by Marie Harte
Also by Marie Harte
The McCauley Brothers
The Troublemaker Next Door
How to Handle a Heartbreaker
Ruining Mr. Perfect
What to Do with a Bad Boy
Body Shop Bad Boys
Test Drive
Roadside Assistance
Zero to Sixty
Collision Course
The Donnigans
A Sure Thing
Just the Thing
The Only Thing
All I Want for Halloween
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Copyright © 2018 by Marie Harte
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Eileen Care/No Fuss Design
Cover image © PeopleImages/Getty Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
An Excerpt from Test Drive
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
Dedicated to D & R. I love you.
And for everyone who asked about J.T.’s story, this one’s for you.
Chapter 1
Late Friday evening, J.T. Webster stood behind the counter in his tattoo studio and stared at the stupid nineteen-year-old waiting for an answer. Young and dumb and itching to prove himself to his posse of wannabe bangers watching from a few steps behind, the kid smirked and tugged at his flat-brimmed ball cap. Yeah, because nothing said menacing like the Seattle Seahawks.
“Well?” the kid drawled. “You have the balls to do it or not? I’m for real, man.” The little punk shot J.T. the finger, then lifted his shirt and pointed said finger at the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “I’m not playing. I want the tat. Or is that too much for you to handle?”
His two friends snickered. A bunch of rich kids slumming in the rough section of town, no doubt. Their clothing appeared to be of high quality, intentionally gouged with holes and made to look worn. Every one of them seemed well fed, no signs of hunger or desperation on their faces. And J.T. hadn’t missed the pricey sneakers worn by two of them.
Mr. Armed and Annoying continued to mouth off. “Yeah, you look big and talk tough, but you’re just a scared poseur. All muscle, no guts. And what the hell kind of tattoo artist doesn’t sport any ink?”
J.T. sighed. He’d wanted to close early, but Grim was still finishing up with his client. And honestly, he welcomed an excuse to delay a Webster family dinner. Normally he loved hanging with his family. His dad had found an amazing woman, his cousin always made him laugh, and he loved his bossy little sister. But lately his father was on his ass to find a girl and settle down, God forbid. So J.T. welcomed any distraction to put off more of his father’s haranguing.
Even threats from a kid more likely to shoot off his own dick than hit anything in the shop with that crappy toy tucked in his pants.
God, give me patience. “Look, man, regardless of your toy gun, I’m not tattooing ‘pussy magnet’ on your neck. This isn’t a customer-is-always-right kind of place. Here, I’m in charge. I’ve dealt with my share of customer regret. You don’t look that bright, but there’s always the chance you might grow a brain and realize you’re not going to score with the word ‘pussy’ creeping up your neck.”
The kid’s eyes narrowed. Behind him, his friends waited, looking less than amused.
“And let’s be honest. The jackasses behind you in the Power Rangers shirts—”
“It’s anime, asshole,” one of them fumed.
“—and Bieber haircuts are no more threatening than that pistol you’re trying to pretend is a real gun.” In the next instant, he yanked the kid over the counter, removed the weapon, and shoved the kid back.
He checked the mag, found out the shithead was carrying—for real—then removed the magazine and cleared the chamber before tossing it all into the trash can behind him. The kids looked confused about whether to fight or leave as J.T. hustled around the counter and shoved the gun-toting punk up against the wall.
Infusing his low voice with menace, he growled, “How about instead of ‘pussy magnet,’ I tattoo ‘dead and gone’ on your forehead?”
The kid thrashed as his face turned red. He gasped for air while J.T. held him off the floor with little effort and pressed his forearm into the boy’s neck. A glance over his shoulder showed the idiot’s friends, frozen and scared.
J.T. scoffed. “I can take care of all of you before anyone asks about the noise. And guess what? No one will have seen anything down here. Yeah, there’s a reason we set up shop in this part of town.” Because the rent was damn cheap.
Just then, Grim opened the door. Six five, his head shaved on the sides with a mass of dark-brown hair combed back, Grim sported a trimmed goatee and tattoos all over his body from the neck down. He wore a perpetual glare that said he’d rather kill you than talk to you.
His client didn’t look much nicer—a large biker who’d recently gotten paroled. The guy took in the scene without blinking. He looked down at his forearm. “Good work, Grim.” He nodded to J.T., then left.
The kids not pinned against the wall took one look at Grim, another glance at J.T., and made a mad dash through the door.
Grim stretched his neck. Bones cracked. “New clients?”
“Dickheads with a death wish.” J.T. glared at the boy about to pass out. So not worth his time. He stepped back, and the boy fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath.
