Lead Me Home: A Fight for Me Stand-Alone Novel

by A. L. Jackson

  I balanced my tray in my hands and eyed him over the top of the bar. “I love you because you’re the best, Charlie.”

  It was just a flash, but I saw it there in brown eyes the same as mine, that he cared for me just as much as I cared for him.

  In my twenty-three years, I’d come to recognize there were three types of guys.

  Maybe it was wrong of me to lump them into categories, but I’d learned to do it for my own self-preservation. As a way to survive in a world that wanted to use me up before it hung me out to dry.

  First, there were the assholes. They were easy to spot. They were always after one thing and one thing only.

  Pleasure.

  It didn’t matter if it was sex or money, fame or comfort. It all amounted to the same thing. Every move they made was purposed to bring them self-gratification and they were all too happy to reach out and take whatever they wanted to make it happen. Most of them didn’t give a second thought to those they hurt in the process. Hell, they usually took a little more pleasure in doing it.

  Then there were the nice guys. These guys were a little harder to read because they didn’t set out to do people wrong. They were sweet and nice and treated you like a princess right up to the point when they didn’t get what they wanted or after they’d had their fill of it. These guys would hit you with all kinds of valid excuses, rationalizing their actions to make themselves feel better. Half the time they left you feeling like you were the one who’d done something wrong in the first place.

  Last, there were the good guys.

  Guys with character. The ones who’d sacrifice for someone else, even if it meant it cost them something, or they had nothing to gain. Even if it meant the end result might not stack in their favor. They just did it because it was the right thing to do.

  Charlie Cohns?

  He was one of the good guys.

  He gave me a little salute before he turned to grin at Tamar, one of the other bartenders, who slipped under the small opening at one end of the bar, arms full of bottles needing restocking. She was older than me by a year or two, had flaming red hair, and pretty much looked like a modern-day pin-up girl, all curves and tattoos and flawlessly applied makeup. Plus the girl took crap from no one. She was the perfect fit beside Charlie who was as casual as they came.

  Her full red lips spread into a seductive smile. I was pretty sure she didn’t know a different one. “I leave for five minutes and this guy is already slacking off? Get back to work, old man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He cocked his head her direction, eyes on me, and mouthed, “Slave driver.”

  Laughing, I situated the last of the drinks Charlie had poured onto my tray. “Now Tamar is the real reason this bar is still afloat. You’re lucky she headed east when she did.”

  “Now don’t go fillin’ this one’s head any fuller than it already is. She already thinks she owns the place.”

  Tamar maneuvered to set the base of all the bottles on the far countertop, arms wrapped around them like she was hugging them. Glasses clanked as they settled, and she straightened up to her full five-foot-one stature. Her five-inch heels still didn’t bring her close to Charlie’s chin. She tossed her hair off her shoulder. “What do you mean, think?”

  Charlie laughed and tossed a balled-up towel at her, which she snatched out of the air.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of thinking anything, sugar. Now help me fill these orders. This old man is falling behind.”

  Somehow that smile turned soft and she went to work.

  Without a doubt, it was Charlie who owned all of us.

  Both Tamar and I loved him for it.

  With my tray balanced, I moved back through the expanding crowd, smiling my most welcoming smile, and saying excuse me and sorry so I could shoulder through. Music blared from the speakers, all thanks to our sound guy Derrick. A local band was setting up on the stage. They played here often, always a big draw for Saturday nights, both for our regulars and the tourists looking for a good time after they’d spent a lazy day on the beach.

  I dodged a few grabby hands from a group of college guys who’d clearly had too much to drink and were in danger of skating from nice guy zone straight into asshole territory, but I’d worked here long enough to know how to deal with them. I just grinned and let it slide right off my bare back.

  I stopped at a couple of tables and dropped off drinks, grabbed the order from a group of younger women who had pulled two tables together to accommodate their party, and let my gaze wander to see if I’d missed anyone who needed attention in my section. It got stuck on the lone figure hidden away in the farthest corner booth who hadn’t been sitting there the last time I made my rounds.

  Weaving through the crowd, I edged toward him. Somehow my footsteps grew slower the closer I got. He wore a black beanie, his head down and his attention trained on his phone lit up in the backdrop of darkness. My eyes were drawn to his hands that held the expensive device, all big and strong, seeming to be just as powerful as this guy’s presence. He wore a long-sleeved button-up shirt, the cuffs rolled up his forearms in a careless fashion, revealing intricate ink scrolled along his skin.

  A knot of intrigue formed somewhere in my chest.

  I was suddenly wishing to be closer, just so I could make out the design.

  Even though people came here from all walks of life, young and old, country and rocker, bikers and businessmen, he still seemed to stick out, too vibrant to belong within the confines of these walls. And I hadn’t even seen his face.

  Inwardly, I rolled my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Shea.

  Sucking in a breath, I pulled myself together and inched closer to the edge of the horse-shoe booth he was tucked behind. In a voice loud enough to cut through the music and jumble of voices, I gave him my standard greeting. “Hey there, welcome to Charlie’s.”

