Never Been Good

by Christi Barth

  His old life? Well, that was so shrouded in mystery it might as well be the love child of Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. Aka nonexistent.

  Rafe’s jaw dropped. With as much drama as the lead on a CW teen soap, he grabbed the top of the stall door for support. With his other hand he waved the phone at Flynn. “You’re . . . flirting?”

  “No.” The answer popped out automatically. He didn’t flirt with Sierra. Flynn didn’t allow himself to do that. Or he hadn’t, until last night. When he’d lost all common sense and restraint and just given in to the fun of being with her. But today was a new day, and his emotional walls were back in place.

  He’d just been checking in on an injured colleague. Camaraderie. Playing nice, the way the marshal hounded him to all the time. No big deal.

  At least, that’s what Flynn kept telling himself.

  “You’re sexting, then. With a woman?”

  “No, a highly literate and functional otter. Of course it’s a woman.” Not that he actually was sexting, either. God, that’d be more dangerous than flirting.

  “Good for you.” Rafe clapped him on the shoulder and handed back the phone.

  “Don’t be a condescending ass. I talk to women. I’ve probably slept with more of them than you have, seeing as how I’m the more handsome Maguire brother.” It felt . . . normal to tease Rafe. Like Flynn always had. Before.

  Before he became the reason that his brothers had to give up their lives.

  Before he ruined everything.

  “First of all, my left elbow is more good-looking than you are.” Rafe used that elbow to shove him away from the sink. Then he looked in the mirror and tweaked his hair until it looked, yes, exactly the same as it had thirty seconds ago. “Secondly, you used to talk to women. You haven’t in a while.”

  Flynn bristled. It wasn’t like he was broken. Or, God for-fucking-bid, celibate. Shit went down. Literal life-changing shit that put dating on the back burner. “So what? None of us did once we left Chicago. Not until you met Mollie.”

  “I’m glad, is all.”

  He was shutting this shit down right now. Just because Rafe farted hearts and flowers every time Doc Mollie crossed his mind? Didn’t mean Flynn had any intention of doing the same. “I’m not dating.”

  “Fine.” Rafe made air quotes with his fingers. “Sexting.”

  “I’m not—” Flynn gave up. It wasn’t worth continuing the fight over the stench of urinal cakes. “Can we get out of here now?”

  Rafe took two big steps over the green speckled linoleum. “Who is she?”

  No point lying. If he tried to hide it, Rafe would probably go into crisis mode. Assume the worst—that he was in contact with someone from their old life—and alert the marshal. The last thing Flynn needed was a visit/lecture/yawnfest from Delaney to get to the bottom of what wasn’t even a situation. “Just a waitress at the Gorse.”

  “Mariana? She’s hot. Well-done.” He held up a fist to bump.

  Flynn refused to fist bump over texts that weren’t anywhere close to flirting. Just . . . fun. “Not her. Sierra.”

  “The one who’s so quiet I can hear the foam on my beer evaporate when she brings it over?”

  The description made him bristle. Flynn didn’t know why. Seeing as how it was true. Mariana served up her big personality and an easy sighting of her even bigger boobs with every mug of beer she dropped on a table. Sierra, on the other hand, rarely initiated a conversation with a customer.

  But when pushed a little, she did engage and her whole face lit up. Sierra went out of her way to talk to the solo regulars like Mick and the wrinkly, cranky Georgie Minton. Anyone who looked lonely or lost or upset got extra attention from her. Sierra didn’t need to be showy about it. She just made people feel better about themselves, about their day.

  God knew every time he was around her, Flynn felt better. No, that wasn’t it. He fucking felt. Something he hadn’t let himself do in months. Sierra’s quiet caring, the way she looked not just at him, but all the way into him on the rare occasions she met his eyes, it scraped off some of the cement he’d put around his emotions.

  So Flynn’s hackles rose when Rafe dismissed her as “quiet.”

  Not that he should care what Rafe thought. Because nothing was going on between him and Sierra. No need to jump to her defense.

