by Lexi Whitlow
He’s a lawyer now with the biggest firm in town. He’s just as tall as me, but soft. He hasn’t kept up at the gym. He looks more and more like his father every day: soft in the middle, tender around the edges, with the threat of a receding hairline fingering deep into his temples.
“Man, did you just drop fifty on lotto tickets?” Charles asks, speaking loudly enough for everyone in the store to hear. “Shit Chandler. Don’t you know the lottery is just a stupid tax designed to separate hicks like you from your cash?”
Fucking asshole. I’d like to separate his face from his skull, but I know better than that. I crack my knuckles instead and take a deep breath.
He’s not worth my time.
I turn to face him, leveling him with a chilly gaze.
“Why yes, I do know that. Anything else you’d like to say to me?” I ask, shoving the tickets in my ass pocket, sliding my six pack off the counter. I briefly consider using it against the side of his head, but instead, I just grin at the image.
He smirks. “Dude, you used to be such a big man, making all the girls cream their panties and all the guys wanna be you. Now look at you. Just a washed up, ex-jock, whose glory days peaked at twenty. You’re kinda sad.”
Titanium knees, steel pins, or otherwise, I could disassemble Charles Pearson’s face in six seconds flat. That said, he’s a lawyer. There’s two groups of people it’s ill-advised to drop kick and beat the shit out of: cops and lawyers. You might win the fight, but you’ll always lose the war.
“At least I had glory days,” I reply, grinning wider. “I kissed all the prettiest girls. I had a shitload of fun. As I recall, you were sitting on a bench with your thumb up your ass, while the entire cheerleading squad was singing out my name. So… whatever.”
I brush past him, racking his shoulder with my solid bulk, shoving him back a foot.
“There’s one you never got,” he calls as I pass through the door. “And you never will.”
As much as I want to turn around and stomp that shitbird’s ass into the dirty tile floor, I don’t. I don’t do it because I have people waiting at home for me who can’t manage if my sorry ass winds up in jail.
Besides, none of that shit matters anymore. My glory days ended in a flash, with two shattered, compound fractured knees on the ten-yard line at the Cotton Bowl.
I never made it to the NFL. I never graduated from college. I never even made it back to community college. And—as Charles Pearson so adeptly points out—I never got the only girl who mattered.
No one got that girl.
When I asked her to senior prom she laughed. She shook her head, saying, “My daddy would kill me if you showed up at my door.” She flashed that heart-breaking smile of hers and winked, walking away. “Come see me when you’re MVP in the NFL, then we’ll talk.”
Some stupid part of me always believed I’d get the chance to take her up on that challenge. As it turned out, life doesn’t work out the way you think it will when you’re seventeen years-old and you believe the world is your oyster to crack open.
The pearl in that oyster? Her name was Bryn Beckett, and she eluded everyone. She went off to school in New York, and I haven’t heard of her since. I’ve thought of her a lot over the years, but that just proves I’m still hanging on to glory days. I need to accept the fact that my life isn’t going to get a whole lot better, ever. I’m going to be just like my father, working my ass off until the day I pack it in and expire.
I put these grim considerations out of my mind before turning the car toward home, as I’ve got bigger problems ahead. It’s going to be a rough Friday night in the Chandler household. I’m coming home empty handed, and that’s not going down well with Drake. He’ll whine and scream at me for not bringing pizza, and if I let him, he’ll really melt down and start hitting me, himself, and the furniture.
Drake is autistic. Moderately high-functioning in the parlance of the experts. He can converse with relative ease, at least with people he knows. But he doesn’t process things the same way the rest of us do. He’s tense, and sometimes volatile. He doesn’t handle change in his routine well. He focuses on precise detail, incapable of seeing the big picture.
Maybe I can put some parmesan cheese on his bologna sandwich, and make him think it’s close to the same thing? Doubt it’ll work, but it’s worth a try.
This isn’t how things were supposed to be, but it’s how things are. I’m learning to accept them.
I could still nail every one of the prettiest girls in town. And I’ve probably gotten with half of them at one time or another. And at the end of the day, I’ve got more than that self righteous prick who needs to belittle other people to feel like he matters.
Besides, I’ve got a feeling I’m on the rise.
I’m an optimistic person.
I step out into the cool night air and take a long breath in.
Winner Takes All
Chapter 1
Bryn
This is not how I planned my day.
I have a client meeting at two o’clock. I need to read the case files, so I don’t look like the clueless, green lawyer I am. That, and Daddy wants to take me to lunch with one of his partners.
I don’t have time for car trouble.
The Z was fine in the driveway, but two blocks from home, it started running rough. It’s never done that before. I tried to limp it to the office, but it died at a stoplight on Glenwood.
If I get it towed to the dealership all the way out on the north side of the city, I’ll be lucky to make it back downtown by two, much less make lunch with Daddy. There’s got to be a better option.
