His eyes snapped open. His hand froze on his low belly, his fingertips nudging either side of his cock. He ground his teeth together, forcing the thought of Harper away. It was too late for the two of them. He’d give her the seduction of a lifetime for the two nights they were together in Miami and show her what she’d been missing all these years. And then he’d say good-bye for good.
“Okay, angry works, too,” Mutt said, his camera snapping away. “Tighten that jaw. There’s fire in your eyes. Keep it there.”
Damn right there was a fire in his eyes. And in his heart and in his whole body. He was poised for something great, some cause greater than himself. Meet the Groom was just another stop on the journey. Harper and Destiny Falls, ice hockey with Bomb Squad—everything was just a stop on the journey. Nine brothers-in-arms lost that day and all Brandon had been allowed to sacrifice was part of his leg. It was about goddamn time that the Powers That Be let him know why.
“Okay. That’s a wrap. Not sure what got into you just now, but nice work today. We got a lot of possible winners.”
Brandon shook his head, blinking hard. What the hell had gotten into him? Had to be that music, mixed with seeing Harper last night.
He picked his way over electrical cords and lighting equipment, grabbing a rag along the way to wipe some of the baby oil from his chest and hands. Perching on a stool, he negotiated one leg of his gray nylon shorts over his running blade, the requested prosthesis for most modeling gigs he signed on for, given its sleek, curved design. It wasn’t quite as stable as his daily use Invictus Sport Foot, but having aesthetic options was part of the beauty of being a transtibial amputee.
Mutt didn’t look up from his camera’s preview screen as he said, “This is your last modeling gig before Meet the Groom, right?”
“How’d you guess?”
He shrugged. “Lucky hunch. You had trouble shaking off that faraway look. I’d be distracted too if I had all those women waiting for me.”
Mutt was probably right. His intensity didn’t have as much to do with Harper as the fact that he was straddling two worlds, that of his future and that of his past, and so of course he’d be feeling uncharacteristically intense about all the changes.
Brandon pulled on a white T-shirt from his bag. “Do I dare ask your opinion about Meet the Groom?”
Mutt’s shrug was bored, hollow. “Any press is good press. It beats modeling purple bikinis, if you ask me.”
This, coming from the photographer. So much for the guy’s artistic vision. “Aw, now, that’s not nice to say. Terrance told me I look pretty.” To take the joke further, he popped one hip up, pushed the side of his shorts down past his butt, and snapped the elastic edge of the briefs, adding a wink for good measure.
He didn’t see the camera lift until it was too late. A rapid-fire of mechanical clicks competed with the rolling beat of a percussion solo coming from the speakers.
“Gotcha,” Mutt said, the camera still poised above a smug smile. “Wanna bet that’s the photo selected for their ad campaign?”
Just terrific. Mutt was probably right and that final candid shot would be the keeper. Funny how that worked. All that meticulous planning and prep for a highly structured shooting day turned out to be a wash. Nothing trumped spontaneous, genuine expressions of feeling, not even the most carefully laid plans or the most seasoned modeling professionals who could fake emotions with the aplomb of actors.
Brandon slugged his bag over his shoulder and started for the door. “Good shoot today, Mutt. I’ll catch you next time.”
“You won’t be back here to this little backwoods studio, m’boy. Hollywood’s got her snares in you now. Everything you’ve ever known is about to change.”
Brandon was counting on it.
“Hey, one more thing,” Mutt said as Brandon was halfway out the door.
Brandon raised his eyebrows, inviting Mutt’s question.
“Just curious—whoever she was you were seeing in your mind, the one you visualized fucking you that got you so pissed off, did you have to give her up so you could do Meet the Groom?”
The thought of Harper sparked another round of frustration and desire swirling inside him. “She was never mine to begin with.”
“Bummer. No wonder you were so pissed.”
Yeah, he was pissed at Harper for all her sexual hang-ups, but the fire in his eyes had been more about determination for his future than anger about his past—not that he was ready to explain the nuances of survivor’s guilt to a photographer he might never see again.
“Guess I’m still making my peace with letting her be the one who got away.” Because what choice did he have, really? She refused to entertain the idea of becoming lovers with a man unless he agreed to let her shackle him up inside that brick fortress of a bar. She’d practically dragged out a marriage license on their first and only date, and she was so closed minded about dating around and keeping things casual.
“Besides,” Brandon added, picking at some baby oil around his fingernail. “I don’t do monogamy. Life’s too short to get stuck in one place.”
“Man, you said it. Just don’t let my wife hear me agreeing with you,” he added with a wink.
“Deal.”
“Hey, do us unlucky schmucks proud on that show. Twenty babes drooling over your dick—that’s the American Dream.”
He didn’t share Mutt’s idea of the American Dream, but he did consider himself pretty damn lucky. Look at him now, getting paid to model underwear and preparing to take his career from sort-of-famous fitness model to bona fide celebrity. He was going to get paid a windfall to court and have exciting adventures with twenty gorgeous women who all wanted him—or who, at least were good enough to fake it on TV. Wealth, beautiful women, traveling the world, the chance to make a difference for other wounded vets—what more could a man want?
