On The Rocks (Love After Midnight Book 3)

by Elise Faber

  She nodded, but the hurt was still in her eyes, in the careful way she held herself.

  Unable to see the person who’d been my other half, who was still ingrained so deeply inside my heart, hurting, I wrapped my arm around her. “I’m sorry, Brookie, if I’d known then . . .”

  She didn’t answer, but her arms convulsed, and she held me tight for a long moment. Then she pulled back. “I can’t say that I understand fully,” she whispered. “I can’t say I quite forgive you yet. But I know you made the choice you had to and what I said the other day stands true. I’m glad you’re back.” She nudged my shoulder with hers. “I know what’s it like to have a life without you. I don’t want that again.”

  “Even if I’m not exactly the same?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “Newsflash,” she said, lips curving. “It’s been ten years. I’m not the same either.”

  “True. But I hear ugliness is a slowly progressing condition,” I teased.

  Brooke smacked me and jumped off her stool, heading for the coffee pot and pouring herself a cup. “I hear the same thing about baldness.”

  I narrowed my eyes, hand instinctively lifting to my head. Our dad had been bald.

  She smirked, set down her mug.

  “Brat.”

  “Takes one to know—Hayden!”

  I’d moved.

  Closing the distance between us and scooping her off her feet, fingers finding all of those ticklish spots I’d learned and honed over the years.

  Unfortunately, my plan wasn’t perfect.

  Because she knew my ticklish spots, too, and pretty soon we were collapsed on the floor like a couple of ten-year-olds, fingers flying, laughing until tears poured down our cheeks.

  I was stronger, but she was wily.

  And so we entered a stalemate.

  Which was how Kace found us maybe five minutes later, still trying to best one another, though the effort was mostly half-hearted.

  “Is this some weird twin thing?” he muttered, stepping over me and pouring himself some coffee.

  “Yup,” Brooke said, pushing her hair off her face. “Get used to it.”

  “Heaven help me,” Kace muttered and stepped over me again to leave the kitchen.

  I snorted. Brooke giggled.

  Our eyes met, and thirty-plus years of memories passed between us.

  “I think you picked good,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Anabelle.”

  My mouth dropped open. “How?”

  She touched my cheek. “I saw how you looked at her, and—”

  “Brooke,” I said, not wanting her to think I can home for any reason but to be here with her, with Brent. “I didn’t—”

  “Shh,” she murmured. “It’s not like that at all. I like that you look at her that way. She needs affection and care and someone to love her beyond reason.” She brushed back my hair. “And I think Anabelle might fit perfectly into the giant hole you have in your heart.”

  My breath caught, and I felt the organ expand. My twin was the best.

  “You’ve always loved generously,” Brooke murmured, “and she needs that.”

  I tugged a strand of her hair.

  She punched me lightly on the jaw.

  “I love you, big bro,” she murmured.

  “I love you, too, baby sis.”

  Yeah, it was damned good to be home.

  “Do you even own a different type of clothing?” was the pert question that greeted me the moment I sat down on the barstool in Bobby’s.

  It was late, after eleven, and two nights since I’d “helped” Anabelle with restocking the shelves.

  I glanced drown, saw I was wearing cargos and a T-shirt, along with boots.

  Same as I wore every day.

  A glass plunked in front of me, a beer drawn off the tap with the perfect amount of head, because while I’d not been able to guess Anabelle’s favorite drink, she apparently knew what type of beer I liked. My eyes drifted back up, saw she’d already moved away, was talking to a customer a few stools down.

  She nodded, lips curved up just at the corners, and turned away, scooping up ice and measuring out alcohol into a shaker with calm, assured movements.

  Smooth, graceful, confident.

  Yeah, that was sexy.

  Perhaps even sexier than the kiss she’d laid on me two nights before, trying to dissuade me.

  Instead, it had only increased my growing desire until it swirled within me at a fever pitch. I’d woken with a hard-on yesterday morning, and that was something I really wasn’t into, not when the couch I’d woken up on with said hard-on belonged to my sister.

  So, I’d gone house hunting.

  One of the few positives in my time working for KTS was that they paid well. My military days had been much less lucrative, but my ten years in the private company meant that I had a nice nest egg and could afford to buy a house near Brooke.

  Nothing extravagant, and with my budget it would probably be a fixer-upper, but it would be a place to call home.

  And I didn’t mind working with my hands.

  Especially as I tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my life now that I was out.

  “Refill?”

  I blinked, glanced from my empty glass up to Anabelle.

  She seemed impatient, annoyed at having to serve me . . . except for the trace of heat in those dark brown eyes.

  Yeah, her kiss had done about as much to dissuade her as it did to dissuade me.

  I grinned. “Screwdriver,” I said confidently, though I knew sure as hell that wasn’t right. It was getting more and more fun to pull out the most ridiculous suggestions, just to see outrage flit across that beautiful face.

  And right on cue, she gasped. “How dare you?”

  I chuckled, pushed my glass toward her. “Another beer, please.”

  Narrowed eyes, pursed lips . . . and I couldn’t help myself.

  Stretching up, I leaned across the bar top and dropped my voice in the vicinity of bedroom. “Fuck, you’re making me want to kiss you again.”

