When he stepped into the kitchen, Blair entered at the same time from the hallway, carrying a load of dirty clothes to the attached laundry room. “Oh! Um . . . I mean, sorry, I . . . um . . . didn’t know you were in here.”
He tore his gaze from her, trying not to show her how she affected him. His heart rate increased, his cock twitched in his jeans, and his mouth salivated. His brain acted like he had x-ray vision, and her clothes seemed to fall away before his very eyes. Shaking the image from his mind, he stepped toward the Keurig machine on the counter and hit the button to heat the water. “Just came in for some coffee before I head out.”
She dropped the laundry basket in the other room before returning. “If you . . . uh . . . have clothes you want me to throw into the washing machine, just bring them over.”
“I don’t need you to play house with me, Blair.”
“Excuse me?” Her annoyed tone had him turning to face her. She glared at him as she crossed her arms. “Play house? What the hell does that mean, Grant? I don’t ‘play’ house. I work hard, raising three children, cleaning, doing laundry, cooking, and everything else that comes with having a family and a home. And on top of all that, I have my translation business.”
He couldn’t help himself. The frustration and anxiety from the last few days were taking their toll. Pointing a finger at her, Grant sneered. “Is that all? Because I would’ve killed for all of that for the six years I was in that hellhole, so don’t expect any sympathy from me. I never knew when my next meal was coming. I never knew if I’d see the next sunrise. Clean clothes? Yeah, forget those. No . . . no, you get no sympathy from me, Blair. While I didn’t know if the ditch I was digging was going to be a latrine or my grave, you were here in Hazard, sleeping in a nice comfy bed with my fucking brother and—”
His rant was cut off by her hand slapping his cheek, narrowly missing his jaw that was still sore from Drake’s punch. The crack sounded like a bomb going off in the room. Grant was more stunned than hurt, although the strike had stung.
While it was evident Blair was just as shocked as he was, there was still ire flaring in her eyes. She lowered her voice, probably so the kids wouldn’t hear her over whatever TV show they were watching in the family room. “Don’t you dare dump that all on me. I’m sorry for what you went through, Grant. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, let alone someone I loved. But none of that was my fault. I thought you were dead. You left me alone and pregnant and wondering how I was going to take care of our unborn child. I didn’t qualify for survivor benefits, since we weren’t married, and I could barely function those first few months.
“Damn you!” Tears rolled down her red cheeks, but she didn’t wipe them away. “What was I supposed to do? Dig my own grave and crawl into it? Trust me, there were times during my pregnancy that the little life inside of me—the only living thing I had left of you—was the only reason I didn’t give into my grief. Drake didn’t have to do what he did. I sure as hell never expected him to suggest we get married, but he did. And whether you want to hear it or not, he was the second-best thing to happen to me since I found out you were allegedly dead—the first things being my children. That first year, Drake became my lifeline—he and Trevor. Drake forced me to get out of bed every morning, instead of letting me lie there with the lights out and shades down, being miserable. Did you expect me to be the grieving widow for the next forty or fifty years of my life? Instead of being jealous or angry or whatever you’re feeling about your brother, you should be fucking grateful he was there for me—he was there when you weren’t. So, don’t you dare accuse me of having things easy while you were suffering. I wasn’t beaten and tortured physically like you were, but let me tell you, I was tortured mentally and emotionally—in a different way than you were, but I suffered. And then one day . . . one beautiful day, I gave birth to your son, and I finally realized I had something worth living for again. I had a future—not with you, but with your legacy . . . and with Drake. So, don’t dump all that on me, Grant Hadley, because I won’t stand for it.”
Pivoting, she stormed out of the kitchen and down the hallway, never giving him a moment to get a word in. Hell, he wasn’t sure if she’d taken a single breath during her rant. Damn, he was an ass. Why couldn’t he stop putting his fucking foot in his mouth? He didn’t want to hurt her, but that’s all he seemed to be doing since his arrival.
He had to get out of there. Not out of Hazard because there was still the question of a threat against Blair and Trevor, but he had to get out of the house for a while.
