Flashback

by Cait London

  The garbage truck rumbled into the night, and Rachel picked up the pace, her face damp with tears and mist. One car passed, headlights spearing into the mist, the heavy sound of rap music pounding through the closed windows. A farm pickup, low in the back as if it was carrying a heavy weight of feed, drove by, and the sound said that it needed a new muffler. Oncoming lights blinded Rachel momentarily as a big SUV passed, splashing a roadside puddle and washing Rachel’s slacks and shoes with mud before disappearing into the night.

  At ten o’clock at night, Rachel was dirty, cold, soaked with mud, her shoes and suit slacks ruined, and every bit of that fueled the blast of hot hell she would soon serve Kyle. “He should have done something, anything.”

  Out of breath, but not out of temper, Rachel stopped in front of Scanlon’s Classics. The big sign across the old weathered garage was the first thing Kyle had done after taking full ownership of Mac’s Garage when the owner had retired. In a prior life, the old building had been a warehouse, and now it was surrounded by a tall gray board fence. A Beware of Dog sign hung on the huge closed metal gates, a hefty length of chain and a padlock preventing easy access.

  Through the mist and the metal links of the gate, Rachel noted a big Hummer and, past that, the lights of the shop—and in the rear of that, Kyle Scanlon’s apartment home. Country music sounded above the wind, the beat loud and heavy. “And on the day of Mallory’s funeral, too. Show a little respect, Scanlon.”

  Rachel jabbed the buzzer at the big wide gate several times, but the shop door remained closed, and no one came to open it. She took only a moment to gauge the six-foot fence, then she found footing and started up. The pocket of her designer leather jacket snagged on a rough edge and tore. Rachel glanced down at it. “That’ll cost you, Scanlon. I paid a mint for this jacket—I wore it my first day on the job in New York City—and I’m going to take it out on your hide.”

  She was grieving for Mallory, her emotions unsteady, but more than anything she was angry with Kyle. Usually in control, methodically approaching lists and what needed to be done, Rachel’s burning anger and need for revenge surprised her. “You started her trouble, Scanlon, initiating her into sex, and you should have helped her.”

  At the top, she looked the long way down to the ground. Battered garbage cans stood to one side, filled trash bags piled beside them. The big brown Hummer nosed against the gates, facing out and preventing anyone from driving through. But the big rooftop looked like a good landing spot. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I could have waited…No, I couldn’t have. A. Mallory deserves more than a few words at the end of her life. B. I’ve got an early flight out and if I don’t do this now—I’m going to burn your butt, Scanlon.”

  When Mallory had needed support at the last, she had chosen Kyle Scanlon instead of Rachel and that had hurt…. I love you, Kyle…. Thanks.

  “Thanks for what? Ruining her life? He should have stopped her. He should have come to us, at least let me know that Mallory was that low. He could have done something.”

  Mallory had chosen Kyle and not her adopted sister….

  She leaped, and on impact twisted her ankle. When it gave, she rolled over the side of the Hummer’s roof, hit a garbage can on her way down, and ended amid stuffed trash bags that tore with the impact.

  Winded momentarily, Rachel jackknifed into sitting, her hands holding her throbbing ankle. She cursed, tossed away a used dinner napkin from her shoe—and a warm rough tongue licked her face. The hot breath and low growl flipped her back to that horrible night—

  She screamed, flattened back against the heap of garbage bags, and terror swallowed her. She struck out blindly, trying to fight her way free, her legs threshing wildly against hands that hurt, her heart pounding with fear. Her hand struck plastic, but she wasn’t being held down. She forced herself to breathe slowly, putting her instant panic back into reality: The rough hurting hands weren’t there, only the cold rain in her face and the bags of trash surrounding her.

  The big boxer beside her started barking loudly and Rachel remembered the Beware of Dog sign. She wrapped her hand around a can and stared at the dog. “You’re not stopping me.”

  “Quiet,” the man crouched beside her ordered firmly, then asked, “How bad is it?”

  There was only one person who had that deep drawl, raw with power. It was the kind of voice that gripped a person and held them, waiting for the next word, because this man didn’t talk unless he had something to say; the deep almost lazy tone said he meant what he said and he’d had the experience to back it up. Rachel sat up to rub her ankle. “Get away from me, Scanlon. Haven’t you done enough damage?”