A pang of frustration hit him in the gut. A man could want more, even with than all that. You want more than all that, B.
Grimacing, he cracked his open palm against the wall as he walked through the studio door, the sound snapping him out of his wayward thoughts. He’d have Harper in Miami for two nights and that would be enough.
She didn’t factor in to his bright future. She never had, no matter how deeply he was drawn to her or how badly he ached to take her as a lover. Neither did a small town like Destiny Falls factor in. Like everything else, they were stops on the road of his greater journey, part of that maddening trial-and-error process of figuring out why the hell he’d been given a second chance at life when so many others hadn’t been spared.
***
One of Harper’s least favorite times of the day in Lock, Stock & Barrel Tavern was weekdays, in the stillness that pursued as soon as the lunch rush ended, but before the dinner crowd arrived. The emptiness during open hours made her anxious when she meditated on it for too long. She’d tried all kinds of specials to bring people in during those quiet hours, including a killer happy hour with bottom basement prices, but even that didn’t draw big crowds on a weekday before five.
To help ignore the empty tables, she reserved that time of day for book work in her office at the back of the kitchen, which was where Bailey, one of her younger and least skilled waitresses—which was why she assigned her the unpopular day shifts—found her.
“Hey, Harper. You have a visitor out front. A hottie.”
“Dylan the brewery rep?” Harper never minded when he came around for his weekly delivery.
Bailey’s smile turned goading. “Hotter than Dylan. Brandon.”
Ah. Of course. There were times when Harper wondered how many of her staff he’d slept with. Bailey would top the list of possibilities, but as curious as she was, she really, really, didn’t want to know.
With a thanks to Bailey, Harper set aside the paperwork she’d been poring over and followed her through the kitchen, refusing to
check her appearance in the mirror or fluff her hair or reapply her lipstick.
Brandon was standing at the dartboard, dressed in workout shorts and a loose-fitting white T-shirt, and throwing shot after poorly executed shot that hit nothing but flat tire—the black edge of the circle.
“Hey there. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the Bomb Squad practice this afternoon? Tomorrow night’s game is going to be a tough one,” she said.
Harper was the scorekeeper for Bomb Squad’s Thursday night games, and had been for several years. Before she’d moved to western New York a decade earlier, she’d never given much thought to ice hockey. As a navy brat, she’d spent her childhood virtually nomadic, living on naval bases from Hawaii to Guam and from San Diego to Virginia. Not a whole lot of ice hockey in those regions.
However, the sport was huge in Destiny Falls and it hadn’t taken long for her to get swept up in the enthusiasm over Bomb Squad, which was the only all-veteran team in the Canal Town’s men’s league. And not just any veterans. To make the team, the vet had to have been wounded in combat. Brandon was their team captain. Naturally.
“I’ve got a couple hours yet, and I wanted the chance to talk to you more about the trouble you’ve been having here. If I’m going to win this bet, I need a clear picture of what I’m up against.”
The bet. Now that she’d had time to sleep on the idea, she couldn’t believe she’d agreed to something so juvenile and frivolous, even if she really could us a vacation. Living above the bar meant that she pretty much slept, ate, and breathed her work, but she loved the simplicity of it. The permanency. She never had permanency growing up, which was what drew her to the hundred-and-twenty-year-old building she’d bought with her inheritance from her father and transformed into her home and place of business. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t remember ever taking more than a half day off since opening Locks; she couldn’t simply decide she deserved a break and use that as an excuse to shirk her responsibilities.
“Uh, sure. You want a beer or something?”
“A club soda would be great.”
Modeling might sound glamorous to outsiders, but after watching the dietary discipline that Brandon had to maintain day in and day out, year after year, Harper knew better. He rarely drank and even more rarely indulged in what most people considered comfort food. Of the extensive menu at Locks, he could eat maybe a handful of items, and even those required modifications, such as grilling chicken without salt and serving his salads dressing free.
He followed her to the bar and perched on a stool while she prepped his drink.
“What do you want to know first?” she asked.
“Depends. What do you consider the biggest threat to the bar?”
Good question. “On a long-term basis, the auto theft, but those biker punks are what really have me rattled. I hate their type.”
She showed him the stool that had been ripped apart.
He walked behind the bar to take a closer look. Picking at the splintered wood, he asked, “Did they seem like they were strung out on drugs?”
“One did. The guy who did this. The rest, it was hard to tell.”
“How many of them?”
“Four this time, but the number varies. They wear patches and leather cuts, which means they’re part of a motorcycle club, right? Who know how many will come back to retaliate, if they get it in their minds to. I hate having that element in the bar, but I’m not sure what to do about it besides get the police involved. And I’m not sure that would help. I’ve heard motorcycle clubs are really dangerous.”
“Was this the first time they’ve had to be escorted out by your bouncer?”
“Yes. The other times, they were loud and obnoxious, and once even overly friendly with some of my female customers to the point of harassing them.”