When the tow-truck driver arrives, he suggests a mechanic a few miles away.
“And they have some sort of expertise with this type of car?”
“They do European imports,” he says, lifting my BMW onto his flatbed with chains and a winch. “But, ideally, I’d take it to the dealership. This is a brand-new car. Everything should be under warranty.”
Everything is under warranty, but I don’t have time. I need this problem solved yesterday.
Unfortunately, yesterday isn’t on the service menu.
“Are they close?” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice.
“Close enough,” he says, shrugging.
I sigh heavily and hand him my keys. “Take it in.”
On the ride over, his car is hot—hotter than it should be. And it smells like the inside of a gas pump. Every breath I take is stifling. Maybe I should be glad that I could miss lunch with Daddy, but it’s simpler to fall in line and please him when I have the chance. I try not to focus too much on the time scale, instead opting to look out the window and let my mind go blank.
When we get there, the shop isn’t quite as I expect it to be. It’s got a cleaner, neater air than the place I took my car to in New York. And there are nice cars parked in neat rows out behind the shop. Lots of them.
“Shit,” I mutter, making my way over to the garage. I know what the manager is going to say to me even before he says it.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to leave it,” he says, shaking his head, gesturing out to the full lot behind me. “As you can see, we’ve got at least ten others ahead of you. It’s probably going to be tomorrow before we can look at it.”
“But none of those car’s owners are here,” I insist, trying to use my incredible gifts of persuasion to woo him over to reason. I give him a weak smile. I’m not even convincing myself right now. “I have a noon meeting. I need my car. Please?” I try batting my eyelashes, but I was never very good at that.
“I’m sorry ma’am,” he says again. He hands my keys to a short, greasy mechanic with a crooked grin who’s nearly leering at me. “Can I call you a cab?”
“Oh, come on! Please,” I insist, not believing my predicament, watching the short guy and another, much taller, tattooed mechanic, push my Z to the side of the garage. “You can’t even look at it? I’m right here. It won’t take five minutes
to peek under the hood.”
He shakes me off. “Come in the office and let me fill out a work order, get your name and contact info.”
I have no choice except to follow him. I make him wait by his idling computer while I call the office, begging my admin, Bonnie, to get someone to come pick me up.
I look at my Lyft app, and true to form, there is no one in the area. The closest car is thirty miles away. This place might have a nice car shop, but it hasn’t caught up with twenty-first century technology.
“Name?” he asks, when I’m finished with my call.
“Bryn Beckett,” I reply coolly. He asks twenty more questions, taking an inordinate amount of time inputting data into his derelict computer. I’m surprised he doesn’t request a DNA sample—but then again, he has my car.
I hear a bell jingle at the door behind me.
“Hey, there you are,” a familiar voice chirps. I glance up. It’s Charles.
Great. Just what I need. How is it that a guy who bills $600 per hour for the firm can be spared to run an errand?
He must have been talking to Bonnie when I called. He spends way too much time chatting up the admins, especially mine.
“I hear you need a lift.” He steps up, smiling.
The shop manager hands me a sheet of paper fresh from the printer.
“Sign right here,” he instructs, a stubby finger pointing at the signature line.
Just as I sign, Charles starts laughing. I look up, following his gaze through the wide glass windows that open to the mechanic’s shop floor. He’s looking at something inside. Whatever it is, it fills him with glee.
“Check this out,” Charles says, urging me forward.
I slide the paper back to the shop manager.
“We’ll call you as soon as we have an opportunity to have a look,” the manager says. “Probably tomorrow.”
I thank him, standing, joining Charles near the window. He tips his head forward, nodding toward a mechanic in the corner who’s rifling through boxes of parts.
“You know who that is?” Charles asks, an amused smirk cutting his face.
The guy has his back turned to us. He’s wearing a blue, short-sleeved shirt stained from collar to belt with grease, and is smeared with used motor oil up to his elbows. I’m not usually one to go for that type, but there’s something about the smear of grease on his well-defined bicep that sends a tiny shock of lightning straight to my core.
Calm down, girl. That’s not why you’re here. Not even close.
But my eyes can’t stop taking him in. He’s trim, but not thin, the blue of his shirt betraying a defined waist and thick, structured muscle. His shoulders are broad, stretching the fabric so it’s about to burst. And the curve of his thighs and ass are tightly defined in his work pants, which cling low on his narrow hips.
Hot damn.
I shake my head. “No. Should I know him?”
I might want to.
Charles bites a stifled laugh. “That’s Logan Chandler. Remember him?”
Logan… fuck.
Just then, the guy turns and looks up. His eyes first fall on me, and then narrow sharply, settling on Charles.
“Let’s have a reunion,” Charles says, glee rising in his tone.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I feel my face flush pink. My heart rate quickens, and that familiar feeling comes back. The guilt, mixed with regret. And that haunting, hollow longing I always felt whenever I was near him.
