She broke the kiss and rested her forehead against him. Oddly, that was almost as good as the kiss. Forget the last time he’d gotten laid. When was the last time he’d held a woman—without feeling like she wanted something from him?
Josey’s chest rose and fell against his, strong and steady. Her arms were around his neck, holding their bodies together. For some stupid reason that should have everything to do with his groin but didn’t, Ben would have been happy to stand here and hold her all night long.
He didn’t get the chance. Right then, someone began to pound on the door.
“Benny! Zip it up, kick the chick out and let’s rock!”
Josey jolted, and Ben was forced to let her go. She straightened her top, shook her hair out and licked her lips. Could she still taste him, like he could taste her?
“I came for the music,” she said, her voice reaching his ears over the pounding on the door. “No strings attached.”
“No strings attached,” he agreed. So why did it feel like she’d just bound part of her to part of him?
The band continued banging on the door like it was a secondhand drum set. He didn’t need his spine rearranged, so he got out of the way.
Toadie, Stick and Rex fell into the room. Rex was giggling—a sure sign that he was happily on his way to roaring drunk. When they caught sight of Josey, the merry band of idiots came to a screeching halt. Toadie was the first to make his move. “Holding out on us, Benny? Or were you planning on sharing?”
Ben’s thoughts went in two directions. One part of him wondered how many shots they had done and if they would be able to get through the next set before Rex passed out on the floor.
The other part of him got real pissed, real fast. He wasn’t about to let these jerk-offs call her character into question—never mind that he’d just done the very same thing. Whether she was conniving or innocent, Josey White Plume was no floozy, happy to let any slimeball do shots off her boobs. He’d be damned if he let these morons drool all over her. She deserved better than that.
Rex punched Toadie in the arm and stepped up. “Ma’am, ignore the cretin,” he said, doffing an imaginary hat and mispronouncing cretin. “And, if I may be so bold, may I suggest joining me after the show’s over? You are clearly way, way out of Benny’s league. Stick with me, and I’ll show you what a real man can do.”
The next thing Ben knew, he was shoving Rex, and Rex was shoving back. Stick tried to grab Ben, and Toadie made a halfhearted effort to hold Rex, but Ben didn’t care. Rex wanted a fight? Fine. Ben would enjoy beating the living hell out of him.
He didn’t have to. Instead of ducking for cover, Josey stepped between him and Rex. She looked the singer up and down, shaking her head with distaste. She turned back to him and smiled—whoa. How could a woman look so fiery and so innocent at the same time?
“Thanks for the offer, but I prefer drummers.”
So hot, he thought as she stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips over his. The guys began catcalling behind them, but Ben didn’t give a damn. He just wanted to remember this moment, this feeling of no strings attached.
She started to pull away, but he grabbed her around the waist. “I’ll find you after the show.”
“Are you guys going on or what?” The bar’s manager stuck his peevish head through the door. “It’s getting ugly out here.”
With the door open, Ben could hear the riot about to break out in the bar. Josey slipped from his arms and finally he got to appreciate the sight of Josey White Plume walking away.
Rex looked like he was going to pop an O-ring laughing. “Not a word,” Ben said, cracking the knuckles on each hand with his thumb—a trick he’d learned from Dad, one that was pretty effective when a guy was trying to look menacing. “Not one stinking word.”
Toadie made the motion to lock his mouth and throw away the key, but Rex still looked like he wanted to go a round or two.
“Get on the damn stage!” the manager shouted over the shattering sound of glass.
Right. That’s what they were here for—the music. The only thing that had never let Ben down and never demanded something he couldn’t give.
Through the rest of the next set, he kept searching the crowd for Josey. The feeling of her lips against his stayed with him, song after song. He caught sight of her a few times—the sequins on her shirt gave her a glow that stood out in the smoky bar—but then the crowd would shift and he’d lose her again.
Rex split as soon as the gig was up; Toadie took his amp and bailed, too. Normally, Ben was in charge of getting their equipment out of the bar in one piece. Not tonight. He shot Stick a look and headed out to find Josey. No-strings-attached sex could be amazing sex, and maybe if he had some amazing sex, he’d be able to get her out of his head.
She wasn’t in the bar; no sign of her in the parking lot. He even had a waitress check the bathroom—nothing.
Gone.
Where the hell did she go?
*
Josey rested her head on the steering wheel, waiting for her mind to clear. The intersection was empty at this ungodly hour of the morning, so she was able to think without being honked at. Thankfully, Jenny had cut out early—something about midnight being past her bedtime—so Josey could think without being judged.
Which way should she go?
If she went right, she’d be within the city limits of Rapid City inside of ten minutes. Another fifteen until she got to the gentrifying, hip downtown neighborhood where her apartment was above an upscale children’s boutique. It was a nice place—a small studio, but one where the heat and plumbing always worked and she could watch TV while surfing the internet. All the conveniences of modern life—conveniences she’d become accustomed to while going to school out East and living as a mostly white woman—were at her fingertips when she was at her apartment.
If she turned right, she’d sleep late, grab a cappuccino and a croissant from the Apollo Coffee Co. down the street and do some work. She’d send a few follow-up emails to sponsors, do a little research into other possible donors.
