by Brinda Berry
“Listen here…what did you say your name is?” She affects a scolding tone, but it doesn’t work. Her talking voice and singing voice match—both sultry and inviting.
“Aiden. Aiden Alesini.” I attempt to sound nonchalant even though it stings that she doesn’t remember my name from earlier at the bar.
“Well, Aiden Alesini.” She repeats it with a sweet, alluring lilt. “You shouldn’t underestimate open wounds. Thank god I didn’t cut your eyeball.” She shudders, places the first-aid kit on the counter, and washes her hands. Then she flips open the box lid. Picking out a packet, she withdraws a tiny towelette and dabs at the cut.
“Ow.” I jerk my head back. “That hurts like a mother.”
She laughs, a low rumbly sound. “Hold still.” She sticks the tip of her tongue out in concentration.
I brace myself and focus on her face. I wonder if I can make her laugh again, but looking at her sort of kills my brain function. Probably a result of all my blood rushing to lower regions. I attempt to stop being such a douchebag and make real conversation.
“Makenna Ross. Singer, boxer, and part-time nurse,” I say. Makenna with a voice like sex. She reminds me of those nursery tales about mermaids. A sexy siren enticing sailors to draw near. “Makenna who is ignoring my request for her phone number.”
She opens another midget-sized packet and squeezes ointment on her finger. “Everyone calls me Mak.”
“Mak,” I repeat. “That’s not going to work for me.” She doesn’t look like a Mak. Mak would be some big guy with a thick neck. Somebody who could bench press me. Makenna is all curves and softness. I glance down at the T-shirt that does nothing to hide her shape.
When my eyes flick back to meet hers, she blushes and gives me a censorious glare. “Eyes up here buddy.”
“What’s your shirt say?” I’d actually try to read it, but she stands too close.
She presses a little harder than necessary when sticking a bandage above my eyelid. “Ball Breaker.”
“Easy, Nurse Ratched.” I grin. “Ball Breaker, huh. Guess I’ll guard my boys.”
“You’re safe. It’s from a Beastie Boys concert.”
“Cool.”
“You like vintage T-shirts?”
“I like vintage rock.”
My vision narrows on the right side. Yeah, that eye will be swollen shut soon. “Thanks for patching me up.” I straighten so I can grab the door handle.
I’d like to talk to her longer, but I figure Dane will send someone looking for me soon. “Wait for me to get off work. I’d like to—”
“You can’t bartend like that.” She covers her mouth with one hand. “It looks worse every minute. We should find an icepack. I am so sorry.”
“Will you quit saying that? It was an accident. Plus, you’re reminding me that I’ve lost my man card. I’ve worked hard to be this imposing.” I flex one bicep. “Now, I’m going to have to tell people that a girl gave me this black eye.”
The door swings open and a guy pokes his head inside.
“Am I next?” He leers at Makenna and reaches out a hand and touches her arm.
Fools. Drunk, asshole fools. “Drop that hand before I break it.”
The guy lifts both hands in the air. “My mistake.”
We push past him and weave through the crowd, back into the bar.
Makenna puts a hand on my back to get my attention. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” I wink at her with my good eye.
I get to the end of the bar and sway a little. It feels like my brain wiggles and I shut my eyes.
She gasps and grabs my forearm. “You’re not OK. You’re dizzy.”
“I am. It’s been a long day. It’s not the eye. I’ve been cutting carbs so…” I realize I’m telling her stuff that won’t make sense if she doesn’t know I’m in training.
My man card really has been confiscated. I sound like a giant-ass wuss. Cutting carbs.
“I’ll take you home,” she says. “You can’t drive like this.”
“Hey,” I stop. “I appreciate it, but I’m good.”
“The guys can grab the equipment. You—”
“She messed you up.” Dane stands close, mixing drinks and listening to us argue.
“No. She did not. Don’t tell her that. She’s already paranoid.”
