AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Forty-Three
Malcolm
Just under sixteen weeks, and my cast is off. I’ve been through one week of physical therapy, and though I hate that shit, I know I need it. This leg doesn’t feel like mine right now.
To be fair, a lot of my body doesn’t feel quite like mine right now.
It’s been weeks since I’ve seen Nala. I’ve done my best to give her what she wants, and to believe in Brooks and Jacks and what they said: eventually, she’ll see me. Eventually, she’ll want me again. Eventually, she’ll understand that I would cut off my own fucking hand before ever, ever hurting her on purpose.
Eventually, she’ll come back to me and make me a whole man again.
Until eventually fucking arrives, I’m doing my best not to see her or call her, but to let her know I’m always thinking of her. The presents were an inspired idea, one that Jordan approved when I ran it by her. If there’s something I’ve learned from this time other than I need Nalani Jansen like I need air, it’s that Jordana Richards might appear calm and collected, but she is an all-fired-up protector when need be. And she’s protecting Nala.
Which makes me happy, because after today, I’m headed to L.A. for a few weeks, to release the brand there in a scene far more contrived than this one, and to begin the process of finding a ramp and getting myself back into shape for my tour. It doesn’t excite me, not like it once did, but I’m not ready to give it up.
A month ago I wasn’t even thinking of skating—I was only thinking of building my brand, of creating a business that could sustain my life in San Diego, and provide everything Nala would ever need. Now, I just need to survive, and skating has always been my way to do that.
“You ready?” I look at Jacks, decked out in snapback and shirt with the N.A.L.A. logo on it, his shirt gray with black lettering, his hat black with a white logo. N.A.L.A. My PR guy was all sorts of intrigued when I gave him the name to match the logo.
“What does it stand for?”
“No Average Living Allowed. And it’s notwhat, it’swho.”
That’s all I gave him, but being good at his job, he’s spun it, making up some story about love, for skating and for others, that has people chomping at the bit. It’s a lifestyle brand—stories are what make it real.
“Mal?” I nod at Jacks, flipping my own white cap—baseball style, no snapback—backward, setting my board down, and rolling it underneath my weak leg. There’s a twinge, but it’s not bad.
“One run,” Hunter reminds me. “No jumps, no tricks, no dropping in. You roll out, wave, tip your fucking hat, and get to the microphone.”
“And you make sure to get your pretty, modeling ass out there and sell the goods.”
I slap him on the ass for good measure, and then I push off—harder than is wise, but that’s just who I am. I speed down the decline ramp to the screams of fans who got our tweet an hour ago, dropping into the shallow bowl like I promised Hunter I wouldn’t, but holding back the flipkick that would be second nature. Speed I can gamble with. Jumping and landing…this leg isn’t ready for that.
I roll through once more with Hunter, and then with Hunter and Teo when Hunter grabs him after the first set. He’s decked out, too, and rocking his skateboard. When he executes a perfect ollie-flipkick combo, the crowd gets louder. I begged Valentina to let me use him in the promo, and she agreed, as long as it was all done in San Diego, and his name was never released.
Someone will get ahold of it, but we’ve got protections in place when that happens. And the money he earns goes straight into a bank account with his name and his name only on it. Hunter is my other promo model, the same photographer who does a lot of his shoots for his sponsors doing these photos. Because he’s taken the media by storm with his pretty face, we’re already getting some notable ad space, along with a few interested offers from retailers and already-established designers.
Heading up to the mic that Brooks is holding, I grab it and hit his knuckles when he offers them. “How’d it feel?”
“Scary. But fucking good,” I say. Then I turn to the crowd and greet them.
This, speaking, showing off, it’s not hard for me. Jacks is the shy one, which is why modeling surprised everyone. I’ll take my shirt off all day every day, because I could give two shits about people staring. So when the crowd roars, I grin and just listen to it.
“Thanks for coming to the release of N.A.L.A., a brand that stands not just for what kind of lifestyle we live, but who we live it for.” I pause a second, letting it settle, letting people take pictures and send them out into the universe while I look around. When I spot that familiar hair, the white-blonde ringlets pushing out every which way, a band of multicolored blooms that look real settled on top, my heart lurches and my eyes track her, waiting for her to stop and look up.
When she does, the world—it somehow becomes different. Not harsh. Not lonely. Not cruel. It becomes everything. Because she’s there, looking at me with a smile, wearing my shirt and flowers in her hair.
“Jacks and I—we spend a lot of time on the road—traveling, working, living the dream we’ve had since we were little shitheads using the high school rails and stairways for our tricks instead of the skateparks.” People cheer, and phones flash. I keep talking, my eyes still latched onto to Nala. “This brand, it stands for those dreams, that work ethic, those people who make the sacrifice and work, every day. But it also stands for the people who sacrifice with them, the ones who wait at home, or meet them on tour, or take care of them when they’re hurt—who forgive them for being dumbasses.” Nala smiles, tears streaming down those cheeks, and I can’t help it, I walk toward her, mic still in hand, crowd wide-eyed. “And we are dumbasses. We throw our bodies down cement ramps and fly through the air with nothing more than some fiberglass to protect us. We aren’t always smart, and we aren’t always rational. But we’re loyal, and we’re strong, and goddammit, we’re determined.”
I hop over the small fence that separates the park from the crowd, pushing through the throng of people to get to her. “No Average Life Allowed. No settling. No taking someone else’s standard and accepting it as good enough.” I stop in front of her, eyes locked on her face, heart thwapping against my ribs. “No Average Love Allowed,” I tell her. “N.A.L.A.It’s your brand,” I say. “Because you’re who I would sacrifice for, every minute of every day, like you’ve sacrificed for me.” I drop the mic, reaching for her, cupping the back of her neck and threading my fingers through her beautiful sunshine hair. “I won’t ever ask you to sacrifice again, only to forgive me. Forgive me, Nala,” I whisper, leaning down so I whisper only to her. “Forgive me so I can love you the way I should have all along.”
I feel her nod, and I close my eyes, burying my face in her hair, bringing her closer so we’re pressed together, hearts beating in unison, chests heaving like we’re running instead of standing still in a sea of people who are straining to take our picture.
“I was scared to love you—scared to let you go. Scared I would never, ever be able to protect you and I would somehow lose you. What I did…” I pull back enough to look at her. Brushing my thumbs under her damp eyes, I stroke her soft skin and wish she could somehow see inside of me and understand what I feel. “I don’t regret pummeling him—I regret that I had to let him walk away, and I regret that I didn’t tell you, that I wasn’t honest with you. But Nala, you have to know loving you is the only thing that matters, and I will never, ever let someone hurt you and not stand up for you. I’m your man—that’s my job.”
My tone is fiercer than I intend, but she doesn’t back off or scold me, she just shakes her head, amusement sprinkled on her face. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. And maybe I was scared to love you, too. You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Malcolm.” Her words, they do things inside my chest that have it expanding until I’m afraid I might explode. She’s never said those three words, still hasn’t really. And I’d be fucking lying if I said it didn’t matter. I need them. Jesus, do I need them.
“Say it,” I demand. She lifts a brow, probably at my pushiness, but I don’t care. I’m not afraid anymore, and I’m not above demanding or begging. “Say the words, Nalani.”
