. In fact, a cow couldn’t run that fast.

  But sure enough, hoofs pounded behind them. He wasn’t about to stop and contemplate being chased by a cow. He just hoped like hell they hadn’t tried to knock over a bull. In the beams of the truck he saw Rory and Cy laughing like lunatics before scrambling into the cab of the Avalanche.

  “No,” he shouted as they fired the engine and put the truck into Reverse.

  He and Leesa were about ten yards from the fence when he felt something come toward him. It was big and fast—and it had horns.

  He reached back and grabbed Leesa’s arm, jerking her out of the path of the bull. She screamed and doubled her efforts to clear the field. He also fired his jets because he could feel the animal’s anger, hear the heavy breath of the beast, feel the thunder of hooves.

  It charged toward them as they reached the fence.

  “Shit!” he yelled, shoving Leesa between two wooden rails before jumping over the top rail. His boots hit the ground right before his ass did. He fell partly on Leesa as the bull crashed into the fence. Its large head slammed into the wood, making a loud crack. The yellowed horns shone wickedly despite the waning taillights of Cy’s truck.

  Waylon shuffled back, crabbing himself over Leesa.

  “Oh, my God,” she cried, scrambling back as the beast launched himself at the wooden barrier a second time. He heard a crack and prayed the wood would hold. His asshole buddies had thought it cute to drive off and leave them to face a deadly animal, so if the bull got out, he and Leesa were in trouble.

  The bull snorted and bucked at the fence.

  “It’s so pissed,” Leesa breathed, clutching at his arm.

  “Let’s back up and see if he will calm down.” He tugged her several feet away from the place they’d landed, and thankfully heard the truck heading back toward them. The headlights hit them and then the fence. Finally, the beams found the huge, black bull pacing along the rails. The animal tossed its head and pawed the ground.

  “You saved my life,” Leesa said, staring at the bull. “You seriously saved my life.”

  The truck pulled alongside them and raucous laughter spilled out into the night as Cy rolled the windows down. “You dipshits tried to tip a bull. A flippin’ bull!”

  Rory had tears leaking from his eyes and somehow his laughter pissed Waylon off more than anything. More than his girlfriend passed out in Cy’s truck. More than Cy doing something so douchebag as driving off when he realized they were in danger. Something about pathetic Rory Strickland laughing at him made him snap.

  He ran around to the passenger side and tr
ied to open the door.

  “Hey, man. What’s your problem? It was a joke,” Rory cried as Waylon reached through the open window and grabbed him by the shirt collar.

  “Hey, what the hell?” Cy called, yanking at Waylon’s hands. “We were just messin’ with you, dude. We weren’t really leaving.”

  Rory gasped as Waylon pulled at him. At that moment, Waylon wanted to beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of the skinny loser who’d spent the past four weeks making fun of him at every turn. He was going to wipe the damn pasture with the asshole.

  “Stop,” Leesa said, gripping his arm. “Waylon, stop!”

  He let Rory go.

  “Jesus, man. What’s your problem? You’re freaking crazy.” Rory clutched his throat, trying to draw a good breath.

  Waylon stepped back, panting. He turned and took several steps away from the truck.

  Dear Lord, what had happened to him? He looked up at the stars glittering above him and took a deep breath. Exhaling, he leaned over and found he shook with adrenaline. Or maybe it was anger.

  He heard the truck door open and slam shut. Leesa had likely climbed inside.

  “Dude, you coming or not?” Cy called out at him.

  Waylon shook his head. “I need a minute.”

  “Just get in the truck. I know you’re pissed, but we weren’t leaving you. Just messin’ around. Chill already.” Waylon didn’t like Cy telling him what to do. He wasn’t getting in the damn truck.

  Waylon turned. “I’m not getting in your goddamn truck. I’m done with this shit. We could have been killed or maimed by that bull, so I can’t deal with climbing inside, cracking open a beer and acting like it was no big deal. Let Morgan out.”

  “Like she can walk. She’s passed out, dude,” Cy said.

  “She’s going to my house anyway,” Leesa said. “But you should come with us, Way.”

  “No. I’m good.”

  He knew he should see Morgan home. His girlfriend was drunker than a sailor on shore leave and he’d let her get that way. Of course, Morgan wouldn’t have any repercussions because she never got punished. Her mother worked a night shift at a sugar refinery and slept most of the day. But Leesa would take care of her.

  Cy didn’t bother asking again and pulled away, leaving him alone in the middle of a cow pasture.

  Speaking of cows, Lou would have one when he got home two hours past curfew. She’d probably punish him for a month—or try.

  He looked back at the bull pacing beside the fence. Maybe he’d rather face off against that bull again than tangle with his sister.

  Regardless of the assload of trouble he was in, he started walking toward the house that lay a little over two miles away. He could jog it easily if he weren’t wearing cowboy boots.

  Shit.

  He had too much pressure in his life and it showed. He used to never lose his temper, but with the thoughts of the ACT, the combines, the classroom and summer-long camps, he couldn’t stop wanting to punch his way out of life.

  Cy, Leesa and even that assclown Rory didn’t put pressure on him for anything. They wanted to drink, smoke pot and party. And sometimes play Warcraft. That was it.

  No homework. No workouts. No talk of college, eligibility or vertical jumps. No football.

  He walked up an embankment and found the parish road that would take him home.

  Each footstep took him closer to the trouble he’d be in.

