Broken: South Side Boys-Book 2

by Winter, Alexis

  6

  Kalum

  With one last twist of the wrench, I slide out from underneath the ‘68 Mustang. These cars are classic, but not that hard to get going again if you know what you’re doing. And while I spend most of my days in my office, every once in a while, I like to get my hands dirty. Literally and figuratively.

  The ‘68 Mustang is the perfect car to do that with. I can work on one of these with my eyes closed and it would still end up purring. To me, the two most beautiful things in the world are a naked woman in my bed, and a perfectly tuned Mustang.

  With that thought, my mind goes immediately to Tori and that dumbass bet I made with her. What in the actual fuck was I thinking? Apparently, I wasn’t thinking with my correct brain, because I should have seen her hustle a mile away.

  I’ll blame my distracted state on her tits. Or her ass. Or her hair. Or her legs. Or her smile.

  But it was none of those things. She didn’t try to act coy or play the role of the ditzy girl who had never held a pool stick. No, she was confident like always. Owning her space. That’s just Tori.

  And as much as I stare at her physical attributes, her confidence is what could be the most dangerous to me. Because there is nothing sexier than a confident woman who knows what she wants. And Tori Brennan has made it very clear that she wants me. And I don’t know how long I can hold out.

  Basically, I’m fucked.

  I go to put my tools away—music blaring through the speakers since I’m the only one left for the night—when the sounds of heavy metal suddenly stop. But it doesn’t shock me. I don’t need to turn around. I know exactly who’s arrived.

  “Still listening to this shit music, West? We’ve told you a million times that we need to get you on the hip-hop train.”

  Big Al, leader of The Kings, walks into my garage like he owns the place.

  Because he thinks he does.

  As a deputy in one of the most powerful gangs in Chicago, Big Al walks into any place thinking he owns it, or that he can buy his way in, no matter the cost. Usually, the price tag is a little blackmail with a stipend of cash on the side.

  He might be Big Al on the streets of Chicago, but I still know him as Albert Frederickson, the kid who hit his growth spurt way ahead of everyone else our age and lost the class pet in third grade.

  “You’re early.” It’s all I say, because I wasn’t ready for him yet.

  Everyone got out of here when we closed up, so I don’t have to worry about questions as to why a gang member is just walking around my shop like he’s a regular. Normally, Maverick would have stayed around if he’d known I wanted to work on a car, but he was at the second location today. I send him to the new location every Thursday for this very reason.

  “Oh, you know, I was in the neighborhood. Figured I’d swing by so my guys could get a jump-start on the night.”

  I hate that I’ve agreed to this. Hate that I’ve let a gang member take over my business once a week to do whatever the hell he does.

  I already know what they do. I know their operation; I know their routines.

  And I also know why I’m doing this.

  For Maverick.

  “Where’s your crew at? You aren’t trying to do all the work yourself, are you?” he asks, shaking his head as he walks over to the Mustang, sliding his hand over the newly restored body of the car.

  “This is a real pretty one. They don’t make them like this no more.” He continues his appraisal of the vehicle. And he’s distracted enough for me to grab my phone and hit the audio recorder.

  “No, they don’t. But this one is off-limits, Big Al. You know the rules. You do what you need to do with your inventory, but you and your boys keep your hands off of mine.”

  It was an easy stipulation for us to come to when we struck this deal. It would look pretty fucking obvious if the cars I was working on kept disappearing. Big Al agreed to the terms, knowing that they have to keep the heat off me, which in turn, keeps the heat off him.

  For some reason, I trusted him on that. And so far, he’s kept his word.

  “I know, man. You don’t have to worry about your precious ‘Stang. We’ve got plenty to keep us busy tonight. You should stay. See the inventory. Might bring back some memories.”

  I never stay. That was part of the plan. They use the garage, and I get the fuck out. I return before the sun comes up to make sure everything is back in place before we open.

  But for the last few weeks, Big Al has been trying to get me to stay. I know why. He wants me in. Back in the life where stealing and stripping cars is part of my routine.

  That life is over. And I’m determined to make sure it stays exactly where it needs to be—in the past.

  “Nah, man. I’ve got stuff I need to take care of. You know the drill. Out by morning.”

  As I grab my phone and keys, the garage door lifts up and four cars come rolling in. A Lexus. A Royce. A BMW X5. A Mercedes C-Class.

  Cars that come with a nice price tag but aren’t so rare that they draw attention. That’s how you do it when you run the business Big Al does.

  I look back and take note of the room, the people, and the cars before I leave.

  And as soon as I’m in my car, I grab my phone, making the same phone call I do each Thursday night after I leave the shop.

  7

  Tori

  “Why are you not wearing the black dress again? I thought you looked pretty in it.”

  God love my dear, sweet friend Annabelle. Her innocence is adorable.

  But pretty isn’t going to cut it for this reunion. I need hot. Jaw-dropping. Irresistible.

  “Because I’m wearing the red dress with the plunging neckline, that’s why.”

  “Isn’t that a little much for a class reunion?” she asks.

