Logan Clay: A Forbidden Rockers Box Set

by Sarah Robinson

  Frankly, the man was terrifying.

  His stance was wide, his legs each looking thick enough to make a tree trunk jealous, and arms crossed over his chest, huge biceps on display. Her eyes trailed over every part of him, lingering on his clearly defined abs through his beige military-issued shirt.

  She caught herself imagining what he must look like underneath.

  Her cheeks heated at the thought, and she lifted her chin defiantly against her own inner turmoil. He was already confusing her and he’d only just arrived.

  After an interminable time, Miles relaxed and stepped back. He dropped his shoulders slightly, loosening his clenched jaw.

  “Hello, Zoe. So, you’re the one who’s been taking care of my father.” Miles’s voice was much deeper than she had remembered, her breath catching in her throat.

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes immediately darkened, his throat bobbing.

  “I moved into the guest bedroom several months back,” Zoe continued, trying to ignore the flush of heat his response had ignited inside her. “And don’t worry, I already know you. It’s impossible to live in this town and not know the town hero quarterback.”

  She tried to add extra cheeriness to her voice, hoping to distract him from her trembling hands as she gave Walter a small container of medications and a glass of water.

  A flicker of a sheepish smile crossed Miles’s face at the mention of his high school reputation. “Oh. That was a long time ago.”

  “Some people are hard to forget.” Zoe looked at him from beneath her lashes—not believing how flirty she was being. She brushed off the judgment, deciding to allow herself a brief moment to enjoy the alluring man before her.

  Miles was pure muscle, biceps stretched his sleeves, and his shoulders were solid and broad. She wanted to reach out and touch his arm right then and there, feel the muscles flex beneath his skin. A shiver of awareness rolled over her at the thought, and a smile tugged at her lips.

  Miles bit his bottom lip, then let it go, and her stomach fluttering in response.

  Zoe felt him watching her carefully as she moved around Walter, checking on his oxygen intake. His scrutiny caused her step to falter, accidentally brushing against Miles as she attempted to gain control over her legs again.

  Miles stiffened at her touch and sat, but quickly returned his focus to her.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Walter said, handing the empty glass back to her after swallowing his pills.

  She took it from him and smiled, avoiding eye contact with Miles. Being the center of his attention was becoming unsettling. She didn’t want to let him know he was getting to her, but short of telling him to look elsewhere, ignoring him appeared to be her best option. At least it seemed like a good plan, for now.

  “I’ll be right back to check your blood pressure,” she told Walter, spinning on her heels, and heading inside.

  ***

  Miles watched Zoe walk back into the house, a sway to her steps that sang to him, like a melody from the tap of her shoes on the deck and the gentle, back-and-forth movement of her hips.

  He had been around plenty of beautiful women in his life, yet he was unusually drawn to her, noticing every one of her curves that somehow worked on her tiny frame, filling her in all the right places. That nanosecond of contact with her smooth skin, when she’d stumbled against him, had nearly caused his knees to buckle—thank goodness for the chair nearby.

  “Put your tongue back in your mouth, Kydd,” Walter’s firm voice interrupted Miles’s musings as he picked up the deck of cards again. “You’re drooling.”

  Miles’s attention snapped back to the man across the table, and he quickly reached to feel his mouth, then realized his father was joking.

  Miles rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

  “What happened back there?” Walter placed the cards down and regarded Miles with a thoughtful expression.

  “What are you talking about?” Miles ignored his father and sat forward in his chair, propping his elbows on the table and staring off into the trees. “Nothing happened.”

  “Miles, I’ve been to war. I know there is a reason you damn near killed Zoe just then. You either need to talk about it with somebody, or think very hard about how you’re going to handle civilian life.” Walter pushed the deck of cards away from him, adopting a sterner voice than Miles’s had ever heard from him before. “Something happened, and a little tip from me—nothing good comes from waiting to deal with it.”