Makenna steps closer to Dane. “He can’t see out of one eye. I said I’d drive him home.”
“Good idea. You have blood on your shirt and you look like you’ve been in a drunken brawl.” He snickers and takes a step back. “Harper’s been bartending some. She took your place when you stepped out.” He turns and yells over his shoulder, “Go home.”
I sigh before rolling my head left and right. The movement does make me dizzy. “OK. I’ll let you take me home and then I get your number. Deal?”
“The things I agree to so I can be a good Samaritan. OK. You can have my number.”
It seems like a fair trade.
Since it’s after 1:00 am, the crowds are thinning. Harper gives me a wave from behind the bar and then points at the door.
Women. All of them telling me what to do.
I nod at her and turn to Makenna. “Where’s your coat?”
“Behind the drum set. I’ll grab it.” She leaves to retrieve it and I grab mine from the office. In minutes, we’re back at the same spot—me a little relieved that she didn’t change her mind about leaving together.
We edge around the partiers and exit the front doors.
The crowds are thick on the sidewalks with people deciding if they are too drunk to drive home. We walk in silence to a public parking lot three blocks over.
Once there, she unlocks her very small car. I open my door, ducking my head down and folding into the seat. Her car makes me feel like a giant.
She pushes buttons to get the heat going and I buckle my seat belt.
“Where to?” she asks.
I give her directions and let my head fall back against the seat as she drives.
She clears her throat. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Please stop asking.” I peer sideways at her with my good eye. I laugh. “I’m fine. Tired. I’m not a night person anymore.”
“So you tend bar during the day?” She takes a right to the interstate on-ramp.
“No. I only help Dane out when he needs it. By the way, you were great tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you on iTunes? I’ll download your stuff.”
She drives in silence for a beat, thinking about her answer. “No. Usually, I’m behind the scenes, writing songs for other people. I’m not really a singer. My friend asked me to fill in because their singer came down with strep throat.”
“Oh. I’m surprised. You have a great voice. You should be singing.”
Makenna keeps quiet and turns on the radio instead. Interesting. Either she is very modest, or she doesn’t like the topic.
The station plays pop songs—stuff I consider bubble gum tunes—totally at odds with her Beastie Boys shirt as well as the country songs she’d sung tonight. Nashville used to be a place to make it big in country. Now it seems the musicians grow more eclectic every day.
We turn onto my street. Old houses, built before I was born, line both sides of the neighborhood. I point ahead. “Pull up here, the two-story with the concrete birdbath in the front.”
She does as I ask and I unbuckle my seat belt. “Hey. I appreciate the ride.”
“Least I could do.”
I’m already half in love with Makenna Ross. It might be her husky singing voice that gets to me, one I can imagine yelling my name during sex.
Or maybe it’s all that red hair and porcelain skin that makes her look ethereal and otherworldly. Add in her tough, conquer-the-world expression, like some beauty who belongs in a DC comic holding a gun and wearing black leather.
Badass with a touch of vulnerability, the kind of girl who lets you in only if you earn it.
&nbs
p; I open the door and step out. Standing with one hand on the car roof and the other braced on the door, I hesitate, not sure if I want to be shot down again at the end of this long night. I bite the bullet and look down at her inside the car. “I really want to call you. We could have coffee or dinner. Whatever you want.”
She eyes me without answering and then looks away when she speaks. “I’m not really attracted to you.”
So far tonight, Makenna’s delivered every response sharply, with a no-nonsense attitude. But her face, the way her eyes avoid mine, tells me what she’s saying now is a lie. I know this with something akin to a sixth sense. She thinks she’s going to deter me with one ‘no.’
“Come on, Makenna. Take pity on an injured man.”
She exhales and points at the house. “There’s a guy standing on your porch.”
“Coffee. Or a burger. You tell me what you like.”
She looks over my shoulder. “The guy. He’s coming.”
I turn around to see Chad. He tucks both hands into his pockets and looks guilty. His shirt’s untucked and he’s been drinking.