  “Yes, it is. And that’s exactly why I’m wearing it.”

  Why am I gearing up for this reunion? A few reasons—most so cliché I feel basic just thinking about them.

  There’s the classic proving the people wrong who thought I’d move to the city and become homeless or a hooker. And like any good high school reunion, there are the exes you want to make jealous and petty bitches you want to anger just to see how red their faces get.

  But the biggest reason for the over-the-top red dress? The chance to finally crack the walls surrounding Kalum West.

  I don’t know what he’s scared of. It’s not like I’m trying to trap him into a relationship and get a ring on my finger within the next year. No, thank you. But I don’t see why two consenting adults, who are clearly attracted to each other, can’t have a little fun.

  Hopefully a weekend away from Chicago, our friends, and our real lives will allow him to lower his defenses and give in to what’s been building up between us for months.

  As I make sure I pick out the sexiest panties I own for the trip, Annabelle, in all her sensible glory, makes sure to pack me aspirin, tampons (just in case), and comfy clothes for the drive back on Sunday.

  “I still can’t believe you convinced Kalum to go with you,” she says as she comes out of my bathroom with my toiletry bag.

  “Me neither. Honestly, even after I beat him at pool, I thought he’d try to get out of it somehow. But he’s been a good sport about it. Even offered to drive.”

  When I texted Annabelle and Scarlett about my bet with Kalum, the amount of emojis and return texts were hard to keep up with. Annabelle was surprised because she didn’t know I played pool. She was also pretty pissed that I was at an unknown bar alone. Jaxson is rubbing off on her a little too much if you ask me.

  Scarlett has seen me in action around a pool table more than a few times, so she wasn’t surprised. She has also seen me in action when I have my eyes set on a guy I’m interested in. None of this came as a shock to her.

  In fact, now that I think about it, out of the 10 texts that came through after I told them, nine were from Annabelle and the one from Scarlett was a smart-ass GIF.

  “What if he’s reall
y not interested, Tori? What if this whole game of flirtation you two play is really just that? Flirtation and nothing else?”

  I’ve thought about this. A lot, actually. And for a while, I thought what Annabelle just said might be right.

  When I saw him at that dive bar, I had no intentions of trapping him into a trip to small-town Wisconsin with me. Hell, if he really wanted out of the bet, I would have let him out.

  But then I saw the way he was undressing me with his eyes as we played—the way his gaze lingered just a bit too long each time I walked away from my shot.

  “Then he’s not interested, and it will be his loss.” It’s the truth. It would sting. My pride would take a hit. But at the end of the day, he’s just a guy, and Chicago is a pretty big city.

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Kalum is in your life because of me, so the last thing I want to happen is for you to get your heart broken and then have to see him all the time.”

  From the first day I met Annabelle, I knew she was going to be a friend for life. We met at Perks after she had just moved to the city and was looking for a job. We hit it off right away. On the outside, we could not be more opposite. Where I’m tall with jet-black hair and an athletic build, Annabelle barely reaches my shoulders and has red hair you can see a mile away. Where I love being the life of the party, she’s content spending her nights with her paintings.

  We bonded over both coming from small towns, then our friendship grew from there. She balances me out. Keeps me in check when I need it. She always calls me her protector. Apparently, a few times in the past I’ve come to her defense without even realizing it.

  Little does she know that she does the same for me.

  “Girl, you have to be in love to get heartbroken. And you know I don’t do love. Or relationships. Just lust. And that’s what I’m hoping to have this weekend. A lot of lust with Kalum.”

  A knock on my door startles us as we look at the time.

  Noon. On the dot.

  “That’s Kalum,” I say, realizing we’ve been doing more talking than packing.

  “You finish this. I’ll get the door and keep him company as you finish up.”

  Annabelle goes to let him in as I start tossing clothes into my suitcase. But with each garment I place inside, the nervous feeling in my stomach intensifies.

  What I told Annabelle was true. I’m just looking to finally scratch the itch that is Kalum West.

  So why am I so nervous that this weekend could change everything?

  8

  Kalum

  I thought I had prepared myself for two and a half hours alone in a truck with Tori.

  I wasn’t ready. At all.

  I was ready for a game of 20 questions, because the girl can’t stand silence. I was prepared to fight for control of the radio, knowing she’d probably want to listen to some annoying pop station.

  Or worse: country.

  But what I wasn’t accounting for was a pair of denim shorts that showed more leg than should be legal in the state of Illinois. I wasn’t prepared for her to cross her legs toward me, giving me more than a glimpse of smooth flesh leading down to a pair of flip-flops holding perfectly pedicured feet with bright red nail polish. I wasn’t ready for her perfume to invade my senses. I’m pretty sure her tempting scent will linger in my truck long after this trip is over.

  “I honestly didn’t think you’d come,” she says, breaking the silence.

  “I made a bet. I lost.”

  That’s the simple answer. No lie, I thought about calling her and telling her I couldn’t get away from the shop for the weekend. Or that Jaxson needed me to help him at the gym. Or that I had to wash my hair.