If she turned right, things would be quiet. Calm.
Lonely.
If she went left, though, she’d get onto Highway 90. In five minutes, Rapid City would be nothing but a glow in her rearview mirror. In twenty minutes, she’d hit the edge of the rez, and in forty-five minutes, she’d be at her mom’s double-wide trailer. She’d try to be quiet when she got in, but Mom would wake up anyway. She’d say, “Oh, Josey, I’m glad you’re home,” the same thing she said every single time Josey came over. It didn’t matter if she was visiting for lunch, staying for the weekend or just showing up, Mom was always glad she was home. Then Mom would touch the picture of Dad she kept on top of the TV and shuffle back to bed.
If Josey turned left, she’d make her own tea in the morning and eat a knockoff brand of cereal for breakfast. She’d spend the next several days working on the school. Her back would try to kill her, her manicure would be shot to heck and she’d be face-to-face with the unavoidable fact that the school—the legacy her grandfather left her to complete—would not be ready for the grand opening and some members of the tribe would hold that against her. Things would be crazy. Messy. Unfinished.
Just like things with Ben were unfinished. If she turned around, she’d be back at the bar in less than five minutes. She could find Ben, pick up where she’d left off—God help her, she had no idea a man could kiss like that—and then…
No. She couldn’t go back. She’d done the correct thing, leaving the bar before the last set had ended. Correct, because Ben Bolton wasn’t arrogant, domineering and heartless like she’d first thought. Well, maybe he was all of those things, but underneath that, there was more to him—something lost, something lonely. Something that didn’t fit, no matter how hard he tried. That was the something Josey recognized.
Ben Bolton was a dangerous man because he was someone she could care for.
She couldn’t let herself get involved with him. It did
n’t matter how good the kiss had been. The last time she’d followed her heart instead of her head, she’d gotten it trampled into small, unrecognizable bits. Plus, a lot of people on the rez didn’t look kindly upon interracial dating. She’d worked so hard for so long, trying to prove her bona fides to the tribe. No white man, not even Ben Bolton, was worth risking that kind of pain.
A horn honked behind her, startling her out of her thoughts.
Left or right?
The horn blared, the driver’s impatience obvious.
Josey turned left.
Three
Ben took a deep breath. He hated this quarterly meeting with his father. Actually, it was the quarterly report from the chief financial officer to the chief executive officer, but Ben could never shake the feeling that he was in sixth grade, marching to his doom to explain the two Cs he’d gotten. Despite the fact that Ben had graduated as the valedictorian, Dad had always held those two Cs against him. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the old man threw them back in his face today.
Ben was getting ahead of himself. Maybe this would go well.
And pigs might sprout wings, he thought as he knocked. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could go back to running the business.
“Dad?”
“Come in.”
Ben swung the door open and, just like he did every time he went into Dad’s office, he grimaced at the piles of paper that covered every available surface. Although it hadn’t been an official reason for moving to the new building, Ben had hoped that relocating would help Dad pare down the pit of paperwork.
It hadn’t. Bruce Bolton was the kind of old school that believed “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” was a battle cry in the war against technology. Bobby had gotten Dad on a computer and set up email, but the old man still insisted on printing out every single piece of electronic communication and then “filing” it according to a system that no one but he understood. Hell, the last time Ben had ordered a new printer, Dad had ranted about how that old dot-matrix printer that fed the green-and-white-striped paper on reels was the best piece of technology he’d ever owned. That printer had been a dinosaur twenty years ago—just like Dad.
But facts were facts, and the facts were, Crazy Horse Choppers was still Bruce Bolton’s business. Sure, Billy made the bikes, Ben balanced the books, and Bobby…well, he did something. Bruce was still the sole owner, and he still insisted on approving every single expenditure. Hence the quarterly meeting, where Ben tried to beat some sense into Dad’s head and Dad’s head only got harder.
“Quarterly report,” Ben said, trying to find a place on Dad’s desk where he could set the file. He’d given up on emailing the report a long time ago.
“Still in the black?” That was all Dad cared about. His world was black and white—or, more specifically, black and red. He didn’t care about what it took to keep those numbers in the black, and he didn’t even care how much black there was. He only cared that the bottom-line number was black. It seemed to Ben that Dad set a pretty low bar for success.
“Yes, still in the black. We shipped thirty-seven units, took in orders for forty-five bikes and have our delays down to twenty-eight days.” Of course, Ben had had to get several loans to bridge the gap between delivery and payment, but those facts bored Dad.
This was no way to run a business in today’s world. If Ben could get Dad to sign off on some modern investment strategies—the same strategies Ben had used to build his own financial portfolio—then they’d have the capital to float their own loans. That was what Ben needed to move the company forward—capital to invest in newer technologies, to hire new workers, to build the company. Ben had a good head for numbers, and he had the well-balanced portfolio to prove it. He’d made millions by being careful.
Not that any of that mattered to his father.
Unfortunately, Dad would have none of it. Financial instruments weren’t things Dad could touch. They were not to be trusted. Ben understood those financial instruments. Therefore, Ben was not to be trusted.
