She looks beautiful today, and shit keeps happening to my body every time I look at her. Like there are live wires underneath my damn skin. Black T-shirt, white shorts, hair down and free, minimal make-up—she’s no frills, and it works. Farmer’s daughter and exactly my type once upon a time.
I shake my head, clearing it.
“What’s that?” I ask, approaching.
She glances at me, still holding up the square sheet of tiles. “It’s backsplash.”
I reach out my free hand, running my thumb over the tan stone strips glued to the paper. “Backsplash?”
“You’re in construction,” she snips, giving me a chastising look. “Don’t you ever watch HGTV? Backsplash is everything in home décor.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” I assure her, dropping my hand. “I just…I don’t know. Seems like a frill.”
She rolls her eyes, her gaze resting on the stones again. “It’s the little things that add personality to a house,” she tells me. “An artsy chandelier, the right rug, and backsplash.” She turns the sheet around, facing me and showing me. “This is you. It would look great with what you’ve done in the kitchen.”
“Me, huh?” I let out a chuckle, meeting her eyes. “And what am I?”
Her smile falls and a look of surprise crosses her eyes.
I blink. “I didn’t mean it…like that,” I tell her.
It’s not what I said but how I said it. Way too insinuating.
She seems to brush it off, though, turning the sheet around and staring down at it again with appreciation. “It reminds me of a cave,” she finally says. “You’re like a cave. You don’t give up all your secrets at once. Who knows how deep you go, right?”
My eyebrows shoot up. What?
How deep do I go? Did she just…
Her eyes suddenly go round, and she jerks her gaze to me, looking mortified. “I mean,” she rushes out, “like…on the…on the inside. Your personality.” A blush rises to her cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like…ugh.” Her shoulders sink, and she stuffs the sheet back into the box, giving up. “I’m going to drool over bathroom fixtures now. Bye.”
And she walks away from me quickly, disappearing down an aisle.
My mouth quirks into a smile, and I break into a quiet laugh, staring after her.
“So, what do you think?” A young man in an orange apron steps up out of the corner of my eye.
I don’t look at him, though, still staring at the aisle she just disappeared down. “We’ll start off with three boxes of this.” I gesture to the tiles on the shelf. “See how it looks...”
He moves over and starts unloading the boxes. “Wise choice. Happy wife, happy life, right?”
Happy wife, happy…
I watch him pull out a box and carry it away, the pulse in my neck suddenly throbbing.
He thinks she’s my wife?
A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth, and I’m not exactly sure which emotion is filling my chest right now, but it feels good and there’s a lot of it.
Later that evening, I slouch back into the couch with my arm tucked behind my head and a beer in my hand, watching TV I’ve been in a lucid daze for a while now as one show has turned into five.
I set down my beer and pick up the remote, finally turning off HGTV and blinking, I think, for the first time in three hours. “She’s right,” I mumble. “They’re fucking obsessed with backsplash.”
In a moment of curiosity, I had clicked on the channel after we got home from Home Depot, and it’s like I blacked out after that, only momentarily zoning back in to make a sandwich and try to talk to Cole.
He’s out again now, though, grabbing a quick shower and another quick exit after he came home from work and realized Jordan wasn’t here. I thought we could go grab a late dinner or something, but apparently, his plans couldn’t be broken again.
Or he’s afraid to be alone with me. It’s not like I want to fight, either. Even just watching a show together would be fine. I mean, we had managed not to kill each other in the past. He used to like me.
And where does he get all this money to party? He has to be spending everything he’s making.
Not that I’m in a rush to have him save money and leave, but I guess I can now judge myself as harshly as I’d judged Jordan. The more you do for someone, the less they do for themselves. I’m as much to blame as she is. Cole won’t grow up until he’s forced to.
I down the rest of my beer and stand up, carrying the empty bottle into the kitchen.
My phone rings in my pocket, and I dig it out.
Dutch.
“Hey,” I answer, tossing the bottle into the garbage.
“Hey. You should come to Grounders right now.”
Huh?
“Like right now,” he adds before I have a chance to say anything.
“Why?”
“Because…” he pauses, and I hear a breathy little laugh. “Jordan is, um…misbehaving, I guess you could say.”
I straighten, my brows pinching together. “Misbehaving?” I repeat. “What does that mean? And why do you think I care. I’m not her dad.”
Music pounds in the background, and I can hear a crowd talking and laughing. One of my guys is getting married in a couple weeks, so the crew took him out tonight. We need at least one person not hungover tomorrow, so I stayed home.
“If you say so, man,” he retorts like he doesn’t believe I don’t care. “But your son may not like what I’m seeing right now. What everyone is getting to see right now.”
“What are you talking about?” I challenge.
“You’re going to have to come to find out. I just hope you don’t get here too late.”
There’s a click, and I think he hung up.
“Dutch,” I bark into the phone. “Dutch!”
I expel a sigh and pull the phone away from my ear, slamming the trash can lid closed.
But I stop, doing a double take at something laying on top. Lifting the lid again, I pull out a pink half sheet, the pin-up girl on the flyer catching my attention. Studying it, I let the lid fall closed and read it.
