Addicted: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance (29 page)

"That's a tough gig, you know. Lots of sales," Kim replied. "But, if anyone's got the look, he does. God that man looks like he could pick up a small car if he wanted to. Can he control it?"

"Oh yeah," I said with a grin. "Lots of control."

We finished our drinks, and Kim reached over and took my hand. "Krystal, I'm happy for you, I really am. Just be careful. I'm not saying careful of him, I'd have never told him the truth if I thought he would turn around and hurt you. But a lot of the world isn't ready for a situation like yours, and you might run into problems. I guess what I'm saying is, if you need help or support, you know you can call on me."

"I know," I said, squeezing her fingers. "So tell me about what's up with you."

"
A
lright
, your time starts now."

I could feel the shakes in my hand as I looked down at the test. Randy, the manager at Metroflex, had pulled some strings to get me into the session, and I'd been cramming ever since getting on the plane Thursday morning. In between stopping by the LA County Courthouse, where one of the clerks knew my name, to going by my lawyer's office to sign the paperwork to allow him to get the ball rolling on closing out what I couldn't stick around for, I hadn't had as much study time as I wanted. Now, with a mechanical pencil in my hand, a cheap pocket calculator next to me, and a twenty-five page, three hundred question test booklet in front of me, panic was beginning to set in.

You can do it, Julian
, I heard Krystal whisper in my mind.
Now just buckle down, and start right with question one. You keep plugging away at it.

I knew the words were just a little bit of self-delusion, but it got me moving. I opened up the book, and read the first question.
Which blood pressure is considered a risk factor for cardiovascular disease?

I grinned and bubbled in my answer. For the next four hours, I worked steadily, letting my mind not get too caught up on the things I flat out didn't know.

While I had years on years of practical experience, there were certain things that were brand new to me. Randy had explained it to me in person on Friday afternoon while he ran me through a review session. "These certification groups, they know that because of the way state laws are, there's no actual way they can force everyone to be certified by them. Hell, most places don't even require you to have a cert at all if you're willing to carry your own insurance on it. So this test you're gonna take, it's just to stick some letters after your name to help get you in the door with places. But to make sure their cert isn't seen like some sort of joke, they put in a ton of words that they make up themselves. NSCA, ACE, ACSM, NASM, whatever, they all test the same stuff on the practical side of things. You're just going to have to try and remember as much of the jargon as you can. You'll do fine if you just use your brain, amigo."

I'll admit some of it was harder than I thought it would be. I mean, I really had to guess on some of the science questions. I honestly didn't know just how protein is synthesized in the body or what energy systems are used within the muscle to create contractile force. But at the same time, I look at it this way. There are a lot of doctors who could tell you everything about the individual muscles or could give me lectures on the chemistry inside the body, but who couldn't train someone at all. Both specialists, but in different fields.

I didn't let it get me down, and finished most of the questions within the first two hours. The remaining two hours I spent trying my best to figure out the questions that I had an inkling on, and then the last two minutes I just bubbled in guesses on the last ten questions I had no clue on. It was one of those types of tests, where a blank was counted the same as a wrong answer. When the test giver called time, I looked around at the other forty people in the room, and felt confident. I could tell some of the other test takers were college students, people who made studying and test taking their jobs, and they looked worried. I wasn't, I knew my stuff.

Leaving the community college, they were giving the test at, I looked around at the sunny Los Angeles sky. "I am going to miss you," I said, thinking of Chicago and the rumored miserable winters. Let's face it, a place doesn't get nicknamed "The Windy City" and have great weather. It was Sunday afternoon, and I didn't really have all that much more to do. I had to stop by my lawyer's office the next day before final close outs of Los Angeles, but that was it. I could honestly catch an evening flight from LAX to Chicago if I wanted to. If it wasn't that I knew Krystal would be working a shift at Alinea, I would have.

Give your old buddies a call,
the little demon inside my head whispered in my ear. It was strange, he had been so quiet for so long. But like an alcoholic walking by a bar, being in Los Angeles caused the demon to come out and tempt me. However, I'd made a promise, and the idea of Krystal was far more powerful than anything my inner demons could tempt me with.
Shut the fuck up
, I whispered to it, and went on my way.