  In the night, Kyle Scanlon’s eyes were cold silver, cutting at her, the wind whipping at his hair, taking the deep brown waves away from the stark hard bones of his face, those blunt, wide cheekbones.

  “Not near enough. Think anything is broken?” He spoke with that same quiet tone; it rumbled over her skin just as it always had since she’d first met him.

  “If it was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Without a shirt, the light gleaming on his damp shoulders, Kyle was all primitive, scowling male. In their brief meetings through the years, he’d always been smoothly insulting, either with that challenging slight smile or with a terse, pinpointed comment that always set her anger simmering.

  Kyle inhaled roughly as their eyes locked once again that day, and something electrifying and unidentifiable shimmered between them. In the rising wind and light rain, Rachel’s senses prickled dangerously as she noted the bunching of his shoulders, the cords standing out in relief.

  The wind carried the tang of soap and whiskey to her and Kyle’s low smooth drawl rumbled through the mist. “Next time, call first. Maybe I’ll let you in. Maybe I won’t. Dumb thing to do, Rachel. I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

  He stepped up on the Hummer’s running board and at six-feet-four inches easily ran a loving hand over the roof, then cursed and glared down at her. “You put a dent in my roof.”

  The accusation caused her to sound like a light-brained female. “I’m here to tell you off, jerk. The gate was locked and no one was answering the buzzer. That fence wasn’t going to stop me.”

  That hard, angular face glanced down at her, the light from the overhead pole catching the slash of Kyle’s cheekbones, the shadow of his jaw. He stepped from the running board and frowned down at her, crouching at her side once more. His voice was softer and he touched her cheek lightly with his thumb, swiping it gently, then again. “You’ve been crying.”

  She hadn’t expected that brief contact, the gentleness of it. “Some people grieve, you know. And you’ve been drinking.”

  “Uh-huh,” Kyle stated grimly as he placed his hands on his hips, towering over her. “You don’t have the right to come here and look down your nose at me. People usually drink at wakes. You’re invited. Just don’t start in on me, because I’m not in the mood to back up this time. You want closure, someone to blame about Mallory’s suicide, but here’s a memo for you—tonight isn’t the time to choose me. I cared for her, too.”

  “Then you should have done something.”

  “You think I didn’t?” he asked grimly.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But then, you weren’t around much either, were you?” he leveled her own thoughts back at her, cutting down to the naked, guilty truth that took her breath away.

  Rachel’s ankle throbbed and her heart twisted painfully. She blinked back tears as Kyle crouched beside her. He wrapped his fingers around her wrists and pulled her hands away from her ankle. Kyle’s hands replaced hers before she could tell him off and he studied her face. “It’s got a little heat. You’ve twisted it a little, but that’s all. You’ll be okay, but your hair is messed up. I’ve never seen you so ungroomed, Miss Everly. Is the sky falling down?”

  One hand remained on her ankle while his other skimmed up her calf, cupping and squeezing gently. Rachel sensed the live, h
ot need of a man before Kyle’s expression darkened. “Like I said, today isn’t a good day for you to jump me.”

  His hand was big, warm, rough, and caressing as he watched her face. Rachel licked her dry lips and tried not to look at his bare chest. She looked at the dog, sitting patiently, watching the humans with a swaying spindle of drool coming from his jowls.

  “Mallory’s funeral was for family and friends. You shouldn’t have come at all. You knew it would upset us. You knew how I felt about you…that you led Mallory into the life she led, the men.”

  “I was her friend and I had a right. Besides, I wouldn’t have missed you getting all worked up at the sight of me, like you usually do, ready to light on me and tell me off. I’m sorry about Mallory, honey, I really am,” he added softly.

  Kyle was studying her too closely, seeing something inside her that Rachel wanted to hide; uncertain and wary it hovered between them.

  He was holding a wake for Mallory, probably just to assuage his conscience, like paying a bill, she thought. Still…her emotions swerved into grief. She blinked and damned the tear that rolled down her cheek. “I came to tell you off,” she repeated unevenly.