Amateur Night!
Get Wet! (Your T-shirt, anyway)
May 27 at 9 p.m.
The Hook on Jamison Lane
Grand Prize $300!!
I straighten my spine, taking note of the date and then relax a little. It’s still a couple weeks away, so Dutch wouldn’t mean this. It’s not happening tonight, and it’s not at Grounders.
It’s probably Cole’s flyer, anyway.
But on reflex, I flip it over and see handwriting on the back.
Make that $, girl!!
I quirk an eyebrow.
Is this Jordan’s? It’s from The Hook. Did her sister give this to her? Jesus, what is wrong with that girl? Who would encourage their little sister to enter a wet T-shirt contest, for Christ’s sake?
Again, though, it’s not tonight, and she threw it away, so that’s a good thing.
But now I’m anxious.
I like the kid. I don’t want her to feel like she needs to do shit like this to make money. I’m not rushing either of them out of my house, am I?
I toss the paper and rub my scalp, exasperated. Dutch likes to mess with people, especially me, but she did sleep on a pool table, because she was too proud to ask for help. She doesn’t make the best choices.
I groan, knowing I’m not going to relax now. Sliding my phone into my pocket, I grab my keys and shut off the lights before leaving the house.
Climbing into my truck, I start the engine and blast the radio as high as I can stand to distract from the worry pooling in my gut. He just has to go and start shit, doesn’t he?
He did seem more amused than distressed, though, so he’s probably fucking with me. He just wants me to get out of the house.
It takes less than ten minutes to get to Grounders, and I find a parking space around the corner, not too far. I can hear the music from out here, and I wonder if the local leagues had some baseball games
tonight and everyone is still celebrating.
Misbehaving. I shake my head, pulling open the door. The girl doesn’t know the meaning of the word. She’s as good as gold.
Taking a deep breath, I pull open the door and nearly wince at the noise. Hard to believe this was exactly my scene once.
Addicted to Love screeches through lousy speakers, and round, high-top tables are packed with customers. The bar is filled, not a single stool vacant, and I look around, seeing that the booths are all filled, as well. A few women stand in line for the bathroom, the pool table is surrounded by bystanders, and the air is smoky and charged. I can already feel eyes on me.
I nod at Calista Mankin as her eyes light up and she waves, and I spot James Lowry out of the corner of my eyes. Both people I’ve probably seen only five times since high school, and I already feel uncomfortable.
My gaze finally falls on Jordan as she stands at the juke box, the pages flipping over in front of her as she scans the playlist through the glass. The crowd is thick, but I see the back of her head. I’d recognize her hair anywhere.
My shoulders relax a little. I knew it was just some asinine plot to get me here. She’s fine.
I move through the people, trying to find Dutch and the guys, but then I see Jordan leave the music machine and make her back to the bar, and that’s when I catch glimpses of her through the throngs of people and see what she’s wearing.
My eyes flare. Jordan, Jesus…
Her jeans fit her as snugly as always, the curves of her heart-shaped ass perfect, but her damn tits are threatening to pop out of her…corset. Why the hell is she wearing lingerie?
It’s a white top, shimmering and laced up the front into a heart-shaped bodice with demure-looking little ruffles along the borders. My eyes fall down her cleavage, my head spinning with images of what’ll spill out when she unlaces that top tonight.
The corset doesn’t even reach the tops of her jeans, but instead stops just above her hips, her trim waist and tummy drawing attention from every man she passes. The laces look tight, giving her an hourglass look that’s just begging for a man’s hands. I fist mine.
The skin of her bare shoulders, her hair falling down her back, the sway of her hips as she walks…. I tear my eyes away before I’m caught. She makes her way behind the bar again, and I ignore some of the self-satisfied smiles from men in the room as they follow her with their eyes and try not to wonder what their hushed whispers are telling each other.
A hand waves in the corner of my vision, and I shoot my glare up at Dutch sitting with the guys in a booth. I walk over.
“What the hell is she wearing?” I grumble, sliding into the booth.
Dutch turns his head toward me, his drink inches from his lips. “It’s the lingerie show,” he tells me. “They have it every Thursday night. The bartenders and servers don nighties or corsets and serve drinks and food. It’s fun.”
No, not really.
But I look around and see a few other ladies carrying out appetizers and bringing drinks, some of them in very thin attire. At least Jordan’s corset looks as thin as armor.
“But Jordan’s never done it before,” he goes on. “That’s what shocked me. Thought you should know.”
“Why the fuck would I want to know?” I pull a beer out of the ice bucket on the table.
“Yeah, sorry.” He turns away, mumbling into his glass, “You seem like you couldn’t care less.”
I shoot him a sideways look, hearing the laughter in his words.
Sticking the beer back in the bucket, untouched, I rise and head to the bar. I hear a snort behind me, but I don’t care. She’s kind of my responsibility, and I don’t want her doing things like this, because she thinks she needs money.
