The couple at the table next to me scurried out the door, abandoning their untouched coffee. The rest of the patrons followed in rapid succession.
“Oh, no. Please.” I scrambled after them. “Everything’s fine now. They’re gone. Please don’t go.” It was too late. The door banged shut behind the last customer, leaving me alone with Lyle and the mess on the floor. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”
I gripped my head with both hands and debated if I should curse or cry. Business had been sketchy for the past few months. Even though I’d cut staff and expenses to the bone, we hadn’t turned a profit in six months. The little bit of money I’d set aside for emergencies had dwindled down to pennies. With the arrival of a new national coffee franchise down the street, I couldn’t afford this kind of bad publicity.
“Grab a broom and a trash can,” I said to Lyle. Moping and whining would have to wait. “I’ll get the mop.”
The bell dinged over the door again. Hopeful, I turned to greet whoever it was. The smile slid from my face. Damn. It was the bastard. “No. Hell no.” I pointed to the door. “Out. Out, out, out.”
“Do you have any idea what you just did?” The amount of anger in his voice forced me back against the wall. His brows drew sharply together. He took a menacing step toward me, fingers clenched at his sides.
“Me? Are you kidding? Look what you did to my place.” The nerve of this guy. I accepted his challenge, closing the gap between us until we were less than a foot apart. I glared up at him. Geez, he was a lot bigger up close—all bulging muscle and teeming with testosterone. Even in my anger, I recognized the scent of his shampoo and body wash, fresh and outdoorsy, masculine and clean.
“I’ve been chasing that guy for months. If I don’t bring him in, I’m out ten grand.” He shoved a hand through his hair, temporarily distracting me from my anger. “Now I’m never going to catch him.” A deep growl rumbled through his chest. “Fuck.”
My heart skipped a beat. I was still pissed but oh so turned on by his show of temper. A guy with that amount of passion had to be a stallion in bed. I had a quick, inappropriate flash of him between my legs, directing that emotion into a more constructive activity. Sweat beaded on my temples. I glanced away, searching for anywhere to look but into his angry, delicious eyes. Then my gaze fell on the tumbled table, the broken chair, the spilled coffee and crushed muffins. My temper flared.
“I don’t feel sorry for you. Look at this mess.” I swept a hand around the empty room. “You destroyed my shop, drove away my customers. This place is a total disaster.” Tears stung my eyes. I blinked them into submission and tried not to think about the mounting utility bills, payroll taxes, and the overdue rent. “Everyone left. They’ll tell all their friends that Joe’s Java Junction is full of crazy psychos. They’ll never come back, and I wouldn’t blame them.” I poked an index finger into his chest. It was like poking an oak tree. “You— You’re—” I sputtered, searching something bad enough to call him. “You’re a caveman.”
“Is that the worst thing you can think of?” He grabbed my finger, wrapping it in his strong, calloused fingers. An electrical current coursed up my forearm into the tips of my breasts, tightening the nipples. His gaze fell to the offending body parts. They poked through the thin cotton of my T-shirt. I wanted to leap into his arms, wrap my legs around his waist, and yank on that long, glorious hair. Horrified, I jerked my hand free and crossed my arms over my chest, but not before a smirk curled the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t you dare laugh. It’s not funny. Not at all. You have no idea what you’ve done.” I shook my head and focused on the damage. My shoulders slumped in defeat. In my experience, this was what men did. They left a trail of brokenness in their wake, expecting the women to clean it up. “Just get away from me. Get out of my shop.”
I left him in the middle of the room, went to retrieve the mop bucket, and prayed he’d have the common sense to leave. When I came back, he was still there, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other. I froze, certain this had to be a hallucination.
“Don’t just stand there,” he said, not looking at me. “Let’s do this.”
We worked together in silence. Tension stretched between us, so thick it made my lungs ache. I tried to ignore the swell of his biceps as he righted the table and the intoxicating scent of his cologne whenever he ventured too close. Thirty minutes later, the place looked tip-top, almost as good as new. The damage to my business, however, couldn’t be repaired by soap and water.