  Each footstep took him closer to his future.

  And closer to an emptiness he didn’t know how to fill.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ABRAM WATCHED THE hulking college players pump iron as he leaned against the painted wall outside the strength coach’s office. Jordan Curtis nursed a Red Bull and a head cold, but it didn’t stop him from barking at the starting center over the deafening music.

  “Effort, Wilson, effort. I want your damn eyeballs bulging, son.”

  The enormous center rolled those eyes and tossed the bar onto the floor with a clank. “I think I perforated my abdominal wall and my intestines are coming out my nose, Coach.”

  “You know what an abdominal wall is?” Coach Curtis yelled.

  “I’m majoring in biology. I have a 3.50 GPA and I’ve been accepted into medical school. So, yeah,” the kid called back.

  Abram snickered. “He’s smarter than you, Jordan.”

  His friend took another swig. “I heard about your little tête-à-tête with the Boyd kid’s sister.”

  Abram sobered. Yeah, the whole coaching staff knew about his screwup after he reported to compliance. “You know what tête-à-tête means?”

  “I was an English major with a minor in political science, so I know you screwed the pooch.”

  “There was no screwing.”

  Jordan grinned. “She a looker?”

  “Hotter than shit on shingle,” Abram said, running a hand through his hair. It was getting warm in the weight room. Soon the gym would smell like feet and funk. “But that doesn’t matter. She’s off bounds. Wish I would have done better research on the kid before I took off to Ville Platte. I’ve learned a valuable lesson.”

  “Not to stop for a piss?”

  “No, to read the file before I get to the town I’m recruiting in.”

  Abram had spent the last few days meeting with recruiting director Sam Donaldson and the entire compliance department. The incident would be reported to the NCAA, but the compliance department would hold their own internal investigation. College athletics had evolved into big-time business, and any sanctions against a program meant a loss in revenue, a loss in reputation and a résumé on Monster.com for the coach involved. ULBR was careful in keeping track of recruits, recruiters and any rogue boosters who got the idea to help the program by supplying money or other benefits to college athletes.

  “They still letting you recruit him?”

  “Yeah, why not? It was incidental contact. Neither she nor I knew anything about each other.”

  Jordan slid his gaze to meet his. “Is that a good idea considering the hotter than shit on a shingle comment?”

  He’d had this conversation with himself when Coach Holt had called him on the carpet after he made the initial report. After thinking about the incident, Louise’s obvious embarrassment, and the risk to Waylon if something more happened with his sister, he’d concluded he could restrain his emotions where Louise was concerned.

  He had to ignore the unnatural attraction for the blond construction worker. This was his career in the palm of his hand. No way would he toss it away for a piece of ass—even one as fine as Lou Boyd’s.

  “I’m good. Other than a few brief conversations with the guardian, my relationship will be with Waylon. Besides, we need him. Oliver declared for the draft and Briggs isn’t where we need him to be. We’re looking shallow on the depth chart and coaching can’t fix what’s not there,” Waylon said.

  Jordan nodded, his face looking far too heavy for a forty-year-old man in the prime of his life. The divorce he was going through was starting to show. “Filling the pantry’s important, and don’t worry, I’ll work on Briggs. You have good rapport with the guys, just be extra careful with this kid and his fine-ass sister. We don’t need the NCAA sniffin’ our jocks.”

  “They do that regardless, but there won’t be any slipups. I can promise you that.”

  Abram pushed himself away from the wall and walked over to a group of players. He maintained a good relationship with most of the guys, but he had to be careful that his youth didn’t mislead them into thinking they could get away with things on his watch. Always walking the line, striving for balance in all things, but especially in his professional life.

  But his personal life pretty much sucked.

  He had no love interest.

  His friends were all busy with wives, children and keeping the grass trimmed up to standards in their gated communities. Or divorce.

  At times, he was lonely, and maybe that was his own fault. He always held back, cautiously content to w
atch life.

  He had to remember there were sacrifices when living a dream. Ever since he’d stepped on the field in Thunder Valley on Senior Day eleven years ago, he knew his new dream was to coach on the sidelines of Panther Stadium. It hadn’t been easy. He’d worked his ass off, first as a graduate assistant at Tulane, preparing film, fetching coffee and compiling scouting reports. Then he’d landed a job as the quarterback’s coach at a Division II school in Nevada. After success there with a kid who drafted third round, he moved on to coach tight ends at Georgia Tech. Finally, when Coach Holt took over for the Panthers three years ago, he’d cleaned house and chosen a homegrown Louisiana boy and ULBR alum for his tight ends coach. Didn’t hurt that Abram had worked under him in Nevada. He tendered his resignation at GT, and came home, never happier to be working eighteen-hour days with little time for himself for the school that had given him the best memories of his life.

  But sometimes in those waning hours, when he bunked on the couch in his office, he wondered if there couldn’t be a bit more in his life than eating, breathing and sleeping football.

  For a few magical hours on a rickety bridge on Lake Chicot, he’d tasted something as good as a go-ahead touchdown in the fourth quarter. It had struck something in him, a longing for someone to share his life with, for someone to dance barefoot with beneath the light of the moon.

  But that had been for one moment only.

  And it was one that could not occur again. At least not with Louise Boyd. No matter how much the thought of her tugged at him.

  He glanced back at the boys who were learning how to become men in front of his eyes. He had to be their example.

  “Move over, Jenkins. Let me show you what you need to be doing here.”