  Anabelle leaned back, a muscle in her jaw twitching. “If you remember correctly, I kissed you.”

  I relaxed on the stool, let my smile come up slowly, allowed the need this woman had somehow turned into a maelstrom to bleed into my tone. “I remember, Rocky.”

  “Rocky?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Rocky.” I flashed a grin. “Because you go into every conversation with me like it’s a battle.” A beat. “Or boxing match.” I winked.

  Somehow her glare intensified.

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she managed to make that glare even . . . glare-ier.

  Gold star for the day. I had all the grammar and irritation skills.

  And maybe some would say it was ill-advised to be provoking the woman I wanted to sweet-talk into bed, but I was sticking with the notion that she couldn’t ignore me if she was pissed at me.

  So—I bit back a grin when she deposited another beer in front of me, this time with enough force to slosh some of the liquid over the rim of the glass—winning.

  “There’s your battle,” she muttered. “Enjoy your spoils.” She spun away.

  “Belle?”

  A slow turn back, both eyebrows raised. “Belle. Rocky. Is it impossible for you to use my real name?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed, shook her head.

  “I don’t have any other clothes.”

  Her gaze flicked down the half of my body she could see then back up. “Sounds like someone needs to go shopping.”

  “I hate shopping.”

  A superior look filled her face. “You still have to go and get it taken care of.”

  “Come with me.”

  Superior faded, in came uncertainty. “I—Um. What?”

  “Yes?”

  Brows furrowed, lips parted. “Yes?” she repeated, question in her eyes.

  Gotcha. “Great,” I said, wrapping my fingers around the bee
r glass and lifting it up from the bar. “Thanks in advance.” I stood. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow about two.”

  Then I ran over to Brooke, firmly inserting myself into the conversation she was having with Iris. My sister glanced at me, at Anabelle, and her eyes asked me the question she didn’t allow to cross her lips.

  I didn’t verbalize my answer, just assured her with my eyes that I’d explain later.

  A slight nod that was paired with a firm glare, and I knew she’d hold me to that.

  Meanwhile, I took the opportunity of the cover to make sure Anabelle couldn’t corner me, couldn’t find the occasion to tell me in no uncertain terms that she had most certainly not agreed to a shopping venture with me the following day. It wasn’t a retreat. More a tactical withdrawal, as was me waiting until Anabelle was distracted by a customer before finishing the beer, leaving some money with Brooke (‘cause gotta tip my bartender), and then GTFOing the bar.

  I’d get her address from Brooke later. After the explanation, I was certain.

  She’d make me bare everything I was feeling, and since she’d accepted my limited explanation about KTS, given her approval of me pursuing something with Anabelle, I knew she’d be ravenous for any and all information I was able to share.

  My love life—or lack of it—would be well within her wheelhouse.

  But then again, I’d get several hours alone with the beautiful Anabelle. So, sharing might not be the worst thing in the world.

  There was only one problem.

  I hadn’t been lying.

  I really hated shopping.

  Later that night, I dropped the mug of tea next to Brooke’s computer, hesitated.

  Her fingers barely stopped moving on the keyboard. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing,” I said, playing innocent.

  As anticipated, she saw right through the act.

  A sigh, a few more clicks as she finished her sentence, and then she turned to me, arms crossed. “Hay,” she warned.

  “What’s Anabelle’s address?”

  Brows raised, she lifted the mug I’d brought to her lips. “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “Hmm.”

  I shifted impatiently from foot to foot, wanting to wait Brooke out, but also knowing that I needed the address more. “Fine,” I said. “You know I like her.”

  Sparks of amusement in those green eyes. “Like her like her?

  “What, are we sixteen?”

  “I’m not going to pass her a note with checkboxes for yes and no over the bar, asking if she likes you back,” Brooke said.

  “Well, I’m not writing one of those notes with the checkboxes in the first place, so I think we’re good.”

  Brooke grinned. “Phew.” A beat and she pretended to wipe sweat off her forehead. “So, what’s your plan? To just show up on her front porch and beg her to go on a date with you?” She chuckled. “I can just see you with a boombox, a la Say Anything.”

  “First, I love that movie,” I said, “so, no teasing. Second, she’s taking me shopping.”

  “She’s taking you shopping?” Brooke exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “But she hates shopping.”

  I grinned this time. “I kind of coerced her into it.”

  “Good.”

  Surprised, I tilted my head to the side, studying my sister. Anabelle was her friend, shouldn’t she be protecting her?

  “She needs to be pushed outside of her comfortable box,” Brooke said. “And we both know that you can be plenty pushy.”

  I acknowledged that with a shrug. It was true.

  Brooke put her hand on my arm. “Anabelle comes off as really tough and strong, and she is in a lot of ways—and I don’t know too much because she’s not often inclined to share—but her family . . . I think they hurt her deeply.”

  “You don’t know how?” I asked.

  “No,” Brooke said. “I’ve only overheard a few conversations and they seemed . . . tense. And then her expression afterward—” She winced. “There’s some pain there. Deep, heavy pain.”

  Shit. I knew about pain and old wounds, knew that sometimes people needed space for them to heal.