Ignoring the coffee maker, Grant left the kitchen the same way he’d come in and headed for his SUV. After climbing into the driver’s seat, he shut the door and started the engine. But before putting the gear in drive, he stared out the window at where he’d grown up. While the original structures, trees, and landscaping was the same, there had been many updates made. It was more than just a house—it was a home again. Something it hadn’t felt like since his mother had died. But it wasn’t his anymore. It was Drake and Blair’s home, and it was filled with love and laughter—at least it had been until he’d shown up.
“You did what?” Paige Wilson asked, as she gaped at her friend.
Sitting at Paige’s kitchen table, Blair let out a heavy sigh, her eyes swollen and red from the tears that’d finally stopped running down her cheeks. She was still mortified about what she’d done twenty minutes ago, but she needed to talk to the only woman she knew who might understand what she was going through. “I slapped Grant across the face. I’ve never done that to anyone in my life, but he just pissed me off, and it happened before I realized what I was doing.”
“So, he deserved it.”
Blair dipped her chin and glared at Paige. “Yes, he was being an ass, but, no, he didn’t deserve that—not after all he’s gone through.” She almost slipped and mentioned he’d been in a prison camp, but she’d promised Grant she wouldn’t repeat that to anyone.
“After all he’s gone through? What about you and Drake? Grant just waltzes back to Hazard after, what—seven or eight years of you thinking he was dead—and everyone is treating him with kid gloves. You went through just as much crap as he did, in my opinion, so he gets no sympathy from me about you smacking him.”
Blair smiled for the first time since she’d gotten there—Paige was a good friend. She hadn’t lived in Hazard until about two years ago and didn’t know Grant, other than the stories she’d heard about him, but she had no trouble defending Blair against him.
“Can I ask you a question, but it has to stay between us?” Blair asked.
“Of course. Tuck’s not the only one in this family who can tell others it’s none of their damn business. What’s up?”
She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “How do you do it? I mean, how do you love two men at the same time and not have any jealousy or anything between all of you?”
A grin spread across Paige’s face. “I was wondering if you were going to ask me that. You’re in love with Drake, yet all those feelings for Grant are still there too, aren’t they?”
Nodding her head, she replied, “Yes, and it’s so damn confusing. I love Drake, and it’s not out of gratitude for helping me all those years ago. I can’t see my life without him. But Grant . . . I never stopped loving him, even though I thought he was dead. Before he came back to Hazard, I still had fantasies about him—about making love to him again—but I could never tell Drake that. It would hurt him. And now that Grant is a reality again, and not just a fantasy, I—I don’t know what to do. I love them both, Paige, and it’s a nightmare.”
Leaning forward, Paige placed her hand on Blair’s. “Let me answer your question. How do I love Tuck and Shane at the same time, with no jealousy on anyone’s part? I just do. They are so different, yet I can’t imagine one without the other. To me, they’re two halves of a whole.” She leered and raised her eyebrows several times in quick succession. “And watching them have sex is hotter than Hades, not that it’s
something Grant and Drake would do, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, as brothers, that’s completely off the table. But in the ménages we read in the book club, there are a bunch of brothers who love one woman and they make it work. If I didn’t know you, Shane, and Tucker, I’d think all those books were complete fiction, but ménages do exist, and your marriage is living proof.”
“Are you saying you think Grant and Drake might be interested in a ménage relationship?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. And I don’t know if I’m interested in one, but I can’t imagine Grant leaving at some point and just being the uncle my kids know down in Florida, who they only see once every three years or so. I know he’s still attracted to me—I can feel his eyes on me all the time, and it’s so difficult not to respond to him. I know it’s only been a week, but my heart is breaking in two just thinking about not seeing him every day. I don’t even know how to approach Grant and Drake about it. What if Drake thinks I’m only interested in Grant, and I’m asking to try a ménage in order to have my cake and eat it too?”
“Then we’ll have to figure out a way to let them both know that you’re not throwing either one of them to the curb.” Paige bit her bottom lip. “And I think I have an idea that just might work.”