  “I thought so. You were working up to it at the funeral. Your eyes turn black and sizzling when you’re mad. They’re usually the color of chocolate, like my dog’s. Then, when you’re pressing your lips together hard and trying to be intimidating, that cute little dimple peeps out.”

  He’d never said so much to her in years, and now, it was too personal, treading on the edge of making a pass…. Rachel shoved herself into one mad pile, ready to explode. “I’m here on behalf of Mallory—”

  Those silver eyes narrowed dangerously. “Uh-huh. Sure. But where were you when she needed you?”

  He was enjoying this and Rachel served him the first of her tell-offs. “Mallory worshiped you and you took advantage of her.”

  “So you say. She wasn’t complaining.”

  Kyle sounded distracted and Rachel realized that he was studying her breasts, his expression hard. A quick glance downward told her that in the fall, her jacket had come open and the top button of her white silk blouse had torn away.

  She fought the panic rising in her, the flush that had risen to her cheeks. Kyle’s hard, narrowed eyes locked with hers. “Your nipples are hard and dark beneath that lace and silk. You’re either cold, or you’re worked up and needing sex. Anytime, sweetheart…. If you have something to say to me, you’ll have to come inside to do it. Otherwise, call someone to come pick you up on that cell phone you’re always using. There’s a door to the left of the gate. The lock is electronic. I’ll unlock it for you. Meanwhile, you’re welcome to keep sitting on that garbage sack. I won’t charge you for the accommodations,” Kyle said as he stood and walked toward the office doorway.

  Rachel jerked her jacket closed and struggled to breathe. His intimate nipple notation had momentarily stopped her thoughts, but then, she didn’t often associate with men as bluntly spoken—crude—as Kyle had been tonight.

  He’d never really spoken to her at all. Their exchanges had been brief and potent, running to “Get out of my way, Scanlon” and “Sure thing, honey.” But then on the day of Mallory’s funeral, maybe she was too sensitive to what she should have expected—Kyle’s very unpleasant reaction to her accusation that his lack of action had contributed to Mallory’s death. Was it possible that Kyle actually cared deeply for Mallory, mourned her, his emotions rocked, too?

  The big boxer looked at Rachel, then at his master. With almost a sorrowful expression, he whined and trotted after Kyle. It was an odd trot, the kind of a hop and walk that a dog missing one leg would do.

  The night was chock-full of oddities, like the blush that remained on her cheeks, the need to rummage her fingers through that wedge of crisp hair on his chest, and the startling awareness of his hands on her body, the stroking of his thumb against her cheek, her ankle, the kneading of her calf.

  In the thirteen years she’d known Kyle, he’d never touched her, had never been so close to her. Rachel closed her eyes, shivered, and told herself that she had a mission to level him into groveling rubble.

  That image didn’t work; Kyle was too big and powerful, a male animal at his height, and he knew it. The office door closed behind him and Rachel muttered, “My nipples are just fine, Scanlon…. thank you. I’m not needing anything. If you think that’s going to make me back down from telling you just what you are, think again!”

  She shivered and realized that only Kyle brought out the worst in her.

  Rachel eased to her feet, using the Hummer’s running board, and braced herself against the vehicle while she tested her ankle. A banana peel slid down her thigh and caught in the torn slacks at her knee. She flung it back onto the trash bags and tentatively waded through the spilled garbage. The kick to the beer bottle caused her to hop a few feet on her way to the office. Damn him. He’d been right. It wasn’t sprained, or broken, merely twisted slightly, enough to make her limp on her way to verbally flay pieces off that fine-looking taut backside.

  Kyle had a butt that caused other women to stop and stare, but Rachel told herself that she had never been a particular fan of narrow hips, hard butts, and long lean legs.

  She had just reached the door when it jerked open and with a gallant bow, Kyle swept his hand in front of her, indicating she was to enter. His stare slowly took in the length of her body, locking to her breasts, then rose to meet her eyes. Kyle was always there with a smirk and an invitation that lit Rachel’s temper.

  “I came to talk to you about Mallory.”

  Kyle’s grin was brief and taunting. “Okay, like I said, you were brewing this at the funeral, so get it off your chest. You evidently need someone to lay this on, so it might as well be me.”

  His slow look at her chest reminded Rachel of how her wet torn blouse was clinging to her breasts.