  “Should I step back?”

  Even just starting to know her, it would hurt like hell. But I didn’t want to hurt Anabelle.

  “No.” Brooke grabbed my arm. “Don’t you dare, Hay. She needs someone to not be put off by her sharp edges, needs someone to see the woman she is behind the walls. Because, big bro, she’s really awesome.” Her fingers tightened. “Not just beautiful and strong, but loyal and thoughtful and really fucking fun to be with. She’d go toe-to-toe with you in a heartbeat. It would be glorious to see someone hold their own with you, to not melt under the force of those baby blues.”

  I snorted. “I think you like the idea of her busting my balls a little too much.”

  “Maybe.” A shrug. “But I also think you two would be good for each other.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, you going to give me the address?”

  She dropped my arm and picked up the mug. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether you completed the second half of your usual bribe.”

  Grinning, I pulled out the chocolate bar I’d bought specially for her. “I only look stupid.”

  She snatched it, tore it open, took a huge bite. “Maybe.”

  I raised my hands, pretending as though I were going to tickle her again. “Maybe?”

  She swallowed, backed away slowly. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, I give!”

  One hand still lifted, I waited for her to give me the address then put it into my cell.

  Then just because I was an annoying older brother, I snagged the candy bar and took a big bite.

  “Hey!”

  Giving her a noogie and handing her the chocolate back, I darted away before she could swat me.

  “Love you, baby sis!”

  A huff, then, “I love you too, pain in the ass,” she grumbled, sitting back down into her chair.

  And I knew that I might have missed a lot in the last ten years, but at least that missing had made me appreciate the present so much more.

  I was back with my family.

  I had some possibilities in my future.

  Things were looking up.

  Nine

  Anabelle

  He was early.

  I’d planned to make my escape, planned it to the point that I was unlocking my car a full half hour before Hayden had said he was going to pick me up.

  And he was leaning against my driver’s side door.

  I stopped, feet sliding to a halt, wanting to play it off like he’d surprised me and not because my heart had skipped a beat seeing him there.

  Wind blowing through his hair, a bit of stubble on his cheeks, eyes covered by aviator shades that were way cooler than anything I could pull off. But the most arresting thing was his smile.

  Small, the edges of his mouth just turned up but directed at me.

  “Hi, Rocky.”

  I wanted to melt.

  I couldn’t melt.

  “Go away,” I said, instead of turning into a pile of mush.

  Hayden smiled. “I’m ready for my Pretty Woman montage of outfit changes. Where will you take me?”

  I glanced down at myself, eyes drifting over my usual outfit—sweater, jeans, Converse—and then looked back up. “You realize that I’m the person at Bobby’s who has the least amount of fashion sense, right?”

  Even Brent and Kace dressed better than me.

  I had seven sweaters, seven T-shirts, three pairs of jeans, two black leggings, several hoodies, one winter jacket, and a spare pair of Converse. Aside from enough underwear and socks to get me between laundry days, I lived light.

  Years of travel had ingrained that in me.

  And working at a bar, I hadn’t seen the need to change that. Sweater layered over a T-shirt for a cold day. Just the T-shirt for a warm one. Clean undie
s and socks, and I was good.

  “I don’t know.” Male fingers on the hem of my sweater where it was just drifting over my wrist. “I think blue is your color.”

  I shivered. “You’re deranged.

  A shrug. “Maybe.” He smiled, not a small one this time, but one that was hot and slow and sent my pulse skitter-skattering. “But I’m also enjoying your range of different words for crazy. Do you read the thesaurus for fun, or maybe you’re interviewing to be my personal one?”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said, crossing my arms, both because it didn’t, but also because I didn’t want to look too closely at why being anything personal of Hayden’s was so tempting.

  “No,” he said, “it doesn’t.”

  Okay, then.

  I was standing in my driveway, ready to make my escape, but there was a sexy—albeit strange—man between me and that flight.

  “I don’t have time to go shopping with you today.”

  “Okay.” A shrug. An easy expression.

  And silence, where he still didn’t move off my car, still didn’t do anything except stare at me through those sunglasses. Of course, I couldn’t actually see his eyes, not through the dark lenses, but somehow, I could sense that his gaze was on me.

  He pushed off the car, came very close. Not quite touching, but I knew if I took a deep breath, then my breasts would brush his chest. My nipples went perky at that very thought, heat coiling through my middle, down into my pussy, moisture pooling, desire swelling fast enough that I actually felt my thighs tremble.

  And the man hadn’t touched me.

  But I’d had his mouth on mine just days before, and my body remembered.

  Oh Lord, how it remembered.

  Lips demanding but soft, hands clenching on my waist and sending rivulets of need sweeping through my nerves. His tongue had been a hot brand, but his hold . . . that had been more.

  He’d held me like he cared.

  Even though I knew it was impossible.

  I’d thought to convince him I wasn’t worth it, that we clearly wouldn’t work. For God’s sake, the man was more than a foot taller than me—just the logistics of that should have been insurmountable without the aid of several apple crates. But . . . our bodies had closed that distance, our mouths had met, and I’d had the single most erotic experience of my life.