Grim joined J.T. and stared down at the quivering mess of badass. “Want me to get rid of the body?”
Obviously Grim had heard more
than he’d let on. Or so J.T. hoped. With Grim, he was never quite sure if the big guy was joking. The locals left their place alone due to the staff more than their clientele. And more than half the guys J.T. worked on had done time at one point or another.
The teenager looked ready to wet himself; his eyes held a suspicious shine.
J.T. crouched to stare into the kid’s soul. Oh yeah, I’m e-vil. The big, scary mother with a score to settle. “We still got that vat of acid out back?”
“I think so.”
“I’m s-sorry,” the boy burst out. “Just a j-joke, man. Kidding.”
“Yeah? I got a gun and bullets in my trash can that say otherwise.”
“They’re blanks. I swear.”
J.T. leaned closer. “Get the fuck out, and don’t come back.”
The boy crawled away and nearly clocked himself running out the door.
Grim walked around the counter and plucked the gun, magazine, and ammo out of the can. He stared at it, then looked to J.T. “I’ll take care of this.” He grabbed his duffel from under the counter and dumped the contraband inside. “I’m outta here. Later, boss.”
J.T. had learned years ago not to ask Grim questions. “See you Monday.”
Grim had the weekend off, and J.T. had decided to take some time off as well. He was booked four months out. Considering he did custom work and commissions by appointment, he didn’t worry about missing a weekend for possible walk-ins. One of the other artists could handle that.
J.T. took great pride in the studio. He’d built it from scratch with money earned by hard work and sweat. He’d sacrificed by selling his soul… Or at least it had felt like it, slaving for his father in his dad’s garage. While working full-time, he’d put himself through tattoo school and a two-year apprenticeship to the Edward S.K. Dude had since retired, but he was a legend in the business and picky about who he took under his wing.
Now the studio had a steadily growing clientele. Plenty of repeats, a growing number of celebrities, and people who were serious about body art. Unlike Pussy Magnet.
J.T. chuckled to himself and locked up, setting the security. His smile faded as he dragged his feet toward his Charger and stared up at the cloudless indigo sky. The late July weather remained pleasant, probably hitting the high sixties later.
The perfect evening to share a meal with the Webster patriarch and family.
He told himself tonight would be different, that Liam wouldn’t be on the love warpath, and forced himself to drive. Good old Dad had the sense to at least let his girlfriend do the cooking.
Much to J.T.’s surprise, the normal traffic he encountered when driving anywhere in Seattle seemed to have vanished, and he made the trip across town to his dad’s in half the time it usually took.
He parked in front of the two-story house aged by time and weather and grimaced at the sight of his sister’s ’69 GTO. He loved Del like crazy, but she could be so annoying when with her behemoth of a husband. Now married and all lovey-dovey about relationships, she was as bad as his dad, constantly on J.T.’s ass to quit his “playboy ways and grow up into a real man.” Such inspiring words. It was a wonder he didn’t already have two ex-wives and six kids.
Shaking his head, he left the car and remembered the way his sister used to be—obnoxious, angry, and bitchy. She was still all that, but now she smiled all the damn time. Which was cute but annoying and, honestly, a little scary.
He’d barely rung the bell before the door was yanked open and his cousin dragged him inside.
“You’re late,” Rena snapped.
So it was going to be like that. He groaned for effect. “Rena, honey, I’ve had a hell of a day. Can you believe a guy brought a gun into the shop?” He blew out a breath. “I just can’t handle any more drama.”
Her expression transformed from raging to horrified. Then, being Rena, caring.
Such a soft touch. He fought a smirk.
“Oh my God. Tell me.”
“Tell us,” Del chimed in before taking a swig of beer and wiping her mouth on her forearm. “It was a client, right? Or your latest one-nighter, more likely.”
“My clients love me.” He glanced around and, not seeing the rest of her family, asked, “Where’s the ball and chain? The kid?”
“Home having a boys’ night.” Without missing a beat, she added, “Had to be a girl, then. Who you bangin’ this week? Gina? Tina? The Farley twins? Not Sue.”
“Please. I’d never date any of the chicks at Ray’s. Mess up hanging at my favorite bar? That’s just stupid. I like my beer flat and cheap but spit-free, thank you.”
Del grinned.
Rena glared. “I never spit in the beer I serve.” She paused. “Though I have purposely confused orders sometimes and maybe spilled a beer or two on rude customers. Mostly women, surprisingly. The problem guys tend to be drunk but nice.”
