Never Been Good

by Christi Barth

  “You going to psychoanalyze me?”

  Primly, she folded her hands in her lap. Mostly to keep from reaching over to touch Flynn again. “If you feel bad about something, it makes you appreciate the good that much more.”

  “Honey, I feel like shit about more things than I can count. Believe you me, they’re not making me want to write poems about the beauty of a sunset.”

  “Well, that’s a shame.”

  “You said that already,” he said in a singsong voice, parroting her words back at her.

  Maybe it wasn’t the time to rant about her viewpoint on how to live life. But Sierra was so enjoying the luxury of a full-scale discussion that she couldn’t resist. “I think there are a lot of gifts that people dismiss as ordinary. Yes, a sunset—which is actually an astronomical phenomenon that should blow your mind. Breathing deeply of salt-tinged air, instead of a lungful of smog. You get used to those everyday miracles and don’t enjoy them. I think we should force ourselves to notice all the good—big and small. Feel the wonder. The joy.”

  He covered her mouth with his broad palm. It stopped her words. But his touch drummed her heart rate into rollicking gallop. “I wasn’t wild about chewing the fat about my little brother. But fighting about feelings is even worse. Can we just talk about the weather?”

  Sadly, his hand left her lips. “No.”

  “Are you sure? I have it on good authority that it’s going to storm tomorrow.”

  Omigosh, that lightness in his voice. Was the always-stoic Flynn Maguire teasing? That was just about the sexiest thing Sierra had ever heard. “What good authority?”

  “Mick’s arthritis is acting up. He ordered two beers with dinner to counter it.”

  The retired colonel had been curt when ordering, so Sierra had gone out of her way to tease him out of the mood. That’s when he’d revealed his pain. “You were listening? You didn’t join in.”

  “I’m not an orthopedist. Nothing useful to add.”

  “Conversation doesn’t have to be useful. It’s just nice to have.” Conversating with Flynn was always the best moment of her day, even if it was usually over in a matter of minutes. “Like a foot rub.”

  “Does your foot hurt a lot?”

  Sierra lifted the mostly melted bag of ice from her ankle. “Nope. The ice numbed it up.”

  “Still, you shouldn’t walk on it for a few days. Why do you ride a bike, anyway?”

  Cars—even junkers—were out of her on-the-run budget. And they required paperwork. A paper trail was exactly what Sierra was avoiding. “Bandon’s a small town. I like the exercise and being in nature.”

  “More of your appreciating every moment thing.” He said it this time without any derision. Like he’d truly heard her. Wasn’t that interesting?

  “Yes.” Because it was true. Sure, she’d like a car. Especially with all the ubiquitous Oregon rain. But biking to work wasn’t a hardship. “Oh, pull in at that mailbox on the right.”

  Flynn slammed on the brakes only twenty yards down her long dirt drive. “What is that?”

  “My house.”

  He rolled the rest of the way up to her white front door. “You can’t possibly live in that oversized closet.”

  “It’s a tiny house.”

  “No fucking kidding it’s tiny. It only has two windows and a door.”

  Along with weathered blue shingled siding. A two-shelf vegetable growing box with a little awning to protect from the relentless rain. A sunroof right over the loft with her mattress. “There’s a whole nationwide movement. Tiny houses are less than five hundred square feet. For people who want to live for themselves, rather than to accumulate things.”

  “I don’t see where you’d have room to accumulate two rolls of toilet paper.” He unbuckled her seat belt. Then, instead of going around to her door, Flynn just scooped her into his arms and pulled her across the bench seat. Sierra dropped the ice, she was so surprised.

  Surprised and then turned on. Again. Because being cradled against Flynn’s rock-hard body was a treat.

  Talk about needing to take a minute to appreciate the simple things. The heat burning through his cotton shirt. The cording of the muscles in his neck as she looped an arm around it. Every single ripple of his abs against her hip and thigh.

  Yes, Flynn was danger personified. Because he pushed every single one of her buttons. Because she could easily lose control at his touch. At even the attention and care he’d already shown her.