  “Well it’s exactly like you said, you’ve been to war. Shit happens. You see things you don’t forget. You do things you...” Miles trailed off for a second, lost in his thoughts as he continued to stare at the trees.

  He could see a flicker of light in the distance from the neighboring house farther down the lake, and Slipwick began melting away.

  Their mouths were moving, but Miles couldn’t hear anything except the ringing in his head. Explosions, dozens of them. His feet hit the ground hard as he ran toward robed figures, and he could see from their expressions—they were screaming.

  Fire was everywhere. He couldn’t stop the flames.

  He couldn’t stop their silent screaming. “Miles?” Walter touched him gently on the top of his hand.

  “Sorry. I was just going to say, you do things you regret,” Miles said, not wanting to explain further. There was no way he could tell Walter what he’d done in Afghanistan. Miles knew his father was proud of him and sang his praises to everyone who would listen. He couldn’t be the one to break his father’s heart and reveal who he truly was.

  “Don’t regret the past, Miles,” Walter told him. “War isn’t black and white, good and bad—only a ton of gray. You have a split second to decide between a shitty choice or a crappy one. Either way, it’s going to be pretty damn awful.”

  Miles inhaled deeply, plastering a smile to his face in an attempt to move on to easier topics. “Come on, old man. Let’s start this game so I can kick your ass.”

  Walter belted out a raucous laugh at the thought. “Son, I’ve been playing this game before your mother was even born. Don’t heckle the master.”

  “How about you put your money where your mouth is?” Miles goaded his father, the thrill of a challenge sending excitement coursing through his veins.

  “You’re on, but I don’t want money. I want the bushes all around the house trimmed and pruned if I win,” Walter countered.

  Miles groaned, narrowing his eyes at his father as he contemplated the terms. “And if I win?”

  “You can have Sabrina.”

  Shock coursed through Miles, then excitement, then disbelief. “If I win, you’ll let me have her? You love that damn car!” It was inconceivable his father would ever part with his mint condition 1969 Chevrolet Camaro. It ran better than most new cars thanks to his father’s constant doting on it, and was absolutely gorgeous with its sleek black paint job and white stripes down the hood and trunk.

  “Well, I can’t drive her anymore, so someone needs to take care of her. Sabrina hasn’t been out for a good ride in a while.” Walter grinned, but his voice held a serious undertone. “No sense in it rusting out there in the garage.”

  “Lay down your first card, old man.” Miles picked up his deck and smacked the edge firmly against the top of the table. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Both men became very serious and started laying down cards one at a time. As the men focused on their cards, Zoe walked out onto the porch, pausing in the doorway and watching.

  Miles caught her out of the corner of his eye but said nothing, concentrating instead on the game. He flipped over his top card, the nine of clubs and tossed it down. His father laid the queen of diamonds on top of it with a triumphant grin. Miles cursed under his breath.

  “Can I interrupt your game for a minute to take Walter’s blood pressure?” Zoe asked, pulling the stethoscope from around her neck and sliding the buds into her ears.

  Both men laid their cards down and
Walter pushed up his sleeve. Miles watched Zoe as she gently strapped on the blood pressure cuff, pressing the end of the stethoscope against his father’s arm, inside his elbow. She grabbed the pump with one hand and began rhythmically squeezing, causing it to tighten around his upper arm.

  Miles had seen nurses do this a million times, but there was something about her expert maneuvers and careful attention to his father’s comfort that made his heart warm. It wasn’t the fire he had felt earlier when he first caught sight of the golden curls she was constantly pushing off her face. Rather, it was a softness eight years of being a Marine had taught him to suppress.

  The last time he’d felt that same softness was the incident, and the consequences had been astronomical.

  Miles sat straighter and forced the walls around his heart to move in tighter. He wasn’t going to make such a heavy mistake again.

  “Your blood pressure is a bit high, Walter,” Zoe advised, unraveling the cuff from his arm.

  “Yours would be too if your son was about to steal your car.” Walter chuckled, and Zoe raised a brow at Miles.

