Skygods (Hydraulic #2)

Cover

Title Page

Skygods

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Sarah Latchaw

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Omnific Publishing

Los Angeles

Copyright Information

Skygods, Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Latchaw

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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Omnific Publishing

1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

Los Angeles, California 90067

www.omnificpublishing.com

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First Omnific eBook edition, August 2014

First Omnific trade paperback edition, August 2014

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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Latchaw, Sarah.

Skygods / Sarah Latchaw – 1st ed

ISBN: 978-1-623420-87-1

1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Skydiving—Fiction. 3. Bipolar Disorder—Fiction. 4. Authors—Fiction. I. Title

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Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

Dedication

For Nathan,
who keeps me grounded and makes me laugh—
usually at the same time.
I love you.

Skygods

A skydiver,
arrogant in his ability to navigate the heavens, rejects his fragile state
and calls himself a god of the sky.

Chapter 1

Blue Sky, Black Death

A skydiver’s mantra or greeting.
Enjoy the exhilaration of the open sky,
but never forget the mortal earth below.

Hydraulic Level Five [working title]
Draft 1.22
© Samuel Caulfield Cabral & Aspen Kaye Trilby
22. An Inheritance and State

T
HREE
M
ILLION
D
OLLARS
. All of it in a trust fund left behind by his dead parents, which now that he is eighteen, is at his disposal. According to the lawyer, the fortune would’ve been nine million if the estate hadn’t been obligated to pay his mother’s debts after she jumped. Not that he wants a dime of it. Caulfield snarls at the memory of the piggish man with squinty eyes and a stupid-looking bowtie that choked his fat neck. He doesn’t need a stranger to remind him his mother had preferred ski slopes, sports cars, and spending sprees in Boston’s Back Bay to her son.

“Caulfield, hit the on-deck circle!” Coach bellows from the opposite end of the dugout. Caulfield scoops up a bat and sprints to the circle for warm-up swings. He has to get his head in the game, his last ever with Bear Creek High. He’s wanted the state title for so long, and now it’s three colossal runs away—so impossible just fifteen minutes ago, yet Bear Creek managed to load the bases in a ninth inning rally.

Bright stadium lights wash the field in white, heightening the exhilaration of the night game. He pushes his hat brim down to shield his eyes from the glare.

“Straighten out that swing. You’re a little wild today.” Caulfield nods to the hitting coach and focuses on the next pitch, clobbering the imaginary ball. “That’s better.”

The odd thing is, baseball has begun to lose its sheen of magic. The University of Colorado, along with several other colleges, offered him baseball scholarships. He turned them all down. The idea of playing ball another four years seems daunting. Really, all he wants to do is plow through the next two years until Aspen graduates from high school and he can once again see her every day.

She’s up there in the stands like she always is—screaming his name when he’s up to bat, waving as he takes to the outfield. To her, he’s Caulfield: attentive boyfriend, hell of a ballplayer, and best friend since five. How would she feel about Caulfield: child of a disbarred lawyer and nutcase socialite? Or Caulfield: sack-of-shit millionaire who’s too scared to touch his inheritance, even to buy his girlfriend a reliable ride? Caulfield tears through another swing.

“Number Nine, you’re up!” Caulfield shoulders the barrel as the hitter before him strikes out. A thrill shoots through him every time he hears “Number Nine.” Ted Williams—the Splendid Splinter himself—wore the number nine for two decades in Boston. Someday he’ll see that retired number flying high above Fenway Park. Maybe he’ll use his mother’s money to do it and hope she burns with revulsion, wherever she is. The more he learns of her, the more he can’t stomach thinking of her as “mother.” He should just call her Rachel Caulfield. No, just Rachel.

Caulfield digs one foot into the batter’s box, then the next.
Time to focus. Ninth inning, down two runs. Runner on third, runner on second, runner on first.
He has to hit it deep. The crowd behind him is a roaring machine, all squeals and shrieks. He hears Aspen’s voice, and Maria’s and Esteban’s. Zoning them out, he studies the pitcher as he shakes his head once, twice, and windup. The ball’s coming in high—too high. He holds his swing.
Crud, slider
.

“Strike!”

Coach hollers at him to watch for breaking balls, as if he doesn’t already know. He plants his feet, pure fury pulsing through his veins, his heart pounding
Ra-chel…Ra-chel
. Fuck her. Fuck her for distracting him during the biggest game of his life, for keeping him from Fenway Park, and for despising her only child. He hates her money. He swings hard.

Too early.

“Strike!”

“Fuck!” Caulfield growls, earning him a warning glare from the umpire.

“Come on, Caulfield! Get your head out of your ass and in this game!”

“This isn’t tee-ball, this is State!”

The crowd behind him jeers, and Caulfield knows they will hang, draw, and quarter him, then stick his head on the fence post if he screws this up. He narrows his vision to the pitcher, watching his windup, the angle of his arm, bracing himself. This one’s coming in low. He holds his swing.

“Ball!”

He whooshes out.
There we go, Caulfield. Eye on the ball—first rule of baseball. Channel the rage. Carry it through in your swing. Windup…no break, coming in fast, just how you like them. Swing through…

Crack!

Yes.
Caulfield tosses the bat and sprints for first as the crowd’s untamed screams propel him forward. He rounds first as the other team’s outfielders stumble around the fence, the ball out of the park and lost to them. A manic grin claims his face as he slows to a jog, savoring the trip around the bases. One runner crosses home plate…then two…then three. Caulfield’s grand slam pushes the score to six-to-four, bottom of the ninth. The game is over.

His teammates flood from the dugout and Bear Creek students and parents spill onto the field, but the only face Caulfield seeks is Aspen’s. Strong arms lift him and he can see above the hundreds of heads. He spots her, wildly waving her arms and jumping with sheer joy. Gone is the inheritance. Gone is the piggish lawyer, his father, and Rachel. It’s only her. Always her.

Caulfield stiffens.

I love her.

Not some high school crush or infatuation with her hair, her eyes, her body. He loves
her
. Enough to forget everyone else. Enough to give her everything he can. Enough to protect her, to marry her.

He slides down from his teammates’ shoulders and whips Aspen into his arms, clinging to her.

“You were…Ack! Amazing!” she cries into his ear, heedless of the sweat dripping from his forehead, his neck, his arms. “So brilliant, so perfect!”

He laughs and set her down, plopping his soaked ball cap on her lovely blond head. Framing her face with his hands, he kisses her, hard.

“Let’s do the fairy tale. All of it.” His voice quakes with adrenaline and emotion. She can’t miss his meaning.
Don’t scare her, you idiot. She’s not even sixteen
. But it’s not fear in her wide eyes. Nothing but joy stares back, and it fills Caulfield’s own heart with trepidation.

He smooths her cheek, eases his agony. “That’s a long way out, though, getting married? Far, far in the future.” She nestles beneath his arm. He stoops and pecks her cheek.

“Only you, Firecracker. Don’t forget it.”

Kaye—Well, here it is. One hundred plus pages of our story, told as truthfully as I can recall. I know it’s one-sided. It’s missing your thoughts, your memories. Thank you again for agreeing to share them with me.