  Sierra knew in her bones that her ex had messed with her. Made her weak. Needy. Yearning for someone to treat her well. Make her feel special. So that now she grabbed at even the smallest of gestures and pressed them into her heart the same way she pressed flowers to keep forever.

  “Why do you live in a damn shoebox?” His breath whispered across her cheek and eyelashes. Even though it was warm, it chased shivers up Sierra’s spine.

  “One person doesn’t need much space. If this was a studio apartment in Manhattan, you’d call it both roomy and a bargain.”

  “It’s supposed to be a whole house. I call it crazy.”

  “The rent is affordable. I like being cozy.”

  The look he gave her was so close and searing, it felt like those dark blue eyes had just x-rayed her brain. “Just so you know, I don’t believe any of that. And you fought pretty damn hard about letting me drive you home. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hiding something.”

  How did he know? Then Sierra remembered what one of her foster parents had told her. A football coach, he’d always spoken in sports metaphors. Most of which went right over her head. But he’d insisted that the best defense was a good offense.

  So she lifted her chin, met his gaze with what she hoped was cool confidence, and said, “You won’t talk about yourself. Does that mean I should assume that you’re hiding something?”

  Surprisingly, his gaze flicked to the side immediately. Had she hit a nerve? Sierra wished she had more experience—with men, and with life in general—to be able to read him better. Because she had the feeling that Flynn’s tiny tells probably revealed a lot about himself.

  “Give me your keys.”

  She scrabbled in her purse and handed them over. Without another word, he unlocked the door and carried her inside. Where he stopped one step into the living room and just gaped. His mouth literally fell open.

  Admittedly, Sierra had done the same thing when Madalena first showed her the place. The living room that flowed right into the galley kitchen was smaller than her old dorm room back at the Milwaukee Institute of Art & Design. That was pretty much the whole place, if you included the bathroom tucked into the corner and the bedroom loft. Windows on both sides let her pretend she was living in a magical forest. The potted palm at the foot of the stairs took up valuable room, but was a much-needed pop of color against the stark white walls.

  Flynn set her down on the gray futon couch. It was the only seating besides the one-person bench that slid under the narrow table. “No way are you walking up those stairs tonight. Tell me what you need and I’ll bring it down.”

  Not bothering to bite back her giggle, Sierra shook her head. “You won’t fit up there.”

  “I can bend. You, on the other hand, are semi-broken.”

  Thank goodness years of living with dozens of foster families had ingrained into her the need to make her bed and not leave underwear lying around. Because the man was halfway up the stairs before she could open her mouth.

  “My pajamas are on the hook.”

  A dull thud rang down the stairs. “Holy Mary Mother of God.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I always wanted a dent in the middle of my skull. Then I won’t need a sweatband when I work out. It’ll all just pool in one spot.”

  Flynn’s dry sense of humor always cracked her up.

  He crab-walked down the steps, clutching her tulip-dotted cotton pajamas. “I almost killed myself getting around those stacks of books. Why do you have them al
l over the floor?”

  Sierra deeply regretted leaving behind all her books when she ran. As an artist, she loved the tactile sensation of real books. The scent. The shiny embossing on the covers. The whish of each page turn. Once a week she cycled to the Goodwill store and brought back as many as five dollars would buy. It was all the splurge she’d allow herself, but with so many priced at a quarter, she’d accumulated, well, the stacks that had taken down Flynn.

  “I don’t have a bookcase.”

  “I’ll build you one,” he snarled. “This is dangerous. A nuisance. Hell, both.” Taking her chin between his thumb and index finger, Flynn’s gaze bored into hers with scant inches between them. “Your safety matters. I insist.”

  Oh, my.

  Ever since he’d stroked those soft brush bristles down her scalp tonight, Sierra had been hoping for a kiss from Flynn.

  This was better.

  Almost.

  Chapter Three

  There was a big list of places Flynn didn’t want to be. That third town that Marshal Evans dragged them to in East BumFuck, New Mexico. That observation deck on the ninety-fourth floor of the Hancock Building. He could do heights. He’d just rather have his feet on the damn ground.