  His hands gripped tighter on the phone when my words hit him, and it seemed to take him an eternity to lift his head, as if he were contemplating whether he really wanted to reveal himself.

  And when he did, I kind of wished he hadn’t.

  For one rapturous second, time stood still as I got lost in a face that had to be the most beautiful I’d ever seen. It wasn’t perfect, and maybe that was the problem. His full, full lips were a little crooked on one side, his cheekbones high and defined, his jaw severe—sharp angles—and coated in what had to be three days of scruff. A scar split through his right eyebrow, making it appear lower on that side, and there was a trace of another at the bottom of his chin.

  But it was the hardness burning from his strange grey eyes that knocked the breath from my lungs.

  No, not perfect.

  Just beautiful and dark and a little bit frightening.

  My heart thudded and I couldn’t stop from taking a startled step back as a slow slide of attraction trickled beneath the surface of my skin—like feathers touching me everywhere—before it gathered to flutter low in my belly. Maybe it’d been far too long since I’d allowed a man to touch me, because all at once I felt the grip slipping on my own little reality. The reality where men didn’t cause a reaction like this in me, because I knew better than to go looking for that kind of heartbreak.

  No, I didn’t have a bunch of priorities or concerns.

  I had one.

  I couldn’t afford to flirt or play—not like normal women my age—couldn’t risk the trouble a boy like this would most assuredly bring.

  As if he’d want me after he knew, anyway.

  The beautiful stranger’s frown only deepened, and I felt like a total idiot standing there with my mouth hanging open, tongue-tied.

  Blinking away the stupor, I swallowed hard and painted a smile on my face, knowing it probably appeared just as fake as it felt, but this guy had left me staggered, confused, and affected in a way I didn’t necessarily like.

  “What can I get for you?” I finally managed to say.

  Those burning grey eyes narrowed in speculation, and not exactly in a friendly way
. Waiting. As if he were waiting on me when I was the one who’d asked the question.

  My own head tilted, searching him in the shadows in return, wondering what he was thinking, because he was looking at me as if he were expecting me to call him by name. Suddenly all of those years of self-consciousness came bounding in, and discomfort shifted my feet as I went cold with dread.

  Did he recognize me?

  It was rare, because I’d grown from a girl to a woman, and my once short, straight blonde hair was now long with wavy curls, woven with streaks of light browns and blondes.

  Just when I was about to bolt and send over a different server, he leaned forward and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Uh…yeah…sorry. Gran Patron Platinum or Suprema. Neat.”

  That voice chased away all my worry. Eclipsing it in song. A rich, velvety sound filling up my ears and tickling my senses.

  “Please,” he said a little harder than the last, jarring me from the faraway place my mind had just gone. A smirk ticked up at the corner of his pretty, pretty mouth, like he knew precisely where my head had been.

  God, this guy was dangerous. And had very expensive taste in tequila.

  With one harsh shake of my head, I regained my composure, that feigned smile back in full force. “Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”

  He only nodded, but his eyes softened a fraction.

  Just like quicksand.

  I wondered what it’d be like if I jumped in.

  Tearing myself away before my mind had a chance to entertain any more ridiculous thoughts, I spun around and put some much-needed space between us. I stopped to check on a few other tables on the way back to the bar, all the while pretending I couldn’t feel the heat of his stare penetrating me, or my spine tingling in awareness where his gaze traced along the skin exposed from the draping, backless fabric of my blouse.

  When I returned with his drink, he mumbled a quiet, “Thank you,” and I found myself having to force myself not to linger or stare, but couldn’t help it when he kept those grey eyes trained on me and tipped the crystal to his pouty mouth, just enough to wet his lips. His tongue peeked out for a taste, and my knees went a little weak.

  Good God, he was a sipper.

  With shaky fingers, I touched my forehead and felt the heat there. Self-consciously, I tucked a thick lock of my long bangs behind my ear and did my best to clear the lump from my throat. Still, my voice was hoarse. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you,” I said, fumbling as I backed away.

  Every instinct told me I needed to run, that there was something about this beautiful stranger I couldn’t resist. What scared me most was the intensity of his stare telling me that he knew exactly what I wouldn’t be able to resist and he wouldn’t be opposed to using it against me.

  I almost breathed a sigh of relief when I found him gone the next time I made my rounds, a hundred-dollar bill trapped beneath the empty glass. However, the overwhelming rush of disappointment distorted the relief.

  Three

  Sebastian

  What the hell am I doing?

  I stood on the sidewalk outside the old building. People milled around, laughing as they hopped from bar to bar along the popular river walk, out drinking their cares away.

  It was super late, close to two a.m., and the crowds were beginning to thin.

  And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I shouldn’t be here.

  Night clung to the sky like a blackened drape.

  Oppressive and hot.

  Like some kind of ominous warning telling me not to step through.

  Maybe I was just looking to get laid, which was probably a damned good idea right about now, because maybe it’d undo the knot that’d had me wound up like a fucking kite all day.

  But not here.

  Because I was curious, and fucking curious and me usually turned out to be a bad combination.

  Chewing at my lip, I leaned my shoulders back and craned my head to peer down the street, hoping for something else to catch my attention.

