Busted (Barnes Brothers #3)

by Shiloh Walker

  She felt it, too.

  But his son was leaning against him, still shaking, still crying, although he tried so hard not to. His fingers were kneading into Trey’s legs in the way he always did when he was the most upset, like he just couldn’t get enough physical contact.

  The doctors had said it probably had something to do with a need for the stimuli. Clayton had spent weeks on a vent, and then the first eight months of his life in and out of the hospital. He’d made strides like whoa and damn as he caught up, but he’d missed out on so many things that a young baby was supposed to have. Instead of being hugged and held by his parents at any given time, getting that vital physical contact, he’d been under lights, hooked up to tubes and wires, while Trey stood at his side, holding his little hand and talking to him. Talking, instead of holding, stroking a hand instead of rocking.

  And now his son needed him again.

  “Not a good time, I guess,” he said gruffly. Ducking his head, he scooped Clayton up and Clayton’s arms came around his neck, clutching tight. “Man’s had a rough day. I’ll just . . . never mind. Good luck at your new library, Ms. Bliss.”

  He nodded at her, and as he walked away he focused on the soft, shaky breaths of his son.

  “I don’t want her to go,” Clayton whispered.

  “Yeah.” Trey hugged him tighter. “I kinda don’t want her to either.”

  Chapter Five

  Try to relax . . . and if you can’t relax, have a fucking drink—then relax.

  The handwritten note left in his room made Trey smirk. Relax?

  His agent knew him.

  He ought to—he’d been working with him for coming up on five years now.

  Which meant Reuben Mancusi ought to understand that one thing Trey wasn’t going to be doing was relaxing. Not while he was here in Trenton, New Jersey—at a writer’s conference, fuck him—and not while his son was in Orlando, oh, hey what was it? Over a thousand miles away. If he could get on a flight, in an emergency, he could be there in a few hours, but . . .

  “You’re going to make yourself sick thinking like that.” He shook his head, then read the note over again, and then crumpled it up, shot it off to the side. It went straight into the trash can.

  He barely noticed, too busy studying everything in the basket.

  It was, without a doubt, customized just for him. Or the him he’d once been. Some of those interviews he’d done a lifetime ago had loved to ask questions like . . . favorite drink, favorite book to read . . .

  Glenlivet had been the one hard and fast answer.

  The book had almost always changed, because books changed with whatever mood he was in.

  Hardly anybody knew that he’d stopped drinking. He had to admit, he was mildly surprised there wasn’t any Valium in there, though. Or maybe he just hadn’t looked hard enough.

  Eying the bottle of Glenlivet, he pulled it out, turned it to the side and watched as the light glinted off green glass. Thoughtfully, he carried it with him as he hunted down a glass.

  Curious, he cracked the foil, splashed some into a glass—

  And the smell of it turned his stomach. The sense of smell was a powerful thing. For the first couple of years, even the smell of whiskey had been enough to send his thoughts flying back to the hospital, where he was flat on his back, while that pain clawed his brain matter out and then he slowly remembered, all over again, that he’d just lost his wife—that he’d almost lost his son. Those first few years, he’d almost lost himself.

  He wasn’t there anymore, but the smell of alcohol was still enough to turn his stomach.

  He pushed the glass back and turned away.

  So maybe he wouldn’t have a drink, but he would try to relax, lie down for a little while. He was exhausted. He’d been up early and hadn’t slept much the night before. Too busy thinking about Clayton’s face after he’d put him on the plane with his father yesterday.

  Dawn had only been a thought when he gave up trying to sleep and it was coming up on six now. At six thirty, he was supposed to be downstairs.

  For tonight, at least, he had plans.

  His old friend Max was waiting for him.

  Max was the one who’d nudged his agent into calling Trey, and Max was the one who’d called him every few days, all but holding his hand as he got ready for this.

  He was doing a speech for a group of librarians and he was speaking on a couple of panels. Then there was a separate signing. All in all, it would take up maybe eight hours of his time.