“I didn’t think you’d be home for a while,” he says. “The party’s still going and well…your room is occupied.”
“What the hell? You were having a few friends over. This isn’t a frat house.” I sigh. This is what I get for having roommates. “I’ll crash in Dane’s room.”
Chad grimaces. “Umm…his room is occupied, too. Did you get in a fight?” He steps closer and moves my face toward the street lamp. “I hope the other guy looks worse than you.”
A snort sounds from inside the car.
We both look to Makenna.
“OK,” she says. “Get back in. I guess we could get a burger.”
I pause and look at Chad. “Give over your keys. You don’t need to go anywhere.”
“Man. I’m not leaving.” He sways as he leans down to look inside the open car door. “Hey there. I’m Chad. The good-looking one. And you are?”
“Mak.” Her gaze leaves him instantly and returns to me. I can’t help but smile. Girls love Chad. They tell him he looks like the Hemsworth star—Chris or Thor, whatever. I, on the other hand, look like some Italian mafia gangster. They don’t realize I’m the good guy and he’s the one to watch out for.
“Well?” she prompts me.
“Thanks. You won’t be sorry.” I get back into the car, stick my head out the window, and glare at Chad. “They’d better be gone by the time I get back. I’m serious.”
I grin though. It’s my lucky night, black eye included.
She turns up the stereo and loud guitar riffs fill the interior. The volume prevents me from speaking and I get the feeling she wants it that way.
We drive from my street and hit the interstate. We’ve gone several miles when my cell rings. I jam two fingers into my jeans pocket and retrieve my phone.
It’s my grandmother’s best friend and neighbor, Mrs. Dorsey. She’s had my number for as long as I can remember. I glance at the time. Something’s wrong.
“Hello.” I keep my voice level.
“Aiden? It’s me.” Mrs. Dorsey’s voice shakes.
“What is it?” I inhale and will her to say nothing’s wrong. Please just wish me a happy New Year. She’s old, but maybe it’s the one time a year she’s up past midnight.
Please not let this be anything about Nonna. But I know something bad has happened.
Makenna gives me a sidelong glance and raises her eyebrows in question.
“It’s your grandmother. She’s alive. She had a heart attack. I called the ambulance.” Mrs. Dorsey continues to talk but I can’t keep up with her details. There’s a loud buzzing of panic in my brain that runs interference with her voice.
My lips go numb and my palms clammy. “She’s OK? Which hospital?” I ask.
Makenna touches my arm and it brings me back to reality, inside this car. “Where? Which one?” I gulp and press two fingers to my forehead.
“Nashville Memorial. Call me as soon as you get there and let me know what’s going on,” she says.
“Yes. Of course.” I gulp past the lump of fear blocking my throat.
“Call me,” she repeats. Then she ends our call. I know she’s shaken. They are close in age, late eighties, and both healthy…until today.
“You OK?” Makenna divides her attention between the road and me.
“I need to get to Nashville Memorial. Now. Can we go? And can you hurry?”
“Of course.” She accelerates and takes a fast turn, headed to the expressway. “I’m on it.”
“Thank you,” I say on an exhale. No time for me to think about losing Nonna. She’s the only person in the world who cares a whit about me.
“You all right over there?” Makenna speeds up and passes several cars.
“It’s my grandmother.” I blink and rub a hand over my face, the swelling in my eye pulsing with my heartbeat. “I just saw her earlier today. She was fine. Now she might die.”
Chapter Two
Wishful Thinking
Aiden
Nonna cannot, will not, shouldn’t even think about dying. I realize she’s old, but I’m not ready to lose her. Why didn’t I spend more time with her lately? Because I’m an asshole who got obsessed with his own goals. I didn’t make time for the only family I have.
I make myself focus on the road and Makenna’s driving.
