by Mia Malone
Brody
He didn’t yell at his son because he suspected to boy had already gotten yelled at by his ex-wife and could do with some slack.
“She gone?” he asked when they’d worked in silence for a while.
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“I’m good.” Jag pressed his lips together in a way that didn’t look happy, and added tersely, “Or I will be anyway.”
“She tried to hit you up for money?”
“Yup.”
“You didn’t give her any.”
“No. She wasn’t too happy about that, which quickly reminded me of why I left, and how I never should have married her. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
“If you’re anything like the moron you look like, I know exactly what you were thinking,” Brody murmured.
“What?”
“My brother has always been a boob man. Your ex is a hard-faced bitch, but even I can see that she has a nice set of...”
Brody figured no further words were necessary but still made a gesture in front of his chest, which made Jag bark out surprised laughter.
“Jesus, Dad. How old are you again?”
“Fifty-two,” Brody calmly informed his son of something Jag knew and got a snort of laughter in return.
They worked in silence for a while again, and then Jag turned.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. I'm glad I decided to come here.”
Marie
I walked into the Café, sweaty and happy. Shelly had been livid, and her anger had fueled our energy into the Herculean effort of running three miles. It hadn’t been fast, but we hadn’t stopped, and the last mile had been really, really slow but it had still been jogging. Sort of.
My happiness was not because of Shelly’s anger, of course. I had cursed with her, albeit breathlessly and hoarsely, when she shared that some city developer was sniffing around, looking for property to convert into what he labeled a “boutique hotel.” We both agreed that a hotel of the boutique variety was not what Bakersville needed, although if someone made an effort to upgrade the dingy motel, no one would object.
Shelly shared that the – according to her – smarmy man had already been to the motel to look it over and that he'd made an offer. Mrs. Peters, the elderly owner, had however not been impressed with his plans which were to demo the whole thing and build something more prominent.
The anger and profanities came partly from the fact that the developer had wanted to buy Shelly’s home, though. And mostly since her husband had told him they’d think about it.
The massive and absolutely gorgeous house had been in Shelly’s family for generations, and according to family lore, the original Baker of Bakersville had given his youngest daughter the land in dowry when she married, and the Martin-family had lived there since then. Dottie and Jools were younger than Shelly’s father, so they’d grown up in the house but moved out when they started building lives of their own.
Since Shelly was so upset with her husband, who had backtracked immediately and told the developer that they weren't interested, I didn't share with her that I'd gotten a very flattering request to do a series of postcards from a high-end hotel down the coast. Someone from the hotel had apparently had lunch at the Café, seen my ink drawings, talked to the Misses Clarke and sent me an email.
They wanted, “Something with black ink and color. Watercolor maybe?” I’d replied that I could do a few mockups, and we’d take it from there.
I told Brody about the email less than a second after walking through the door, though, and I did this in a voice loud enough to wake the dead.
Since his mother and brother were there, and Brody was busy plating food, they were a lot more exuberant than him, but I got a smile and, “Fucking fantastic, babe. Give me a sec.”
I gave him a sec, after which I got Brody’s version of exuberant, which was him pulling me out through the back door and kissing me with lots and lots of tongue.
“I should sell more postcards,” I mumbled when he pulled back, and I got his crooked smile. Then I shared what Shelly's goddamned husband had said, how pissed she was, and added, “I wonder if that name isn't jinxed?”
“What?” he chuckled.
“I have yet to meet a man called Mark who isn’t sleazy.”
“Babe,” he snorted. “You think Mark Jones is sleazy?”
Oh, crap. Why had I blurted that out?
“Yes,” I said slowly. “He's... I don't know. I like him, but there's something about his eyes. And he uses too much product on his hair.”
“Any product on a guy's head is too much,” Brody agreed. “Mark isn't a bad man, babe. He does most of the sales for the company, and he's good at it.”
“I know.”
“Dad,” Jag shouted. “Some fucking help in here perhaps?”
Brody grunted something unintelligible which sounded as if he thought about decorating the inside of Jag’s throat with a bouquet of parsley, although that could have been my interpretation.
“We’ll talk more when you come home,” I said as we walked back inside.
“Nope.”
I stopped and stared at him.
“What?”
“We’re playing poker tonight.”
Oh. I’d put that on my bucket list and had thought about asking Jag or Jools to teach me.
“I thought Jag might –”
“Not the kind of poker we’ll be playing,” Brody said and grinned as he washed his hands.
Jag snorted out laughter, but I just blinked stupidly.
I had always just assumed poker was poker so why –
“Oh,” Dottie squealed as she suddenly popped up behind the counter, and pointed at Brody. “You’re playing strip-poker? Your dad and I used to do that all the time.”
It felt as if the whole café stopped breathing, and Patrick pushed out a puff of air. Brody had crouched down to reach for something at the back of the fridge, but I saw his head fall forward into his chest and he leaned heavily on the shelf in front of him.
“How nice,” I said inanely when no one uttered a single word.
