Break The Line Read online

  To my beautiful lake town, you provide me with endless inspiration

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my amazing husband, my free-spirited daughters, and my loving family for your endless support and encouragement. Thank you, Anthony Thomas, my critique partner who always gives it to me straight. Honestly, what would I do without you pointing out my every flaw as an author? Thank you to each of my beta readers: Catie, Joanna, Katherine, Valerie, and Jenni-Lynn. Each of you played a role in whipping this novel into shape. And lastly, and with all the appreciation in the world, to my author ladies: Donna Migliaccio, Judge Rosemarie Aquilina, Rachel Dacus, Katherine Hastings, and Brittany Pate. Thank you for your constant words of affirmation, inspiration, and belly laughs.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One―Benson

  Chapter Two―Dani-Rose

  Chapter Three―Benson

  Chapter Four―Dani-Rose

  Chapter Five―Benson

  Chapter Six―Dani-Rose

  Chapter Seven―Benson

  Chapter Eight―Dani-Rose

  Chapter Nine―Benson

  Chapter Ten―Dani-Rose

  Chapter Eleven―Benson

  Chapter Twelve―Dani-Rose

  Chapter Thirteen―Benson

  Chapter Fourteen―Dani-Rose

  Chapter Fifteen―Benson

  Chapter Sixteen―Dani-Rose

  Chapter Seventeen―Benson

  Epilogue―Dani-Rose

  Chapter One

  Benson

  The afternoon sun is hammering down on the white tops of the lake, causing me to adjust the sponsor-supplied sunglasses a margin higher on the bridge of my nose. “Tell me again how long I’m required to wear these ugly, Tennessee-orange sunglasses?” I call over my shoulder to my long-time manager perched on the back of the bass boat.

  “Damn it, Benson, as soon as I can get a shot where you aren’t bitchin’ about them,” he says, swiping the sweat from his forehead. I smirk at him while he repositions the camera on his shoulder, waiting for me to catch the big one so he can film the action. “It ain’t my fault you’re so dang pretty and the sponsors flock to you.” He grins behind the camera lens, knowing dang well the pretty-boy jokes are growing old.

  “Tennessee-orange, though? Come on, Jess, you’ve known me my whole life. I’ll wear all the free merch they want to send me . . . but this?” Giving the nose piece a flick, the sunglasses lift up my forehead.

  “You’re getting paid a lot of money to put those on and smile, even more so if you are holding up the winning largemouth at the end of this tournament.”

  Jess’s reminder causes an uneasiness in my gut. Why aren’t they biting today?

  Scanning the top of the water, I look for any cover the bass could be lurking under. I point a few yards down the bank to a patch of submerged tree trunks. Jess cranes his neck and shades his eyes to get a good look at where I want him to steer the boat.

  “Here, take these. You’ll see better,” I say, tossing the glasses back to him. He nearly drops his camera trying to catch them before they go overboard.

  “Jesus Christ, that’s nine-hundred dollars you almost donated to the bottom of this Alabama lake, you jackass.” He scowls, and I can’t help but laugh as he scrambles along the floor of the boat. “No one else is out here, Benson. You sure about this side of the lake?” He pops his head up, the gaudy sunglasses now covering his eyes.

  “Yep. This is the spot.” And there isn’t a doubt in my mind.

  The weight of the rod rests firmly in the palm of my hand. The heaviness of the handle in my grip is like coming home. I may have fished on hundreds of lakes across this nation, and won my share of tournaments, but the feel of a rod in my hand when I cast out the line never gets old. The anticipation of what could be waiting for me under the murky waters sends a wave of chills underneath the sweat pooling on my forearms.

  My Grenade Crankbait hits the top of the water at the same time I hear Jess shuffle beside me. “All right, boss, we got forty-five minutes to get back to the weigh-in station. Reel us in a good one,” he croons anxiously.

  The drag adjustment clicks in time with my rhythmic pulling on the handle. Slow and steady, I call the open mouth of the bass in with my bait. He’s down there, I know it, it’s the luring him out of hiding that takes time. My Pop used to tell me I could seduce a fish out of the clay beds like no one he’d ever seen before, the reminder of his words gives me all the confidence I need.

