by T. S. Joyce
“I’m proud of you.”
Whatever she’d thought was going to come out of that man’s mouth, that wasn’t it. “What? Why?”
He drew up close to her, close enough to touch and lowered his voice. “I know it cost you to start painting again, especially like that. I’m proud you’re facing your demons, Brooke.”
“You don’t think…” How could she ask his opinion without seeming needy? How did she tell him his thoughts on her work meant more than the art critic’s write-ups in her local newspaper? How could she stand here, looking at this almost stranger, and tell him his views on those paintings, the ones she planned on never showing anyone, meant the world to her? “Do you think I’m crazy now?”
“Because of what I saw in those paintings? No. I think you’re hurt, and I think that asshole deserved to be painted like you did. I didn’t like the subject of them, but anyone with eyes in their head can see you are an artist, and a good one at that. Keep painting that man, or paint stars or horses or jack-a-lopes, I don’t care. I just think it’s good that you’re painting.”
Pride surged through her, spreading outward from her middle until she was warmed with it. He got it. This man who worked with his hands all day. This man who was caked in dirt, contrasting against the clean, white linoleum tiles beneath their feet. This rough-around-the-edges, tatted-up country boy understood her in a way no one ever had before, and perhaps in a way no one ever would again.
“It means a lot that you said that,” she admitted quietly. Without thinking, she reached forward and brushed a spot of dried mud off his forearm. His muscles bunched and tensed, startling her, and when she glanced up, he looked just as rocked as she felt. Holding her breath, she rested the palm of her hand against his arm and left it there, daring him to jerk away from her. He didn’t. Instead, he pulled her other hand to his lips, and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles. His eyes were so intense, they almost seemed to change colors in the fluorescent lighting. His lips were soft against her skin as he lingered there. “We’re friends,” he said, dropping her hands gently to her sides. “Touch me like that, and I’ll want more.” It sounded like a threat the way he said it.
Without another word, he pushed his cart forward and left her there, knees unsteady and warmth pooling between her legs.
She stared at the small mountain of bacon in her cart with wide eyes and rubbed her tingling knuckles where he’d kissed them.
He made it sound like a bad thing, him wanting more, but to her, it sounded just right.
****
Brooke parked in front of her trailer and stared out the side window in disbelief. Bruiser leaned against the fence near the front entry sign watching Denison glide over a gravelly clearing behind a white, jacked-up monster truck. Haydan, Drew, and Kellen were hootin’ and hollerin’ from the bed of the truck while Connor was driving donuts on what looked like an old, oversize basketball court.
“Is Denison skiing?” she asked as she approached.
“They found a pair in the storage closet in the office,” Bruiser said, bending at the waist until he rested his weight onto the rickety, splintered fence.
From here, she could make out the skis on Denison’s feet as he held onto a rope. Sparks were flying from the backs of the skis. “Aren’t they worried about starting a fire?”
“Nah, it’s too wet. Won’t catch.”
She giggled as Denison wobbled.
“Straighten out, you pussy!” Haydan yelled, then they all burst out laughing as Connor jerked the wheel, and Denison flew sideways, losing control.
He landed hard in the grass, but none of them even waited to see if he was okay before Drew was out of the truck and pulling the skis off Denison’s feet. “My turn,” he declared.
By the time all of the men had a turn, Brooke was nearly crying with laughter. As she wheezed and doubled over, Bruiser clapped her on the back and boomed a laugh right along with her.
“Idiots,” he said, wiping moisture from the outside corners of his eyes.
“They’re lucky none of them were seriously hurt,” Brooke said. She had a cramp in her side from laughing and massaged it with her fingers.
“It’d take much more than that to injure a—” Bruiser jerked his gaze to hers and the smile dropped from his face. He cleared his throat. “You got groceries you need help carrying in?”
Brooke canted her head and frowned. “To injure a what?”
“What?”
“That’s what I’m asking. You said it would take much more to injure, then you let it drop. Injure a what, Bruiser?”