I returned to my place behind the counter, preparing to close out the register.
He followed me and dropped a wad of money on the cash drawer. “For the damages.”
I stared at the folded bills, stunned, before thumbing through them. A thousand dollars? “This is way too much,” I protested, but he had already walked out the door.
Chapter 3
Carter
I spent the rest of the day filling out paperwork and trying to forget Benson’s escape by drinking at my favorite pub. The waitress gave me a smile as she placed a beer on the table. A few minutes earlier, she’d written her phone number on the palm of my hand.
I smiled back at her. “Thanks, babe.” Across from me, Rhett rolled his eyes. I cocked my head. “Got something to say?”
“Nope.” He tipped up his beer, meeting my glare with cool amusement.
“Go ahead. I can take it.”
“You’ll continue down your path of self-destruction no matter what I say. I’m not going to waste my breath.” In all the years I’d known Rhett, he’d never censored his opinion, not once. His silence got my attention.
“Seriously?” I rested a forearm on the table and leaned forward. “Not one word? You don’t want to lecture me about the dangers of promiscuity or the odds of getting an STI or the joys of monogamy?”
“Nope.” He took another swallow of his beer.
“What if I told you that I screwed your mom’s best friend at our high school graduation party?” I hadn’t, but I knew it would get him going.
“Jesus, Carter.” Rhett slammed a hand onto the table. The wall crumbled around his self-control. Score.
I chuckled, pleased with myself. Nothing gave me more pleasure than to ruffle Rhett’s stringent code of honor. “No, not really, but see those two girls over there?” I nodded toward a pair of thirty-something brunettes at the bar who were casting doe eyes in my direction. “I did sleep with them.”
“I don’t want to know.” He raised the palm of his hand in a show of surrender.
“Both of them. At the same time. A ménage a trois with lots of ménage.” I waggled my eyebrows, biting back laughter at his visible disgust.
“Jo was right. You’re a pig.”
“She talks about me?” My ears perked at the mention of my favorite barista, the two ladies instantly forgotten. Rhett shook his head and groaned in consternation. I twirled a finger in the air between us. “Come on. Talk. What else did she say?”
“Not much, except that you’re disgusting.” One corner of his mouth twitched with suppressed humor. He was enjoying this way too much, but I let him have his moment. It was what we did; we teased each other mercilessly.
“Does she mention me very often?”
Before I could ask more questions, the waitress returned with another mug of beer. “From the ladies at the bar.” Her voice held a note of disapproval.
“Thanks, ladies.” I raised the mug in a mock toast and ignored the waitress. They smiled and toasted back to me.
“Even after all these years, the size of your balls never fails to amaze me,” Rhett said.
“It’s not the size of my balls that they’re after,” I said, enjoying the way he rolled his eyes in pretend disgust. “But I don’t do repeats. One and done. That’s my motto. Or, in their case, two and done.” As enjoyable as our little ménage a trois had been, a repeat would ruin the perfection of the encounter, risking hurt feelings and imagined emotional attachments. And everyone knew that I didn’t do emo
tions or attachments or feelings.
“Don’t you get tired of it? One-night stands? Living alone?” He shifted in his seat and slung an arm over the back of the booth.
“Don’t you get tired of sleeping with the same woman every night?” His disapproval didn’t bother me. Rhett believed in hearts and flowers and that happily-ever-after bullshit. Now that he was in love, he’d grown worse. Although he was a romantic sap, it didn’t mean I liked him any less. In fact, I liked him more. His attitude gave balance to my warped and jaded outlook.
“Never.” A grin brightened his features. “She’s the best part of my day. You should try it sometime.”
“Me? Hell no.” I took a large swallow of beer to wash away the sour taste left in my mouth by the concept of monogamy. “Maybe when I’m ninety.”
“When you’re ninety, it won’t matter. You’ll be fat and bald. Those huge balls of yours will be dragging around your ankles, and you won’t be able to get it up anymore.”
