Bruiser balked, about to argue. With a heavy sigh, he stood and walked to the door, feeling a bit like a whipped puppy with his tail between his legs.
He made the dumb-assed mistake of hesitating just a few feet from her. He should’ve kept going, but his feet wouldn’t move. His gaze met hers, and his world stood still. It was just like Bogie and Bacall—Bruiser was a sucker for old classic movies. He’d never had his world stand still. He’d always thought the romantic crap in those movies he loved was just a fantasy, especially when it came from a simple glance. But then his brain went into deep freeze, while his heart slipped out of its cage and sprouted wings.
The part of his brain that did function wanted to recite poetry.
Poetry? What the fuck?
He’d never been one to wax poetic unless said poetry got a woman naked. While his body definitely wanted Mac naked, surprisingly, sex wasn’t his priority. His stomach did these weird-assed somersaults like it did before running onto the football field for the first play of each game. Only Mac’s house wasn’t a football field, and Mac didn’t look a damn thing like his teammates.
The urge to taste her overwhelmed him, robbing him of his little remaining sense. He stepped closer, expecting her to retreat. But she stood her ground, neither of them apparently having the wherewithal to abandon ship.
Instead, this ship was gonna sail those rocky seas.
Bruiser raised his hand and cupped the back of her head, capturing the silky strands of her ponytail in his fingers. Angling his head, he lowered his mouth to hers. She looked up at him, and the longing in her eyes drove him forward. He had to taste those lips, just once, just a sample, had to know if the effect she had on him extended to kissing. She parted her lips and a soft sigh escaped. That was the last invitation he needed.
His mouth touched hers, setting off a spark and igniting a fire that laid waste to his entire body. He forgot his name, rank, and jersey number.
God, she tasted good. So fucking good.
Bruiser applied more pressure and she met him halfway. Her lips sealed to his, and he slipped his tongue inside that sweet, wet cavern of pleasure. He pushed her against the open door, pressing his hips against her, while his rigid dick rubbed against her stomach. She groaned into his mouth and dug her fingers into his shoulders. Her left leg wrapped around his thigh. Holy crap. He’d be taking her up against this wall any minute for all her neighbors to see.
Her tongue danced with his, thrusting, parrying, retreating like a fencer. She made little mewing sounds, driving him into a mindless fever. He slid his hands under her shirt and upward to heaven. The swell of those fine breasts tickled his fingertips. Creamy skin beckoned to him, dared him to cup her in his hands. His dick ached to be buried deep inside her.
Breathing hard, Mac pulled her mouth away from his and sucked on his neck. He liked that, liked that she marked him. Liked it way too much. Liked the feel of her warm body. She was addicting, and the last time he’d allowed himself to become addicted to one woman, it’d ended in disaster and the second-worst pain of his life when she left him. That simple thought wedged in his brain, interrupting his passion with a stab of reality. Pain. Hurt. Betrayal.
This woman was dangerous.
Then there was Brett. His buddy. His trusting friend. And Brett didn’t trust many people.
With a superhuman effort born of a well-concealed conscience, he pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length. His head reeled from the effects of a drunken stupor, even though he wasn’t drunk. Or maybe he was, from her kisses.
Shit, this stuff didn’t happen to him. He was always in control when it came to sex and sex play. Not that he didn’t enjoy sex. He did, but he liked to be on top, even when he wasn’t on top.
Mac leaned against the wall and blinked at him, confusion in her eyes, her lips swollen, her breathing coming in short gasps. Blonde strands of hair framed her face, her ponytail in wild disarray.
Bruiser dropped his hands to his sides and started backing out the door. “I’m sorry, I— I— That was stupid. It won’t happen again.”
Without waiting for her response, he sprinted out the door to his car and got the hell out of there. Way to fuck up a friendship. Not just with Mac, but with Brett. The sooner he convinced Brett to ask her out, the sooner this screwball attraction would be a thing of the past. He never messed with other men’s women.
