Had to Be You: Bad Boys of Red Hook

by Robin Kaye

  Nicki studied her shoes. “You’re not gonna snitch on me, are you?”

  “No, but I’m not falling for your charm either. I’m immune.” Something else he got out of his relationship with Dominique—he figured it was like an inoculation. He might have been sick as a grass-eating dog when he’d gotten it, but he wouldn’t fall prey to that emasculating disease again.

  “You think I got charm?”

  He let out a laugh. “Charm—kid, you’ve got so much charm, you have everyone in the family wrapped and you know it.”

  She stuffed her hands in her pockets and shrugged. “Not everyone. I’m gonna go do my chores before I ask Pop if I can go for a ride on your bike. Maybe then he’ll say yes.”

  “Good luck, Nicki.” Slater watched her sneak back into the restaurant’s kitchen. And she was sneaking. She’d even stuck her head through to make sure the coast was clear. He’d heard Skye tell Nicki that she wasn’t allowed in the alley alone. Nicki hadn’t been alone, but it damn sure didn’t look as if she’d asked permission to join him.

  Slater rolled his bike out of the crate and cleaned up the rest of the wood. He straddled his bike, the only woman who just wanted him to ride her fast and hard and never asked for anything else. His blood pressure dropped a good twenty points when he put on his helmet. As always, she started on the first try, he gave her some gas, let out her throttle, and took off.

  A part of him was trying to outrun his demons. Here in Red Hook, they were not only too close, but there were too many to count. Maybe he just needed to make peace with being made a fool of, make peace with his father’s health crisis, and make peace with spending the next five years living and working between the Middle East and Vienna. He sped down the straightaways at breakneck speeds, took the turns too fast, and flew through the icy wind coming off the bay until he lost feeling in most of his appendages.

  He drove fast, skirting the edge of control through neighborhoods he remembered from his youth. Ones he’d never planned to revisit and had successfully avoided for years. Yet here he was in Red Hook. He’d serve his one-month sentence helping Pop with the bar and Nicki, and then he was off to Bahrain.

  Slater returned to the Crow’s Nest and parked his bike out front—in a spot so perfect, Dominique would have called it princess parking.

  Too bad it wouldn’t be any easier to run from his demons there than it was in Red Hook. He’d traveled the world and no matter where he went, his demons were always licking at his heels, singeing his consciousness, waiting to possess him.

  • • •

  Slater squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and tried to prepare himself to step into his not so rosy past. He pulled the heavy door open and walked into the Crow’s Nest.

  He’d hoped the ride would clear his head. It hadn’t worked—his mind tumbled like dice on a craps table—Dominique, his dad, Nicki, Red Hook. The result: emotional bankruptcy.

  He pushed his way through the crowd—and it was a helluva crowd, which, when it came to the Crow’s Nest, was a new one on him. If he hadn’t seen the sign outside, he would have never known it was his father’s place.

  The only thing he recognized was the huge carved antique mahogany bar. The rough longshoreman crowd—gone. The stained drop ceiling—gone. The cheesy prints and cheap barstools—gone. They were replaced by an upscale clientele, high-back stools, and a tin ceiling with crown molding that matched the bar. The chipped plaster walls had been ripped down to exposed brick with the patina of age. Damn, the place was nice. High-back booths lined the wall opposite the bar, round tables filled the center, and Tiffany-style lighting set the mood. But the lighting and decorations were nothing compared to the sultry, sexy voice of the woman singing an Adele song on the stage. He couldn’t see her—the stage was just out of his line of sight.

  With the number of people packed into the place, he’d expected the normal raucous shout-if-you-want-to-be-heard noise level, but all he heard was her. She had the crowd enthralled: the men mesmerized, the women envious.

  A big guy behind the bar nodded to him and finished pouring a drink. He slid the glass in front of a customer, grabbed her cash, and rang it up. Strange silver eyes met Slater’s head-on. “What can I get you?” the bartender asked, and tossed a napkin on the spotless bar in front of him. The singer announced that she and the band, Nite Watch, were taking a break.