“Probably.” Aside from Rhett’s friendship, I’d been alone most of my life and figured I’d go out of this world the same way. I pushed the notion aside, having accepted the idea years ago. “At least I’ll have some kick-ass stories to tell your grandkids. I’ll be crazy Uncle Carter, the one who’s always drunk at Thanksgiving and pees in the potted plants.” We shared a laugh, but something about the idea left queasiness in my gut.
“Hang on a sec.” He lifted a finger then withdrew his phone from his pocket. The refrains of his ringtone, a sappy ballad, floated across our table. I groaned. Rhett narrowed his eyes in warning before turning his attention to the caller. “Hey, angel.”
Okay, so maybe I was a little jealous of his relationship with Bronte. They held hands in public, stared at each other with starry eyes, and spoke in intimate, hushed tones, like they shared some precious secret. If I believed in the bullshit of love for even a second, I’d have to admit that he’d found his soulmate. Watching him now, the way his face lit up during their conversation, the laughter in his voice, it made me question everything I knew about women and relationships. And I hated questioning myself.
“Yeah, he’s here,” Rhett said into the phone. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted in warning. His gaze met mine, mischief dancing in the depths of his eyes. “Bronte wants to know if you’ll pick up Jo tomorrow on the way to our place. The transmission went out of her car.”
“No.” I shook my head and drew a finger across my throat in a slitting motion.
“He said sure.” Rhett smirked. “Love you, baby. See you in a bit.”
“That was a dick move,” I said once he’d ended the call.
“You’re the dick. Her house is on your way. There’s no reason you can’t do it.” He stared me down. “Give me one good reason, aside from the fact that you’re an asshole.”
“Uh, well, there was an incident.” I glanced away, feeling a flood of guilt, then gave him the short version of the coffee shop fiasco. At the end of the story, he shook his head, and I tried to pretend like I hadn’t fucked up. “What? Don’t look at me that way. You know how long I’ve been tracking this dude. I’ve got ten thousand big ones riding on him, and I was a frog’s hair away from catching him.”
He lifted both hands into the air. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”
“What’s ten thousand dollars to you? A week’s vacation in Miami” He had a point, but I was too stubborn to concede. “A day of lost business for Jo could be the end of the coffee shop.”
“I doubt that.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “She can barely make ends meet. Bronte and I have been trying to help, but we’re not rich. If things don’t turn around soon, they’re going to have to close.”
“I paid her for the damages, and I helped her clean up.” Spoken aloud, the words sounded hollow. Now I really did feel like a dick. I could have waited for the guy to leave before tackling him, but I’d been consumed by the need to capture Clarence, overcome by the flood of adrenalin at the sight of my prey. I rubbed the spot on my chest where she’d poked me with a finger. “Okay, so I fucked up. It wasn’t intentional. Either way, I’m the last person she wants to see.”
“An even better reason for you to make amends.” Rhett held his ground. “I need you two to get along. I’m going to marry Bronte sooner or later, and we’ll all be family. It’s important to me.”
If he’d said anything else, I would have bailed, but I couldn’t disappoint Rhett. Few people in the world mattered to me the way he did. “Fine. I’ll do it, but if this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
“She’s maybe all of five-two and a hundred pounds. If she kicks your ass, you’re going to have to turn in your man card.” He chuckled. “Not that it wouldn’t do you some good. I’d love to see a woman put you in your place.”
The next day, a bizarre case of nervous anxiety hit about the same time I reached Jo’s address. I parked the Escalade on the curb in front of an aged two-story house with faded paint and a bicycle leaning against the porch. I honked the horn. No response. I texted. No reply. After a couple of minutes, I strode up the sidewalk, grumbling under my breath. The scent of freshly cut grass permeated the late spring air. I knocked on the door then rubbed my sweating palms on the thighs of my jeans. An older guy answered the door.
“Is Jo here?” I asked, feeling eighteen years old and out of sorts.
“Who wants to know?” He looked me up and down, a curious gesture, considering he was the one wearing boxers and a T-shirt, and I was fully dressed.