“It’s so much fun!” Dottie chirped happily. “We used to –”
She was cut off by another rasping sound from Pat, and a firm, “Mom,” from Brody. I looked at Dorothea Baker, closing in on eighty but with eyes that were sharp and filled with laughter.
She knew exactly what saying what she’d just said did to her sons.
“I bet I’ll enjoy it,” I said and grinned at her.
Chapter Seventeen
Another prodigal son
Marie
We played strip poker, and I enjoyed it, although I mostly enjoyed it because I turned out to be what Brody called, “Fucking unnaturally lucky.”
He was in his briefs, I’d only removed my socks, and I couldn’t stop laughing.
“Are you cheating?” I asked smugly.
“If I were cheating, you'd wear a lot less.”
“I would,” I agreed.
Watching him leisurely take one piece off at the time until he was almost naked in front of me had created a slow burn that made tingles move over my body and my pulse beat heavily. I’d seen him naked before, so I knew he was gorgeous, but watching him slowly pull each garment off while I was still fully clothed seemed to push the point home. He wasn't a young man anymore and not built like a bodybuilder with huge bulging muscles, but running almost every day and walking Boone had given him a lean, fit body. And then there was his chest, which really had been the first thing about him that I’d noticed.
Time to move on from playing poker, I decided. One more win for me and then he’d be completely naked, which meant I’d won in more ways than one.
“So, yeah. I have this,” I said and showed him my cards. “Good, yes?”
I tried hard to look innocent when I put my two pairs down and poked the aces forward
.
“Babe,” he said and moved his hand over his flat belly and down to the top of his briefs. Then he wiggled his brows and said calmly, “Except, now I have this.”
He slowly put his own hand down, and I giggled when I saw the three nines.
“Your turn,” Brody said with a smirk.
I was about to pull off my loose tee but changed my mind and slid the arms inside to remove my bra instead. He grinned at me and started shuffling the deck. I watched his strong hands and wanted them on me, and the bulge I his briefs in me. One more round, I thought.
My pants and tee later, we were staring at the cards on the floor between us.
“What are the odds?” Brody muttered, and he had a very valid point.
We had one pair each, and both of our pairs were fours.
“Um,” I said. “I guess we both lost?”
“We both won,” he corrected me and got up, ordering, “Come here.”
Standing there in the middle of his living room wearing only my panties would have embarrassed me just a few months earlier, but the way his eyes darkened as they slid over me sent a shiver down my spine. I felt just as sexy as his eyes communicated that he thought I was. Without a word, I pushed my panties down, and let them fall to the floor. He did the same with his briefs, and for a beat we just stood there, looking at each other.
Then he took a step forward and slid his hands up my sides until they cupped my breasts. When his mouth moved over my nipple, I tilted my head back and smiled.
“What do you want, baby?” he murmured.
“Anything,” I said. “I promised you anything.”
His mouth was on mine in a flash, and then I was backed into the wall, hoisted up, and he slid inside in one long thrust.
“Shit, baby. Condom.”
“Got a surprise for you,” I murmured against his neck and wrapped my legs around his waist to stop him from pulling back. “No need for it anymore.”
He pushed all the way inside and groaned.
“Anything, Brody,” I whispered. “Fuck me any way you want.”
I knew I'd like whatever he gave me, so that was a safe plea. He ground his hips against me but then he started bucking his hips, hard and fast. It built in me, and I moaned into his mouth as we kissed.
“Baby,” he ground out against my shoulder. “Jesus, I can’t –”
It hit me from nowhere, and I pressed my mouth against the side of his neck and let the pleasure rush over me. He kept pounding, but his movements were jerky, and then he tilted his head back and planted himself deep. Another wave hit me when I watched his face harden with pleasure as he emptied himself inside me, groaning softly.
We remained against the wall as we came down, and then he exhaled shakily.
“That went a whole lot faster than I wanted,” he murmured against my lips. “I had other things planned.”
Planned? He planned in advance what we were going to do? As in; standing in the Café, cooking food for his customers, thinking about us having sex in specific ways?
“You plan our sexathlons?” I blurted out.
He snorted out laughter and raised his head to look into my eyes, and my insides softened. He looked relaxed and happy.
“All I think of, babe,” he murmured. “Feel like a goddamn teenager, fighting a hard-on in the middle of the goddamned day.”
When I giggled, he slowly pulled out and lowered me to the floor.
“It’s not late so we have time for whatever you planned,” I said as we walked toward the bathroom, but asked curiously, “Which is what, exactly?”
“Figured you haven’t had anyone playing with your butt,” he said calmly, and I stopped moving.
My butt? My butt... or my butt?
“Yeah,” he said with a grin, pushing me toward the bathroom. “Go get cleaned up and I’ll open a bottle of wine. Then we’ll get to that.”
Oh, God.
Brody
“Can we swing it?” Brody asked and looked at his brother and cousin. “Mrs. Peters is ready to sell, and it's a wad of cash, but it would be good for the town.”
“I have some saved up,” Pat murmured. “Could put a mortgage on the bar.”