  He could do that, right?

  The annual conference in Trenton was a low-key one, a mix of both readers and writers, but it wasn’t anything that had people lining up for days.

  He could do this.

  Maybe.

  Abruptly, he felt a keen longing for that whiskey and he wondered just how sick he’d get if he gave it a shot. But he wasn’t about to tempt fate.

  The absolute last thing he needed was to end up puking his guts up.

  Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to just empty his head. That worked for all of fifteen seconds. He started going through the talk he had to do instead and was 99.8 percent certain he was going to sound like a doofus. Maybe he should rewrite—

  His phone started to buzz.

  It wasn’t a call, though.

  As much as he sometimes hated technology, this was one of those times when he loved it.

  Within seconds, he found himself staring at Clayton Braxton Barnes. Clayton was the one bright spot in the time that signified a hell for Trey, but that bright spot was all he needed to push the shadows back.

  That bright spot was marred, in a way. Lately Clayton was all caught up in one idea. Can we maybe find Miss Ressa and ask her to my party?

  As much as he’d been tempted, Trey had pulled the distraction and hedging game that parents seemed to learn pretty much at the birth of the very first child. It wasn’t wise, he’d already figured out.

  He didn’t know where she worked or where she lived, and it was better that Clayton just let her go.

  Now, as Clayton grinned at him from the screen of his phone, Trey found himself amazed all over again at how much they looked alike. From the blue eyes to the shape of his nose and mouth and his ears. The only thing that wasn’t his was that mop of messy blond curls. Those came from his mother.

  “Hey there, man,” he said as Clay grinned, displaying the two teeth he’d proudly lost within two weeks of each other.

  “We went to Disney World!”

  “Did you?” At the obvious happiness on his son’s face, tension drained away—for real this time—and he rolled over onto his stomach. With the phone on the bed in front of him, he focused on Clayton.

  For the few minutes he was in here, talking to his son, he could pretend they were both back in Norfolk and Clayton was only a few miles away, instead of that gut-twisting one thousand.

  “I saw Darth Vader.” Clayton’s big blue eyes focused on the monitor, wide and avid, as he waited for his father’s response.

  “Did you kick his butt?”

  Clay cackled and proceeded to tell Trey about his trip to Disney. In great detail. And Trey listened, hanging on to every word.

  When the call ended, he flopped back onto his back.

  Just a few more days and he’d be back in his house. Back with his son.

  And he knew, down in some part of his soul that he was still hobbling along. Brooding, he thought about the notebook he carried with him, with the little list—and the item at the end. Start living . . .

  A pair of wide, dark eyes swam through his memory and he blew out a breath.

  Start living.

  How the hell was he supposed to do that when the one woman he’d actually wanted to take a chance on was probably the woman he most needed to stay away from?

  Ressa could maybe be good for him—she could definitely be good for Clayton. But on the flipside, all it would take is for things to not work out and Clay would be heartbroken.

 
You’re a fucking coward, Trey.

  The problem was, the one time he’d wanted to really reach out and maybe try to live again . . . well, life had just gotten in the way.

  Or maybe that was just an excuse.

  * * *

  “My registration confirmation is right here.”

  Ressa Bliss put the hard copy down in front of the volunteer, tried to remind herself how many times she’d been the one sitting on the other side of the desk, and how unpleasant it was when people started snapping at her over issues that were out of her control.

  Frankly, it sucked.

  But this was ridiculous. She’d paid to attend this conference and she’d damn well attend.

  “Ma’am. You’re not registered,” the volunteer said, not even pretending to be polite. “I’ve checked. You’re not in the system.”

  “Then there is an error in the system, because I have my confirmation. I also have proof of payment.” She pulled up the receipt in her e-mail and showed it to the woman—her name tag read Beth.

  Beth didn’t even give it a cursory glance. “I can only go by what the system says. Now, if you’ll step aside, I have other people to get checked in.”