“You might want to stop at the red lights.” Granted, the traffic light was yellow when we breezed through, but Makenna doesn’t seem to notice. The tires squeal as she enters the freeway.
I clench my fists to stop from grabbing onto something. She accelerates a little more and I cock my head to the left so I can check out her speedometer. Not a good idea.
This is not how I want to meet my maker. My father died in a car. The crash killed him instantly.
At this rate, I’ll make it to the great beyond before Nonna does.
Makenna maneuvers around a semi. “I’m getting you there, aren’t I?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Yeah.” She glances at the side mirror and changes lanes. The driver in back of us lays on his horn.
“Not that I’m criticizing your driving abilities, but I have this great love of life. You know, past the age of twenty-four. Also, I need to work on my glutes.”
She turns her head toward me at that comment, an error in judgment on my part since I need her eyes on the road.
“And why are you thinking of your…um glutes now?” she asks. Thankfully, she looks ahead again.
“My glutes are getting quite the workout during this ride with you.”
Her mouth curves into a smile so brief I almost miss it.
We don’t talk for several minutes. She skips turning on a blinker and exits doing 60 mph. A car travels on the cross street and throws on its brakes to avoid colliding with us.
My nerves scream for her to slow the fuck down. Use a blinker. Or the brakes. Maybe a parachute.
“Makenna,” I say, barking her name. It comes out harsh and militant—maybe the only thing that will get her attention. I decide to stop this bullshit before she kills us.
“What?” she yells.
“Dammit,” I say between my teeth. “Slow down. You’re going to get pulled over and that’s not going to help me get there.”
She lifts her foot from the gas pedal at my words. The dashboard gives off just enough light for me to see her concerned expression.
“I don’t want you to miss saying good-bye.” Makenna shakes her head. “It’s important. There’s nothing worse than living with regret.”
A blue light and siren sounds to our right. Someone would think I conjured the cop with my words. Makenna brakes and maneuvers to the side of the road before banging both hands on the steering wheel.
“No, no, no,” she moans under her breath.
We sit waiting in silence while the cop takes his time to get out of his patrol car.
At his approach, Mak
enna lowers her window. The cop ducks his head and studies me, then stands again. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
“Yes, sir,” Makenna answers.
“I clocked you at sixty-seven in a forty zone. Have you been drinking this evening?”
“No. Of course not. Do I look drunk?” She sounds angry and defensive—not a good stand to take against the guy holding a ticket pad and wearing handcuffs on his belt. He’s wearing two sets of cuffs. Wonderful. We can each have our own.
“I need your license and registration.”
“This is an emergen—”
“License and registration, please.” His tone brooks no argument.
She reaches behind her seat to grab her purse and sifts through the contents until she finds her wallet. Looking at me, she motions her head to the glove compartment. “Can you please find my registration in there?”
I’m glad to have something helpful to do. A dull ache forces me to press a hand on my forehead, my heartbeat centered over my swollen eye. I find what she needs and hand it to her.
The cop accepts both items and returns to his car. After what seems like a silent eternity, he returns. He gives us both a stern look, his brow furrowing as he points his flashlight into the dark car. I suddenly remember what I must look like to him with my swollen eye.
“I’m giving you a traffic violation for exceeding the speed limit.” He shines his flashlight into my face, causing me to blink hard. “What happened to you?” he asks me while absently handing Makenna the ticket.
“But—” she starts to argue, and I place a hand on her forearm to stop her.
“I bartend at Dastardly Bastards and a girl hit me. Accidentally. You know how people can be on New Year’s,” I say with a smile on my face.
“Sure it wasn’t this one?” he gives Makenna the side-eye as if making a joke. Makenna’s lips press together and she grabs the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening underneath her grip.
He straightens and becomes serious again. “I suggest you two stay off the streets tonight.”
“Thank you,” she says without sincerity. “We’re heading to the hospital now. Did you hear that? The hospital.”
The cop nods and strolls back to his patrol car while we watch in the rear view mirror.