Phoenix (The Colton Cousins Book 1)

by Rebecca Rennick

  Although he isn’t in town for long, he promises he will come to see me the next time he gets called to Huntersville for work. I may be a little excited at the prospect of seeing him again, even possibly outside of the bar. Maybe he’ll ask me out. That would be nice. He would definitely take me somewhere nice. Guys like him like showing off their wealth and status by taking women out to super fancy restaurants and plays and shit like that. I’ve never been wined and dined before. It could be nice.

  “Thank you, Clover.” Braxton’s smooth voice interrupts my internal pondering.

  “For what?”

  “For making my night more enjoyable.”

  “Well, that is my job.” I joke.

  “Still. You made my night. I was expecting nothing more than a boring evening drinking alone.”

  “Technically, you still were drinking alone since I don’t drink while working.” I giggle like a goofy schoolgirl and smile broadly at him. “But I’m glad I could help.”

  Looking at the very large and expensive gold watch on his wrist, he turns back to me with a playful frown.

  “I’m sad to say I have to get going. Early morning tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be seeing you next time then?” My voice raises an octave with excited eagerness.

  “Absolutely.” His devilish grin sweeps up and down what of me is visible behind the bar before saying goodbye—sauntering out with his hands loosely shoved in his pants pockets. I may have taken an extra moment or two to check out his ass. It’s nice. Not as firm and solid as Nix’s but still a really nice ass.

  For the rest of the night, I may have a dopey grin on my face, and eventually, Rosie takes notice.

  “So, I noticed you were rather chatty with that guy before.” She lifts her brows subtly, asking for more information. I can’t stop the tiny giggle that escapes my lips.

  “Yeah. He was in town for business.”

  “Oh, for how long?”

  “Just the night.”

  “Is he coming back soon?”

  “Don’t know. He wasn’t sure when he would be back in town.”

  “Huh, bummer.” She doesn’t seem bummed. She seems contemplative, tapping her nails on the bar thoughtfully.

  “Did he give you his number?” She asks.

  “Uh, no. I didn’t even think about it. Dammit.”

  Without a beat of hesitation, Rosie’s inquiring tone turns happy and upbeat.

  “Ah well, there’s plenty of fish in the sea.” Brushing it off as a onetime encounter that’ll never happen again. Thanks for all the confidence, Rosie.

  That’s weird that she would change her tone so quickly about me meeting a guy. Although I’ve only known her a few weeks, she has constantly been trying to get me to go out and find a man. She is like a damn energizer bunny matchmaker. But a possessed one. Literally, every good-looking man that hits on me in the bar she suggests I go out with. I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t tried to set me up with one of her cousins. I think it’s just because she hasn’t gotten the opportunity. Or she doesn’t think I’m good enough for any of them.

  Probably the latter. I know I wouldn’t want to set myself up with my family without knowing me better. It must be why she tries to set me up with everyone but her own hot cousins. I haven’t met any of them yet, but I know they’re hot. It’s just a given at this point. But Rosie loves me. I’m sure there’re other reasons for her not wanting me to date one of her cousins. The question is, do I want to? They all might have the looks and height like Nix, but if they have his attitude and man-whore ways, I don’t think I would want to.

  Rosie’s rambling pulls me out of my own head as I listen to her move from subject to subject. First, some hot doctor she met at the bakery the other day saying something lewd about taking his temperature. Then to her mom, creating a new recipe for some delicious dessert. Then to her cousin, Sebastian, taking over daily operations at the auto body shop. She also mentions one of her cousins that likes to sneak into the bakery when her mom isn’t there and bake. But I don’t catch his name. All conversation of Braxton virtually vanishing. She never even asks his name.

  “Someday, you’re going to have to tell me about all your cousins. There’s so many of them I am constantly confused about who is who.” I interrupt her banter. If I keep working here and being friends with her, Beau, and Lily, I will need a pictogram of her family. I can’t follow half the stories she tells because I don’t know who the fuck she’s talking about.