  He tilted his head and those silvery eyes raised to hers. “You were saying?”

  “I was about to ask where you get all your money to support your ex-wives. From Mallory?” Rachel asked, her face tight with anger, her fists tightened at her side.

  Her question broadsided Kyle. “What did you say?” he asked carefully.

  Rachel Everly had always gotten to him; her quick, pointed jabs through the years hadn’t taken a chunk of his pride. But now, the feel of Rachel’s curved leg remained on his hand, and he thought of a better use of that sharp tongue.

  “I know that you were always hanging around Mallory. I never saw what she thought she saw in you. When Mom’s boyfriend backed my sister, getting her into a mortgage at Nine Balls, you decided to hang around, didn’t you? A little profit involved then, wasn’t there?”

  Kyle took a slow breath and hauled back his temper. Rachel Everly had come to make his life hell, to twist that emotional knife in his gut. “Get your facts straight. I bought out Mac’s Garage three years before Mallory got into her own business nine years ago.”

  “A little extra money never hurts, does it?”

  Brooding about Mallory, feeling guilty as hell that he hadn’t been able to prevent her suicide, had been a perfect time for Rachel to literally drop in on him. But then she usually picked her moments right on target.

  Rachel was pure attitude, in the slanted, edgy way she looked at a man, as though sizing up his worth and his honor, as if seeing straight into what made him tick. She had a tight, athletic body and a way of putting her hand on her hip, shifting her body as if for a fight, of lifting her jaw, that challenged him. She’d done that the first day he’d met her. Mallory had wanted to keep their “get-togethers” away from Rachel, because she’d said she wasn’t up to arguing with her older sister. Since a good time and plenty of sex was all Kyle had wanted back then, he’d agreed to the secret rendezvous.

  But that one night, when he and Mallory were parked in the Everlys’ driveway for that last bit of loving, Rachel had decided to break up the party. She’d been dressed in a red sweater and jean
s and sneakers, and as a college girl of twenty, she already had an attitude, walking briskly down the Everlys’ driveway to where he’d parked. Rachel had been carrying a flashlight and burned it right into his face, blinding him. Mallory had cursed quietly.

  “Who’s this?” Rachel had asked as if Mallory had dragged home discarded trash.

  At that point, maybe he was just a young tough with a lot of survival time already in his life, out to see what the world owed him. At the time, it was a fast car and all the sex he could handle. With Mallory looking all hot and rumpled in the seat beside him, Kyle just leaned back and let Rachel draw her own conclusions.

  “This is my boyfriend,” Mallory had said unevenly. “We’ve been seeing each other for three years, off and on, since I was eighteen. I told you about him, but you weren’t listening.”

  The flashlight had clicked off and Rachel stated quietly, “You mess with my sister, buddy, and I’ll have your hide.”

  “Maybe I’d like that,” he’d come back with a leer. “You having it, I mean.”

  There had been only a flicker of distaste, then Rachel had coldly taken him apart. “I know about you. You do some mechanic work down at Mac’s Garage. You’re a twenty-two-year-old nowhere guy with no place to go. That’s not good enough for my sister.”

  That had sunk deep, because Kyle had known she was right. He’d never known his mother, who’d dumped him on his father, one Joe Smith of Chicago. As a kid, Kyle had grown up moving from town to town, hauling his drunken father out of messes, and taking his backhand until Kyle was too big, and then it really got rough. But for the family who took him in, loved him, Kyle would have ended in the same gutter as his father, or jail.

  Rachel’s “You’re a nowhere guy with no place to go” comment was enough to make him want to sell that hot little sports car and show Rachel and just maybe himself that he could amount to something. Ex-cop John Scanlon, Sr., then the owner of a small Idaho ranch, had given Kyle a home, pride, and a hefty down payment on Mac’s Garage. “You’ve earned it,” John had said when Kyle was too choked up with emotions to answer. “Hell, boy, everyone should have a fresh start in life, and I’m just glad to help. We’ve got to pass these things around. You like the ocean and watching whales and you think Neptune’s Landing feels like home. If you feel that way, do something about it. You’re a hard worker. You’ll make it. And you say anything about paying me back and we’re going to have a real down and out fight. Just fix the tractor when you come back for Irma’s cooking,” he’d added grinning.