  But then I thought about it, and a weekend out of town sounded nice. Not that some random-ass town in Wisconsin that barely registered on the GPS was my idea of a weekend getaway, but between the stress of getting the second location ready, and the mess with The Kings, getting out of Chicago sounded nice.

  I’m not going to admit that spending that time with Tori sounded nice as well.

  “I know, but honestly, when I brought it up, I was half-joking. I figured you’d want to be in about 20 other places—not going back to Wisconsin with me. So I’ll say it now, and probably a hundred other times this weekend, but thank you. This means a lot to me.”

  I look over and the smile she’s giving me hits me in a place I didn’t think existed.

  “Why do you want to go back so badly? I don’t think you could pay me to go to my class reunion.”

  She shifts in her seat, giving me even more leg to look at. Keeping my eyes on the road and my hands on the steering wheel is becoming harder by the minute.

  “I just want to show people that I’m not a failure.”

  I look over at her. She’s now fiddling with the bottom of her shirt. Tori, the always-confident one, in this moment, is unsure of herself for the first time since I met her.

  “Did people think you would fail? And if they did, screw them.”

  “I know. It’s silly. But if you think I’m a handful now, you should have seen me in high school.” We both chuckle, because I can only imagine what “high school Tori” was like. “I had a different boyfriend every month. I partied with kids years older than me. I caused just enough trouble to make a statement, but not enough to get me suspended. When I told people, I was moving to Chicago—that I didn’t want anything to do with a town where I knew literally everyone—they laughed at me and told me I’d soon be a hooker or homeless. I know running the coffee shop isn’t glamorous, but—”

  “No. Stop.” I cut her off. What fucking assholes. Now I’m glad I’m going back with her. These fucking small-town hicks don’t know what’s about to hit them. “Fuck them, Tori. How dare they say that to someone who wants more out of life. Something different. They were just jealous you had the balls to go after what you wanted rather than settling for the life you were dealt.”

  We’re silent for the next 10 miles. It’s the longest stretch I’ve ever been alone with Tori without words. But it’s not awkward like it should be. Or how I thought it would be. It’s . . . nice.

  “Thank you, Kalum,” she says, even though her eyes are looking at the changing scenery as we cross the Wisconsin-Illinois border.

  “You don’t need to thank me. I haven’t done anything.”

  She sighs, looking over at me with her head resting against the window. “I needed to hear that. I know these people have no bearing on my life. I love my life in Chicago. I love that I see my sister and nephew almost every day. I love Annabelle. I love my job. It’s just that sometimes . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “You wish people wouldn’t treat you based on what they know of your past, instead of what you’ve become in your present?” I finish her thought, not realizing until this moment how similar we are.

  “Do people still look at you like you’re a car thief?”

  Most of the time when people bring up my past, I hate that it’s attached to me. But right now, I don’t hate that Tori knows. In fact, I’m glad she does. I don’t have to be someone else right now or pretend that part of my life never existed.

  “Sometimes. When I go back to the old neighborhood to visit my mom, I still get looks from people who knew me as a kid. Sometimes I even get weird looks from people at the garage, and I wonder if they think I’m going to steal their car.”

  “Does it ever get better?”

  I glance at Tori and she’s looking more vulnerable and beautiful than I’ve ever seen her.

  “It does. But it never goes away.”

  As we pull into her town, she directs me to the hotel where we’re staying. It’s the only hotel in town, and also where the reunion is being held.

  “Kalum, can I ask you one more favor?”

  I put the truck in park and look over at her. The vulnerable girl is still there, but the confident Tori is making her way back to the surface.

  “Sure.”

  “When a guy named Billy Mathen
y approaches me . . . you and I have been dating for a year and you’re madly in love with me.”

  She gets out of the truck before I can respond.

  But she didn’t need to run away. I was going to say “yes.”

  9

  Tori

  “Well, who do we have here? Why, oh my gosh, is that Victoria Brennan all the way from Chicago? We didn’t think you’d be able to come!”

  I don’t know why Becca James is insisting on talking like a Southern belle, or making it seem like Chicago is a 14-hour plane ride away, but nothing that comes out of her mouth surprises me. It’s just my luck that she and her posse are the first ones I see tonight.

  “That’s weird, Becca. I sent in my RSVP. I got a confirmation email. Email still giving you trouble? Figured by now you’d know how to use it.”

  Becca was my best friend growing up. We lived down the street from each other and were inseparable—those annoying friends who had 10 matching outfits and bought BFF necklaces. That is, until we were freshmen. That was the summer I grew boobs and Mikey Davis and I went to second base. She got braces and mono. Somehow, all of that was my fault, and from that day forward, she hated me. She went on to become the queen bitch of Smithville High. A real-life Regina George.

  And apparently, her version of The Plastics is still serving at the pleasure of their queen.

  And the dig about the email? Let’s just say she was mean to the wrong person one day, and as a result, she somehow sent the entire school a video of her popping her zits.

  Served her right. She hadn’t changed her password since we got email in the seventh grade.

  She ignores my dig but doesn’t hide her appraisal of Kalum, who’s standing next to me. None of them do.