  “Absolutely, girl. On our next day off, you come to my house, and we’ll dish it out over pie and wine.” There’s excitement written all over her face. Rosie loves girl’s nights of any kind. The staying in and watching movie marathons—gossiping over guys—getting dolled up to the nines and going out clubbing. Although it’s been a while since I’ve done either, I look forward to doing both with Rosie.

  “That would be super helpful. I feel like such an airhead when you talk about your family.”

  “It’s no problem, hun. I got you.”

  The rest of the night is basic—closing and cleaning up before heading home.

  Chapter 12

  Phoenix

  I had finally started to drift off to sleep when I hear a soft knock on my door. I check the time on my phone. It’s glowing a soft 2:45 am. Maybe it’s Clover. Is she actually taking me up on my offer? I wouldn’t mind her climbing into my bed. I most definitely wouldn’t say no to a romp in the sack with the feisty ginger chipmunk. The knock comes again, this time accompanied by a voice.

  “Nix, are you awake?” The whispered female voice drifts in through the closed door.

  “Rosie?”

  Rosie opens the door and slips in, shutting it quickly and quietly behind her.

  “What are you doing here?” It was unusual, to say the least, for Rosie to be sneaking into my room this late. Maybe something’s wrong with Lily or her parents.

  She sits on the edge of my bed and click on the bedside light, sitting up. Letting my eyes adjust to the soft glow illuminating Rosie in her Colt 45 t-shirt—a worried furrow on her brow.

  “I gave Clover a ride home.” She whispers.

  “Okay, but what are you doing in my room?” I whisper back. Why am I whispering?

  “Someone came into the bar tonight who was a little extra flirty with Clover.”

  A twinge of something warm shoots through me, feeling a lot like jealousy. It can’t be. I don’t get jealous; she isn’t anything to me but my roommate. So then why is this hot rage pulsing through me?

  “That’s not really any of my business, Rosie.” I try to say as indifferently as possible.

  “It was Braxton.”

  I freeze. Hearing the name of the low-life piece-of-shit that I wish to God I could kill in the slowest and most agonizing way imaginable. My hands ball into fists, and I can feel the blood almost boil in my veins.

  “What happened?” I grit out between clenched teeth.

  “From what I saw, they only talked. He flirted, she flirted, smiling and laughing.”

  My breathing becomes labored as my chest rises and falls abruptly, hot lava pumping through my veins. I’m no longer tired.

  “When he left, I asked her about him. He was only in town for the night, and they didn’t exchange numbers.”

  At least he didn’t touch her or ask her out. And he is gone for the time being. Sadly, he won’t be gone forever. Being in one of the Syndicate’s head families, he’ll be back. We always cross paths with each family at one point in time or another. Braxton usually made sure to steer clear of me, though, knowing if I ever get the chance, I will gladly and easily take him out. Permanently.

  “We need to keep an eye on her. If Braxton shows up again, you let me know immediately.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “Thanks, Rosie, for letting me know.”

  “Of course. I know you don’t trust him and how much you hate him. How much we all hate him. Especially after what he did to Falcon.”

  Falcon, my
younger sister, had decided to date Braxton about five or six years ago. He was twenty-one. She was only nineteen and thought she was in love. They only dated for less than a year, and me and my brother Griffon were the ones to end it. After finding her with bruise marks around her wrists, we discovered he was emotionally and physically abusing her. Griffon and I had beaten the ever-loving shit out of him. Breaking a few bones and possibly knocking a few teeth out in the process. We would have killed him if he weren’t a Shaw. Unfortunately, we couldn’t kill him without starting a war between the families. We may have been young and hyped up on coke wanting to protect our sister, but we weren’t completely fucking stupid. We came to an agreement that he would never touch any of our female relatives ever again and only interact with us professionally and as little as possible.

  “Thanks for watching out for her. You’re a good friend. She doesn’t know much about the families yet.”