  Oh, and the back room at Billy Smoothboar’s in the middle of the Bandon Chamber of Commerce meeting Rafe had dragged him to. Yeah, that topped the list at noon on this particular Tuesday.

  The official, spiffy millennial word for it was voluntold. Or so he’d heard from Delaney as she bit back her laughter at the thought of the Maguire brothers helping with the town’s annual Cranberry Festival. Community service was an important part of protectees integrating into their new location. Rafe was all up her ass being the most perfect protectee ever, because he fell in love with Mollie.

  A mistake he’d never make.

  So Flynn’s ass was in the chair. He’d ordered a club sandwich to be ornery. To prove that Rafe couldn’t tell him what to do, even though this place was supposed to have the best steak sandwich in the whole state. And he also couldn’t force Flynn to pay attention to the idiot in the fishing cap droning on at the front of the room.

  He pulled out his phone and thought about skimming baseball scores. But that reminded him he hadn’t found a team to replace his beloved Cubs yet. The Mariners were closest. The Giants had a better record. Flynn just didn’t give a shit about either of them.

  He didn’t give a shit about most things anymore. What was the point? After working hard and caring and trying and fucking bending over backward to be perfect for so many years, McGinty had turned on him. His whole life got yanked away. So, yeah, even picking a new baseball team seemed pointless.

  Then his thumb slid over the message icon. One tap pulled up his most recent contact. And Flynn remembered that there’d been one thing he’d been unable to resist caring about since his first day in town. One person, anyway.

  He’d put in Sierra’s number last night. In case she did something stupid like climbing those stairs with no railings. What if her ankle gave out? Sure, her house was so small she’d probably be able to catch herself if she put her arms out and touched the walls.

  Empty walls. That needed a bookcase.

  He’d promised her.

  Flynn got his thumbs working. Light or dark?

  Sierra responded right away. What? Chicken? Are you hungry? Or . . . OMG. I’m an idiot. You mean beer, don’t you?

  F: My life doesn’t revolve around pulling pints.

  Especially since his “career” had only started six weeks ago. It was true this job sucked the least of all the ones the Marshals Service tried to make stick. Flynn had always been “that guy” at parties. The one who made up cocktails and hung by the bar all night. It happened to be an awesome way to pick up women. Now he still had fun making up the cocktails and listening to people. That was the trick of being a good bartender—not talking, just listening. Which made it right up Flynn’s alley.

  S: Oh. What does your life revolve around?

  Being an insufferable bastard to his brothers? Yet another example of the truth not always being the best way to go. Did you get that question from an online quiz? I hate those things.

  S: That makes two of us. Why should my chances of finding Mr. Right be determined by the first initial of my third grade teacher, whether I prefer chicken or fish, and if I can curl my tongue?

  Flynn almost smiled. Almost. Can you?

  S: What?

  F: Curl your tongue. The rest is all crap. But tongue curling could definitely up your chances with a guy.

  “Pay attention,” Rafe muttered under his breath.

  Uh, hell, no. Flynn shot him a dirty look for interrupting. “Isn’t that why you’re here? I’m just the warm body with the last name of Maguire, filling another chair.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” Rafe shoved back his chair. The squeak against the wooden floorboards had all heads in the room swiveling to stare at them. He dropped a kiss on the top of the head of the gorgeous brunette next to him. “I’ll be right back, Mollie. Gotta show this guy where the bathroom is.”

  Mollie arched an eyebrow. “It’s a bathroom, Rafe. Not a maze leading to the Wizard’s Cup.”

  The jerk of his head—and the tight, white line of his lips—made Flynn follow Rafe around the corner. Some things were ingrained. When your older brother looked like he was about to pop a gasket, you fell in line.

  That was the kind of thinking that had kept him safe in the Chicago mob for so long.

  Until, suddenly, it didn’t.

