Sexton Brothers Box Set

by Lauren Runow

  “I don’t need to thank you. The last thing I want right now is for him to come crawling back. He’d probably love to have me back and have his girlfriend on the side. It’s something he actually proposed before I walked out.”

  “Sounds like a good guy.”

  “I thought he was.” I bite my lip.

  He raises a thumb to my mouth and pulls my lip out from between my teeth. “If you’re gonna hang with me tonight, you’re not allowed to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Think about some douchebag who doesn’t know the value of a good woman.”

  The subway car stops, and the doors open to allow people on and off.

  I let out a sigh. “What makes you think I’m a good woman? A few minutes ago, you accused me of looking for a meal ticket.”

  His eyes stare into mine. My breath hitches as he enters my soul, searching for an answer to a question he hasn’t even asked.

  I look right back. He has a powerful presence, yet, when I’m this close, I can see a vulnerability to him. I don’t know anything about him other than he’s a good kisser, yet I know I am safe as long as I’m with him.

  The train begins to move again.

  “Your words,” he says.

  “I thought actions spoke louder than words.”

  He smiles. A real smile that is luminous. “You did chase me down to the subway, so I’d say you have some pretty loud actions.”

  I blush. I can’t see it to know, but damn, I can feel it.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I like a woman who goes after what she wants.”

  I step back. “What makes you think I want you?”

  He winks. “You can’t stop thinking about that kiss.”

  My mouth parts in shock at his cavalier attitude.

  He laughs and holds out his hand. “I’m Tanner. I told you earlier, but you weren’t listening.”

  He’s right. I was distracted by Aaron. But not now.

  I’m ready to listen.

  “Harper.” I shake his hand. It’s large and soft. The hand of a gentle soul.

  We’re two strangers on a train, knowing that whatever we decide in the next moment might dictate our fate for the rest of our lives.

  The train stops again, and he pulls me toward him. Our chests brush up against each other, our lips just a touch away from one another. When it starts moving again, I use him to brace myself.

  “What do you want to do, Harper? Tonight’s your night to move on and forget. What’s the one thing you haven’t done since you had your heart broken?”

  I bite my lip and then immediately stop doing it. “Laugh. Can you make me laugh again?”

  Those crinkles are back around his eyes. It’s like that was the last thing he thought I’d say.

  When the train stops again, he gently kisses my cheek before stepping away and pulling me with him toward the open doors.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Do you trust me?” he asks as soon as we step onto the platform.

  Do I trust him? Not entirely. I don’t know him. But something tells me I’d be a fool not to.

  4

  TANNER

  Manhattan is home to hundreds of hidden haunts and secret clubs. It’s probably the one thing I’ll miss most about the city when I move back to San Francisco.

  Here, I roam the streets alone. I’m the kind of guy who hangs with my buddies until a certain hour, and then I’m off, exploring. That’s when you discover the city’s dark and dirty little secrets. You’ll also fall in love with its flaws and hard edges, and if you’re really lucky, you’ll get to experience the warmth that envelops you when you find your haven.

  That’s why everyone feels at home here. It’s easy to find a place where you belong.

  All my life, I’ve been straddling two different worlds while trying to find the balance. Nights like these are when I get to discover myself. I’m always solo though. Having a tagalong in tow is new for me. Especially one with legs like hers.

  Harper’s hand is still clutching on to mine as I weave her through the streets of the Upper East Side. It’s rather quiet on these blocks as we walk past the fancy buildings and townhomes of millionaires.

  We cross the street, and I feel her lagging a bit. I look behind me to see her feet shuffling along on her tiptoes.

  “Are you okay in those?” I motion toward her shoes.

  “I’m good now, but I’ll suffer in the morning.” Her lips twist with the words.

  I stop and let go of her hand. Her confused expression makes me smile. When she squeals as I lift her off the ground in a cradle hold, I can’t help but let out a laugh. Her hands grip my neck, and when our eyes meet, I wink on instinct.

  “I’m fine. I can walk,” she demands.

  I just keep walking.

  Her arms lace firmer around me as she checks over my shoulder and then looks back up at me. I might be looking forward, but I can feel her stare heating the side of my face.

  “Either you’re a gentleman or a serial killer,” she says.

  “Lucky for you, I’m neither.”

  She groans in my arms as I carry her toward a row of townhomes. There’s a small alley between two, so I turn down it and gently place her on the ground.

  Taking her hand again, I head to a stairwell on the side of the building. When we get to the bottom, I knock three times.

  A small picture window on the door opens up. A man speaks from the grate, “Who is it?”

  “Sapphire,” I reply.

  “How many gems did you bring today?” he asks.

  “There’s only one rare stone,” I say, giving the rest of the secret phrase, and add, “but I brought a pearl from the shore.”

  The door opens, but the man doesn’t present himself. I look back at Harper, who has a bugged-out expression, which I should expect since I’m asking her to enter a strange building with me.

  I walk inside, and she follows. We step into a small office with a couch, a desk, and a bookcase. A narrow door is open, showing a bathroom. There’s barely room for more than the three of us in here.

