Take Me Out (Crimson Romance)

by Elley Arden

  First things first. He grabbed a yellowed, brittle newspaper off the pile he had collected from the front stoop. With a twist, the paper turned into a makeshift torch, and he lit it with the blue gas flame. After turning off the stove, he carried the burning paper into the great room, where he ducked his head beneath the massive limestone blocks and reached an arm into the flue. He hoped the draft would carry the smoke from the paper up the chimney, and out of the house. That was the sign he was waiting for as he hunched over, holding his breath.

  For once, since he arrived at this empty, sorry house, something miraculously went his way. The smoke curled in ribbons up the chimney and Grey dropped the newspaper to the firebox floor. Now, all he needed was some wood; and from the looks of the overgrown grounds surrounding the house, he wouldn’t have a problem finding it.

  Making his way through the cavernous, sparsely decorated icebox, he made another trip to the basement; this time ignoring the mammoth boiler and heading for the dingy workroom, where he noticed an axe propped against the cement block wall. Trudging back up the stairs and through the house with axe in tow, his anger grew until the combination of movement and emotion had him breaking into a sweat. Fuck you, Dad, he thought for about the millionth time since the bastard ran off to Bermuda — taking Grey’s longtime girlfriend along for the ride.

  He gripped the axe so hard his knuckles screamed with pain, and for a moment he thought about taking a swing at the ornate trim lining the backdoor. Fortunately for his already-lengthy to-do list, the axe stayed at his side, and his anger peaked. It didn’t pass so much as it returned to whatever dark hole Grey stashed it in; leaving him with labored breath and a clenched jaw.

  At least he wasn’t cold anymore.

  Outside in the wind, he made his way through a crunching layer of frozen grass and leaves, to the back of the property where an empty dog run formed a visible boundary between this property and the sloping hillside beyond. He didn’t know what happened to the dogs. The lawyer for the estate made no mention of them, so Grey figured his dad had given them away. Then again, maybe he took them to Bermuda. Maybe they were on the plane when it went down — just like Dad and Lindsay.

  Grey flinched. He cared more about losing those dogs than he did about losing his father and the woman he had expected to someday marry. With both hands wrapped around the grip of the axe, Grey swung hard at one of the brittle tree trunks littering the frozen ground, feeling the burn in his shoulder and the vibration clear up to his elbows. He stood there, axe lodged in wood, wondering how he got from centerfield in Nashville’s brand-new ballpark, to the backyard of a house he didn’t want to own. And once again, he was reminded of how his father fucked up everyone’s lives.

  Yeah? Well, this was where the chain stopped.

  Swinging the axe again, noticing less of a protest from his body, Grey reminded himself the house was key to repairing some of the damage his father had caused. All he had to do was fix it up and sell it off, for as close to a million dollars as possible. He swung the axe again, praying to God he could manage the miracle before he needed to report for spring training in a little more than two months. Two months. He squeezed his eyes shut as he swung the axe again.

  He was crazy. Anyone who discovered what he was doing would agree. This wasn’t a job for one man, and yet Grey couldn’t figure out how to let anyone else in; how to trust them enough to relinquish the tiniest bit of control. There was too much at stake. He needed to limit the amount of money spent on the renovations, maximize the return on his investment, and sweat out the anger he felt toward his father — and the guilt he felt for not being man enough to stand up to him.

  Maybe the daunting task was some sort of self-imposed punishment. After what Grey had done, turning his back on his brother’s professional advice and personal support in order to maintain a half-assed relationship with the world’s worst dad? This wasn’t nearly as harsh of a punishment as he deserved.

  Two shrill barks ripped through the frosty silence, and before Grey could turn around he was hit from behind.

  “Holy shit.” He dropped the axe to rough the dogs behind the ears. “Where’d you come from?”

  “They were in my garbage.”

  She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, standing at the top of the cement walk that led from the front of the house to the back patio. She was dwarfed by the iron gazebo trellises to her left, but there was something formidable about her. Maybe it was the fact that she stood strong despite being sorely underdressed for the current weather conditions. Dressed in nothing but a navy blue pantsuit with her blonde curls whipping around her wind-reddened, heart-shaped face, she was the last sort of thing he expected to see in his father’s backyard.