  Even though it felt—damn, there was that word again—necessary to make his brother see Sierra as more than a wordless waitress.

  Frowning, Flynn said, “She’s nice. She got hurt last night. I helped her get home. No big deal.”

  Rafe stared at him for a long minute. Then, wordlessly, he opened the door. Flynn didn’t know what he’d said to effect his escape. Didn’t care, either. He just walked out and looked back down at his phone.

  Sierra had never answered his original question. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep the text conversation going. Flynn simply needed to know so he could follow through on his promise. So he tapped his thumbs against the screen again. Light or dark wood? For the bookcase?

  This time he had to wait for an answer. He noticed two families had the bad luck to be seated at the edge of their most-boring-ever meeting. They had a passel of ankle-biters that reminded him of the slightly older kids he used to mentor in Chicago.

  The ones Flynn never let himself think about because he missed them so god damned much.

  And yeah, he forced himself to tune in to the windbag discussing the float Flynn was supposed to build for the parade. The signature float that would carry the Cranberry Court. The one that would be on the town’s brochure and website for the next year.

  Whoopee.

  The twerp in the hat approached Flynn’s table. “What sort of float-building skills are on your résumé?”

  “None.” First of all, because his entire “résumé” was a damn fucking lie. But mostly because who the hell would put float building on a résumé?

  Twerp’s eyes bugged out. Further than a cartoon character who realized they’d stopped running seven steps off a cliff in mid-air. “Rafe, when you offered your brother’s help on this vital part of the Festival, I assumed he had the necessary talent to pull it off.”

  Without bothering to look up from cutting his steak sandwich, Rafe said, “Flynn doesn’t have a special skills section on his résumé. But he can build the shit out of a float. No worries.”

  HatTwerp clutched the clipboard to his chest—why didn’t he have an iPad like the rest of America?—and drummed his fingers against the back of it. A red flush spread up from the collar of his madras shirt.

  Flynn didn’t want to do this guy any favors. But he also didn’t want him to stroke out in the middle of lunch. Delaney always told them not to draw attention. Accidental manslaughter probably fell under that category. So he took a deep breath and put down his own sandwich. The one that didn’t smell half as amazing as Rafe’s, damn it.

  From out of thin air, he snatched his cloak of professionalism and wriggled back into it. “I understand your concern. The Festival is your baby. A point of pride for the whole town.”

  “Exactly. The float is a symbol.”

  No point bothering to ask what the hell it was a symbol for. Flynn 1) didn’t care and 2) figured it would only prolong the conversation. So he nodded. Hopefully that would signify that he both cared and agreed. “Let me assure you that I can, indeed, build things.” His phone vibrated on the table, shaking his silverware. It was a perfectly timed reminder. “I’m building a bookcase for a friend right now.”

  “From IKEA? Or from scratch?”

  Oh, he wanted to scratch HatTwerp, alright. “I’ll be building it from the ground up. No instruction sheet necessary.”

  “So you think you can handle the float by yourself.”

  Fuck a drunken goat sideways, yes already. With his construction experience, Flynn could do this with half a toolbox and scraps, let alone all the money they’d crazily allocated for it.

  Right then, a little kid raced past the U-shaped tabl
e setup. His sneakers had wheels and lights on the back, which explained why he fell on his ass as he cut tight around the corner to aim a bottle of silly string at HatTwerp. Flynn pegged him at about eight or nine. Old enough to laugh hysterically instead of crying when he fell.

  Seeing as how he got the shot off and covered HatTwerp’s crotch in the sticky string, Flynn laughed, too.

  Back in Chicago, he’d trained junior high kids in MMA and he’d been a part of the Big Brothers program, too, with some elementary-school boys. Boys that always made him belly laugh and remember just how much he’d lucked out with Rafe and Kellan as his family.

  Flynn was keenly aware that not all kids got the same breaks in life. After all, both of his parents had been killed. Then the mob sucked him in before he knew any better. But his work with underprivileged youth wasn’t about righting a personal wrong.

  It was because the world would turn into a shit show if everyone didn’t pitch in and help raise the next generation.