“Man with that many beers in his system. Come on.” The humor in his face was gone as he turned and marched away.
She followed slowly. That wasn’t what he was about to say. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Bruiser ignored her and jogged to her car, as if attempting to escape her questions.
“Fine. Keep your stupid secrets.”
“Tagan’s planning a celebration for you tonight.” Bruiser pulled open the back door to her car and tugged out a couple of shopping bags.
Brooke locked her legs and skidded to a stop. “A celebration for what?” Please, God, don’t let it be for painting again. Her issues were not something she wanted to make public knowledge here.
“It’s a welcome to the park celebration. At least, that’s what he said on the phone. He’s picking up supplies in town for a barbecue. You’ll die and go straight to heaven when you taste the food tonight.”
He was distracting her, but okay. It was better than awkward silence. “Oh. Well, is there anything I can bring?”
“Just yourself. You’re queen of this place now. Let us spoil you like good old boys know how.”
A grin cracked her face, and she ducked her chin before he could see it. Maybe Connor had been right to call her princess. She was a trailer park princess now. Her friends back home would crap themselves if they knew how happy she was in this place. It was the first time in months she’d been able to smile without feeling some awful sense of guilt. Here, the troubles of the city seemed far away.
Bruiser did most of the heavy lifting with her groceries and art supplies, and when she went out to check that they hadn’t missed a bag, she noticed Brighton hauling heavy-looking metal buckets of water over to the back of his truck. The weight looked substantial, but it didn’t seem to slow him down one little bit. The edges of a blue tarp flapped in the wind over the sides of the truck bed, so she meandered over there to see what he was doing. Bruiser followed.
“What are you doing?” she asked Brighton.
The man didn’t talk, but his animated expressions conveyed complete thoughts. The twinkle in his eyes was downright naughty, and he twitched his head toward the blue tarp that lined the bed completely. It was already holding water, and when he dumped the huge vats of hot water into it, the surface began to steam.
“Did you make a hot tub?”
Brighton nodded slowly and twitched his head toward the back again.
“You want me to go swimming?” she asked.
He nodded and grinned like he was daring her.
She looked at the steaming water again, then back to Brighton to gauge if he was joking. It was obvious he thought she’d say no, and something about that bothered her.
“I’ll put my swimsuit on.”
Bruiser chuckled, and Brighton’s eyebrows arched in surprise.
She bit back the smile as she jogged back to her trailer. Thank goodness, she’d decided to shave this morning. It wasn’t easy either. There were only five minutes of hot water in 1010, and she had shaved at the speed of light. She had three cuts to show from her Olympic-style razor race, too, but hey, at least she was smooth for the little two-piece she’d brought in case the “fancy rental” had a pool.
She changed in record time and slipped into a pink fuzzy robe and glittery black flip flops, then speed-walked back to Brighton’s truck.
Brighton was already lounging in the hillbilly hot tub
, and Bruiser was leaning against the back of the truck, talking animatedly with a beer in his hand. “You want one?” he asked as she approached.
“Brooke’s a lady,” Kellen said as he came around the other side. “She doesn’t want a beer.” He hauled a giant box of wine on top of the truck and poured her a glass of sweet red into a Dixie cup.
She would’ve rather had the beer, but she smiled her thanks and took the wine. And after the first few sips, it wasn’t that bad. God, they were so cute. It was funny seeing what these gruff men thought ladies wanted and needed. These big burly guys were killing her with how sweet they could be.
“Here, let me,” Tagan said from behind her, so close, she could feel his breath on her ear. She jumped, but relaxed as he pulled the robe from her shoulders, then offered his hand to help her into the back of the truck.
His hungry eyes ravished her slowly, and an approving smile ghosted his lips. “Damn, girl.”