I decided, after long deliberation, to hit up the beach. I could still enjoy the waves even without trying to pick up a girl, and the beach wasn't a place I got into trouble too often. I was pretty close to Malibu, so I hopped on the bus and caught the connection over. It was late summer, but still warm, so even as the afternoon approached the evening, the sand was pretty crowded. Not having swim trunks on, I contented myself with walking along the sand and watching the gulls. There were plenty of women around, and more than a few cast me glances that at any other time in my life would have had me turning to go see what I could do, but I felt no urge at all. I had something better in my life.

"Yo! Yo, Castelbon!"

I turned, and felt my good mood disappear. Pete Abbott was one of the biggest pricks in the Los Angeles young, rich, and deluded social circle. More of an asshole than I was, he'd more than once gotten himself into real trouble with the law, his father dropping enough money to keep him with either probation or various other alternative forms of punishment. The problem was, Pete was a sociopath, plain and simple. For all of the shit he had gotten caught with, he had gotten away with more, and I personally knew of at least three things he'd done that should have gotten him a trip up to San Quentin. While we'd been buddies just after I came out to the West Coast, that friendship soured quickly, and the last time I'd seen him, he'd sworn to kick my ass. Or
try
to I should say.

"Pete. You don't come to Malibu often."

Pete wasn't big, in fact he was a bit on the small side, but nobody who knew him let his size fool them for long. Being more or less batshit insane gave Pete what some people might call "crazy strength," and he was unpredictable. He also had no concept of mercy or restraint, which is how a few years ago he'd earned the nickname "Rorschach," after the character in the movie
Watchmen
. Unlike Rorschach, Pete was clearly on the wrong side of the coin almost all the time. "Neither do you, bitch," he said, approaching me. "I remember that last time I saw you, I said I was going to kick your ass."

"Not now Pete, okay? Listen, last time I was an asshole to you, and I was wrong. Okay? I'm sorry it happened, now can we please just fucking drop it and go on with our lives?" I honestly didn't remember what the hell Abbott was angry at me about, but it didn't matter. I didn't need another potential run in with the law for having a fight on the beach. Besides, I had a promise to keep.

"Fuck that," Pete said, running towards me. In my mind, I saw two options. The first was to fight back. I had a good fifty pounds on Pete, and about six inches in height. Even with the crazy factor figured in, I had good odds of walking away the victor. On the other hand, I would lose regardless of the outcome. One thing for certain is that I could depend on having a nice, long talk with the cops down at the nearest station. Not cool in any way.

The second option might cost me some Alpha points in the social scene, but since I had Krystal, I didn't really need them, did I? So I turned and ran, sprinting as hard as I could across the semi-packed sand near the water line towards the life guard tower that was about two hundred yards away. I figured that even if Pete did catch me, I had about a hundred people who either heard me say I didn't want to start anything with him, or saw me running away. At that point self defense was pretty much guaranteed.

I have to give it to Pete, he's fast. I was about fifty meters from the life guard tower when Pete tackled me from behind, sending me sprawling into the sand. Pete quickly climbed on top of me and started pounding the back of my neck, pushing my face deeper into the hot, grainy surface. Twisting sideways, I curled my body into a c-shape before exploding sideways and twisting. With my weight advantage, Pete ended up flying off of me, landing on some guy's cooler while the two beach goers were still struggling to get up and get away from the fight. I rolled onto my back and to my feet, half crouched and my hands up to defend myself, when the lifeguard came up and got between us. "Hold on, what's going on?" he asked. Pete climbed to his feet and tried to rush me, but the lifeguard grabbed him around the chest and pulled him back. "What's the problem?"

"Man, the dude you're holding tackled muscle man over there, got thrown off onto my cooler," the one beachgoer said. "Motherfucker dented the thing too."

The lifeguard looked from Pete to me, then back. "Alright, why's he chasing you down?" he asked me. "You've got a few pounds on him."

