by Lily Cahill
Fate wanted him to be alone. Fine, he’d be alone. No more brothers, no more Wild Harts. No more Bret.
Now, he’d do anything to go back. But pride was a funny thing. Besides, what would he be going back to? The reason he’d grown so twisted and hateful in the first place was still there. Jax, Chase, and Drew were still just as happy with their wives. And if he’d kept track of the weeks correctly, Tiff was due to have her and Jax’s baby any day now. Nina wasn’t all that far behind with her pregnancy. They were all happy, and Bret returning would just be a black cloud hanging over their fated lives.
The song faded to nothing, just the final strum of his guitar hanging in the air. Bret opened his eyes and looked out at the crowd. They were ranchers, oil men, small town women in pearl-snap plaid. There were dusty cowboy hats and dustier cowboy boots. And there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Someone sniffled at the back, then the crowd started to clap. They whistled for him, clapped for more. Bret tipped his hat in acknowledgment and started the next song.
Alone on stage, just him and his guitar. He was right where he belonged.
Bret leaned his elbows against the bar top, his hands clutched around a beer. A country song warbled in the background from a jukebox.
It was late. Late enough that he could feel it in the way his eyelids were rough when he blinked and the soreness that had crept into his shoulders. He’d hitched a ride with a long-haul trucker outside Houston late the night before, then woke in the early morning near Waco. From there, it’d been west. Or maybe south. He’d jumped in the back of a pickup truck at the side of the road while his head was still heavy with sleep.
Either way, now he was here. Here being a town with two bars, a general store, a cafe, and a school, but apparently no motels.
Bret felt … finished. Dry as the incessant wind and dusty as the earth. If he’d had a phone on him, he knew he’d call his brothers in an instant. God, he missed them. The memory of them was a constant ache at the back of his neck. Bret shook his head and slung back the beer.
They were better off without him.
He felt someone slide onto the battered stool next to him.
“You okay, son?”
Bret scrubbed his hand over his face and looked at his new companion. He was a grizzled old man, with patchy gray stubble and tobacco-stained teeth.
“Been better,” Bret grunted.
“Yup,” the old man said.
Then silence. They drank their beer side by side, but when Bret tried to signal for more, the woman tending the bar from earlier had vanished.
Bret peered around the bar. It was emptying out, so it must have really been as late as it felt.
A new song filled the space—another country tune—and overhead the air conditioner sputtered. The place looked like it had probably been a nice little joint once, but that had been a very long time ago. Everything was worn and sagging, and the large mirror behind the bar was cracked down the middle.
And God, he was just so damned tired.
“Hey,” Bret said suddenly.
The old man glanced at him. “Yup?”
“You don’t have a cell phone, do you?” Hope ignited in him. He’d been an idiot thinking he could scrub his life clean of all its troubles. Maybe he could call Drew. Apologize, at least.
The old man coughed. “Nope.”
His shoulders sagged as deeply as the ratty leather booths along the wall. His chest deflated.
“Do you know where I could sleep for the—”
A deep groan wormed through the bar, then a rumbling burst of metal and water. It was followed shortly by a woman shrieking in Spanish. By the way the old man next to him lifted one eyebrow, she wasn’t saying anything G-rated.
Bret jumped off his stool and strode toward the sound. Frowning, he ducked through a narrow door at the bar and then stuck his head around a second door across the hall.
Water sprayed everywhere. It was already soaking the cheap blue carpet under his feet and pouring onto a desk covered in now-sodden papers. A young woman stood on a chair, reaching for the burst pipe overhead. She cursed again—this time in English—and slammed her hand against the ruined pipe.
“Ma’am,” Bret said.
She didn’t turn.
“Ma’am!” he said, louder this time.
The pipes groaned in answer.
Bret sighed heavily and squished across the carpet toward the burst pipe and the woman. He stopped just next to her, his head level with her large, round breasts. Bret made himself look away from them.
“Ma’am!”
The woman whirled, her eyes wide with shock.
