Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) by Kristen Kehoe

time?”
    Hunter’s quiet eyes slip from Nala to Malcolm, assessing, before latching onto Jordan.
    “I usually only help in the off-season or when I’m home for an extended period of time. When Brooks bought this place—we decided it was small enough to do with just the two of us. Then Mal bought his place a few months later—” Hunter grins. “Well, Brooks and I decided to save him from himself. Mal might be the second-ranked Big Air skater in the world, but he can’t swing a hammer worth shit.”
    Mal holds out his middle finger; both his and Nala’s bodies relax with the change in focus.
    “And what are you ranked?”
    Hunter grins; Mal groans. “First.”
    Jordan smiles, and shifts her attention to me. “What about you, Brooklyn? How do you find the time to create art and renovate homes?”
    I look at her, tilting my beer back to take a swallow. “I work with my hands every day—sometimes I work on cabinets and flooring, sometimes I work on canvases or the computer.”
    “Are you working on anything now?”
    “We just finished this house.”
    She smiles. “I see. Is that why your walls are blank?”
    Nala snorts. Mal and Hunter both smile. I scowl. “No. I like white.”
    “Bullshit. Brooklyn’s temperamental,” Hunter says. I take a page out of Mal’s book and flip him the bird.
    “More like he’s an asshole,” Mal interjects. “He doesn’t display his work. He does what he feels like, and he keeps it all hidden away until his manager sets up a show. We had to browbeat him to even get him to accept a manager.”
    “Who is currently blowing up my phone with annoying things like ‘How’s it going?’ or ‘When can we expect another show?’ Which is why I didn’t want a manager.”
    “It’s his job, Brooks,” Nala says. “Tell him you don’t have anything.”
    I find Jordan. “I don’t think that’s true anymore.”
    +      +      +
    Nala cites starvation, so we order a few pizzas. Hunter pulls out the ping-pong table from the carport, and soon, there’s a game of beer pong going—Nala versus Hunter.
    As per usual, she’s talking all sorts of shit while he just smiles and sips, throwing clean shot after clean shot.
    “Ever played?” I ask Jordan, taking a seat in the chair next to hers. Her back is straight and her feet are tucked underneath, crossed primly at the ankles.
    “No, I can’t say I have. Isn’t that full of sand?” she asks when Nala cusses Hunter out for scoring and gulps down the beer.
    “Not too bad. They rinse it in the pitcher of water if it hits the ground.”
    She recoils slightly. Pizza arrives and we let Hunter pay since he appears to be the only one winning at anything. Before he fishes out his wallet, he sinks the ball into Nala’s last cup.
    “Fucker can’t lose,” Mal says, but we both know that isn’t true—or he wouldn’t be staying here to work on houses instead of going back on tour and defending his title.
    We eat out of the boxes, spreading them on the low glass table in the center of my stamped concrete patio. I eye Jordan as she takes a piece, pausing when I watch her close her eyes after the first bite.
    “Jordan’s in love.”
    I swing my eyes to Nala. She motions to the pizza. “Carbs. She’s rebelling—stepping out on who she was and embracing beach life. There’s even a list. I took her downtown and got her some fish tacos today.”
    “This isn’t as good those. They used fresh ingredients, this uses processed cheese and meat—why does it taste gourmet?” Jordan asks.
    She hesitates, notes that her napkin is in her lap and already greasy from the pizza that was on it. And then she darts her tongue out and laps up a small spot of sauce on her hand.
    “You have to sit for me.”
    My voice is gruff—harsh. I don’t intend it that way, but between genetics and the pulsing my body feels right now, I can’t help it.
    “Right now?”
    “Right now. Tomorrow. The next day.” I set my slice down, appetite