  “I’ll step aside when you find me somebody who can help straighten this out. I’m moderating several panels and helping with two booths. I’m registered. People are expecting me to be here and I’m going to be here.” She folded her arms across her chest and met Beth’s glare with one of her own.

  She was so not in the mood to be dismissed.

  “Look, sister—”

  “Sister? Excuse me?” Ressa demanded.

  “Hi.”

  Before Ressa could explode, a new woman approached, a cool, but polite look on her face. She had a volunteer badge on—her name was Lynda and her plump face had that tired but friendly look to it—the kind that said she could do this all night if she had to.

  As Lynda looked between them, Ressa sucked back her temper and forced herself to level out.

  “Is there something I can help with, ma’am?” Lynda asked.

  “Yes.” Her professional, polite smile firmly in place, Ressa handed over her registration confirmation. “I signed up not long after the event opened to registrations, but I’m not showing up as registered. Can you help me out? I’m moderating two panels, helping out with a couple and volunteering with several booths.”

  “Well. That is a problem.” Lynda’s smile twisted into a grimace. “Give me a minute . . . I’ll get you sorted out and get you a name tag and everything.”

  “Lynda, she’s not in the system—”

  “I’ll handle it, Beth.” Lynda gave the other woman a polite smile, but it somehow managed to speak volumes. Then she looked over at Ressa. “I know your name. Actually, I was told to keep an eye out for you—we’re short two people on the lit track and we need a sub. You were suggested by one of the panelists . . . Max Hartfield?”

  “Max?” She smiled, although inwardly, she wanted to curl up into a ball and beg for mercy. She was going to throttle him.

  “Yes.” Lynda gave her a quick and ready grin. “He told me to tell you that he’d buy you a drink if you said yes and saved him.”

  Ressa laughed. “Fine. Who do I need to talk to? I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do—if it doesn’t conflict with anything else.”

  “Bobby Spears handles the lit track—trust me, he’ll make it all work out.” Lynda gave her another grin. “Bobby is new to the event this year, but so far, it looks like he can make just about anything happen.”

  Well, so much for talking Max into wings and beer at some dive. She’d kind of been looking forward to something easy and fast.

  “That sounds good.”

  “Come on.” Lynda gestured to the side. “Let’s move down here and I’ll start getting this straightened out.”

  Her phone started to ring as she worked her way in and out of the throngs of people, trying to get to the end of the table. Recognizing the ring tone, she answered, keeping her voice low, “What in the hell is the matter with some people?”

  “Ah . . . something in the water? Rabies? Solar radiation?” Farrah sounded way too cheerful in Ressa’s opinion, but Ressa had been up since before four that morning. She was sleep deprived, caffeine deprived, and now, she was pissed off to boot, but if she really unloaded, she’d end up looking like an ass.

  Farrah’s prompt response made her laugh, though, and that helped undo some of the knots in her neck.

  “What’s wrong, sugar?” Farrah asked. “Was that drive that much of a pain in the ass?”

  “Flying in would be just as awful.” Getting to Trenton from any of the airports that were remotely close was a nightmare. “But no, it wasn’t the drive. I’ll explain later. When I’m in my room, with a big ol’ glass of wine.”

  “Please don’t tell me they lost your hotel reservation again.”

  “No.” Ressa mentally said a prayer of thanks over that. “Not much better, though. There was a system glitch or something—my event registration disappeared. They’re working on it.”

  “Well, that’s fixable . . . I was worried you’d already met him and that he was a total dick.”

  “No.” Ressa laughed softly, not bothering to ask which him Farrah was asking about. There could be only one, after all.

  The him was the same him they’d tried to get into the library a hundred times. He lived in Norfolk, he was local, he was a huge name and from everything they’d been able to tell online, he was personable. At least, when anybody could get him to talk. Over the past few years, he’d gone into a cave so deep, nobody seemed to be able to pull him out.

  Farrah probably knew more about him—she stalked the man, and if life was fair, she would have been here at the writers’ conference, but it just went out six weeks ago that he was attending and Farrah needed her vacation time for her upcoming wedding.