Bruiser gunned the car and shot away from the curb, but he couldn’t run away from his biggest problem.
Himself.
* * * * *
Morning came too early after a sleepless night. Before Mac knew it, she was staring out the window of her father’s old pickup as it wound its way along Hood Canal on Highway 101. Her father didn’t seem to be much for talking, thank God. He cranked the Mariners game and grunted a few times, but that was it. Good thing, because between tossing and turning all night and thinking of Bruiser, she couldn’t muster enough brain power to carry on the most rudimentary of conversations.
He’d kissed her. Mac brought a finger up to her lips and touched them.
She felt his lips as if they were still pressing against hers, demanding she return the passion. And she had—big-time—for a brief moment that lasted both a lifetime and not nearly long enough.
Mac blew out a breath and stared at the sparkling blue waters of Hood Canal. She needed to concentrate on yet another day of searching, not fret about Bruiser and his momentary lapse. The guy flirted at random with any woman still drawing a breath and most likely kissed every woman with the same reckless abandon. Not that she’d been breathing. One look in those stormy eyes, one flashback of him naked in that barn, and she’d lost the ability to breathe, to think, to function.
How the heck would she survive with that man crowding her thoughts every day and night? While he, oblivious, worked out in full view of her hungry eyes, wearing little more than a pair of shorts, sweat dripping off his pecs and drizzling down that trail of blond hair that ran under his waistband.
Oh, lord. She bit back a moan and chomped down on her knuckles.
This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. She had more serious concerns than her juvenile crush on a guy who was the male equivalent of a slut. Not that she minded man-sluts. They did have their uses, but she hadn’t been with a guy for pure recreation since her college days. She almost smiled at the thought. Frat boys and pretty-boy running backs probably had a lot in common in and out of the sack.
“I feel good about this lead.”
Mac jumped, so deep in her own thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed her father had flipped off the radio. “Uh, yeah, Dad. Me too.”
Liar.
Her father swore every lead would be the one. She couldn’t decide if he earned points for being positive or being in denial. She turned in the seat to face him and banished Bruiser from her mind. Well, she at least pushed him out of the way a little.
“We’ll find the clue we need this time. I can feel it.” Dad had felt every one of those clues.
Mac wanted to talk about something else. Like the future, her plans, her hopes, her dreams. Her dad used to listen to her and encourage her. She missed that.
“Dad, I may not have as much time to devote to the search.” She gathered her resolve and plunged onward. “I’m going to try for the team scholarship. I want to finish my degree in horticulture.” She’d dropped out of college when Will disappeared. “I only have a few years left, and the scholarship includes an internship with the team.”
Instead of being happy for her, Craig’s mouth turned down in a scowl. “How are you going to work full-time, go to school, and help me find Will?”
Mac sighed, knowing this had been coming. “Dad, I really need to do this and do it now. Working for the Steelheads is my dream job. The current horticulturist retires in the next few years. I need to get my degree, need to prove my worth because I want that job.”
Her father didn’t look one damn bit convinced. “So you’re planning to abandon your brother?”
“Dad, it’s not like that. I can’t live the rest of my life in limbo. We may never find out what happened to Will. Besides, I’m not abandoning you. I’ll still help out. I’m as committed to seeing this through as you are.”
Craig ground his jaws together and stared straight ahead. “I know the answer is right around the corner, just out of reach, if we could only get that least piece of the puzzle.” With those words, her father was off and running. He forgot about Mac in his obsessive quest for the truth. Starting with the day Will disappeared, Craig went through everything they knew, step by step, detail by detail, even though Mac had heard it all a hundred times before. Hell, she’d dissected every aspect of Will’s disappearance herself.
As her father ticked off the facts, he sucked her into that all-too-familiar vortex. Her mind fixated on solving the puzzle. They discussed each tip, turning it every which way, hoping to find that one clue that’d so far eluded them. They were like crackheads needing their next fix. As soon as Mac tried to break free and get a life, some new information would surface and drag both of them back down.