  Grey opened his mouth to speak or breathe, but the cold air tightened his throat and chest.

  The dogs ran back to her.

  “I’m sorry. They belong here, don’t they? The county gave me the address based on their license numbers.” She bent forward, wrapping each hand around a dog’s neck. She looked even smaller in their presence.

  Grey blinked, swallowed, and nodded his head; hoping to generate some meaningful thoughts and words to counteract the surprise of seeing the dogs and her … whoever she was. “They belong here.”

  “Good.” She smiled. “I’m sure they’re happy to be home. It looks like they’ve been lost for a while.” She patted their thin sides, and anger pinched in his chest. Once again his father’s propensity for living a disposable life had hurt more than him.

  “Yeah, I … ” Grey walked toward her, not knowing what to say exactly, but not wanting to seem rude after she brought the dogs home. He stopped, wondering how close was too close; close enough to be recognized. “I don’t know how long they’ve been gone. I just got here myself.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed. Her forehead crinkled and her eyebrows bunched. But when she wound her arms around her body, he figured the cold had finally caught up with her. “You don’t live here?”

  “No.” He was uncomfortable with questions, so he clapped his hands and gestured for the dogs, hoping without them, she’d feel inclined to leave.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. Is the homeowner inside? I can knock and let him know I’ve returned the dogs.”

  “I’ll take it from here.” Maybe she was sincere, but it felt like she was digging. Then again, Grey suspected everyone of having an ulterior motive. He’d never been proven wrong. Dressed in a suit like that, she was either an overly nosey neighbor on her lunch break or someone with a business interest in the estate.

  Grey didn’t want to deal with either.

  She hesitated, tightening her arms around her chest, looking over her shoulder at the house, and then back at him. “Are they renovating?”

  Clear blue eyes widened and the corner of her lips hitched, like his answer was something she highly anticipated. If he weren’t such a miserable bastard, he would’ve smiled at her enthusiasm — if only because she was so damn pretty.

  “I parked behind the dumpster,” she continued. “Dumpsters usually signify a reno.” She pushed a clump of golden curls off her face and treated him to a blinding smile. “My name’s Nel Parker. You may have heard of me or my agency, Parker Properties. I’m a real estate agent, and houses are my passion. I’d love to see what’s going on inside … I’ve admired this property for years.”

  Yeah, she was pretty, but she was pushy, too.

  Grey watched the dogs tear up the hill to the dog run. “Maybe another time. I need to get them taken care of.”

  “Oh. Of course, I’ll just leave you with my card, and you can have the owner get in touch with me at his convenience.”

  Don’t hold your breath, Grey thought as he extended an arm and accepted her card in his hand. Her fingernails brushed the skin he could’ve sworn was frozen and beyond capable of feeling anything but the pain of frostbite. Instead, the light touch thawed him, and he wrapped warm fingers around the card, squeezing until the card creas
ed; feeling unnerved by his reaction to a perfect stranger.

  “Have a good day.” She looked around him up the hill to the romping dogs. “Be good boys; stay put.” She laughed at herself, and a gust of icy wind lifted her hair, tossing it forward, framing her face like a golden headdress.

  Damn. Grey watched her turn and walk away. With her shoulders back, hips swinging and hair whipping out of control, she was like nothing he’d ever seen. Too pretty and too tiny to be taken seriously, and yet he had the feeling she wasn’t someone to mess with.

  So why was the idea of messing with her so appealing?

  To purchase this ebook and learn more about the author, click here.

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Scrimmage Gone South by Alicia Hunter Pace)

  Tolly Lee parked her Mercedes in front of the house that was the shining star on a rundown street. She lifted the baked ham from her trunk and made sure the card that read, With Sympathy, Bragg and Lee, Attorneys at Law was firmly attached to the aluminum foil. For the life of her, Tolly could not understand what good a ham was going to do. She’d wanted to bring a gallon of martinis but her cousin’s wife, Missy Bragg, had said that would be in bad taste. The deceased, Eula Lawson, had been the biggest teetotaler to ever live and die in Merritt, Alabama. Everybody knew that.