  Slater waited for her to stop speaking before he answered. “A Sixpoint Bengali Tiger IPA and a shot of Jack.”

  The bartender gave him an assessing look and Slater assessed him right back. Slater’s too long hair and badass leathers made people wonder if they should have the cops on speed-dial. He supposed he should be glad the bartender kept an eye out for trouble, but lately he’d had a hard time working up much in the way of appreciation.

  A minute later his drinks were delivered. Slater pushed his hair out of his eyes, tossed a twenty on the bar, and watched a cool platinum blonde with her back to him fill a glass with water. She had short choppy hair, a long neck made for a man to nibble, and an upper back and shoulders that told him she’d been a pretty serious dancer in the not too distant past.

  He didn’t know what she was doing behind the bar in a long dress. She turned and he realized it was only long in the back, the front was so short, the dress was just a tongue-lashing away from indecent.

  He didn’t mind that it looked more like a bathing suit cover-up than a dress. The wild tropical print on the layered, floaty material didn’t cling to her, but ensured that every curve demanded attention. She belonged barefoot on South Beach in Miami, not in a corner bar in Red Hook in December. He had the urge to offer her his jacket just to cover her. Shit.

  Slater had ordered the shot to warm up, but one look at the blonde and he didn’t need it.

  The slash of fluorescent blue that sliced through her side-swept bangs covered one eye, and pointed to a wild streak. He couldn’t see her eye color, but he’d bet his Harley they were blue. He’d always had a thing for blondes with blue eyes, and wondered how she felt about bikes.

  She said something to the bartender and then walked the length of the bar in heels so high and pointed, they were an engineering marvel—not to mention what they did to her legs.

  He downed the shot. She had one hell of a walk. It highlighted every muscle in her legs, every curve of her ass, and made her breasts even more drool-worthy.

  Unfortunately, he should do anything but follow. No, he was the last person who should be looking at a woman. Any woman. He’d learned from experience it was much safer to clear his head by flying down the streets of Red Hook on a motorcycle on a cold night. He might have frozen his balls off—but that was what he’d needed. He just wished it had worked.

  Slater took a pull off his beer and still felt antsy. Maybe it was being back home. In his mind Red Hook was like the Munsters’ house in that old TV show—gloomy and gray, with a big cloud hanging directly over it. That was why, when he’d been old enough to enlist—he did.

  The navy had been the only way Slater knew to get the hell out of Red Hook and make something of his life. He and his brothers had each made his escape and left Pop here to fend for himself. Now it was his turn to come back and take care of Pop, the Crow’s Nest, and Nicki. But unlike his brothers, he wasn’t getting sucked back in. He was giving it a month. One month—then he was out of here.

  He roamed the bar and was amazed at the amount of food still being served this late. The kitchen was doing decent business—something that hadn’t happened when he’d been a kid. The stage lights came on and he checked his watch—almost ten, time for the band to start. He wasn’t sure why they’d been playing earlier, but he’d figure it all out in time. Running the place would be his job starting tomorrow. Today, he wanted to see how things worked before anyone found out who the hell he was.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rocki O’Sullivan stood center of the
stage, belting out one of her favorite Kirsty MacColl songs—a little bit Latin, a little bit sexy, and a whole lot funny. She’d chosen her dress carefully, with this song in mind. Short, sassy, and comfortable—the perfect combination for making a man wonder how long it would take to get her out of it. It worked perfectly paired with her favorite pumps, mirror platforms that picked up the cobalt blue of the shoe and added a good five inches to her already long legs. The kind of shoes that made a man think twice about taking them off before carrying a woman to bed.

  And putting thoughts in men’s heads was one of the reasons Rocki chose most of her shoes—that and she was a total shoe whore.