The shame I feel every time I look back and remember my own shallowness and the weight of the things I wanted back then. The even heavier weight of the things my parents wanted for me.
“No,” I say, panicking. “Leave him be. I’m in a hurry. Let’s go.”
Charles is having none of it. But he’s got a functioning car and keys, so I’m stuck watching him shove his hands in the pockets of his suit pants, leaning into the swinging door separating us from the mechanic’s shop.
“Hey, Logan.” Logan looks away and ignores Charles. “Chandler,” Charles calls out again. “Nice seeing you today. How ya been? Hey, that BMW you just got in, that’s Bryn’s.” He nods to me, cutting his eyes in my direction. “You remember Bryn, don’t you?”
Double fuck.
Logan walks forward slowly, crossing the oil stained, concrete floor, his eyes fixed on Charles. He’s got something in his hand. It looks like a wire of some kind. He’s gripping one end of it like he’s holding a whip, ready to strike. His crystal blue eyes have gone ice cold.
“Of course I remember Bryn,” he says, stepping past Charles into the office, his big build crowding Charles back two steps. He’s the same, but different. His voice hasn’t changed since our senior year. It’s still deep and measured, tinged with sweet honey and a slight accent, peculiar to the neighborhood of Raleigh we all grew up in. He’s taller now, and much bigger, ripped with defined muscles, inked with all manner of tattoos creeping under his shirtsleeves, peeking out of his collar.
The feeling inside of me should subside. I’ve gotten all of those things I thought I wanted back in high school. I’m getting good—well, better—at my job. And I have the clothes and the car and the…
My mind draws a blank. Instead, I focus on the ropy muscle of Logan’s biceps, and I feel fifteen years old again. His voice, the way it shook me. The strong lines of his hands, the way I had wanted them on me, exploring me, finding new places I hadn’t had the bravery to discover on my own.
I try to smile, but his eyes glance away from me.
He doesn’t smile back at me. In fact, he seems … cold.
“Bryn’s joined the firm,” Charles says, stepping up close to me. “Just graduated from Columbia Law. She’s made everyone proud, coming back home. She could have joined any law firm in the country pulling down huge money, but she came back here to carry on the Beckett tradition. Like her daddy always wanted.”
Logan nods, his jaw clenched. “Apparently.”
“And as you can see,” Charles continues, a cruel smile turning his eyes at the corners. “Logan here has come back home too, after blowing up his knees.” He sniggers, shaking his head as he recalls the event. “You know I have that Cotton Bowl recorded on DVR, just so I can call it up and watch it over and over again. That hit was epic. I show it to people sometimes, and they get a little sick watching it. Who knew knees could bend in that direction? Well—actually—I guess they’re not supposed to, which is why you’re here—”
“Shut up, Charles,” I say, stepping up, ending his gloating reverie. I put my hand out for Logan. “It’s really good to see you again, Logan. It’s been too long.”
He looks at my hand, then at his own. He holds his up, oil stained palms out, shaking his head.
“I wouldn’t want you to get your hands dirty,” he says. “This shit doesn’t wash out. Trust me, I should know.”
His eyes flash with a haughty defiance, as if he’s making a point—a point that’s gone over my head. He was always like that.
Looking at him, I realize he’s still the same, just bulked out and covered with different markings. Still as cocky and confident, still as self-contained. The only difference is there’s something gruff in his manner. Something older. Like he’s seen too much of life in a few short years. But maybe I’m reading too much into things.
He’s more beautiful than he ever was, only now he appears a little dangerous. The combination is intoxicatingly sexy.
I find myself wondering what his skin smells like, what the refined planes of his body would feel like pressed against mine. In the dark, in the light. Any fucking where at all.
I flush hot thinking of him that way. His eyes flash and I fear he see’s what’s in my head. A small smile curls his lip.
“I’ll have your car ready in ten minutes,” he says. “You had a cracked plug and a burnt wire. Easy fix. Fast turnaround for old friends.”
He gives me a broader smile, and I have a quick flash of feeling. Like he knows.
He coul
dn’t.
I calm myself.
But I can’t quite shake that feeling.
Chapter 2
Logan
This time, it takes every single ounce of self-control I possess not to punch Charles Pearson in his smug, pasty face. He’s standing there in a thousand-dollar suit, wearing a self-important smirk, reminding Bryn about every fuck up I’ve had in my life. Meanwhile I’m stuck taking his shit with a spark plug in my hand.
Bryn is every bit as beautiful as she was on graduation night, and then some. She’s still got that smoking hot cheerleader’s body with long legs and a perfect, heart-shaped ass I’ve never stopped dreaming about. Her blond hair is still golden, streaked with honey and sunshine. Her eyes are still pale green, and her lips are still pink, full and pouty; the kind of lips that beg to be kissed—or bitten.