  Well. Everybody seemed to always know a lot of things that Tolly didn’t.

  Eula’s marigolds hadn’t gotten the news that it was October. They framed the neat little shingled house as if they had the most important job in the world.

  The front door was standing open so Tolly balanced the ham on her hip and let herself in the screen door. The tiny living room was choking with people.

  “Right through here, honey.” A plump woman wearing an apron, who was obviously in charge of people bearing food, led her down a short hallway to a neat utilitarian kitchen. “Now, do we need to put your name on your plate so we can get it back to you?” She took the ham but Tolly couldn’t imagine where she was going to put it. The counters and table were already filled with cakes, pies, deviled eggs, and casseroles.

  “No. It’s in a disposable pan.” There were a half dozen matronly women milling around, some who had clearly been crying.

  “That’s so thoughtful. Could we offer you some coffee? Or some iced tea?” The woman set the ham on the stovetop beside a platter of fried chicken.

  “No, thank you,” Tolly answered. “I am so sorry about Miss Eula. Was she related to you?”

  “Only by love,” the ringleader said, wiping her eyes with the edge of apron. “She was in our mission group at Wesley Methodist.”

  “Well. I am sorry.” What was she supposed to do now? If only Missy had come with her. Or Harris. They always knew what to do. But Harris was in court and Missy had to take three-year-old Beau to the doctor.

  One of the other women seemed to sense her discomfort and stepped forward. “You’re Tolly Lee, aren’t you? The lawyer that Kirby works for?”

  “Yes. Kirby started working for my cousin Harris and me last summer.” He was smart and good at his job, though lately he was only able to come in for an hour a day during his free period at school. She would be glad when football season was over.

  “He’s in the living room if you’d like to speak to him.”

  Yes. That was the thing to do. Speak to Kirby. After all, he was the reason she was here. As she exited the kitchen, Tolly heard one of the women say, “What is that boy going to do now that his grandmother is gone?”

  Good question, but not hers to answer. Kirby’s parents had been killed when he was two, and he had gone to live with his grandparents. Miss Eula’s husband had died a few years later and it had been just her and Kirby ever since.

  A wailing woman wearing an orange sweater two sizes too small dominated the sofa and, really, the whole living room. This must be the daughter from Ohio, Kirby’s aunt, and maybe, new guardian. A bored looking man dressed in a tank top and jeans sat to her right, drinking a beer. That would be her husband. The Methodist minister, Dr. James Carlyle, sat to the woman’s left, offering comfort. Tolly had written Dr. Carlyle’s will last year after he had a heart scare that turned out to be indigestion, which proved that tamales could be good for business. He met Tolly’s eye and inclined his head toward the back of the room. She looked over the sea of mostly gray heads and saw the shaggy dark haired one she was looking for.

  Kirby Lawson stood against the wall next to a console television, perfectly erect and perfectly alone. He wore pressed khakis, a blue oxford cloth shirt, and navy blue tie. At seventeen, he was poised beyond his years. Poise was a byproduct of grief, she supposed.

  “Kirby,” she said quietly.

  He swung his red rimmed eyes, which were the color of faded denim, to meet hers. They were wild with fear and grief. Eula had died unexpectedly while making a cake and Kirby had found her when he’d come home from football practice yesterday.

  “Oh, Miss Tolly! Hello. I won’t be able to come to work tomorrow. I hate to let you down. But the funeral — ”

  Tolly laid her hand on his arm. “Oh, honey. Of course, not. And don’t you even think about coming today either. Harris and I won’t be there tomorrow afternoon, anyway. We’re closing the office to come to your grandmother’s funeral.”

  “You are?” His eyes filled but he quickly blinked the tears away and Tolly pretended not to notice.

  “Of course, we are. And Harris said to tell you he’d be here right now but he had to go to court. He’ll be by later.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.” He looked at the floor.