  The electric buzz of eyes on her was normally something she relished. But tonight something, someone, had set off her heat sensor. Rocki scanned the crowd and her gaze landed on a man who threw her so far off her game, she missed the chorus. She never forgot the words. Thank God Tessa, Mark, and Kirby were singing backup and covering her ass.

  Whoever he was, he seemed to have an invisible barrier around him. No one stepped into his space. He stood still, a bottle of beer in one hand, the other hooked into a belt loop.

  He wore a kick-ass black leather biker jacket, scuffed black boots that’d been driven hard miles, and his long legs were tucked into tight black jeans that seemed as if they’d been tailor made to cup all his intriguing parts.

  An image of him straddling a hot bike flashed through her mind. He was tall—really tall with curly chestnut brown hair that looked as if it was absentmindedly tucked behind his ears. It was too long to be respectable—but then respectability was way overrated. On any other man the curls, which were big enough to slide three fingers through and probably hung like ringlets when wet, would look feminine, but on this guy there was no hint of softness.

  He filled out his Under Armour turtleneck like a superhero might—pecs and abs clearly defined against the hot lights that hit him, his muscles delineating the shadows and highlighting a bulge that made her mouth water.

  Rocki had always liked men and was well aware that they liked her right back, but she’d never had one look at her quite the way he did. His eyes flared with so much heat that she wouldn’t need a tanning booth if she were naked.

  Mark nudged her, bringing her mind back to the song.

  She sang to the bad boy as if he were the only man in the room.

  He didn’t move to the music. He didn’t move a muscle. The only thing that moved were his eyes. His gaze scanned her body, trailing heat from the tips of her toes to her tits.

  It was a little disconcerting. She was used to guys checking her out, but no one had ever looked at her with such intensity that it was all she could do to get through the song without forgetting the words.

  She checked the playlist taped to the floor. The song she’d just finished was about being propositioned by several different men, and the next was no better. When she sang about watching a man shower, it was him she envisioned. When she sang about picturing her telephone number, his brow rose in question. Oh my god. This guy was good and so hot that even though she never dated, she’d date him in a Brooklyn minute.

  She was relieved to get back behind her trusty piano for the next song—of course it was about telling a man that if he wanted her, where exactly he could find her. She never realized before that the entire playlist was a come-on of ginormous proportions.

  She looked up from the piano and saw that he’d moved right into her line of vision. She sang about wondering about him—all kinds of questions ran through her head about the man who could carry on a conversation with a quirk of his lips, the rise of a brow, and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.

  Wendy, a cocktail server, stopped to ask for his order, and it didn’t look as if he’d even heard her. He never took his eyes off Rocki and she wasn’t able to look away except to check the playlist.

  After remembering the next song, she wondered if it had been too long since she’d dated. She flirted a lot, but she made it a point to always go home alone. Still, when looking at the playlist with a critical eye, she had to admit it looked as if it were written by a horny woman. It was too late to do anything to change it. Mark was already tuning his guitar to go into the next song. The lyrics of which practically begged a man to take care of her in all ways possible.

  Rocki’s face heated as she sang about being full of desire—which she was, but damn, she certainly didn’t want to give Mr. Rough-and-Ready the wrong impression. She needed to get off the stage and find out who this guy was.

  She signaled the band to play one more song before they took a break. Mark drew a question mark with his guitar head and she answered it with a shrug. Just great. The next song was Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does It Better.” She threw herself into the intro and closed her eyes, blocking him out while she sang, only to imagine him lying naked and tangled in the sheets.

  Rocki finished the song and didn’t take her fingers off the piano keys until quiet filled the bar. “I’m Rocki O’Sullivan and we’re Nite Watch. We’ll be back.” She was just glad Pete wasn’t sitting at the bar keeping track of her breaks.

  The rest of the band lit off the stage and one of the bartenders switched on the music.