“I’m Carter Eckhouse, Rhett’s friend. I’m here to give Jo a ride to Bronte’s.” I extended a hand, and he took it in a warm, tight grasp.
“Nice to meet you, Carter. I’m the dad. You can call me Mr. H.” He turned away, leaving the door wide open, and trudged into the house. “Come on in.” As we passed the stairway, he hollered, “Jo, your guy’s here.”
Bright light beamed through the slats of lowered blinds. I followed him down a neat but narrow hallway. Floral wallpaper covered the walls, the colors faded, the paper torn in spots. A grandfather clock ticked loudly from the first-floor landing of the staircase, and the sounds of a television drifted from the living room. The delicious aroma of baking meat hung in the air. Mr. H gestured to a dilapidated recliner next to the TV and sank into its twin. I hesitated. This was supposed to be a quick stop to get the girl, not a visit, and I was totally unprepared to deal with a parent.
“What’s up with your hair?” He popped the footrest into the air and leaned back to study me. “In my experience, a man with hair like yours is either unemployed or a hippie. Are you a hippie?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Not at all. I’ll have you know, the ladies love this.” I’d pulled my thick hair into a bun to keep it out of my eyes while I worked. By contrast, the smooth crown of Mr. Hollander’s head reflected the blue light of the television. Tufts of reddish hair stuck out behind his ears. “Jealous?”
“Ha.” He slapped his knee and hooted. “Hell yes, I’m jealous. I’ve been bald since I was thirty.” The recliner groaned as he shifted his weight. “If you’re not a hippie, you must be unemployed. You got a job, son?”
“I own a few businesses.” At the lift of his eyebrows, I grinned. I respected his directness and his sense of humor. “All legitimate and quite profitable.”
“Football or basketball?” His eyes narrowed.
“Basketball.”
“Ever been in jail?”
I blinked at the rapid-fire questions. “More times than I can count. But the Marine Corps straightened me out.”
“That so?” His blunt-tipped fingers scratched through the scruff on his chin. “Why’d you get out?”
“Honorably discharged, sir. I took a piece of shrapnel in the leg.” Although it had been years, the injury still ached like a mother whenever it rained or I over-trained at the gym.
“Well, thank you for your service.”
His voice softened. “It takes a real man to fight for his country.”
“Dad, leave the guy alone.” Jo entered the room and stood between her father and the TV, hands on her hips. Out of respect for her father, I tried not to ogle the way her layered tank tops clung to the full curves of her breasts or her tiny waist, but damn—she looked good enough to eat.
“A father’s got a right to know who his daughter is dating,” Mr. Hollander grumbled.
“We’re not dating,” Jo and I said in unison.
“Right.” Mr. Hollander picked up the remote control and flipped through the channels, seeming to shift into another dimension. “You kids have fun. Tell Rhett he owes me fifty bucks on that last baseball game, and give Bronte a hug for me.”
“Okay.” Jo leaned down to drop a kiss on her dad’s bald head. “There’s meatloaf and potatoes in the oven for lunch. Listen for the buzzer. Take it out and let it sit for ten minutes before you eat.”
“Got it.” He made a shooing motion with his free hand, eyes glued to the TV. “Now get out.”
I followed Jo to the front porch. Beneath the stretchy fabric of her yoga pants, her bottom swung like two ripe melons. I adjusted myself and cursed Rhett for making me promise to leave her alone.
She stopped abruptly at the top step and glared at me. “Were you staring at my ass?”
“No.” I shifted my gaze to a point over her shoulder, to the yard and street beyond it. “Okay, maybe.”
“Unbelievable.” Her weary sigh split the air. “Just so you know, this wasn’t my idea. Bronte and Rhett insisted that I ride with you.”
“I get it.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and tried to pretend my feelings weren’t a little hurt. Sure, I was a dick, but I wasn’t that bad, was I? “Back at you, sweetheart.”
“Here.” From inside her bra, she withdrew two one-hundred-dollar bills and waved them beneath my nose. “You gave me too much money yesterday.”
Pretty Broken Bastard: A Standalone Novel Page 2