“Because they want in your pants.” Del snorted. “She’s still delusional about men. Must be all those romance books she reads.”
“You’d know.” He slid his sister a sly glance. “How’s Mr. Sexy, anyway?”
Rena sighed. “So dreamy. I can’t believe you married Mr. Sexy. Voted the hottest cover model ever. He still hasn’t signed all my books.”
His sister marrying an ex-romance-cover model was about the funniest thing ever. To look at Mike McCauley, you’d never know. The guy worked construction, had huge muscles, and glared if you so much as mentioned a book or his embarrassing past making women swoon.
Del laughed. “Mike hates that you know about that. It cracks me up that he gets embarrassed.”
“Which makes my life worth living.”
Liam boomed from the kitchen, “Is that my wayward son I hear? Has he finally come to visit his dear old da?” he ended in a pathetic attempt at a Gaelic lilt.
“Since when are we Irish?” J.T. murmured to Del, who shrugged.
Rena chuckled.
“Liam, stop shouting and go talk to him like a normal person,” they heard his girlfriend, Sophie, scold.
Del and Rena shared a smile with him. Sophie was the best thing to happen to his father in forever. A sweetheart who didn’t tolerate Liam’s crap but loved him for it all the same.
Yet another strike against being here, though. Between Rena, who ate romance books for breakfast, happily married Del, and his father and girlfriend all swoony in love, there were way too many people trying to make sure J.T. found happily-ever-after. Frankly, he was fine with a happy ending, but try telling that to the women in his family. No one understood sex could satisfy, whereas commitments never did.
He’d been drooling over one particular honey for months. Had she been anyone else, he’d have made a real move, not the small flirtations he’d managed on those rare occasions when he saw her. But she was related to those blasted McCauleys. Such a waste of a fine blond.
Liam was grinning when he joined them in the living room. “Ah, J.T., my boy. Where’ve you been hiding?”
“At work. Not all of us can sit back on our fat asses, old man.”
Liam didn’t take offense. If anything, his grin widened. “Jealous?”
“You know it.” J.T. accepted the bear hug his dad gave him. Though most wouldn’t see it, J.T. recognized the familiar bone structure he shared with his father. He had his mother’s brown skin and smile—according to Liam. But J.T.’s larger-than-life personality he’d inherited from the big mouth hugging the breath out of him. Even at sixty, Liam Webster remained a powerhouse.
“Dad, try not to hurt him,” Del said, sounding as if she cared. “You know how frail he is.”
J.T. glared at her over his shoulder before turning back to his dad. “Don’t mind Del, Dad. I’ve heard when women are pregnant, they get all hormonal.”
“I’m not pregnant, doofus,” Del shot back.
“Oh, sorry. I just thought�
��with that belly…you, um. How awkward.” Considering his sister still looked athletic and toned, he had no reason to think she’d take him seriously.
So when she blushed before turning to Rena to ask if their cousin thought she looked fat, J.T. could only blink in surprise.
“No, Del. Honestly. J.T. is just being himself. A jerk.” Rena stuck her tongue out at him, her bouncy golden curls accenting the cocoa brown of her face. So pretty, she looked just like her mother, only softer. And thank God Rena didn’t seem to have the track record with men her mother did. One drama queen in the family was enough.
Liam frowned. “You seem a bit annoyed—well, more than usual—with your brother. What’s going on?” He stalked to Del, took her chin in his hand, and swiveled her head back and forth.
“Dad.”
“No, you’re different.” He stepped back and looked her over. His eyes widened. “Holy shit. She is pregnant.”
The room turned as quiet as a graveyard.
“She does look a little off,” Rena commented after a lengthy pause.
“I am not.” Del tried to wriggle away from their dad, but he refused to let her.
“Fess up.”
Del turned even redder.
J.T.’s jaw dropped. “Holy fuck.”
Del groaned. “It’s too early to tell anyone yet. I’m not even really sure. I mean, I did one of those stupid tests, and it was positive. Then negative. Then positive again. I see the doctor tomorrow.”
J.T. snatched the bottle from Del’s hand. “No beer for you.”
“It’s root beer,” she snapped.
“Oh.” J.T. took a closer look, saw he’d been mistaken, and handed it back. “So I’m going to be an uncle? Again?” Del had married into a husband and child. Colin McCauley, her stepson, was a cute troublemaker whose pranks made the whole family proud. And knowing the McCauleys, who all seemed to take the word family to heart, Del being pregnant with Mike’s kid would be a huge celebration for months to come.
J.T. asked, just to stir his sister, “Is it Mike’s?”
Del narrowed her eyes on him. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”