  Miles switched his gaze quickly to Walter because her emerald eyes were too dangerous, too enthralling. “Fair and square, old man—you made the bet.”

  Walter placed his next card down, the four of diamonds. Miles laid down his card, the four of spades. Both men’s breath caught.

  “War! Put down three, Kydd!” Walter exclaimed.

  Zoe crossed her arms and watched them. “So, whoever wins this battle gets Sabrina?”

  “Yep, and old Walter here is almost all out of cards,” Miles said, glancing at Zoe as he spoke. “She is as good as mine.”

  She blushed and looked away, and he wondered if she saw a double meaning in what he’d said. He turned back to the game, his mind still on the flush in her cheeks and the flutter of her lashes. He briefly mulled over the thought that maybe Zoe was thinking the same things about him as he had been about her, but dismissed it just as quickly.

  “Shit!” Walter exclaimed.

  Miles snapped back to attention and stared down at their cards. He had pulled the higher card and won the game. “And that’s how you do it.” He tossed the remainder of his cards on the table, pumping his fists in the air in victory. “Keys, please!”

  His father burst out laughing, then put his hands up. “They’re in the front room bureau.” His father stuck his hand out and the men shook amicably. “I concede, Miles!”

  “It’s probably time we head inside; don’t you think?” Zoe said, showing her nurse persona. “It’s getting a little chilly out here, Walter.”

  Walter pulled the blanket tighter around his legs and picked up the small oxygen tank, placing it in his lap. “I am pretty tired. Ready?”

  Zoe grabbed the handles on the back of the wheelchair and maneuvered him away from the table.

  “Let me do that, Zoe. Why don’t you take the night off?” The softness crept back into Miles’s heart as he watched his father coughing. “I’ll get my father to bed. It’s been so long since I’ve been home.”

  A flicker of relief crossed Zoe’s face, an exhaustion beneath her green eyes. She smiled and let him take the wheelchair’s handles from her, following them into the house before veering off in the direction of the guest bedroom.

  Directly adjacent to his room. Interesting.

  Read the Rest of Not A Hero!

  Download the full book from Sarah’s website at http://booksbysarahrobinson.net/my-books/not-a-hero/

  Please Note: Not a Hero contains themes of war, PTSD, and violence.

  Excerpt from Breaking a Legend

  A Kavanagh Legends Novel

  Prologue

  Three!

  Two!

  One!

  Fight!

  The crowd roared around him as the bell sounded, vibrating through his entire body. Rory Kavanagh immediately moved into position, his head low and his fists in front of his face. His arms were tucked in, shielding his body as he advanced on his opponent. This was it. A lifetime of practice, sparring, training: It was all for this moment.

  It was all for this fight.

  He was bigger than his opponent; this would be a simple win. He had the strength, he had the power. He towered over him by several inches, his shoulders broader, and his muscles thicker. This fight was in the bag. Punch, block, jab, shield, kick, sidestep. His opponent was moving fast, but Rory practically danced around his attack. He rained down jab after jab, his opponent staggering backward with a bloody lip. The bell sounded and both men retreated to their respective corners.

  “Water,” Rory grunted, leaning against the cage side as his father handed him a water bottle, his brothers eagerly watching from outside the cage. He dumped a mouthful of water onto his tongue before swirling it around and spitting it out into a nearby bucket.

  “You’re doing great, Rory, but remember technique. You’re too heavy-handed on power, and you’re not focusing on skills. That’s how fighters get hurt.”

  “I’m fine. This is in the bag.” Rory tossed the bottle at him, strutting back toward the center of the ring as the ref began announcing the start of the second round.

  “Fight!” The ref backed up quickly as the men converged on one another. Rory landed the first hook, blocking the return. Breathe, focus.

  And that’s when it happened.