  But whatever waited inside these old brick walls seemed way more interesting than anything else within a thousand-mile radius.

  I pushed open the heavy doors to Charlie’s.

  Last night I’d come to get away and tonight I found there was nothing I could do to stay away.

  It was darker inside than out, country music pumping from the overhead speakers, which was hardly my thing, but it fit right into the vibe that anyone could come here and find something they liked. Last night they were playing some classic rock right before the live band was supposed to come on.

  Which was the reason I’d been here in the first place. Anthony had suggested it, told me about this bar on the river that had live music almost every night. He knew the owner, too, said he was a cool guy, and he frequented the place whenever in town. He figured it’d be right up my alley, a place for me to unwind and escape when I got all twitchy and itchy and just needed the one thing that ever brought me peace.

  Music.

  Whether I was playing it myself, or listening to someone else bring it alive.

  So I’d come.

  What I wasn’t expecting was her.

  That fucking gorgeous girl who’d swallowed me whole with just a glimpse. Last night I’d taken off because she’d left me unnerved and out of sorts, which I sure as hell wasn’t accustomed to feeling.

  Control.

  Learned a long time ago that it’s the only way to survive in this messed-up world.

  And in five seconds flat, that girl had managed to make me feel like I was losing it.

  So I’d jumped on my bike and hit the road—rode for hours with nowhere to go—with just the thoughts in my mind and the stirrings of a song fluttering somewhere in my subconscious as company. But even after I’d gone back to the beach house when it was nearing dawn and hashed out all those words on paper, there’d been no getting her off my mind. I had to see her again. Had to know if I’d been fucking hallucinating the strange connection I’d felt with her or if somehow it’d been real.

  So here I was.

  Curious.

  Squinting, I allowed my eyesight to adjust. The place was busier than I expected just an hour before the town shut down for the night, but not packed like last night. My attention bounced around the room, seeking out the one thing I wanted to find.

  My chest tightened when I did.

  She was at the bar, leaning against it with her arms pressed to the top, talking to the older guy working behind it. Mounds of dark, wavy blonde curls, full and shiny and begging to have my hands wrapped in it, obstructed her face.

  She had on a pair of frayed super-short cut-off jeans, which she wore with a pair of red scuffed-up cowgirl boots, showing off miles of long legs that were sleek and tanned, and suddenly had me questioning my control again.

  Tonight she’d shed the flowy royal-blue blouse she’d worn yesterday in favor of a red tank top. It was a damned shame because I was dying to catch a glimpse of the creamy expanse of bare skin on her back that her shirt from last night had teased me with.

  Everything about her was delicate—her slender arms and the graceful curve of her hips—elegant and soft and supple.

  But somehow everything about her felt raw.

  Something fierce bristling beneath all that delicious skin.

  Her head tipped back and she laughed, too far away for me to hear, close enough to know I wanted to.

  God, what was wrong with me? Apparently all the fresh air was fucking with my head.

  On a sigh, I pushed away from the door and found the secluded spot in the very back where I’d sat last night. I sank down onto the blood-red velvet cushion, stretched my legs out in front of me, going for the most casual I could muster when I really had no idea what I hoped to gain by being here.

  My phone buzzed from my front jeans pocket and I dug it out to read the text.

  Zee.

  You okay, man? You disappeared.

  A small grin formed on my mouth.
The Keeper. That’s what I called him and he’d earned the title well. He was always checking up, worried about everyone but himself.

  Yeah, just went to grab a drink.

  His response was almost immediate. Fine, dickhead, don’t invite the rest of us. We’re bored as hell over here.

  I chuckled and tapped out a reply. Maybe I’m sick of all your faces.

  Two seconds later, my phone buzzed again. Yet you drag our asses clear across the country.

  And just like last night, I felt her before she even spoke.

  I froze with my fingers poised on my phone, ready to type out some snarky reply to one of my best friends, when awareness gripped me by the throat.

  It was like she held some kind of power to command the hurricane that seemed to hover around her, cover her, protect her. An electric current sparking from her skin, something both dark and alive. Like she was projecting a warning to stay away, all the while sucking me right into the eye of a brewing storm.

  Fear.

  Whether it was hers or mine, I wasn’t sure, but I sensed it, just as strongly as I did when I sat in this very spot last night. At first I’d mistaken it for that fucked-up type of love and admiration ascribed to those who’ve not earned it. Love of a voice that was never really heard. Love of a face that was never really seen.

  You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But with her? When I’d looked up to see that gorgeous face twist up in shock, her hands shaking and some kind of confused desire flaring in her eyes, all it’d done was piss me off. Every inch of me had hardened, most notably my dick and my jaw, because the girl had to be the hottest thing both east and west of the Mississippi, and then I’d just been bracing for the downfall. That moment when a girl started squealing when she realized who I was, fawning all over me, trying to get a piece because that’s just the way it was.

  Everyone wanted a piece of Sebastian Stone.

  I would have given her one, too, let her use me up. But I’d have used her up faster. A meaningless night wrapped up in long, long legs, all that golden hair and caramel eyes and a sugar mouth I was dying to taste.