It shouldn’t have sounded like a compliment, but the way he said it, her confidence surged. Kicking off her flip flops, she lowered into the make-shift hot tub with Brighton. Dear goodness, it felt so good on her stiff muscles. Her body hadn’t been acclimatized to hiking through the woods like she had last night, but this made up for it.
She almost spit out a gulp of boxed wine when she saw what Kellen was propping up on the side of Brighton’s mobile home. One of her paintings had been stapled to an old board of plywood.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was pitched high. “That’s my painting.”
“And it’s a really good painting,” Tagan said. “I mean, it’s amazing.”
The men around her agreed, mumbling and nodding their heads.
“The man in the painting is a dick face, though. Here.” Tagan handed her a set of warn darts.
She stared in horror at the sharp metal glistening in the setting sun and the fragile red and blue flights attached to the ends, shaking in the breeze. “What do you want me to do with these?”
Tagan jerked his head toward the oversize painting. It was one she’d done in black and white with a red slash mark across the middle of her attacker’s face. “There’s your board, Brooke. Dart the shit out of that douche-wagon so we can have a turn.”
Connor came sailing over the edge of the bed, splashing them all, and Haydan, Denison, and Bruiser followed. The tub was getting ridiculously crowded, but they didn’t seem to care. They splashed and laughed, all shirtless and layered with muscle. She heaved a sigh, disturbed that apparently the whole damned trailer park knew about Markus Sanger, the evil man who ruined her life. The moment should’ve felt serious and suffocating, but instead, the rough-housing and chaos around her took the sting off her painting on display.
“Like this,” Denison said, pulling a dart from her outstretched palm.
He chucked it at the board and hit Markus right in the emotionless eye. She had to admit, it did feel nice seeing it there, hanging out of his pupil.
“I’ve never thrown a dart before,” she admitted.
“Stand up,” Tagan said without hesitation.
Unsteadily, she did as she asked, the waves from the others lapping against her calves. Tagan pulled his shirt over his head, exposing the tattoo that had peeked out from under his sleeve earlier. It was an intricate tribal rendition of some sort of large animal. A bear, perhaps.
He was all cut biceps and rippling abs, and perfect strips of muscle arced over his hip bones. Curious scars covered his defined pecs, and Brooke had to make an effort to clack her mouth closed. Holy hell balls, Tagan was ripped.
Kellen was passing out beers to the boys, so thankfully they didn’t seem to notice her body was practically begging her to tackle the man. He pulled himself up on the oversized wheel and waded through the water until he stood just behind her, jeans still on and clinging just right to his lean legs.
“Like this,” he said, wrapping her fingers around the dart. “Bring it back here, then let it go here.”
She did and the dart arced through the air and bounced off the board.
“Good. Harder, and you would’ve been right where you want to be.” Tagan leaned over her shoulder, and his eyes became hard, fierce. “Let that fucker have it, Brooke.”
Wide-eyed, she swiveled her head back to the painting. Clenching her teeth in determination, she drew back and threw it as hard as she could. The dart landed on Markus’s nose.
“Ha!” she crowed, then covered her mouth.
“Yes!” Kellen said approvingly.
“Good, woman,” Tagan said, his voice low and gravelly.
Confidence filled her chest, and she downed the Dixie cup then handed the empty to Kellen. He grinned and refilled it as she blasted another one at the board. Then another. Bruiser brought them back to her when she was out, and by the third round she felt awesome. She felt empowered. She felt relieved that all of these men here knew this man had done something awful to her, and she wasn’t harboring this dirty secret anymore.
She felt free.
Her eyes filled with stinging tears as the boys cheered after every good hit she made, and when her arms sagged with the relief of it all, Tagan spun her and yanked the bandage from her neck.
“This,” he said, holding up what had been hiding her scar, “is gone now. You earned that scar—survived it. Own what you lived through, Brooke.”
She raked her gaze down the curious scars that crisscrossed the taut skin over his chest.
Tagan’s eyes were hard and serious as he allowed her to look at him. “We all have them. Ain’t no shame, woman.” He nodded his chin and held out his hand. “My turn.”