He rubbed his chin, considering. “And you don’t want to call the cops?”
“Not if I can help it. But I will if it means my female patrons feel safer.”
“These guys sound like real scumbags.”
“Big time.”
He made a fist and rubbed it with his other hand, a move that flexed his pectorals and popped his triceps out. “Then I look forward to kicking their asses.”
The illogical, primordial part of her mind swooned at the idea of Brandon letting it rip with his fists to defend her bar. Despite his classically handsome face and flawless skin, she bet that lean-muscled body of his was commanding in a brawl. She bet he could make her knees go weak the moment he rolled up his sleeves and issued that first punch. But fantasy and reality were two wildly different beasts, and the business owner part of her brain knew better.
She wrenched her attention from his body and met his unyielding gaze. “Fighting only brings the cops and draws attention to the problem, so you have to promise me not to get into it with those jerks.”
A lock of his black hair fell onto his forehead. He shook it back. “I’m not promising that. The bet was for me to solve your problems—not how I was going to do so.”
“Just don’t bring the cops here. You do that, then the bet is void.”
He pushed away from the bar, his body shifting restlessly like a prizefighter waiting for the bell to start the round. On his lips, he wore her favorite smirk, full of swagger and ego that sent a shot of lust straight to her inner thighs. “Yes, ma’am.”
In that moment, locked nose-to-nose in a face-off with him, she honestly couldn’t decide if she wanted him to win or lose the bet.
“What about your bouncers?” he asked. “Where were they when these guys were causing trouble?”
She took a step back, giving herself enough room to think. “I’ve got two bouncers on the payroll, and they do the best they can, but bouncers aren’t an impenetrable force field. I’m planning to hire more bouncers for the weekend evenings, but first I have to find qualified candidates.”
“What about Will?”
“Will Corgan?” Will was a Bomb Squad player who certainly looked the part of a bouncer, big and burly. He was missing a hand, which he’d lost in combat and, from all accounts, was still carrying a lot of anger about it. “I thought he worked for Duke’s general contracting business.”
“He does, but I’ll talk to him.”
“No offense, but it’s not your job to talk to him.”
“A bet’s a bet, baby.”
She ground her teeth together lest she let her irritation show. “Fine.”
“What other crime problems are you having? You mentioned cars are getting stolen out of the lot?”
“It doesn’t seem to happen until after closing, but three cars have been stolen in the last year, one of them last week.”
“These same bikers, you think?”
“I don’t think so, because they’re not that clever, but really I have no idea. I’m usually in my apartment by then and, even if I was awake, my apartment windows face the other direction. When I saw you and your coeds, that was the first time in recent memory that I’d actually witnessed activity in the lot afterhours. And that was only because I couldn’t sleep.”
“Got it. Okay.” She could see the wheels turning in his mind and bit her lip against interrupting him. “You’ve owned this bar for, what, eight years?”
“Almost ten.”
His gaze turned distant. “The thing that strikes me is that none of the problems you told me about is very bad. A few punks, a few cars stolen over the last year. I don’t understand why you’ve gotten so worked up about it. I’m sure you’ve seen a lot worse, right?”
The condescending undertone in his words zapped the lusty thoughts from her mind. “Yes, I’ve definitely experienced worse problems over the years and I dealt with it all fine. And I didn’t even have a man to help me. Can you imagine that? Shocking, right?”
“Harper, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you did. Just remember that I didn’t ask for your help. You offered it, with strings attached.”
He frowned at her. “Strings that you agreed to.”
She huffed and worked to calm her ruffled feathers, fully aware that Bailey was listening in as she slowly bussed a table nearby.
Brandon followed Harper’s line of sight to Bailey, and she almost—almost—asked if the girl had made it onto his list of conquests when Susan, the daytime bartender, called Harper’s name and waved the phone near the cash register at her. “Your doctor’s on the phone again.”
Crap. “Tell him I’m busy. Take a message.”
“Hold on a sec with that, Susan,” Brandon said. He shifted his head and looked sideways at Harper. “Your actual doctor calls the bar? Not his nurse or his secretary or an office manager, but your actual doctor.”
“Yep,” Harper said lamely.
“I’ve had a lot of doctors and not one of them has personally called me. Doctors don’t have time to do that.”
“Mine does, I guess.”
Susan tucked her elbow against her waist, holding the phone out and looking bored while the hold button continued to blink. “I tell her that every time he calls.”
Bailey materialized across the bar from where they stood and said, “Yep. And it’s not just her doctor. The doctor’s office manager and his nurse call, too, lately.”
Brandon’s eyes widened, his focus shifting between Bailey and Susan. “This isn’t the first time?”
Harper slammed her hand on the counter to regain his attention. “You two need to stop talking about me like I’m not here. What I do with my health and my doctor is my business. Not yours.”
Brandon’s attention swung back to Harper and he shifted his back to Bailey and Susan. “Is that your oncologist calling or a different doctor?” he asked in a hushed voice, presumably to keep Bailey and Susan from hearing, though Harper had no doubt that both women did.
Game Changer Page 3