Malibu Rising: A Novel - Taylor Reid (top 10 motivational books .TXT) 📗

his brother’s voice and he started to worry. What if Jay wouldn’t give him his blessing? What would Hud do then?

He’d had a whole plan in place, a flowchart in his mind of what he would say depending on what Jay said. But in that second, it all went out the window. All he could see was that he was going to tell his brother that he was sleeping with his ex-girlfriend. And then, in a panic, Hud told a lie. “I was thinking of asking her out. Wanted to know if you were cool with it.”

Within seconds of the words leaving his mouth, Hud had calmed down. This could work.

Jay whipped his head to look at his brother head-on. “Are you fucking serious, man?” he said.

Already, Hud had all but forgotten that what he was asking was a lie in the first place. “Yeah, is it that big of a deal? I didn’t think you would care.”

“I care, I definitely care.”

It wasn’t about Ashley, per se. The truth was that Jay did not see—had never seen—Ashley as a girl of any particular significance. It was nothing against her. He didn’t see any girls to be of particular significance until he met Lara. Jay could see now—now that he had met the real thing—that the girls before her had been … well, not the real thing. Unimportant. Ashley had been unimportant.

But Jay just kept picturing Ashley going out with Hud. He pictured her welcoming his brother’s advances. And that’s when his brain shut down.

“Sorry, man, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I just don’t.”

Hud froze. “All right,” he said, as Jay turned in to Nina’s driveway.

“Cool,” Jay said, pulling his keys out of the ignition.

Jay got out of the truck, but Hud sat for an imperceptible second longer, processing the fact that he was—to put it mildly—completely fucked.

The doorbell rang.

Nina was teasing her hair in the bathroom. She looked at the clock: 6:51 P.M. So eager, she thought. But the world is full of all kinds of people and some are the kind who show up for a party before it even starts.

Nina opened her bedroom door and saw Kit considering herself in the mirror in the hallway and Jay coming up the stairs.

Jay was shocked to find his little sister in such a tiny shirt but, after this morning with the dress, he knew better than to say anything.

“Can you open the door?” Nina said to both Kit and Jay but to neither one of them in particular.

“Yeah, sure,” Jay said, turning back around.

Hud was stacking the extra liquor in the pantry. He came into the foyer to answer the door at the same time Jay reached the bottom of the stairs. And so, somewhat embarrassingly, they opened the door together.

There, in a pair of Dockers and a Breton striped light sweater over a polo shirt, stood floppy-haired Brandon Randall.

Jay, with his hand holding on to the side of the door, had the impulse to slam it shut. Hud, with his hand on the inside door handle, was inclined to open it farther to see what the hell Brandon wanted. And so, with the push and pull of the two brothers, the door stayed where it was.

“Hi,” Brandon said.

“Brandon?” came a voice from behind them. Nina had reached the foot of the stairs and was stunned at the sight in front of her.

“Hi, Neen,” Brandon said, taking a step into the house.

“What are you doing here?” Nina imagined that he had come to pick up some clothes or grab something from the safe. But as she watched the look on Brandon’s face—soft, hopeful—she felt a pit in her stomach, worried he was going to say …

“Can we talk?”

Nina breathed in deeply without even realizing it. “Uh …” she said. “Sure. Come on upstairs, I guess.”

Jay and Hud watched as Brandon followed Nina up to the second floor. Kit, coming down, froze when she saw them. She stood there on the landing as Nina and Brandon walked past her, a look of disbelief on her face. When they were finally out of sight, Kit looked at Jay and Hud and said, very plainly, “What the fuck.”

• • •

Nina walked into the master bedroom—her bedroom? their bedroom?—and gestured for Brandon to join her. She found herself unable to decide what to say to him, what to even think of his being there.

“What is going on?” she asked.

“I love you, Nina,” Brandon said. “I want to come home.”

1981

It was February ’81. Brandon was doing a series of photo shoots for the cover of the Sports Pages April issue. It was timed to publish ahead of the French Open, one of many contests he was the favorite for in the upcoming year. The plan was to feature him playing tennis in what would look like exotic and unexpected locales. Fortunately, Southern California can deliver beaches, deserts, and snowcapped mountains.

After shooting a day in Big Bear and a day in Joshua Tree, Brandon and the Sports Pages team set up shop just in front of the Jonathan Club, a Santa Monica beach club right on the water.

At that very hour, Nina and Kit were seated at one of the tables at the restaurant by the sand. They had decided to go out for lunch—Nina’s newfound cash flow making certain parts of the coast available to them that had never been available before. Such as a beach club with white cloth napkins and four different types of glasses at the ready. It was still unusual to them, not entirely natural. Nina didn’t like how subservient the waiter was to her. Kit thought the other patrons were all assholes.

Brandon was down the beach a distance, in the sand, wearing his tennis whites, holding a black racket, angled in front of a camera, the ocean to his back. He was