  When the outside door is closed behind us, the man is now in full light, and he’s big. No, huge. I haven’t seen this one before. His chest is the size of a barrel, and his head nearly touches the ceiling.

  He holds his palm out. “Card.”

  I hand him my sepia-colored member card that has four numbers written in red. He holds the card up to a black light to confirm its authenticity.

  “You okay?” I ask Harper, who is clutching her bag to her chest.

  “Obviously, wherever we’re going is something very secretive and members only. I’m starting to rethink my idea to follow you. Why don’t I carry pepper spray or a machete in my purse?” Her tone is sarcastic yet serious.

  She’s funny without even realizing it. I put my card back in my wallet.

  “So, what now? He pulls a book from the shelf, and the wall opens?” she jokes.

  “That would be cliché,” I say. “We’re going through the bathroom, obviously.”

  “Seriously?”

  I laugh. “I’m kidding. It’s absolutely the bookcase.”

  The bouncer pulls a gold rose-shaped handle on one of the shelves, and the bookcase pulls out like a door. We walk inside to a bigger room. It’s painted black, but there’s enough light in here to give off an amber hue. Harper is tentative, but she’s still with me.

  A woman is standing by a podium with a long red velvet curtain behind her. Jazz music is muffled in the background.

  “Good evening, Mr. Sexton. Pleasure to see you again.”

  She places a hand on one side of the thick drapery and pulls it over. Inch by inch, the curtain rises, and I keep my eyes on Harper to watch her reaction.

  To the lights.

  To the music.

  To feeling alive.

  Her eyes widen with each element.

  The first thing she sees is the jazz band at the far end of the room. There’s a vibrant red
curtain behind them as the six-piece band jives onstage.

  It’s a massive room, far bigger than you would imagine it to be down here. We walk further in as she takes in the visual feast.

  A long bar lines the right side of the room—very Prohibition-era style with mahogany wood and damask-fabric barstools. The walls are a pale green wood with cutouts and wire-framed doors to house bottles of liquor.

  And the people. The room is moderately filled with patrons, many of them watching the band from the brown leather couches and tea-light lit tables along the left side of the room. A few are at cocktail tables around the stage. A few more are dancing.

  She takes in each and every person as if they were a character in her new favorite show. Many of them in suits and dresses. Not formal, just dressed for a night out.

  I lightly tug on her hand to get her attention.

  We walk past the small crowd to the bar where two seats are available. Even as she’s sitting, she is looking around like a kid in a candy store—examining every architectural detail, crown molding, and carved spindle. This isn’t a place that was thrown together for commercial use. This is a real speakeasy from the 1920s.

  “What are you having?” I ask her.

  She turns to me like her mind is too riled up to even think of an order.

  “This place is amazing!” She beams. Her fingers snap with the music.

  She is in her element. She must think I’m wildly out of place. Here I am, a guy with a man bun, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and a member of—quite possibly—the coolest place in the entire city.

  “You looked a little nervous out there,” I say.

  “Well, it was either this or a sex club. For the record, I’m thrilled it was not the latter.”

  My laughter booms from my chest. “May I order for you?” She nods, so I turn to the bartender. “Two sidecars.”

  The band starts to play something slightly more mellow, but it still has a fantastic beat.

  “I have to tell April about this place. She’ll love it.”

  “There are a few speakeasies around town where anyone can enter. The owner of this one wanted to preserve the legacy. It’s a members-only club. There’s a wait list and an intense vetting process to get in.”

  She quirks her mouth. “How did you make the cut?”

  I grin. “I have my connections.”

  The bartender places two drinks on the bar. We lift them and cheers.

  I watch her pouty mouth kiss the glass as she inhales her first sip and then lets out a little cough. She’s determined though because she takes a second sip with puckered eyes before putting it down.

  “It’s strong,” I muse.

  “It’s good.”

  “Cognac is an acquired taste.” So are you, I want to add. I don’t. “So, tell me, Harper, what are three things I need to know about you before we continue our evening?”

  “Me? Well … I’m from Queens. Born and raised New Yorker. I’m an elementary school teacher, and I absolutely love chocolate.”

  “Chocolate? That’s one of the things I need to know about you?”

  She takes another sip and nods. “Yes. This is vital. I consider it one of the main food groups.” She holds up three fingers. “Fruits and vegetables, grains, and chocolate.”

  “Some people believe chocolate is better than sex.”

  “I concur,” she replies.

  I lean my elbow on the bar and hover close to her ear. “Then, they’re not being properly fucked.”

  She swallows hard. “Your turn. What are three things I need to know about you?”

  I sit back and play with the ring on my right hand. “I’m from San Francisco. I’ll be moving back there soon to work for the family business. I’m an arts enthusiast, and I also happen to be a lover of all things chocolate.”

  There go those expressive eyes again, widening as if she’s having visions of what we could do with some melted chocolate.

  “What do you teach?”

  “Fifth grade. I’m at a school up in Harlem. It’s an old, beat-up building with heating pipes that whistle and a disastrous view of an abandoned tenement outside my window, but the kids are absolutely wonderful.”