Two facts they both agreed on: Will was dead, and his widow knew what had happened to him. Mac knew it. Her father knew it. And so did the investigators. They had no body, no evidence, but plenty of motive. At least Mac and her dad thought it was motive—a business missing large sums of money, a wife who happened to be the bookkeeper, and an affair with Will’s best friend. The entire sordid mess had guilty written all over it.
Craig pulled off the pavement onto a seldom-traveled dirt logging road. The truck bounced along as Mac’s stomach clenched with apprehension. She knew this road, and she hated this place. Firs and hemlocks crowded both sides of the truck, blocking out the sky and what little light there happened to be on this dreary day. A branch scraped the side of the door, making an eerie screech.
No one could hear a person scream in a remote place like this.
“Dad, why are driving down this road again?” Mac swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to the metallic taste in her mouth. “I thought we were going to Port Townsend.”
“I just want to take one more look around.” Her father’s determined expression resigned Mac to their side trip, as much as she dreaded their destination. She gripped the armrests, digging her still-painted fingernails into the cracked vinyl. “We’ve looked a hundred times. So have the cops. We didn’t miss anything.”
“Please. Since we’re in the area, let’s check it out.” Her father smiled his sad smile that made her heart bleed for him. What she would give to see a real smile on his face once again, hear his hearty laugh, and listen to his teasing when she lost yet another poker round to him and her brothers. Card games were not her forte.
Craig pulled his truck off the logging road into a small clearing. Moss hung from huge cedars and hemlock trees. A slight breeze ruffled the boughs. The sound should’ve been comforting, but it wasn’t. Not in this place—the very place hikers found Will’s truck three years ago almost to the day, three months after he went missing.
Mac sighed, feeling like shit for being such a selfish bitch. She knew why this area drew her father back time and again. It was the only connection they had to Will’s disappearance. At least, the only one they could explore. Sonja had never let them back in the house after Will disappeared.
Mac watched as her father wandered around the clearing then disappeared down the same trail they’d walked dozens of times before. With a heavy sigh, she got out of the truck and poked around the area. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing had changed except the grass was taller and the blackberry vines weaved their thorny arms into the clearing, claiming more and more territory as their own.
“Mac! Mac!” Her father’s urgent, frantic tone slammed into her.
Mac’s head jerked up. She spun in the direction of her father’s voice and broke into a run, crashing through the woods. Tree limbs slapped her face as her feet hit the narrow trail. Her heart pounded in her ears at the frantic sound of her father’s voice. Lord, she wished she’d learned to shoot a gun. She’d carry it on these trips. She slid to a stop, her chest heaving.
Her father stood several feet ahead, pointing at the ground, his face chalky white.
“Dad, you scared the crap out of me. I thought you were in danger or something.”
Craig ignored her alarm, his entire attention focused on a small pile of garbage on the ground. “Look at this.” Agitated, his whole body vibrated.
She bent down to get a closer look but saw nothing but a couple plastic garbage bags, empty tin cans, discarded junk mail, and a broken child’s toy.
“Don’t touch it. It’s evidence.”
“Dad, it’s nothing. Someone dumped their trash here. Happens all the time in the woods, unfortunately.” Mac stood up and shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. Let’s get back in the truck. It’s going to rain.” She started down the path, then half turned and waited for her father. He stared at the pile of garbage as if willing it to turn into the clue he so desperately sought.
But it wasn’t a clue, and no amount of wishing could transform it into something it wasn’t.
Chapter 8—Double Date
Bruiser cast his line and leaned back in the seat of Brett’s fishing boat, a twenty-five-foot C-Dory TomCat built locally in Ferndale. The two friends often sat for hours on the lake or Puget Sound in this boat, rain or shine, sometimes talking, sometimes not, and often not catching a thing. Regardless, Bruiser enjoyed it.
Eighty-degree warmth soaked into his T-shirt as rays of sun bounced off Lake Washington like a million tiny diamonds riding the waves of the large freshwater lake.