Bret motioned at the pipe, then at her. Her mouth dropped open in understanding, and she climbed down from the chair. Bret glanced around quickly, then spied some duct tape on the shelf behind the desk. He grabbed it and clambered onto the chair. Water gushed against his chest and tumbled down his arms.
Working quick, he yanked a length of duct tape from the roll and ripped it with his teeth. He got it around the worst of the damage, then took his time sealing up the pipe as best he could. But it wouldn’t fix the problem for long. The whole length of pipe needed to be replaced.
Satisfied with the patch job, Bret jumped back down and turned back to face the woman. She was staring at him, her cheeks pink and her wavy brown hair a wet mess around her round face. Bret couldn’t help but notice she was as soaking wet as he was, and the way her gray T-shirt clung to her generous curves ….
Bret tore his eyes away from the woman and grunted, “You know where the shut-off valve is? This isn’t going to last for long.”
He chanced a peek back at the woman to see her pushing her hair out of her eyes and then throwing up her hands. “I swear,” she growled. “When Mateo shows back up here, I’m going to ….” She didn’t finish.
Bret dropped his gaze. Mateo. So she must have a husband, or at least a boyfriend. He was surprised at how disappointed that knowledge made him.
The woman sighed loudly, then led him to a shut-off valve in the connected kitchen. He cranked the valve, then glanced around. The industrial dishwasher was empty except for a heap of tools piled on top. Bret frowned and turned back to the woman.
“Looks like Mateo needs to fix the dishwasher too.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, he knows.” She stopped and put her hands on her wide hips, eyeing Bret. She opened her mouth, like she was about to say something, then stopped. She turned away, motioning for him to follow. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “I can lend you a dry shirt.”
Bret picked at his soaking shirt and then tailed the woman down the hall toward the back of the building. Through a wooden door, Bret found himself in a tiny apartment. It was dated, but it had a bed, a kitchenette with a mini-fridge, and a bathroom.
The woman crossed the small bedroom to a chest of drawers and rifled through one of the drawers. She pulled out a couple shirts and tossed them at Bret. “We keep extra clothes here in case we ever stay the night. You’re bigger than Mateo, but one of these should fit.”
She turned away, giving him privacy as she dug through another drawer. She pulled out a red plaid shirt and slung it over her arm. Bret tugged his shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor. It made a wet squelch against the scarred wooden floors.
Bret glanced up to see the woman staring at him. Her pink cheeks were burning red now, and her mouth hung open. She looked away quickly.
“I’m just going to …,” and she scurried down the short hall to the bathroom.
Bret looked down at his naked chest—wide and hard with muscle, with a black tattoo of a wolf over his heart. He picked through the shirts in his arms and finally found one that wouldn’t be skin-tight. He yanked the faded gray University of Texas shirt over his head and tugged it down his torso. It fit … just.
Bret craned his neck to check down the hall. He should probably just go. “Hey,” he started. “I’ll get this shirt back—”
Hi
s words died in his throat. The woman was turned away from him, but he could see a sliver of her body. Her jeans were tight over her round ass and luscious hips, and her naked skin above her belt was a sun-kissed brown. Bret shifted on his feet, adjusting the tightness growing in his groin. He needed to look away. It wasn’t right to watch her when she didn’t know.
But he couldn’t. His eyes were glued to her beautiful, lush curves, like he couldn’t look away if he wanted to. He watched as she twisted one arm up behind her back and unhooked her bra. She turned slightly, and he could see the swell of one heavy breast. Bret nearly groaned.
He hadn’t been with a woman in more than a month, not since he’d walked away from his brothers and his band. It was like that part of him had grown as empty as his heart. There had been women who’d tried, and times he’d almost given in. But denying himself the pleasure felt deserved. And more often than not, the pressing loneliness of life on the road matched the bleakness of his soul.
Now suddenly, desire was a blazing heat inside of him, demanding he feed the flames. He felt himself drawn closer, closer.