  He blinked in surprise as blinding pain coursed through him. He looked down for a second, just a second, and it was over. Rory hadn’t even seen it happen; his opponent had been too fast. He looked down at his leg, but it was entirely twisted at the knee and bent the wrong direction. Bones were protruding and blood trickled morbidly down his calf. Searing pain inexplicably mixed with tingling numbness shot through his body in pulsing currents as he wavered.

  Then all he saw was black. He felt the cage floor hit the back of his head as he went down hard. He heard the screaming from audience members, his family included. The ref’s whistle was blaring and medics were asking if he was okay.

  Rory said nothing, and gave in to the black.

  Chapter One

  “I will tell you when I’ve had enough.” He spoke through clenched teeth, slowly raising his silver eyes to stare down the irritated bartender.

  “Rory, come on. Don’t make me throw you out.” The bartender peered sideways at him, clearly exasperated as he draped a dishrag over one shoulder.

  Rory Kavanagh narrowed his gaze, anger coursing through his blood as he contemplated reaching across and smashing the arrogant prick’s face right into the wooden bar. Instead, he stood and reached into the back pocket of his jeans, tightening his jaw in frustration. Separating a few bills from a rather thick wad of cash, he tossed them down next to his glass before turning and heading for the door.

  As the infamous oldest Kavanagh brother stalked in their direction, the bouncers securing the entrance straightened, giving him a wide berth as he shoved his way out into the cold night air. Rory stumbled slightly as he turned right and slumped his shoulders, shoving his fists into his jacket pockets to keep warm. The alcohol warmed his insides, but still wasn’t a match for the winter chill as he made his way north on Kepler Avenue in the Bronx.

  Rory slid one hand out from its warm haven to shove back his messy long brown locks with a quick sweep of his fingers. Glancing around, he was a bit surprised not to see more people roaming about the Woodlawn neighborhood on a Saturday night. Taking advantage of the momentary privacy, he pulled out an orange pill bottle from his pocket, shaking a few white pills onto his palm. He closed the container and stuck it back in his coat before dropping the pills onto his tongue and swallowing them dry. He was used to the sensation as well as eager to feel the numbing he knew would soon follow.

  Yawning slightly, he slid his phone out of his pocket and turned on the screen, revealing that it was already one in the morning. He was feeling tired, but he wasn’t ready to call it a night just yet. Turning at the next intersection, he made a beeline east to Katonah Avenue, eager t
o get to O’Leary’s Pub before their last call in an hour.

  “Well, if it isn’t our long-lost brother,” a familiar voice said a few minutes later, as he meandered into the neighborhood bar that everyone he knew frequented. A hand clasped his shoulder. “Shit, Rory, where the hell have you been?”

  Rory inwardly groaned as he turned to face his younger brother, Quinn Kavanagh. Rory wanted to wipe Quinn’s smug smirk off with his fist. He had been sporting that same cocky attitude since the moment he popped into this world, a trait that Rory found uniquely irritating.

  Now I remember why I’ve been avoiding this bar, Rory thought as he forced a smile at his brother.

  “Just stopping in for a quick drink, Quinn,” Rory said, attempting to make clear that he wasn’t interested in socializing.

  He headed over to the long wooden bar that wrapped around two sides of the small pub and stood before walls of liquor bottles and televisions. Several bartenders moved around swiftly, filling drink orders and talking with the full crowd that O’Leary’s always attracted on weekend nights. Rory found an empty stool down at one end, far away from the door, and quickly staked his claim.

  He saw Cian, who had worked at O’Leary’s for as long as he could remember, and nodded his head to him. Cian nodded back and put up his hand, indicating he would be over in a minute, as he finished serving the group of college-aged kids at that end of the bar. The door to the kitchen swung open and a short, petite blonde ambled through, carrying a large bucket of ice that seemed much too heavy for her small frame to manage.

  Rory smiled slightly as he lifted one eyebrow, watching her with interest while she carefully poured the ice over the liquor bottles that sat in a metal bin below the bar’s surface. She huffed and her face was slightly red at the task, but she still managed to completely empty the bucket’s contents evenly around each of the glass bottles.