  Rafe pushed through the bathroom door. And immediately turned on Flynn. Those blue eyes, two shades darker than his own, practically threw sparks like an old muffler dragging on asphalt. His voice was just as rough. “What the hell is going on with you?”

  Flynn jerked past him to lean against the sink. Not like this was the first time big brother had tried to take him down a peg. It worked when they were little. Hell, it even worked when they were teenagers, after their mom and dad had been killed and Rafe tried his damnedest to parent Flynn and Kellan.

  But it didn’t work anymore.

  He crossed his arms over his black tee shirt, meeting Rafe’s hot stare with his own well-honed icy indifference. “What? I showed up, didn’t I?”

  “That’s not enough.” Rafe banged a fist into the tan metal support between the stalls. “You fucking promised me, Flynn. You stood on that beach with me three weeks ago, when we were deciding if we should quit WITSEC and run, or stay and trust the program. You, me, Kellan—we all agreed to stay. And you both promised to try. To make an effort to fit in. To find something to like about this town. To become a part of it.”

  Rafe was right. Guilt swamped him.

  On the other hand, he’d been drowning in guilt ever since they left Chicago. Why bother surfacing when he’d gotten so damned used to feeling like he couldn’t breathe?

  Still. He had to throw his brother a bone. Not an apology, but an acknowledgement. Of his ongoing status as a first-class jerk. “You’re right. I did promise. I also promised to wash the dishes, and I think our coffee mugs from three days ago are still in the sink. Probably already sprouting moss in this rain freaking forest. Sometimes I need a reminder about things.”

  “Yeah? Kellan forgot to do the laundry for the third week in a row. I’m going commando over here.”

  Looked like Rafe was throwing him a bone, too. Flynn shrugged one shoulder. “He didn’t forget. His master plan is to pretend to forget until you get fed up and do it yourself.”

  A dark eyebrow shot up practically to his hairline. “He thinks he can play me? A Goody Two-shoes almost-lawyer trying to go up against the Chicago mob’s fixer? Unbelievable. The kid’s got bigger balls than brains.”

  Flynn figured that Rafe was just pissed he hadn’t thought of that strategy to get out of his trash duty. He tried to hide it, but Flynn knew his secret weakness. His big bro turned green and almost heaved at just the smell of a day-old banana peel. A full and reeking bag
of trash was his kryptonite.

  Flynn’s acknowledgement might be enough for his brother, but it didn’t give him any satisfaction. He didn’t want Rafe to think he’d been a jerk without any provocation. Not when there was such an obvious target to take the blame of his lousy behavior. Because his mood had soured worse than month-old milk as soon as the meeting started.

  So he jerked his chin toward the door and the twenty people gathered to discuss the Festival in already endless detail. “That guy in the hat’s a self-important prick.”

  “No argument here.” Rafe’s boots thudded against the floor as he paced the small space. “From anyone, as a matter of fact. Way I see it, the whole town can’t stand Floyd. But he does the job nobody else wants, so they all put up with him for twenty minutes once a month.”

  That actually made Flynn feel marginally better. “As long as everyone knows he’s a first-class douchebag . . .”

  “Ask Lucien and Mick.”

  Talk about proof. Lucien was the heir apparent to the Sunset Shoals Golf Resort that kept half the town in business. Mick was an old kook of a vet. He’d bet the two of them couldn’t even agree on the color of the ocean. If they both thought Floyd was bad news, then Flynn could give the rest of the Chamber a chance, too.

  “I will.” Because Flynn had learned—the hard way—not to take anyone at face value.

  Not to trust anyone’s word.

  No matter how small the issue. Not even the only family he had left in the world.

  “What were you looking at on your phone, anyway? It’d better not be any site connected to Chicago.”

  “It’s not,” he said swiftly. But Flynn didn’t shift fast enough to keep Rafe from grabbing the phone from his front pocket. His brother skimmed the still-live screen.

  Damn it. Flynn needed to change the settings to have it hibernate faster. But it had been his one luxury. Not having to hide work texts anymore. Not having to hide . . . anything on his phone anymore. Nothing in his new life was important enough to keep secret.