Then she slipped on the plaid shirt and made quick work of the buttons. She turned to Bret, and he nearly stumbled backward.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t—”
The woman walked up to him, then paused. She regarded him, a small smile playing on her plush lips. “That shirt fits you better than it does Mateo. Come on. Beer is on the house for the patch.”
Struck dumb, Bret silently followed her out and into the near-empty bar. She slid behind the bar and leaned against it, facing Bret, who’d taken up residence back on the same stool.
“Lone Star?” he requested.
The woman grinned. It lit her face up like the noonday sun. God, she really was stunning. “Nice,” she said. “National beer of Texas.”
Bret accepted the beer and then tipped the lip of the bottle against hers when she offered it up. He took a long pull of the beer then eyed the woman.
The plaid shirt she wore was snug across her breasts, and he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts would be heavy in his hands, if he touched them, the skin soft. He could picture her nipples grazing against the fabric. Bret cleared his throat and looked up into her eyes.
“Do you own this place?”
She shrugged and took her time taking another drink. “Kind of?”
Bret raised an eyebrow in question.
“It was my aunt and uncle’s bar, but they died a few years ago, so I’m running it. I guess it’s mine?” She stopped and shook her head. “My family is complicated.”
Bret tipped his beer toward her. “Aren’t they all?”
She laughed, a rich, musical sound. “What’s your name?”
“Br— … Tim,” he amended. “Tim Smith.”
She set her beer down. “Grace Lopez. Are you in town for long?”
It was Bret’s turn to shrug. “I haven’t stayed anywhere too long.”
Grace watched him. “You’re a really talented singer. Were those songs original?”
Bret nodded and took a long drink.
Grace’s keen brown eyes didn’t leave him. “Do you have a place to stay?”
Bret paused, then shook his head. “I figured I’d hitch out of town in the morning. Head west.”
Grace put her elbows on the bar and leaned close. Bret kept his gaze up, away from the amazing sight of her cleavage peeking up from the top button of her shirt.
“Some advice,” Grace said. “I don’t know what you’re running from, but it doesn’t matter how far you go. It’ll find you.”
Bret’s hand went tight around the bottle of beer. He didn’t say anything, yet couldn’t move. After a minute, Grace spoke again.
“Listen, I’ve got a list of things to fix around this bar that’s as long as my arm. How about you stay on here for a couple weeks, help me for a free place to stay, and you can play at night. I’ll give you fifty percent of the nightly tips.”
Bret finished his beer and peered around the place. Just a quick glance, he could pick out a half-dozen things to fix. Bret had always been handy with tools, and the thought of spending more time near Grace Lopez was appealing. But ….
“Would Mateo mind?”
Grace sighed heavily. “He’ll love an excuse to get out of work.” She turned away to grab two more beers, and Bret watched her in the cracked mirror over the bar. Her breasts jiggled as she moved, cracking open the beers with expert motions. Bret swallowed hard. Jesus, what he’d give to jump over that bar and rip her shirt open. Lavish attention on those amazing tits.
Bret felt eyes on him and sliced his gaze up to see Grace watching him in the mirror. Bret’s neck burned, and he coughed. Grace turned back around and slid another beer across the bar toward him.
“So it’s a deal?”
Bret wrenched his chin up and looked into Grace’s liquid brown eyes. She held out her hand to his, her eyebrows raised.
Bret wrapped his large hand around hers. It was small and soft, and Bret suddenly yearned to drag his fingers up her arm, down her waist, to the secret space between her thighs. He tugged his hand back and nodded.
Behind him, before he could say anything, a door slammed open. Grace’s eyes snapped to the person behind him. In the mirror, Bret watched a young, scrawny guy saunter into the bar. He had short, dark hair—with way too much hair gel—and a sly look.
“Mateo,” Grace muttered.
“Grace, mi hermana. I can explain,” Mateo started.
Grace strode around the bar and straight up to the guy as Bret watched. She poked him in the chest. “I don’t want to hear it, little brother.”