“So, how’d it go with Mac the other night?” Brett never took his eyes off the end of his pole, waiting for that telltale tug that announced a fish on the line.
Bruiser gave a guilty start and sat up straight. He forced his face into what he hoped was his best innocent expression, even as he felt his ears getting hot. “Fine. You know Mac.”
“Yeah, but the guys said she didn’t look like Mac, that she looked damn hot.”
“I guess.” Bruiser shrugged one shoulder, even as he recalled how hot Mac had looked. Really fucking hot. Throw-her-on-the-bed-and-bang-her-brains-out hot. He bet the sassy blonde would be one wild lady in bed. Those mental pictures were worth a million words. Oh, yeah, baby, give it to me like only you can.
“Did you get a pic?”
Bruiser jumped, almost dropping his pole. “Uh, yeah. On my cell.” Like he hadn’t looked at it dozens of times since last Saturday night. Putting his pole in the rod holder, he fished his phone out of his pocket, flipped to the photo, and handed it to Brett.
“Wow. That’s Mac?” The asshole practically salivated as he stared at the picture.
Bruiser’s stomach clenched with something that felt like jealousy. “Yeah, that’s her.”
“Damn.”
Bruiser snatched the phone from him. When Brett cast a strange look his way, Bruiser fought to come up with a plausible explanation. “Hey, she’s like my sister, and you’re drooling all over her.”
Liar.
He’d sure as hell not treated her like a sister Saturday night. And this morning she’d been spreading bark near the practice field and he’d stopped to admire her fine ass in those tight Wranglers. Since when did he lust over a woman in Wranglers of all things?
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect her.” Brett had the common decency to appear embarrassed, which made Bruiser an even bigger jerk. “You always get the girls.”
Bruiser shrugged. “Not Mac, we’re not like that.” Oh, but part of him wanted to be like that in so many dishonorable ways.
“I’d love to go out with her. I’m every woman’s second choice, you know? Sometimes it gets damn old being number two all the time, being the backup, even when it comes to women.”
“I know, it sucks.” Bruiser shot a wry smile at his buddy.
“What would you know about being number two? I bet you’ve never taken a back seat in any situation. Top draft pick. Starter from the beginning. All the ladies want you.”
Bruiser studied his pole and wondered how to rouse Brett from his pity party. Rarely did Brett complain about his position, so Bruiser figured he deserved a little wallowing once in a while. “I was always second choice, up until I turned thirteen.”
Brett met his gaze, honestly surprised. “You? Second to who? I find that hard to swallow.”
Hesitating, Bruiser weighed his options. He never talked about his past, even with his ex-wife, and his family avoided any mention as if broaching the subject would be enough to detonate a nuclear bomb and lay waste to the planet. So no one knew. The press never unearthed it thanks to an incredibly good agent with scary-good spin doctors.
Brett waited patiently. His friend had never once tried to force information, content to let Bruiser talk or not talk. Yet today, he wanted to tell Brett about the most painful part of his past. After all, he’d heard a few of Brett’s stories.
Releasing his held breath, Bruiser fingered his pole. “I had a twin brother.”
Brett sat back as if hit by a strong right hook. His mouth dropped open in shock. For a moment, he couldn’t seem to find the words. “You had a twin?”
“Yeah. Brice. He was everything I wasn’t. Or wasn’t at the time.” It felt better to talk than he’d expected. “We were both athletic, but he was better. I was a good student; he was a perfect student. I had a lot of friends, but everyone wanted to be his best friend. My parents favored Brice, especially my father, a two-bit movie producer who craved fame. My sister and I were afterthoughts, sometimes annoyances. You see, Brice was going places, and they spent all their time grooming him to go those places.”
“Like the Kennedys groomed their oldest son, Joe, to be president?” Brett loved history, so it figured he’d make that comparison.
“Yeah, until he died.” Bruiser watched Brett digest that bit of information.
Draw Play: The Originals (Seattle Steelheads Book 4) Page 8