  “Perhaps you should inform her then. At least a general rundown of who they are and what they do. Warn her against those she should stay away from.” Rosie lifted an eyebrow at me suggestively.

  “Yeah, maybe I will,” I grumble in agreement. We don’t like to talk shop with people outside the family, but if I want to protect Clover from the likes of Braxton, I’ll have to tell her something. The fact that I want to protect her should send off warning bells, but my mind is too preoccupied to focus on something so insignificant right now.

  Rosie leans in and kisses me softly on the cheek before standing to leave. She exits the same way she entered. Quickly and quietly. Latching the door behind her.

  There’s no way I can sleep now. With the light turned off again, I stare into the black abyss that is my ceiling. Thoughts of Braxton flirting and touching Clover run through my mind, closely followed by fantasies of killing Braxton. One way for every letter of the alphabet. Starting with anal penetration with a broken broom handle. It’s to these thoughts that I spend the rest of the night plotting ways to kill him and dispose of his body.

  Chapter 13

  Phoenix

  “Y

  ou’re up early.” I find Clover sitting on the couch the next morning. Something that never happens. I am always up first. She loves to sleep in. So why is she up so early this morning?

  She’s sitting on my spot on the couch, too. As I get closer, I see a standard size sketch pad on her lap and a yellow number two pencil in her hand. My sudden appearance grabs her attention, and her eyes snap up to me.

  “Oh, yeah. I just woke up with the urge to draw, and the light is perfect in this room.” She gestures to the large windows, letting in the late morning sunshine.

  Clover is dressed in more clothing than normal. Usually, she saunters around in her panties that I fucking love so much, but today she is wearing black leggings and a normal-sized pale pink t-shirt. It’s relaxed and cute.

  “What are you drawing that’s so inspiring?” I walk around to the backside of the couch, placing my hands on either side of her shoulders. Lowering my head to one side of hers, level with her ear. I can smell her soap. So clean, with only a slight hint of honey and lavender. I can’t help but take a deep inhale. It goes straight to my balls.

  Clover shifts and tilts the paper toward me, showing me a rough outline sketch of a woman’s face. Growing out of the upper right corner of her head is the beginnings of a sunflower. The design is extremely surreal and good. I didn’t know she could draw.

  “You’re really good. I didn’t know you could draw.”

  “You never asked.”

  “Touché.” It’s true, I had never asked her about her or her life before here. Honestly, I don’t know much, other than the small tidbits of information I’d gotten from Beau and her in passing conversations. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know more. Not knowing is better, though. That way, I won’t get too attached.

  When she turns her head and attention back to her sketch pad, I take the second opportunity to inhale her sweet, light floral scent. She smells like flowers and is drawing flowers and has a tattoo of flowers. Wait, her tattoo. I look down at her left arm, realizing for the first time that she’s a lefty. How did I not notice that before? What’s more, the flower design on her arm matches that of the sunflower on the paper.

  “Did you draw your tattoo?”

  She turns and twists to look up and back at me. I’d stood at the realization. So she has to crane her neck a little to see me.

  “Yeah, I did. How did you know? Most people can’t tell. Or just assume.”

  “Artist, remember? The similarities in your sunflower in your drawing and the sunflower on your bicep are too similar. Could only mean the same person drew both.”

  She just smirks at me. Not sure if she thinks I’m being conceited or is actually impressed at my deduction. I may not be formally educated and like to say the word fuck like it’s my goal in life to use it as much as possible, but I am not a complete idiot.

  Those bright blue eyes of hers shine up at me, trying to figure me out. I’ve been trying to figure her out since the moment she entered my home. A warm electric feeling reverberates through my chest. What was that? And why do I only feel it when I stare at her cavernous azure eyes? They swallow me—drowning me in my own confusion. Yet they also invite me to discover more about her.

  I need to look somewhere else other than those eyes, those lips, those freckles. So, I shift my attention back to her art. It’s a much safer subject than finding out first-hand how soft her lips are. The sketchbook she’s using is crap, and the pencil is something a third-grader would use to practice writing their ABCs. Not what an artist should be using to create something so beautiful.