Chapter Two
Grace
GRACE LOPEZ LAY ATOP HER thin sheet and stared at the ceiling. Even with her windows open to welcome the morning breezes, she felt sticky. Today was going to be nightmarishly muggy, and it was only April.
But that wasn’t the only thing making her uncomfortable. Dreams of mysterious newcomer Tim Smith had pursued her through the night. Life was already complicated. Grace sure as hell didn’t need a man like that to saunter into the chaos and complicate things further.
Grace pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Why did he have to be so damned hot? He was exactly her type, broad and powerful without being bulky. His muscular shoulders looked like he could throw her over his shoulder and carry her away to his sex den. Which Grace wouldn’t mind one bit, not if her fantasies the night before were any indication.
His skin was burnished tan and his dark hair wonderfully unruly. God, and his eyes—piercing blue. Blue like the Texas sky.
Grace rolled over and groaned. She was going to get into a heap of trouble if Tim Smith stayed around her bar for too long. The sort of trouble that led to sweatier nights than this and broken hearts.
Grace stood and stretched. She had to force Tim from her mind. There was too much going on lately. She glanced down, where four shiny pink scars ripped down the underside of her arm. Yes, way too much going on. Besides, she knew her destiny, and Tim Smith certainly wasn’t it.
Barely watching where she was walking—she’d grown up in the old farmhouse and knew its layout as intimately as her own body—Grace felt her way down the creaking stairs and into the small parlor at the front. There was an old upright piano there, and Grace slid onto the bench seat. She laid her fingers against the keys and felt instantly calmed.
It wasn’t the grand piano she’d practiced on at college, but it was all hers. She always made sure to put away enough money to get it tuned regularly. She considered it cheaper than paying for therapy.
She used that therapy now, letting the music bubbling under the surface spring forth. It flowed out of her effortlessly. It was a part of her, always. Her fingers trilled up the keys and her feet pumped the pedals. It was freeform at first, the cacophony of morning birds, but soon order took shape. It was a melody that had been chasing her nearly as relentlessly as Tim through her dreams. She hummed
along, her voice high and sweet.
Grace Lopez had always been an average girl. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Friendly, but not popular. Smart, but not a genius. But music … music was different. There was nothing average about her talent, and she knew it. It was the one area of her life she allowed herself to revel in the accomplishments.
And there had been accomplishments … before. A summer at Juilliard for piano and voice. A scholarship to UT-Austin to study music. There’d even been interest from a record label.
Once.
Once, long before her aunt and uncle had been mauled to death. Once, long before her little brother Mateo had grown so angry.
Now, she was in her mid-twenties and running the aspirationally-named Starlight Lounge in Bluebird, Texas, population fifteen hundred.
Grace’s fingers stilled on the keys. The song in her had stopped. Just … stopped. Grace had overcome knocks all her life. Losing her parents young, then losing her beloved aunt and uncle. But everything that had happened lately left Grace feeling like this was the sort of knock she wouldn’t get up from. For years, she’d held on to the belief that she knew her destiny, that fate wouldn’t be cruel to her.
She wasn’t so sure of that anymore.
Suddenly uncomfortable, Grace stood quickly and pushed away from the piano. The clock on the wall said it was nearly eight in the morning. That meant she had an hour before she and Mateo were supposed to meet with their cousin. Grace trudged back up the stairs and knocked on Mateo’s door.
Like usual, he didn’t answer. Grace knocked louder.
“Mateo, get up,” she said, her face pressed to the crack in the door.
Beyond the door, she heard grumbling.
“Come on, I want to run. Come with me.”
She didn’t say it, but ever since her cousin had returned with his old friend Carver Bain, Grace had been nervous being alone. The way Carver watched her …. Grace shivered and pounded on Mateo’s door.
“I’m giving you until the count of three, then I’m coming in,” she promised.
“All right, all right,” Mateo shouted, his voice hoarse. “Jesus, Grace.”