Before Blair could ask for details, Paige’s stepdaughter, nine-year-old Arianna yelled from down the hallway. “Mom! Ashley’s awake!”
Paige got to her feet. “Don’t go anywhere. Let me just change her diaper, and we’ll talk more while I feed her.”
As her friend hurried down the hallway to get her one-year-old daughter, Blair’s mind spun. Was she really thinking about a ménage relationship with Grant and Drake? Would they be willing to try it, or would it destroy her marriage? If that happened, she’d never forgive herself.
Chapter Twelve
Staring at but not paying attention to the ESPN commentators on the wide-screen TV over the dozens of assorted liquor bottles, Grant took another sip of whiskey. He welcomed the smooth burn as it traveled past his throat to his stomach. It was just after 3:00 p.m. at Bar None, and there were only a few sad sacks like him sitting at the bar in between the lunch and dinner hours. Aside from the male bartender asking what he wanted to drink when Grant had first sat down, no one had tried to engage him in conversation, which was fine with him. With his beard and mustache growing out, and the dimness of the room, none of the old timers at the other end of the bar had recognized him, although he remembered them from years ago. Surprisingly, they hadn’t changed much. Grant envied them because he’d changed more in almost eight years than most people did in their entire lives. Confinement and torture would do that to a man.
After driving around aimlessly for two hours, his vehicle seemed to steer its way to the bar. His cheek and conscience still smarted from Blair’s slap and his own stupid mouth, which didn’t seem to want to cooperate with his mind. His heart, brain, and body were at war with each other whenever he was in the same room with Blair. It wasn’t his intention to hurt her, but the longer he stayed with her and Drake, the more he wanted her, and that made him an asshole. He just wished whoever had orchestrated their unexpected reunion would show his or her cards and let Grant take care of them, before returning to Florida. There he wouldn’t have the constant reminder that he was still in love with Blair, but he couldn’t have her. If he tried to claim what used to be his, he’d destroy the happy life she and Drake had made for themselves and the children.
The barstool next to him scraped the floor when it was moved, and someone sidled in next to him, taking the seat. Tucker Wilson must have come through the bar’s rear entrance. Dressed in a gray T-shirt, faded Wranglers, worn, black shit-kickers, and a straw cowboy hat, he flagged down the bartender. Throwing some money on the bar, he pointed to Grant’s near-empty glass. “Give him another, Dean, and I’ll take whatever he’s having too.”
With a nod, the man retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels, poured the Tennessee whiskey into two new tumblers, since Grant was still holding his, then set both on the bar. “What’s the special occasion, Tuck? You’re never here this early unless you’re having lunch with the family.”
He shrugged. “Nothing really. Just came into town to run a few errands and decided to stop in for a drink.”
Dean seemed to accept that answer before striding down to the opposite end of the bar to wait on another customer who’d walked in behind Tucker. Grant picked up his new drink and huffed. “Thought you were the one who told people what you do isn’t any of their fucking business.”
“Only after they don’t take the first hint. After that, all bets are off. That is as long as I don’t have my girls with me. I try to curb my annoyance when Paige, Arianna, and Ashley are around.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “But when it comes to friends, butting in is just another way to say we care about each other.”
Grant glared at him. “Since when did we become friends?” Tucker had only moved to Hazard and started working at the Triple R about three years before Grant’s alleged death. Grant and Blair had met him a couple of times when they’d come back home for a few visits, but that had been ages ago. Now, the man was married to Shane, and they were both married to Paige, who was their second wife after they’d been widowed a few years earlier. Grant had no idea how that all worked—that had to be a huge fucking bed they had—and he didn’t really care. To each their own.
“We’re not.” Tucker’s gaze remained on ESPN. “But I’m friends with Drake and Blair, so that makes you a friend-in-law, I guess.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“Who the hell knows?” A few moments of silence passed between them before Tucker asked, “So, when this is all over, are you leaving your heart in Hazard and tucking your tail between your legs while you head back to Florida, or what?”