  What to say now? Tolly had never had anyone close to her die but she’d heard it was good to make the bereaved think of something happy. And Kirby Lawson was a good boy. He deserved to think of something happy.

  “Kirby, your grandmother was a wonderful woman. I bet there’s not a person in Merritt who hasn’t had her cake on at least one birthday.” Eula had baked special occasion cakes to supplement their income. Kirby had brought Eula’s famous red velvet cake to the office on Tolly’s birthday in June.

  Kirby grinned. “The McGowan twins.”

  “Pardon?” Tolly asked.

  “The McGowan twins. They never had her cake. Their birthday is in January, the same day as mine. Mrs. McGowan kept asking, but Granna always said she only baked one cake on that day and it was for me.” His grin became a full fledged smile, though it was a little sad around the edges. “To tell the truth, that suited me fine. I never liked them.”

  “Why, Kirby Lawson.” Tolly patted his hand and gave him the best smile she could come up with. And if anyone needed a little wink, Kirby did, so she supplied that too. “I believe that’s the first negative thing I’ve ever heard you say about anyone.”

  His smile faded and his mouth went hard. “I could fill your ear full of plenty of bad right now.” He looked toward the sofa where his aunt continued to wail and his uncle had opened another beer.

  “Go right ahead, honey. Say anything you need to and I won’t tell a soul. Even if it’s not fair. You don’t have to give out fair today.”

  “Well.” He inclined his head to her ear. “My aunt. She never hardly even called Granna. And now she’s acting like she doesn’t know how she’s going to keep living. It’s been like that ever since they got in from Ohio at four o’clock this morning. Plus my cousins Randy and Carlene didn’t even come. I guess they couldn’t be bothered.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tolly took his hand in hers.

  “And, Miss Tolly — ” He swallowed and this time didn’t try to hide his filling eyes.

  “What, baby? Tell me.”

  “Granna was fixing a cake for a baby shower. It was nearly done when she — ” He closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure.

  “Yes, Kirby. I’d heard that.”

  “And they — ” He cast a murderous look toward the sofa. “You won’t believe what they did. I came in here this morning and they were eating that cake. I t
ook it from them and told them they had no manners and no feelings. I’m not their favorite person right now. Was that bad of me?” His face that had looked so much like a man’s a bare second ago was now a child’s.

  “Oh, honey. No.” Tolly held out her arms and he came into them. He had to bend over to lay his head against her shoulder.

  Tolly sensed that someone had walked up behind her. She felt a hand clamp around her upper arm, just above the elbow. She would have known that hand anywhere, even through the silk of her blouse, even after all this time. She tried to shake loose but the grip just got tighter. It was not a grip of affection.

  “Coach.” Kirby raised his head from Tolly’s shoulder and stepped out of her embrace.

  “Seven.”

  Seven. Ah, she had almost forgotten that football people often called each other by their jersey numbers. Would it have killed Nathan Scott to call Kirby by his name today, of all days? Harris and Nathan had played college ball together and they still occasionally called each other twelve and eighty-five — especially if they had a few beers in them.

  “You doing all right, son?” Nathan did not look at Tolly but neither did he loosen his death grip on her arm. She tried to free herself without attracting attention, but he only clamped down harder. Too bad they were in a house of bereavement. She’d bet everything she owned that he would let go if she bit him. Her jaws ached to make him bleed all over his white polo shirt. She could do it too, provided she didn’t break her teeth on his arm — which was a real possibility since he was as muscular as he’d been in his college playing days, when she had first met him. And he was just as good looking as he’d been then, probably more so. His straight caramel blond hair was variegated with white sun streaks and, suddenly, she remembered how silky it had felt. She tried to jerk away again and, though he still did not look at her, his jaw tightened right along with his hand.

  “I’m okay, Coach,” Kirby said. “Doing pretty good.” Did Kirby believe that? Did Nathan?

  “Yeah? That’s good.” Apparently Nathan did believe him. Wasn’t that just like a man? Asked and answered, move on.