She gave him a grateful smile and handed him the darts. Then she sat down and accepted the newly filled Dixie cup Kellen handed her. She cheered and drank with the rest of them as these crazy, wild men blasted darts at her attacker’s image.
A week ago, if someone had told her she’d be sitting in a hillbilly hot tub with a bunch of sexy, shirtless lumberjacks, chucking darts at one of her paintings and smiling harder than she had in months, she would’ve told them they were crazy.
And as Tagan settled in beside her and squeezed her hand, the warm water lapping at their knees as they made room for Kellen, she looked around at all the smiling faces. At the beer bottles that tinked together when someone told a funny joke and the soaked work jeans with holes in the knees when someone stood up to take a turn at the dart board.
Brooke smiled at the importance of this moment.
Meredith had known exactly what she was doing when she sent her here.
Chapter Seven
“You look happy,” Tagan said. He sipped his beer and watched her.
Connor watched her, too, from across the fire, but his attention seemed more possessive. She’d caught Tagan staring at her often tonight, but in his eyes, adoration pooled in the deep blue color. The man could warm her with just a look. He’d been doing it all night.
The boys were currently comparing the long arm of a machine called a processor to their dicks. The night was full of dirty jokes and laughter, but she couldn’t seem to stay in the conversation anymore. Her attention kept drifting to Tagan. He’d cooked for them, then gone out of his way to make sure she had everything she needed. He didn’t know it, but she’d seen him shake his head at Kellen as he prepared to offer her more boxed wine.
He wasn’t controlling about it, or abrasive, and she knew if she wanted, she could have more wine. But she’d had a dizzy spell earlier, and Tagan had steadied her, looking worried, then made sure Kellen didn’t pressure her to finish the box on her own. She’d sobered up over the past couple of hours, but she still wasn’t ready for bed. It was late, ten o’clock at least, but it was so nice to just sit here, listening to potty talk, with the laughter of her new friends as medicine for her soul. It helped that Tagan had taken an old lawn chair right beside hers.
Brighton sat down across the fire with a beat up old guitar and started strumming a song she recognized from the radio. If she had a
ny kind of voice, she’d hum along, but as it stood, she couldn’t hold a tune. Denison, however, could.
He sang a strong, clear baritone with that thick, country accent of his, and Brooke propped her feet up on an overturned log in front of her and relaxed into her plastic chair. The boys grew quiet, settling in as Denison hit the chorus. Conversation faded to an occasional murmur as the boys nursed their beers and stared at the fire in the middle of them all. Brooke looked up to the sky, suddenly yearning to see the stars she’d seen last night. The ones that looked radiant in the mountain sky.
“You want to go up there?” Tagan asked.
Brooke rolled her head toward him and smiled. “How’d you know?”
“That place calls to me, too. You can’t see it as well from here. The firelight and smoke pollute the view of the sky.”
Shyness crept over her, dragging heat into her cheeks. Leaning over, she whispered into his ear. “Will you come with me?”
Tagan’s breath hitched, and he hesitated before he answered. She thought he would say no, but instead, he grabbed her hand and helped her up, then led her around the outskirts of the circle.
Connor’s cold eyes followed them. Brooke couldn’t look away from him as the firelight reflected strangely across his face. They looked like the eyes of an animal illuminated by high beams at night on the side of the road. A chill rippled across her skin, causing a wave of gooseflesh over her arms.
“Don’t mind him,” Tagan said.
“You know the rules, Second,” Connor said. “I challenged. You can’t touch her until Jed gets back.”
Tagan pressed his hand against the small of her back and guided her away from the campfire.
“Why does he call you Second? And what did he mean about he challenged you?”
“Nothing you have to worry about,” Tagan said, his voice hardening.
“Okay, but you know my entire ordeal, and no one will answer my questions here. You all speak in some secret code, and I get the distinct feeling I’m the only one here who is left out of the loop.”