  The crankbait reaches the boat for a third time without reward. I reel it back in, holding the rod to my chest. I look around, scanning the water tops. The sun is low on the horizon and dipping behind the pine trees, illuminating the mosquitos dancing on the water’s edge.

  “What time ya got?” I ask Jess.

  “4:45.”

  I don’t miss the hint of panic in his tone. “Hand me the Balsa Shad,” I say quickly, but firmly.

  “Jesus, Benson, we only have thirty minutes, and it’s going to take a solid twenty to get back across the lake,” he says, dropping the camera and flinging open the tackle station.

  I fly to the back of the boat and dip the motor down into the water. I need to position the boat on the opposite side of the trees where there is a collection of green water milfoil tickling the surface. Jess shoves the rod into my hands and I test its weight. I nod my head in satisfaction, and Jess picks up his camera.

  Casting out to the left of the milfoil, the line hums in the air. I leave the shad there for a moment before giving three short pulls, pausing then repeating the motion.

  “Come on, you son of a bitch,” Jess whispers beside me.

  Three short pulls, reel in a foot, wash, rinse, repeat. The line goes tight with tension, and the familiar rush of adrenaline courses through the veins in my forearms. I spit the saliva that has gathered in the sides of my cheek out the side of the boat, working to reel the largemouth in. He’s strong . . . and he’s big.

  “Don’t break the line, watch that branch . . . don’t break the line!” Jess hollers into the sticky air.

  “Shut up and film,” I say, feeling the muscles straining in my back as I pull the monster out of the muddy sediment.

  “You got him. You got him.”

  “You filming?” I ask, gritting my teeth and straining. I’m giving the bass just enough fishing line. Not enough to lose him, not too little to break.

  “Damn straight I’m filming.”

  Giving a long hard pull just above the hook keeper, my fingers simultaneously work the handle on the reel. He’s mine. I know it for sure only seconds before the fish’s wet, writhing body hits the floor of my boat. I look up at Jess, and he slaps my hand high in the air.

  “Woooo weeee, that’s a big son of a bitch,” he calls out to the woods lining the banks. “Hold him up, and put those damn sunglasses on. That’s the winner right there!”

  “Yeah, and it won’t count if we don’t get our asses back to weigh-in on time. Let’s go,” I yell, unhooking the shad from the bass’s lips. I open the fish container and place my $8,000 bass into the water with the smaller ones caught earlier in the day. Jess fires the motor to life, and satisfaction blankets my body as we rush to make it back before the clock runs down.

  “Every time,” Jess calls back to me with a giddy expression, the water spraying off the sides of the boat and into the air as he powers us toward the opposite end of the lake.

  “Not every time . . . just most times,” I say, allowing myself to grin while the tension melts off my body. After weeks of dealing with sponsors and preparations for this yea
r’s Classic, I’ve decided they don’t get to suck the fun out of this moment too. I’m going to sit back in my seat, feel the spray of the lake on my face, and enjoy the ride into town. “Slow it down a bit, man, we have time.” I notice the trees along the banks are a blur of green and brown racing by.

  “Damn water whisperer is what you are. I don’t know how you do it, man. But you’d better believe I’m riding your coattails all the way to the bank. This’ll be your sixth win. Sixth. And we are only halfway through the season. Cha-ching!” Jess cackles. And I can’t help but join in.

  The sound of Jess’s throaty laugh is overpowered by a rumble coming from the depths of the lake, and then replaced by a rush of wind and water hitting my eardrums. My body ricochets off the water, and my palms slap at the surface, sending a stinging sensation reverberating through my bones. Opening my mouth to yell out in pain, I instantly suck in a breath of muddy water. Off in the distance I hear metal twisting, and the boat motor come to a stall. The sounds roaring in my head grow faint, and my vision blackens around me.

  * * * *

  “Benson! Hey man, wake up. Shit.” Tiny needles prick at my cheeks, forcing me to open my eyes. Jess is bent at the knees, hands resting on his thighs. I swipe at a sticky wet liquid smeared across my face, and my mouth tastes like vomit.

