Read Online The Beach House by Georgia Bockoven - Free Book Online Page A

position. Chris figured him to be in his early twenties, younger than the others, but not by much. He wore faded swim trunks, a torn T-shirt, and small gold earrings in both ears.
    â€œYou in?” he said to Chris.
    The score had been the same as the players on the teams, three to two, before Chris arrived and evened both. “What the hell—I’ve got nothing better to do.”
    Both sides were good and fought hard for every point, screaming in outrage when they didn’t agree with a call, but too caught up in the game to stop the action to argue. From the coarse language and rough teasing it was obvious they all knew each other and that they played together often.
    When they rotated again, the guy with the long hair called out introductions, ending with himself. “Antonio Gallardo—but call me Tony.”
    A flicker of recognition came and was gone again before it registered. “Chris Sadler.”
    â€œYou’re up, Chris,” Tony said.
    Chris hit a perfect serve, the ball landing dead center, where all three opponents believed one of the others would get it.
    Tony let out a shout of triumph and pumped the air. “That was beautiful. Do it again.”
    Unbelievably, Chris did. This time everyone howled.
    It took almost forty-five minutes, but they won the game.
    Their opponents cried foul, insisting Chris was a ringer Tony had flown in from Los Angeles. At first Chris thought they were kidding, then realized that underneath the good-natured protests the guys on the other team actually believed what they were saying, that in their minds it was exactly the kind of thing Tony would do.
    When they changed sides, Chris took the opportunity to check Tony out more closely. He didn’t give the impression he was someone who had the money to pull off a stunt that involved a cab ride, let alone an airline ticket.
    During the next game Chris paid more attention to the interaction among the five men. It soon became clear from tone and reference that they not only worked together, but spent a lot of off hours in each other’s company. Each of them paid Tony a peculiar deference, as if he were on a slightly higher level than the rest of them—the foreman on a construction crew, the corporal among privates.
    Whatever their jobs, they were plainly temporary. A lot of the talk centered around missing girlfriends and homes they couldn’t wait to get back to.
    The second game was closer, with Chris’s side winning by a single, disputed point. As they moved to change sides again, Chris asked for the time.
    The tall African American on the opposite team dug in his pocket and pulled out a watch. “It’s six twenty-five.”
    â€œI gotta go,” Chris said.
    Tony came over, the ball tucked under his arm. “Same time, same place, tomorrow?”
    Chris picked up the T-shirt he’d taken off after the first game and pulled it over his head. “I’m not sure.”
    The third member of Chris’s team, a guy who looked like a refugee from the World Wrestling Entertainment RAW, spoke up. “Hey, man, you don’t want us to have to play these three—”
    â€œLeave the kid alone,” their blond opponent said. “If he’s not sure, he’s not sure.”
    â€œFuck off, Mason,” Tony said, laughing as he threw the ball at him. “You’re just afraid you’ll get your sorry ass beaten again.”
    â€œI’ll try,” Chris said. He’d enjoyed the game as much as they had and wouldn’t mind playing again if and when he had the time. But Tracy came first.
    Tony nodded and moved back into position. Chris took off running, headed toward the road that paralleled the highway and led to the beach house. He arrived in time to see a glimpse of Tracy’s blond hair as her mother’s rental car made the curve that would put them at the house ahead of him.
    Now he either arrived on their heels, sucking air from the