Grant’s glass-filled hand froze on its way to his mouth, and he gaped at the man next to him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Turning on his stool, Tucker faced him. “What I mean is, you’re in love with Blair, Drake’s in love with Blair, and she’s in love with both of you. So, why don’t you and Drake share Blair?” If nothing else, the man was blunt.
“Are you nuts?”
“Nope. And trust me when I say that before our first wife, Sarah, came into Shane’s and my lives, a ménage marriage used to be as foreign to me as it is you.”
Grant downed half his new glass of whiskey. For this conversation, he needed it. “You do realize I have no desire to have an incestuous relationship with my own brother, right?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tucker muttered while rolling his eyes. “Why would you even think that’s what I was implying? I’m not telling you to have sex with your brother—God, that’s sick. Not everyone needs to be doing everyone in order to have a three-way relationship. There are a lot of heterosexual guys out there who’re involved in ménages, and some of them are brothers. Look at Remi and Grayson Mann, the record producers. They’re twin brothers and engaged to one woman. And the only reason I know that is Paige was watching one of those reality wedding shows the other day, and their fiancée was on it, picking out a dress to wear.”
“Actually, I know them. They live in Clearwater Beach near Tampa.” Now that they’d been mentioned, Grant remembered the trio he’d met once or twice at Shelby and Parker’s barbecues. The Mann brothers’ business, Black Diamond Records, was one of the top recording production companies in the world. At first, Grant had thought it was weird they were in a ménage relationship, but they were members of Ian and Devon Sawyer’s BDSM club, and, apparently, weird was normal there. In fact, Grant recalled another threesome that the Sawyer brothers’ cousin was involved in, although he couldn’t remember the guy’s name—Matt or Mitch or something like that. His relationship was similar to the one Tucker was in—all three were in love with each other.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, they’re friends with my boss and a few other people I know. But I only met them a c
ouple of times at parties.”
Tucker finally took another sip from his glass. “Well, there you go.”
When the other man didn’t elaborate, Grant gaped at him. “There I go, where? What the hell are you talking about? Drake and Blair would never go for a ménage—with me or anyone else.” Would they? And am I honestly thinking about it? “I mean, maybe it works for you and other people, but it’s not for us. Besides, I’m not the man either of them used to know—a lot has changed. Blair deserves better than a man who still has nightmares every night—she’s better off with Drake.”
That was the first time he’d ever admitted to having nightmares to anyone other than his shrink. He had no idea why he’d confessed to it now, but he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. It was one of the reasons he’d never stayed the whole night with any of the women he’d taken to bed in Tampa. He didn’t want anyone to see him torn from his sleep in a terrified panic, thinking he was back in that hellhole.
Sighing, his drinking partner waved the bartender over again. “Fill him back up, Dean, and put an order for hot wings into the kitchen for me. I’m fucking hungry, and this conversation is going to take a while.”
Climbing out of his truck, Shane closed the door and strode toward Drake’s workshop. He’d been doing the week’s payroll when his wife had entered his office with Ashley in her arms. Shane had briefly said hello to Drake’s wife when she’d first arrived with the kids, but he’d left Blair and Paige to have some tea and girl talk while he tried to get some work done. However, when Paige had come to him with her little scheme to unite Grant, Blair, and Drake into one big happy ménage, Shane had been all too willing to help. To him, it was an obvious solution to their problem, but he doubted his good friend would be easy to convince the plan could work.
Shane pushed the door open and entered the workshop. The whir of Drake’s jigsaw kept Shane from calling out to his friend. There was no need to startle the man and risk him losing a finger or two. After giving Roscoe, who’d been lying near the door, an ear scratch, Shane moved cautiously into Drake’s line of vision and waited, inspecting several completed and in-progress pieces of furniture and sculptures. It still amazed Shane how Drake could take a fallen tree and make it into a work of art. When they’d been much younger, Drake had learned to whittle pieces of wood from his grandfather. Even back then, the guy had shown some amazing talent. Shane still had several small, carved figurines in his office that Drake had given him while still in high school.
Don't Shoot the Messenger: Hazard Falls Book 2 Page 8