  So Ressa was here instead, and if she went by what Farrah said, she’d just look for the hawt-est guy around.

  An image flashed through her mind. Overlong hair, falling into a lean, almost too lean, face. Blue green eyes. A mouth too perfect to be real.

  The way he’d looked lingeringly at her that last time.

  It had been two months since she’d seen him.

  Two months, and she still dreamed about a man whose name she would never know.

  And then there was Clayton, that little darling. She missed him in a way that didn’t really make sense.

  “Hey . . . you’re drifting on me again,” Farrah said, pulling her back down to planet earth.

  “Sorry.” Ressa focused back on the matter at hand. She’d promised her friend she’d pin down the elusive Trey Barnes for a few minutes.

  He’d had a short visit with a local writers’ group back in Norfolk just three weeks ago, so apparently he was rejoining the writing world.

  Now she just needed to try and talk him into coming to the Norfolk library. Shouldn’t be too hard.

  In theory.

  She’d give it a shot. He had to leave the house occasionally, and Ressa had been told more than once she could charm a snake when she set her mind to it.

  A too-rigid lit writer should be a piece of cake compared to some of the people she’d dealt with.

  “I told you I’d try,” she told Farrah, watching as Lynda snagged a bag and then an envelope, pausing to speak with somebody sitting at the table piled with electronics.

  “I wish you could have lucked out and gotten picked for his panel. I mean, you know Max and he suggests you all the time,” Farrah said.

  A little bell went ding in the back of her mind. Max suggested you . . .

  “Ms. Bliss?”

  “I need a minute, Farrah,” she said, moving toward Lynda.

  “I apologize for this mess, and for the inconvenience,” Lynda said, smiling. “I’ve got you all set. I’ll look into what happened with your registration, but I can’t guarantee I’ll find any answers. Sometimes the system just mess
es with us. I will report it, though.”

  “As long as you’ve gotten me taken care of, I don’t care. I really appreciate your help.” She accepted the bag, the envelope. “By any chance, do you know which panels they want me to help out with?”

  “No.” Lynda grimaced. “I’ll be honest, I’m surprised I even remembered to pass the message on—they said they’d leave a message with the concierge so you’ll probably have a voicemail or something, too. I only remembered because of your name—Bliss . . . it’s kind of pretty.”

  “Thanks.” Rissa waggled the envelope again. “For everything. I’ve got Max’s number so I’ll just call him.”

  As she started to work her way through the crowd, she put the phone back to her ear. “I’m here.”

  “All fixed?”

  “Save for the people problems,” she muttered. “It’s handled. They apparently want me to help moderate two more panels—don’t know which ones—I’m going to be scrambling. But I’m a gofer for one of the panels he’s on, so if nothing else, I’ll sneak in a few minutes then.” Up ahead, she spied the main elevator bank and she could have sworn her entire body breathed a sigh of thanksgiving.

  “And that one is early tomorrow, right? Probably the best time to talk to him, before he gets pestered too much,” Farrah said.

  In the background, Ressa heard the deep voice of Farrah’s fiancé, Antoine. “Baby, let her check into her room, at least,” he said.

  Ressa grinned as Farrah said, “Hush. I’m doing my job.”

  “Yes,” Ressa said before Farrah could say anything else. She wedged herself—and her suitcase—in line. “I should have a chance tomorrow. Everybody, including the gofers, are supposed to meet up about fifteen minutes before the panel starts. I won’t have much time to go over anything, but I’ll put on the charm and ask him if I can buy him a drink.”

  “You’ll flirt, you mean.”

  “Sure.” Ressa was a natural born flirt and was perfectly fine with it. “If that’s the card to play. Now can I get to my room? I’m exhausted and my feet are killing me. I want to lay down and crash for a little while.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m sorry,” Farrah said, the switch from business to best friend flawless. “You do that. Let me know how things go tomorrow, though. And I expect pictures.”