  “Did you always want to be a teacher?”

  “Yes. I’ve never had a desire to do anything else. What about you? Your family business … what will you do for them?”

  I glance to the side and then back at her. I’m not ashamed of my family, nor do I feel it’s a secret that needs to be kept. Still, I don’t like telling people I’m the heir to a media empire. In some situations, it comes off as gloating for something I didn’t work a day in my life to achieve. In others, it’s an attraction for the wrong kind of people. I don’t think Harper is a gold digger. I just need to be sure she’s not.

  “Marketing and advertising. My family has had a business for twenty years, and they want me to come and head up the promotional portion.”

  “Twenty years ago, no one was worried about social media. Now, you have to be on every channel possible to be relevant. I’d rather not. I have my few friends I keep in touch with, but that’s it.”

  “I have to admit, it’s my one vice. I am a social media junkie.”

  “A throwback like you?” She motions toward the room.

  I drop my head with a grin. “Guilty. I’ll go hang up my suspenders and fedora.”

  “Don’t forget about your holster. You’re definitely packin’.” She laughs.

  “There it is.” I point at her mouth.

  She raises her fingers to her lips.

  There it is.

  Her eyes look back at me under long lashes as her face reddens slightly.

  “So, Tanner Sexton, what do you like to do in your spare time? Other than hang out at speakeasies.”

  “I paint.”

  “Landscapes?” she says as if she knows I’m not a landscape kinda guy.

  “Something like that. I also read. A lot. Mostly the classics.”

  “What’s your favorite?” she asks.

  “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

  “I read that with my fifth grade class.”

  “Really? I haven’t met an adult who’s read that past the—”

  “Fifth grade? Yeah, well, you don’t know many teachers then.”

  She takes the final sip of her drink, and I motion to the bartender for another round.

  “Do you have a favorite book?”

  “To Kill a Mockingbird. But I’m biased,” she says, and I raise a brow. “I’m named after Harper Lee. My name is literally Harper Lee.”

  She rolls her eyes as if it’s lame to be named after one of the greatest writers in American literature. I, on the other hand, find it incredibly sexy.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. My brother was named after Jane Austen.”

  “You have a brother named Jane?” She laughs at her own joke.

  “What’s comical is, Austin is the least likely to pick up a book. Bryce—he’s the oldest—he’d read a book a week if he had the time.”

  “There are three of you?”

  I nod. “Yep. Bryce, Austin, and then me, baby brother Tanner.”

  “What great author were you named after?” she muses as the bartender brings us our drinks.

  “Full House,” I state.

  She nearly spits out her drink. “The TV show?”

  “We’re from San Francisco. What can I say?”

  The music picks up, and the manager pushes tables back as more people start to dance. We turn and watch them for a while. There’s a couple showing off impressive dance skills as the guy flips the girl and then tosses her between his legs. She pops up, and they continue to dance.

  “Who’s the most fascinating person you’ve ever met?” I ask her.

  “Up until today, it was my father.”

  “And now?”

  “You.” Her teeth skim along her lower lip. “What would you do if you had enough money to not need a job?”

  �
�This,” I answer honestly. “Paint, read, and talk all night with a beautiful woman.” I down the rest of my drink. “Do you wanna dance?”

  “No,” she says with a grimace.

  I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. I thought she’d say yes.

  “But I will,” she adds. “I should warn you that I’m a terrible dancer when it comes to contemporary music. I have no idea how to swing.”

  She might have wanted to come here for a laugh, but it looks like I came here for something special, too.

  “Lucky for you, I do.”

  She motions for her bag, but I wave her off.

  “No one’s going to steal your things here.”

  We walk to the dance floor and find a spot amid the dancers. With her hand in mine, I pull her close to me. As I move to the fast tempo, she does her best to follow along.

  When I spin her, it’s lightning fast. I pull her in just as quick.

  She might not know what she’s doing, but her body seems to know mine. When I sway to the right, she’s right there with me. When I push her out, she falls right back into me. We shimmy; we jive. We go down low and up high. We hold on to one another and dance like crazy. She’s laughing and smiling, and damn if it’s not contagious.

  We dance for three songs. She’s better with each one. More brazen with every action. I let her go and watch as her body feels the music, feels alive, and she moves to the beat of her own accord.

  She’s absolutely beautiful.

  When the last song has ended, we’re breathless and jubilant. My chest is pounding in the very best way.

  I lean in. Her cheek is warm.

  “Do you mind if I leave you for a moment?”

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “To play.” I kiss her jaw and jog over to the stage.

  The maestro sees me and greets me with a hug. I shake hands with my friend, Connor, at the piano, who’s familiar with me from my past debauchery at the club. He rises, and I take his seat behind the piano.

  I start to play. I don’t need to look at the keys. I can keep my eyes fixed on the most important thing in the room.

  Harper’s brows rise, and her jaw drops. I love that I’m surprising to her. I love that she likes my oddities. My brothers think it’s a hobby. My friends think I’m going through a hipster phase. What they don’t know is this life that I live … it’s passion.