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Filipe shook my hand and pulled me in for a sideways hug, which was about as affectionate as he got in public. In private, Filipe was more touchy-feely.
Joan was more animated in her greetings. She lifted herself up on to her tiptoes to plant a wet kiss on my cheek before wrapping me in a tight hug.
They were dressed for clubbing, Joan in a short leather skort, a chunky sweater, and a thousand necklaces. She jangled every time she moved. As a lifelong surfer and rock climber, Joan had the most amazing shoulders and biceps on the planet. She wore her long, unruly dark hair loose and she smelled like surf wax, a combination of coconut and pineapple.
Filipe, equally built, though taller than Joan but shorter than me, was decked out low-slung jeans, a tight black T-shirt beneath a slim-fitting hoodie, and a trucker hat.
As Joan pulled away, I winced and nursed the shoulder with my opposite hand.
“Shoulder still bothering you?” Joan asked.
I’d gone extra hard during today’s two practice heats and my right shoulder was paying the price.
“Yeah,” I said. “In a rare form of support, Coach Anderson actually took pity on me. He told me to take it easy this weekend and gave me some muscle relaxers.”
I pulled the pill bottle out of my pocket and showed them.
“Your coach is pushing pills on you now?” Joan demanded. “C’mon, Matty. He’s pushing you too hard.”
I shrugged. Joan wasn’t wrong, but I was also partially to blame.
“I’ve got everything under control.” By their expressions, it was clear they didn’t believe me. “If I want to make it to the national team, I can’t go easy on myself.”
Filipe grunted. He knew my lifelong goal was to make it onto the U.S. Olympic Men’s Swim Team. Tryouts were this summer. Between the two of them, he understood the situation better than Joan, who was opinionated at the best of times.
Joan, though, was about to launch into a tirade against Coach Anderson when Filipe stepped in to distract her.
“Volcanita,” he said to Joan, referring to her as a cute volcano in a calm but cheesy tone. “Take it out on me tonight, sí? Whatever you want.” That seemed to placate Joan. To me, Filipe said, “Tell us about the shipment and how everything went at the veterinarian.”
“The turtles—five of them—were very sluggish. The good news is that Dr. Welch thinks she can rehabilitate them and return them to the Galápagos Islands. She was pissed at seeing them, but she didn’t ask any questions, like usual. She said if we can collect the animals quicker, it ups her chances of saving them.”
Joan nodded. I saw the relief on her face. “I’m glad Dr. Welch was able to save them. We’ll need to keep the informant happy so she calls us first instead of shopping around.”
“Cash keeps them loyal, but only to a certain extent,” Filipe said. “We could state up front that we’ll offer twice the ‘reward’ for live shipments.”
“I’m already getting advance wind of another shipment next weekend, one that’s got a lot of people talking,” Joan added. “It will cost a pretty penny for first dibs.”
Between Joan and I, we’d be able to swing almost any price they named. It was mostly the principal of the matter. No one liked being made a fool and I wasn’t convinced our informant wasn’t playing us against another contact, like Andy.
Still, I was game, even if it was the weekend Theresa and her son moved into the estate. My friends and I were in this to help and cash meant nothing to me. “You know I don’t care about the money,” I said.
“It’s why I love you,” Joan purred, rubbing my back.
“You’re loaded too, Joan, so don’t pull that shit with me.” I laughed. “The real reason you love me is because I have unlimited access to LAX’s hangers.”
“That’s just one of the many reasons I love you.” Joan’s eyes twinkled. “What are you doing tonight?” she asked. “Want to join us? I’m sure there’ll be lots of pretty faces to tempt the one and only Prince of Malibu.”
Filipe snorted and I shot him a glare.
Earlier this year, People Magazine wrote an article about America’s most eligible bachelors, with my dad, whom they dubbed “The West Coast King,” at the top of the list. They’d then gone on to call me the “Prince of Malibu.”
Sure, it was stupid, and the team ribbed me for weeks on end about it, but it came with the territory of being a Vaulteneau.
“Instead of dredging up old tabloids,” I said with a grunt, “how about you study for finals.”
“Naw,” Joan teased. “I like my plan better. Anyway, if you’re not going out, you could always come to our apartment later, if you’re in the mood.”
Over Joan’s head, I found Filipe’s gaze on me. He gave me a brief but perceptible nod of agreement.