“We have most of our money tied up in the business, and I can't pull it out because Mark does not want to do this,” Shelly said. “Says it's risky and could hurt what we've built.” She sighed and added, “He's right goddamn it. But for this... I'll talk to the bank. They'll let me have it with the house as security.”
Brody froze and turned toward Shelly. She loved that house more than anything.
“Shell –”
“I will,” she insisted. “It would only be for a small part of what the house is worth, and we’re good. The business is good. We can afford it.”
“Mark won’t like it.”
“Mark doesn’t own the house.”
“Honey, don’t push something like this between you, he’ll –”
“Mark will come around,” she said. “He’s always against major changes, but he’ll be fine once we’re up and running.”
“Okay,” Brody said, thinking that it was their deal and she knew her husband of more than twenty years better than anyone. “It'll empty my fucking retirement fund, but let's do it.”
They walked inside, but it only took five minutes to shatter their plans to take the Motel off Mrs. Peters’ hands and renovate it into something which would not be a new, spiffy boutique hotel.
“You sold it?”
“Yes,” she said and hastened to add, “Not to that developer. I didn't like him.”
“Who bought it?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s some sort of company.”
Some sort of company?
Brody looked at the gray-haired woman and felt like roaring at her that it could be a company the developer had started, just to buy the property.
“Give me the details,” Shelly said. “I’ll check it out.”
Mrs. Peter handed her a piece of paper and Shelly tucked it away without even looking at it.
“The lawyer was very nice. He told me they were planning to do something that would have a small-town ambiance. Promised they wouldn't do anything that would look out of place.”
That was nice, but it was just words which didn't mean shit when push came to shove, and Brody sighed. It wasn't that he didn't want the town to change. Upgrading the motel would be good for the people in Bakersville because more customers meant more jobs, and that was always needed. What the town didn't need was to become one of the many other destroyed places where the locals couldn't afford to keep homes which had been in their families for generations, and had to resort to living inland, watching their legacy become refurbished vacation houses standing empty for large parts of the year.
“It’ll be okay, Mrs. P,” Pat said smoothly to the woman now wringing her hands behind the worn-down reception desk. “We’ll check it out. There’s probably nothing to worry about.”
“You should talk to the smarmy developer, Pat,” Mrs. Peters said. “Mark Kingsy. Sounds like a name he invented for himself.”
“Don't wanna talk to that dude,” Brody grunted and wondered if Marie hadn't been right after all.
Perhaps all Marks were sleazy.
“Someone should. He talked about developing the area around your house, Shelly. Said he'd build condos.”
“Fuck no,” Shelly said instantly, and firmly. “God, I’m sorry about the language, Mrs. P. We’ll look into that too.”
“He said it would be good for the town, but I think it would look strange with a complex out there.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick said. “Probably won’t come to anything.”
Then he shifted the topic to talk about how the walking paths out by the old Martin house had to be cleared, and they made some more small talk until the older woman had relaxed and was smiling again.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Shelly rei
terated as they walked toward the town center.
“Let me know if you hit a dead end,” Pat murmured. “I'll ask Raz to look into it.”
“You talked to him?” Brody asked.
“Yeah. He said the old man could go fuck himself.”
“He’s right about that.”
“Gabriel’s dad has been sober a while,” Shelly said. “Perhaps it’s time to –”
“No,” Brody cut in. “Shell, no offense, but you don’t know the whole story. What Raz went through growing up with that asshole isn’t shit you should know about either, so you’ll have to take our word for it when we say it was bad. And forgiving Arnie Razinsky is not something either of us will do anytime soon.”
“It was that bad?”
Brody stopped and stared at his cousin. She was two years younger than him, which meant the same age as Patrick and Raz. She’d also grown up in Bakersville, so she’d know it was bad unless she’d lived in an alternate reality all these years.
“Yes, it was that fucking bad,” Pat informed her patiently. “You must have seen Arnie staggering around. Didn’t you ever wonder why Raz slept more at our house than with his dad? Why he had so many fucking bruises all the time?”
“I thought –” Shelly sighed and nodded. “Yes. I guess I always knew it was bad. We weren’t friends, not like you guys, and I didn’t hang with your crowd. But I knew.”
“Yeah,” Brody said. “So, honey, when Arnie has had a come to Jesus moment and managed to stay sober for eight months, then Raz still isn't going to jump on the bandwagon of fucking family bliss.” He felt his mouth twitch in a grin that was not in any way humorous, and added, “I'd kick his ass back to Boston if he did.”
They stopped outside the Café, and he heard Patrick snort out a chuckle.
“Like you could.”
“Probably not,” Brody agreed. “I’d get you to do it.”
That got a smirk from his brother, but Brody knew that Pat had been right. He was no weakling, but there was no way he could kick Gabriel, Raz, Razinsky into doing anything. Ex-army. Ex secret goddamned service. Current owner of a successful private investigator and bodyguard and god only knew what firm. Patrick had always been the strongest of the three, though, and the best fighter, so Brody might not win a fight with Raz but Pat would. Probably.