  Rocki took a fortifying breath—she couldn’t sit there hiding behind her piano forever. When she got the courage to look, the guy had disappeared. It was probably for the best. She rose, grabbed her water for a refill, and went down the steps—there was no jumping off the stage in her heels. When she hit the floor, an arm reached out from the hallway to the left and gently pulled her in. She should have felt threatened, but she didn’t.

  “Looking for someone?” His deep voice was as soft and smooth as top-shelf whiskey.

  Her eyes rose and met his. Damn, he was a big one. In her heels she was pushing six feet two and he had at least a couple of inches on her. He looked as broad as he was tall. Solid. Hard. Dangerous—with a twist of naughty. The naughty part came on loud and strong in the quirk of his full lips. Lips a girl could sigh over and wish she had a matching pair. On anyone else they’d look girly—but on him, like a beautiful red apple, they just made her want to take a bite.

  “I wasn’t looking for anyone. But it looks as if you are.” He stood so close she caught a whiff of the sea on him mixed with leather and yummy man. He didn’t wear aftershave but that only made her want to stand closer and drink in his scent.

  He leaned against the wall and looked her up and down, just like he had while she was onstage. His gaze lit her up like a sparkler on the top of a cake and she was dessert. No one had ever done that to her and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  “I wasn’t looking for anyone either—then I saw you.”

  The you came out on a purr and she felt the rumble in her chest. “Is that a good thing?”

  “You tell me.”

  Rocki wasn’t the nervous type, but this man looked at her in a way that set her hormones jumping, her heart pounding, and made her wonder if he had X-ray vision. She thanked the gods she wasn’t wearing granny panties. His intense scrutiny had her trying to cover herself even though she was fully clothed. “I think it’s too early to tell but it has definite possibilities.”

  “I’m more interested in probabilities. What’s the probability of you letting me buy you a drink?”

  Rocki looked at her watch. “Pretty good, but I have to be back on stage in about fifteen minutes.”

  He nodded to an empty booth. “No problem.” He placed his hand on her lower back, heat searing through the thin gauze of her dress, and steered her across the room. He leaned in close. “What do you want?”

  She swallowed back a few racy retorts. She didn’t know anything about this guy. “I’d love an Orange Crush.”

  “Done.” He flagged down Wendy, the server he’d ignored earlier, and ordered her drink and another beer for himself. He settled into the booth across from her an
d seemed to take up the entire side. If she were sitting beside him, she’d have been pasted to him whether she wanted to be or not. She didn’t think she’d complain.

  “You have an amazing voice.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you think so.”

  He took a sip of his beer. “Where else do you play?”

  “Nowhere. We’re the house band. We’re here Tuesday through Saturday nights.”

  “Seriously? Why?”

  He didn’t look as if he meant to be offensive, so she chose not to take it that way. “Why not?”

  He leaned back and shrugged, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he looked disappointed. “You could be playing all over the city. Why would you choose to play in Red Hook?”

  She took a sip of water and shrugged. “It’s a steady gig, the band is happy to have to work only five nights a week. Most of us have day jobs, and no one is interested in pounding the pavement looking for gigs. Besides, Pete Calahan, the owner, is a great guy to work for. It’s steady, and since I have simple tastes, the money is enough.”

  “Do you have a day job?”

  “I work when I want. What about you?”

  He leaned back and stretched out. “I’m kind of in between jobs. My next contract doesn’t start until after the first of the year.”

  “What do you do?”

  “IT security.”

  Wow, that didn’t compute—the man was seriously built, he looked as if he was an athlete turned model—she so couldn’t see him sitting behind a computer. “You’re a techno weenie? Where’s your pocket protector?”

  One side of his lip quirked up in a sexy half smile as if a full one would take too much effort or would be too overwhelming for mere mortals. “I left it with the rest of my uniform—you know, plastic black-framed glasses taped together, white button-down shirt, high-waisted chinos that are a few inches too short, white socks, black shoes.”