Still, it was part of the ritual to try. “Dad, we need to invest some of the—”
“Damn it, Ben, you still think I’m going to let a bunch of corrupt bankers take my money on a rigged crapshoot?” He slammed his fist into the desk, sending papers flying in all directions. “Hell, no. That’s no respectable way to run a business. We do things the right way around here, or we don’t do them at all, so stop asking me!”
“I know how to keep our money safe,” Ben protested, trying to keep his tone professional. “Look at how well my investments have done. Bobby and Billy let me manage their investments, too—and we’re all doing really well.” Which was sort of an understatement—Ben knew not to get sucked into the next big thing, and he avoided the panic that had sunk the economy a few years back.
“We’re in the black. The business is doing fine.” Dad didn’t so much say it as growl it. “We don’t need any of that—” he waved his hands around “—money hocus pocus, or whatever you call it.”
Ben refused to let his father’s derogatory attitude get to him today. “It’s called investing.” He bit back the smart-ass “Everyone’s doing it.” Smart-ass never worked on Bruce Bolton. “The business is fine only because Billy, Bobby and I floated the company money to pay for this building.”
“Your money? Ha! You wouldn’t have any money if it weren’t for your brothers. They do things. What do you do? Add, subtract. Mess around with numbers. I could get a fifth-grader to do your job. Your money…” Dad’s voice trailed off in a chuckle. “My money is real. I can go to a bank and get cold, hard cash. Where is your money, huh? You can’t even say it’s on paper—it’s all zeros and ones floating out there.” He waved his had toward his computer.
Ben sat there, his face burning. He was so tired of this fight. No matter what he did—including paying for this fancy building—he couldn’t get the old man to look at him with the same respect he gave Ben’s brothers. “Look, if we at least investigated the possibility of bringing on some investors, besides us three boys, then we’d be able to—”
“That’s enough! This is my business, boy, a fact you don’t seem to remember. I’m not gonna tell you again. I make the decisions around here.” Dad eyed him. “And if you have too much trouble remembering that, well…”
The threat was implicit. If Ben didn’t toe the family line, he’d be replaced by a fifth-grader. Except, of course, that Dad would immediately discover how wrong he was. The temptation to quit and let the old man flounder was strong. Today, it was stronger than most days.
However, the moment he considered such a move, he heard his mother’s voice in his ear as she lay on her deathbed. “Keep the family together, Ben. You’re the only one who can.”
His mother’s voice had been weak, but he’d still felt the steel behind the order. His mother had been the only one who could keep the four Bolton men from killing each other, and Ben had promised that he wouldn’t let her down.
So this was him not letting Mom down.
“I know who’s in charge around here,” he grumbled to Dad. He’d keep the company in the black—barely, but still black—the hard way. It was the only way to keep the family together. It was the only way to honor his mother.
He went back to his office and closed the door, shutting out the shop noise. This was the one room in the building where it was quiet enough to think. Ben sat with his head in his hands, wondering how much longer he could keep the business afloat and the family in one piece. Every quarter it got that much harder.
Then the corner of the brochure for the Pine Ridge Charter School caught his eye, and Ben’s thoughts turned from stemming the hopeless Bolton tide to one Josette White Plume.
In the four days since Josey White Plume had kissed him and then disappeared, he’d found himself staring at the brochure on more than one occasion. He’d even checked out the website. Josey’s name had been listed, but it hadn’t seemed right to email whiteplume@prcharters
chool.net about nostrings-attached sex.
But if he had some tools to give her, well, that would be a different story. A perfectly aboveboard reason to make contact, to see if that heat was still there, if strings were still unattached. To see if she’d been level with him about coming for the music.
The problem with that plan was that Dad would never let the company donate tools. Hell, some of those machines down there were as old as Ben was.
Just when things didn’t seem like they could get any bleaker, Ben’s office door swung open.
“Ben! My man!” Bobby barged into Ben’s office.
Startled, Ben took the brochure he’d been looking at and shoved it under some paper. Great. His younger brother was back. Ben wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or a really bad thing.
Bobby plopped down in the guest chair and loosened his tie. He was the only one who wore ties around here. Anything to be irritating. “How was my nine-thirty? I heard she was something sweet.”
Ben ignored him. Rex and Bobby were pretty friendly, so no doubt Bobby had heard about the kiss. The question was, would Bobby put the nine-thirty and the kiss together?
“The silent treatment, huh?” Bobby whistled in appreciation. “She must have been something. What did she want?”
Me, Ben thought. She wanted me. “Donations. And thanks a hell of a lot for dumping her on me. It was quarter-end, you know. I barely got the reports done in time.”
Bobby had the nerve to tsk him, as if Ben were some old fuddy-duddy to be pitied. “Come to New York with me next time.”
“What the hell for?”
“For starters, you need to get out more. When was the last time you got laid?”
The pounding between Ben’s eyes took on a dedicated rhythm. “None of your damn business.”
“Ouch—not even that groupie? Rex said she was a piece of work.” Bobby chuckled and slapped his hand on the desk. “Hard up, my man. Hard up.”
“Shove it and get out. Unlike some people, I have work to do.”
Straddling the Line Page 4