  “Is that what you usually use to sketch?” My tone comes out a little more disgusted than I intended.

  “Well, yeah.” She’s offended and hurt. Shit, I didn’t mean to hurt her. But I’m offended that she creating such beautiful art with her so-called ‘art supplies.’

  Grabbing the book from her hands, I inspect it closer.

  “This is a horrible quality paper. Where did you buy this? The gas station?”

  “A grocery store.”

  Clover stands and stalks over to me, where I’m still inspecting the book. She tries to grab it out of my hands, but she’s short, and I can keep it out of her reach easily. Holding it high above her head as I continue to inspect it. Flipping through the pages trying to get a glimpse at the rest of her work. There’s not much, just a few scribbles and torn-out pages. Like she tried to draw and ended up getting mad at the paper. Removing it from the shit sketchbook with one violent rip.

  “Well, that just won’t do.” I tsk at her. Leaving the room and heading toward the den, Clover close on my heels.

  “What? What do you mean that won’t do?”

  “Your sketches are too good for such inferior paper and pencil. The quality should match.”

  “Well, it’s all I can afford, you stuck-up prick. Some of us have to do with what we can.” Her statement is timid, trying to lace anger through her insult, but she retains her composure and pride as best she can.

  “Well, now you live here, and we can afford nice things and actual pencils. We don’t draw on poor people’s paper in this house.” I have more than enough art supplies for her to sketch, draw, and paint to her heart’s content. I would love to see more of her work when given the proper supplies and materials.

  Tucking her sketchbook under my arm, I reach my destination in the corner of the den by my drafting table. Catching up to me, Clover manages to steal it back, the sneaky little thief, slipping it out from under my arm.

  “I really don’t need anything. This is just fine for my poor ass.” She’s trying to make me feel bad for calling her poor. I don’t. She may have been poor before, but now that she lives with me, she’s going to learn what it means to be able to afford nice things.

  “No, it’s fucking not.” She looks up at me, at the seriousness in my tone. Turning, I finger through the shelf of sketchbooks. Sifting
through watercolor, oversized, pocket-size, and used sketchbooks and find the perfect brand new eleven-by-fourteen sized book and pull it out. I like to keep a plethora of mediums just in case the mood strikes me.

  “Are those all yours?”

  I turn to look back at the shelves. A good portion of them are filled with my art. “Yes.”

  “Are they all full?”

  “Mostly.” I hand her the sketchbook I’ve chosen for her. “Here. This one should work perfectly for you.”

  She takes it tentatively, running her hand over the cover and down the spiral binding. Then shakes her head and extends it back to me.

  “No. I can’t take this.”

  “It’s just paper, Clover. I can afford more.” I give her a soft smile, hoping to encourage her to take it. I may mess around with her and try to rile her up, but I’m serious about art. And an artist with her talent shouldn’t hide it or hinder it with kindergarten-level art supplies.

  I can’t help the thud in my chest when she smiles at me and hugs the new sketchbook to her ample chest as she chews on her bottom lip. It’s endearing, and I revel in the fact that I put that smile on her lips. The one she’s trying desperately to hide. Turning her eyes down, shading her face.

  “How long have you been drawing?” I ask, trying to get her to re-engage with me. I can’t help myself. Wanting to hear her voice and see that smile are fast becoming my biggest weakness.

  “Since I was a kid, I always loved art class in school. My failed attempt at college was for an art degree. It’s all I wanted to do.” The joy and pure passion in her voice is something I’ve felt all too often with my art. I knew from a young age that I wanted to do it and that someday I would make it my own. I did when I discovered the art of tattooing.

  I want to help her explore her art. From the state of her materials and supplies, I’d say it’s been a while since she’s been able to express herself fully artistically.

  Walking over to my drafting table, I dig through a few art bins, creating a collection of hard and soft grade pencils and a few fine-tipped pens. Placing them in a canvas zipper pouch.