  “Is he ok?” My eyes squint against the sun to see who the unfamiliar voice belongs to.

  “Yeah, I think so. Hey, tie that rope to the front of the boat. We have four minutes to get over to that pavilion.”

  Who is Jess pleading with? “Ouch,” is all I can manage. Flames lap at my throat, and my lungs are no better off.

  “Submerged tree log,” Jess grumbles, and I instantly know what sent my body flying off my $65,000 bass boat and into the lake.

  “Is it bad?” I ask, sitting up slowly. The lake spins on an unseen axis.

  “Nah, you’ll make it. You hit the water hard. Passed out. I dragged you back in . . . there may have been some mouth-to-mouth,” Jess cringes and slaps at my back.

  My lip curls at the thought. “Not me . . . the boat?” I turn my head up and look at him, squinting through one eye, realizing I’m on the lounge seat of someone’s pontoon.

  “Ripped right through the motor. All the damage is in the underbelly,” he says, wincing.

  “Damn it . . . the time?” I ask, not wanting to know the answer. Whoever is hauling us back to shore is moving at a glacial pace.

  “We got two and a half minutes and a lot of water to cover.” He looks behind him toward the driver, and practically begs the speedometer to rise with his eyes.

  Standing to my feet, the contents of my stomach begins to churn and gurgle. I pull my fist to my lips and look down, trying to get my bearings. “Sir, I hate to ask but can you hurry us up a bit? I have to make it to weigh-in. I promise to repay you for your services,” I say with my eyes shut tight. I refuse to puke on this dude’s boat.

  “That’s ma’am. And my pontoon doesn’t hit ungodly and unnecessary speeds like your mangled heap of metal I’m towing in for you. You fishermen come here every year and fly down these waters, not even taking a second to think about all the kids skiing out here, all the families and people out enjoying their local lake. Now sit down, you’re blocking my view.” The icy words fly from her mouth. I turn, and her angry blue eyes are staring furiously and intently into mine. There’s a spattering of freckles across her nose, and her dark red hair tangles into the wind behind her. I sit down, like she instructed, and look ahead at the weigh-in dock slowly approaching.

  “Forty-five seconds,” Jess says, leaning over the boat and grabbing onto the metal tie resting against the wood of the pier. “Go! Now!”

  My shoes hit the dock, and I sprint toward the check-in. The humid air hits my face like an oven, and it’s taking all the control I have not to throw up in front of all the locals and camera crews there to record all the action. I slam my hands onto the podium with only fifteen seconds to spare.

  “Benson Howell, sliding in by the hair of your chinny-chin-chin.” The records keeper chuckles, and for the second time that day I can’t help but join in.

  “Barely.” I shake my head at myself, wheezing for air.

  “Where’s your boat?” he asks.

  Jutting my thumb behind me, I’m afraid to look. I can hear the crowd chattering, and the camera crews are making their way down the pier to my wreckage.

  “Fish make it?” The records keeper questions me.

  “Yep, he’s in there. Damage is to the motor and underbelly. Tree log.”

  “All right Mr. Howell, load ’em up and let’s get them weighed.”

  I momentarily rest my forehead on the edge of the podium, catching my breath.

  I pull my cap off and shake the lake water and sweat from my scalp, myhair taking on a muddy quality as it drops into my eyes and curls over my forehead. My clothes are drenched, and I welcome the damp feeling against my skin. I basically crawl with my tail between my legs back to the pontoon, making my way through the crowd and the questions from the local news station.

  “Mr. Howell, can you tell us what happened to your vessel?”

  “Did you collide with another boat?”

  “Were there any injuries, Mr. Howell?”

  “Will this prevent you from competing in the Elite Classic?”

  Turning around, facing the crowd and the cameras, I give them my best southern boy smile. “Unfortunately, my boat got up close and personal with a tree log hidden by the water. These things happen. We are going to work quickly to repair the damage. I don’t expect there to be any missed competitions. Now if you will excuse me, I need to thank the kind lady who towed my boat in along with what I’m sure is the first-place largemouth.” I wink and nod my head before making my way toward the end of the dock where Jess is rummaging through my bass boat.