  Flynn didn’t exactly walk away empty-handed, either. Excitement, joy, fun—they were all contagious. And kids spread those things around faster than cold germs in December.

  Hell, maybe that’s why he hadn’t stopped sulking. A job—let alone the fifth one that he didn’t even get to pick—wasn’t enough reason to get up every morning. He spent the bulk of his days sulking. Pissed that he’d spent years doing what everyone else expected and wanted and it got him nowhere.

  Now?

  Well, Flynn still didn’t know what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. But now he had an idea of where to start.

  “I can do it myself.” And could kick you in the nuts for doubting that for even two hot seconds, he thought. “But children should be involved with building this float, too. It’ll teach them community spirit. Strengthen their teamwork. Give them something constructive to do over the summer.”

  “You want to put power tools in the hands of children?”

  Yes. Flynn specifically wanted to hand a nail gun to the kid who’d nailed HatTwerp in the crotch and let him rip. “Of course not. But they can design it, paint, decorate—there’s plenty to do that doesn’t involve an extension cord or a hacksaw.”

  A murmur ran around the table. From the smiles and nods, it looked like the majority agreed.

  “Solid idea, Maguire.” Mick lifted the Marine vet ballcap he wore 24/7 in a salute.

  “Thanks.”

  Rafe banged his elbow into Flynn’s biceps. That was the Maguire brothers’ wordless, non-embarrassing code for “well done, bro.” And Flynn didn’t mind admitting that it felt damn fine to get that tap.

  Mollie half raised her hand, then just spoke up. “My friend, Lily, runs a summer camp with Madalena.”

  “Carlos’s sister that does the books for the Gorse?” Flynn hadn’t bothered to think about it before. But in a town this small, some people probably did overlap jobs. Maybe he should’ve wondered what Madalena did the other four days of the week.

  Maybe he should open his damn eyes and ears a little.

  “Yes. I’m sure all the children in their program would like to help. One-stop shopping. And you’d be doing a favor by providing an activity.”

  HatTwerp looked . . . deflated that Flynn had come up with an idea not already on his sacred clipboard. But the undeniable approval running through the room didn’t give him any room to say no. He did frown. “They’ll need to have their parents sign safety waivers.”

  “Sure.”

  “They’ll need up-to-date tetanus vaccines.”

  HatTwerp seemed convinced that injuries were a given, not an outside possibility. With an attitude like that, he probably carried an umbrella on July Fourth to protect from overly large hail. Numbnut.

  Before Flynn could answer, Mollie waved her hand. “They need those to be in school, Floyd. Not a problem.”

  Flynn grabbed the clipboard. He printed his email in all caps on the bullet point agenda. “You send me a list of hoops to jump through. Then I’ll stretch out, put on track pants and sneakers, and get started.”

  “Fine. You’ll need to contact Lily as soon as possible.”

  “Just gotta finish my sandwich.” He pulled the yellow flagged toothpick out of one half, then pointed it at Floyd. “If you’ll let me start it?”

  HatTwerp backed away. Flynn called that a win. Not just because he was hungry. He grabbed his phone to scan the answer from Sierra.

  S: I prefer whitewashed shelves. They make the colors of the book spines pop. But I’ll be grateful for any color wood you can get. I can always paint it myself.

  Flynn snorted so hard that his napkin flew off the opposite side of the table. What kind of a lazy jackass did she take him for? Or was this her stubborn refusal to ask for help again? The same one that almost had her biking home on a sprained ankle?

  His thumbs flew.

  F: I’m not giving you a half-done bookcase. I’m a full-service shop.

  S: I get that feeling about you. That you can do anything you put your mind to. You’re very competent, Flynn.

  He’d been called a lot of things over the years. Everything from pansy-ass (by idiots who didn’t know him) to a ballbuster (by people who did), McGinty’s pawn (sadly true until last Halloween), and even crybaby (once, when tears of blood ran down his face after a left hook connected too well in the ring. He’d wiped the blood out of his eyes with the crook of his elbow and then took down the name-caller with a single roundhouse kick that brought all the fans to their feet).