"Old beef that he didn't want to let go," I said simply. "He wanted to start something, and I didn't want to do that any longer, so I took off running for here. He was a bit faster, took me down."

The fight had caused a small crowd to gather, and there were a few people who backed up my story. The lifeguard looked around, while Pete was let go as long as he stayed on the other side of the lifeguard. "Looks like I should radio for the police," he said, "you got a clear assault case."

I shook my head. "No need, man. I don't want to press charges."

"Yo man, what about my cooler?" the beachgoer asked, pointing to his now crushed device. It looked like it had been a good cooler too, but it now sported a dent that was about three inches deep in one side. I reached into my side pocket, where my wallet still sat comfortably, and took it out.

"Tell you what, it was my fault for running so close to your spot, I'll pay you for it. What do you say, eighty bucks to cover it?" The cooler had been good, but not that good. Still, I was being generous for a reason, I didn't want the police getting involved.

Thankfully, the beachgoer thought my idea was a good one. "Alright man, I can do that," he answered as I handed him the four twenties. "Next time have him land on my car, I could use a new one of those too."

A few of the onlookers laughed, and the lifeguard looked from me to Pete again. "Okay. Tell you what. You, skinny guy, take off. I see you near my tower, I'll call the cops. You, Richie Rich, come with me, hang out at the tower for a while, give your friend here time to get out of the area and cool off."

"I'm cool with that," I said, watching Pete carefully as he nodded and walked off without another word. The lifeguard stood next to me for a bit, then nodded towards his tower. I followed him, and climbed the ramp to the top, where he offered me a seat. "Thanks. And thanks for not getting the cops involved on something so petty."

"Hey, it's your life Castelbon," he replied, surprising me. The lifeguard smirked and nodded. "My little sister happens to like the society pages, and happens also to have a crush on a certain Southern California bad boy. She's going to freak out when she finds out I actually met you."

I laughed and watched the waves with him for a bit. "Well, in either case thanks. So, not trying to perv or anything, but how old is your sister?"

"Seventeen. I'm the oldest of four, she's the youngest," the lifeguard said. "She's not your type, by the way. I love Chicha, but she's not the type like you normally have been seen with."

I chuckled ruefully, thinking back to the asshole I was. "Can I see?"

The lifeguard gave me a careful look, then nodded, pulling his cell phone out. He flipped through his pictures for a few seconds, then held it out to me. The girl I saw wasn't ugly, but he was right, I'd never have given her a second glance before. She was the kind of sort-of-pretty girl that most likely made the best girlfriends or wives, because she was most likely sweet, smart, and probably could make a guy laugh. The lucky guy who ended up with Chicha would count his blessings, I bet. "She looks like a good kid," I said, handing him the phone back. Suddenly, a thought struck me. "Hey, that thing has a camera, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Can you send your sister photos with it?"

The lifeguard nodded, a smile coming to his face. "Yeah, I can. You really willing to do it?"

"For the guy who kept me from having to deal with the cops? Hell yeah. Here, let's do it selfie style," I said, getting close and throwing my arm around his shoulder. With my arm stretched as far as it could, we could both just get in the shot. "Okay, one like this, and then maybe another normal one, just me or something. Ready?"

We took the photos, and the lifeguard, who I found out was named Curt, sent them off. We got a reply in about two minutes, his phone ringing. "It's my sister."

"Here, hand me the phone," I said, holding my hand out. I hit the call button and held it to my ear. "Hello, this is Julian Castelbon speaking, how may I help you?"

"No . . . way!" a teenage girl yelled in my ear. "Curt, I swear to Christ that if this is you playing a trick on me . . ."

"No trick, Chicha," I said with a laugh, "I'm really Julian Castelbon. Your brother just saved me some trouble on the beach, and when he said you would appreciate a picture, well, I had to send it off."

The poor girl was in near hysterics, and I could barely understand what she was saying. In between repeated "no ways" and "oh my gods," she finally got a sentence out. "Yeah, yeah! God, it's really you!"