There’s only one bartender besides Jordan. The owner, Shel. I’m sure she hasn’t forgotten me, so I veer to the opposite end and catch Jordan’s attention as she pops the tops from a line of six bottles of beer.
“What the hell are you wearing?” I lean in, speaking as quietly as I can.
She jerks her head toward me, meets my eyes, and quickly turns away again like I’m the last person she wants to deal with right now.
She hands over the beers, collects the cash and spins around, punching the screen in front of her. “It’s fine,” she assures me. “It’s just a corset, Pike.”
“They are all looking at you.”
She nods, smiling sarcastically. “That’s the point.”
“Jordan,” I sigh, trying to whisper as I squeeze around some old dude at the bar. “This is a small town. What if your father were to walk in?”
“He doesn’t come in here,” she says, closing the register drawer and finally looking at me. “And neither do you, normally.” A blush crosses her cheeks. “Besides, I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t take part in something I thought would humiliate me.”
She turns and hands the change back to the customer, but he waves her off, letting her keep it. She smiles and turns back around, dropping the bills into an already overflowing canister.
“What are you even doing here?” she says, starting to mix another drink. “I thought you were sitting the bachelor party out, because…” She sets the bottle down and does air quotes as she imitates my growling voice, “‘there needed to be at least one sober person at work tomorrow’.”
I arch a brow at her. I don’t sound like that.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the flyer and push it over the bar at her.
She stills, and her face goes ashen. “Where did you find that?”
She grabs it and dumps it somewhere under her. To a trash can probably.
Taking a napkin, she sets it in front of a customer and gives him the fresh drink she just made.
“If you need money,” I tell her as she turns around to mark a piece of paper, “I’ll lend you whatever you need, okay?”
And she stops, slowly turning her eyes on me. Her gaze sharpens, angry, and she looks like she wants to yell at me, but she doesn’t. Instead she whips around and barrels down the bar and through the partition, turning only quickly enough to crook a finger at me before she twirls back around and heads down the hallway.
My stomach sinks. I really don’t mean to piss her off as much as I do. What did I say now?
Veering through the crowd, I make my way down the empty hallway, finally coming to the same room she was crying in when I pissed her off the last time.
Entering through the open door, I see her standing with her hands on her hips and her head cocked at me.
“I would rather eat from a dumpster than take money from you,” she bites out.
I should shut up. But God help me, I can’t. “Hate to break it to you, but you already do,” I tell her. “You live in a house where you pay no rent or utilities, young lady.”
“I cook and clean for you!” she shouts, but I doubt anyone can hear us back here and through the music. “I pay my way, you arrogant prick!”
“Alright, alright,” I growl, blinking long and hard. “You’re right, okay? But, Jordan, men will get ideas. They’ll think they have a free pass and they can touch what belongs to my son. You’re embarrassing him.”
“Your son?” she mocks, laughing. “Well, you just missed him, actually. He already saw me, and he doesn’t care, Pike. He thought I looked good, and then he left with his friends. He doesn’t care!”
“Well, I care!”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I freeze, almost too afraid to breathe.
Oh, shit. What did I just say?
Her mouth falls open a little, but she shuts up, probably shocked into silence by my outburst. Her eyes stay locked on mine, unblinking with a mixture of confusion and surprise written all over her pretty face.
But instead of regret, my temper quickly rises again. How the hell can he not care?
And why do I?
Jesus, fuck.
She’s grown, isn’t she? And if her boyfriend doesn’t mind, then who am I or anyone else t
o stake an investment in her decisions. It’s not my place.
No, there’s nothing wrong with what her sister does to support herself or how Jordan’s dressed tonight. She’s fucking gorgeous.
I just don’t…want her body being for everyone.
“You’re special, Jordan.” I take a step closer to her. “You know that, right?”
Her eyes start to glisten, her gaze falters, and she looks away.
God, does she know how incredible she is?
I let myself take in her smooth and glowing skin, and the curve of her waist in front of me that’s perfect for grabbing hold of. One man should see her dressed like this, and it should be the man who appreciates what he has.
“Don’t do things outside of your nature because of money,” I tell her. “You’re perfect the way you are. Don’t change.”
I don’t want you to change.
“It’s just a corset, Pike.”
“Yeah, and then it’ll just be a wet T-shirt contest and a job at The Hook, right?” I fire back.
She rolls her eyes and turns around, grabbing a case of Bud Light and heaving it into my arms. I grab it just in time. Then she then reaches for a case of Budweiser and leads the way out of the room, ending our conversation.
But I follow, hefting the case up onto my shoulder. “You’re not working at The Hook,” I tell her.
“And you’re not my dad.”
I nearly shoot her a dirty look behind her back, but that would be immature. Why ruin the excellent example of a level-headed, responsible adult I’ve set since she’s come into my house?
She plops her case down on the bar, and turns around, taking the case I have, as well.
I open my mouth to try to say something—anything—to smooth over whatever damage I’ve done again and still try to get her to put some damn clothes on.
But she cuts me off before I can say anything. “I need another case of Bud Light,” she orders me over her shoulder.
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