  “Make it?” He cranes his neck up at me.

  “You know it.” I smile, and his expression matches mine. “Ms. Sunshine over there sure seems ready to rip me a new one.” I nod my head toward the pontoon boat.

  Jess holds his hands up in surrender. “That’s all you, brother.”

  I kick at the wood of the dock before deciding I need to go ahead and get it over with.

  Giving three light taps with my shoe on the edge of her boat, I attempt to gain her attention. She’s speaking into a cell phone, one hand on her hip, and another hand holding a finger in the air telling me to wait. Her auburn hair is like fire underneath the Alabama sun, and if I wasn’t convinced she wanted to drown me in lake water, I would find her undeniably attractive.

  “Mmmhmmm, ok Mama, I’ll make sure. Love you too, bye-bye,” she twangs into the phone before hitting the end button and looking up at me expectantly.

  “I’m Benson Howell.” I extend my hand to her.

  She looks at my outstretched palm for a moment, then I see a hint of resolve behind her eyes before she slides her hand into mine, yet refusing to introduce herself.

  “Well. Thank you. You really saved my ass back there,” I say with a smile, hoping that my easiness will rub off on her.

  “No, your friend saved your ass. All I did was tow you in. You know, you really should mind how fast you travel down the water. You could have killed someone or yourself,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. I notice the same freckles painted across her nose are flecked across her arms as well.

  “I hit a log, not the Prince of Wales,” I say, squinting my eyes at her. What is this chick’s deal? We may have been in a hurry to get back, but we didn’t intentionally hit a log. “Will you accept my apology for imposing on your afternoon?” I’m practically begging her to accept so I can get back to my boat . . . and hopefully some dry clothes and a beer.

  Her gaze is unforgiving, and I reach back to wipe the sweat from underneath the hair curling around the nape of my neck. The naus
ea in my stomach returns in a wave, and I can’t quite tell if it’s the tossing of the lake waves, or the spin of my axis that makes me stumble back a step.

  “Whoa,” she says quickly, hopping off her boat and onto the pier. “Maybe you should sit for a second. You may have just hit a log, but I saw what happened. You smacked the water pretty hard.”

  Following her onto the boat, I lean back on a sticky leather lounge seat. I can hear her rummaging through a cooler. She hands me a bottle of water and sits across from me. “Probably wouldn’t have skipped across the lake like a flat little rock if you hadn’t been going so dang fast. Drink that.” She points to the iced down bottle in my hands.

  I scowl at her reprimand but still find myself pulling the cool liquid from the bottle into my mouth. “What are you, the coast guard?” I ask, irritated with her demeanor.

  “Game Warden’s daughter.” She winks, and I choke back, sputtering on the last drink. Game Wardens, Water Patrol, they all have the power to end my season with a reckless speed violation, not to mention cost me a ton in fines. She’s the only one who knows the reason we hit that log so hard is because we were traveling entirely too fast. Had we been going slower, we may have seen it breech the surface.

  “Relax, angler,” she says, standing and stretching her arms above her head. She walks over to where I’m sitting and places her hands against the seat on either side of me. “But so help me God, if I ever see this sparkly-ass boat soaring down these waterways again, my daddy will be the least of your troubles.” She grabs the empty water bottle from my hands, and hops off the pontoon onto the pier. I watch her glide down the dock and into the crowd. When I lose sight of her auburn hair, I stand scratching my head. Turning back to Jess, who is within earshot of the tongue-lashing I just received, I shrug my shoulders.

  “We gotta find a boatyard and get this thing fixed. You also owe me a beer. It’s not every day I make out with a man and bring him back to life,” he yells from the Bass Cat and wipes the sweat from his forehead. he pulls his phone out of his pocket, punching at the screen with his fingertips. “Yeah, this is Jessie Stanton over here at Spring Creek dock . . . I need a towboat and a mechanic.” I listen to him trail off as he walks to the back of the boat, peering over at the motor.