  But this just might be the worst thing Flynn had ever been called. Competent? Can’t even tell if I should be insulted or complimented. Is that like calling someone smart instead of pretty?

  Her answer took long enough to come that he got a bite of sandwich down. But then grabbed for the phone with greasy fingers the moment it vibrated.

  S: I also get the feeling that you know exactly how ‘pretty’ you are.

  Ha. She’d poked at him, which meant Sierra was finally letting down her guard. That’s when the real fun began. Flynn wiped his hands on his jeans and noticed Rafe staring at him.

  “Mind your own damn business.”

  “Minding you has become my business. I don’t mind noticing you’re having fun sexting that waitress.”

  Damn it, he wasn’t sexting. Mostly because Flynn was trying to do the right thing and not flirt with her.

  Anymore.

  But they were friends. So he could blur the line. A little.

  Nobody else could, though. “Tell Kellan and you’re a dead man.”

  Rafe waved the threat away with one hand. “Scarier men than you have tried. And yet I’m still here.”

  “Yeah, but I know all your secrets. How you’d fall to pieces without your special lotion tissues when you’re sick.”

  Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got a mean streak.”

  “Runs in the family, I hear.” Then he shot his brother a grin. Something that felt . . . awkward and lopsided. But it also felt damn good.

  Flirting—yeah, he’d admit it—with Sierra also felt damn good.

  F: Bite your tongue. Men aren’t pretty. I’ll take devilishly handsome, though.

  S: Handsome, yes. But not devilish. You’re not a bad man.

  Shit.

  Flynn pushed the phone back. Ate in slow bites, putting off the inevitable. He even paid attention to the discussion about what percentage of Festival proceeds should go toward the sheriff’s office. Wasn’t that just a laugh and a half? The Maguire brothers helping fund the police.

  Finally, when the meeting wrapped and Flynn couldn’t come up with an excuse to wait any longer, he texted back.

  Don’t go making assumptions. You don’t know me. At all, Sierra.

  Chapter Four

  Sierra scooted the tall stool right up to the curved edge of the bar. Hunching over the laptop, she turned the web browser to incognito status. The icon of a man in a trench coat, fedora, and dark glasses always made her smile . . . and then sigh. Because s
he barely pulled off being undercover.

  Sure, she was at the Gorse, using Carlos’s computer to search for updates on her ex, Rick. Even her limited knowledge—all garnered from movies—made Sierra aware that if somebody did reverse-track her web browser, far better they end up at a bar than the side of her bed.

  But she didn’t know how to use the Dark Web. Or, really, what it even was. No clue how to piggyback from one router to another so that her search history would be untraceable.

  For goodness sake, she was an art major. Computers were for ordering brushes online. For checking WebMD to see if splitting headaches were just from stress or inhaling too much turpentine. Most importantly, for always checking the news feed for Kensington Palace. Sierra was head over heels in love with little Prince George.

  Wouldn’t it be fun to move to England just to teach him how to paint with watercolors?

  Not in a stalker, get-thrown-in-the-Tower way. Just because she adored all children. More than anything, she wanted to teach. But Sierra couldn’t teach without a degree and she couldn’t finish her master’s without going back to the town where her crazy ex almost murdered someone in cold blood.

  So yes, Sierra occasionally daydreamed about running away to the land of tea and scones and Gainsborough’s blissfully dainty and detailed landscapes.

  What was the harm? When she stopped daydreaming, she’d still be at the bar, in a large room that always faintly smelled of beer. She’d still be on the run. Constantly looking over her shoulder. Twitchy. Ridiculously scared of her own shadow.

  “How are you doing?” Carlos hustled across the room, wearing his usual dark green bar apron over a black tee shirt and jeans.

  A quick alt-tab with her thumb and forefinger switched screens. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the small motion. Because Carlos did not need to see her Google search for criminal records—hers or her ex’s.

  “I’m fine. Much better. Flynn took good care of me last night.”

  Carlos squatted down to stare at her barely swollen ankle. “Did he? Good.”