Back to You: Bad Boys of Red Hook

by Robin Kaye

  “I came up with a clever structural matrix that allowed minimal frames and bulkheads and maximized strength with a very light structure. The builder had never seen anything like it, so he added a few extra frames on his own. It’s a good thing the bulb weight was off. If I hadn’t caught them, the extra frames would have taken the majority of the load and would have failed.”

  “Problem solved, then?”

  “If only all my problems were so easy to solve.”

  With a face to match her mood, she swept his legs off the couch. “Now do you want to tell me why you came back looking like a dingo with the mange and madder than a croc after a root canal?”

  He let out a low groan. “God, my head didn’t hurt this bad when Bree walloped me with the frying pan.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got time—after you shower. I’ll make coffee.”

  Storm stood and stretched, rubbing his chest. Oh man, he definitely needed a shower.

  “Don’t forget to shave—again.”

  Fifteen minutes and half a bar of soap later, Storm sat across from Taz, wolfing down Marmite and toast.

  “Okay, mate, get on with your story.”

  “There’s not much to tell. Whatever I thought I had with Bree was an illusion.”

  Sandy sat back, crossed her arms, and thrummed her fingers on her surprisingly toned biceps. “Not that part; I already heard the whole thing from your friends Rocki and Patrice.”

  “You talked to the two stooges?”

  “Three, Pete was on the line too.”

  “Oh God.”

  “It was like a long-distance intervention. You have a fascinating group of friends, and your family sounds lovely.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “What I want to know is the story about the frying pan. They left that out, little else, but they never mentioned an attack using an unconventional weapon.”

  “I got home in the middle of the night and let myself into the apartment. I didn’t even think. I just headed to my old room, and Bree walloped me over the head with a cast-iron frying pan. She wasn’t expecting me and thought I was a burglar.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t in retaliation for running out on her?”

  “I think if she’d known who it was, she would have finished me off.”

  “She might still. After all, you ran away from her again.”

  “I did not run. I had to leave. They’d stopped work on the boat. They were charging us eight thousand dollars a day.”

  Sandy laughed in his face. “Oh right, so you were forced to take the six forty-five flight. You couldn’t have talked your problems out and caught the nine fifty? I’m sure the three hours and five minutes made all the difference in the world. Face it, mate; you ran. You got your feelings hurt and you ran.”

  Storm dropped his head. Shame flooded his face, radiating to his hands that blocked Sandy’s view. He’d run all right, but not because he was scared. He’d run because he was hurt—hurt because Bree hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about Nicki, hurt by Pete for thinking he could run out on his own child, and hurt by life because he’d never realized before how much he wanted to be Nicki’s dad. “Fuck. Bree’s gonna kill me.”

  “Possibly. Still, if you stay here, I’m definitely going to quit, and that’s only if I don’t kill you first. I think you’ll have better luck going back to Bree; at least she claims to love you. So, what are you doing here talking to me instead of getting your arse on the first plane to the States?”

  * * *

  It’s here. Bree ripped open the envelope, pulled out her new passport, and ran her fingers across the embossed gold lettering before flipping it open. Yep, that was a picture of her. The thought of using it sent her heart pounding like a steel drum.

  Could she really do it? Could she get on a plane and cross the Pacific, land in a foreign country, and take a chance on Storm? She closed the cover and stuffed the passport in her top desk drawer. The answer at that moment at least, was no. Besides, it was a Monday. She had shopping to do, and her liquor salesmen were slated for that afternoon. She rose, grabbed her purse, and slid the top desk drawer shut. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  Bree drove to the Fairway Market with her collection of lists—hers, Pete and Logan’s, and her mother’s. She didn’t know why she bothered wasting paper on a list for her mother, because every week she bought the same damn thing. The only variation was when her mother ran out of laundry and dishwashing detergent.

  Bree roamed the aisles, and everywhere she looked brought back memories of Storm. She walked by the bakery and remembered the piece of cannoli cake they’d shared. She passed the flowers and pictured him grabbing a bunch and tossing them in the cart just because. She thought about the day he’d run to the market because he thought they actually needed chocolate syrup with their ice cream and then snuck it into the bedroom later that night.

  God, she missed him.

  By rote, Bree pulled up to her mother’s house and grabbed her mother’s green reusable bags. An early-fall wind had her pulling her sweatshirt around her more tightly before slinging two bags over her shoulder, grabbing two more, and shouldering her mother’s side door open. “Mom, it’s me.”

  “Breanna, did you remember to check the list?”

  As if she needed to. “Yes, and they had a special on tomatoes, so I picked up a few extras.”

  Her mother stepped into the kitchen wearing the same clothes, the same sour look, and making the same annoying tsk, tsk, tsk she’d heard all her life. “I wish you’d follow the list I gave you. The tomatoes will probably go to waste.”

  “Fine, if you don’t want them, I’ll take them home with me.” She left the damn tomatoes in the bag and put away the rice.

  “Coretta told me that Storm Decker left again.”

  Bree really needed to ask Patrice not to feed information to her mother—it always got back to Bree’s mom in the end.

  “Poor Pete must be beside himself. I told you Storm would leave. Men like him always do. I suppose you’re upset.”

  “I—”

  “I don’t know why. I told you before and I’ll tell you again, dangerous men always leave. You’re better off without him.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this, Mom.”

  “I understand. You’re hurt.”

  “Yes, I’m hurt, and you’re not helping matters. I love Storm and he’s gone. Leave it alone, all right?” She turned her back to her mother and did her best to stop the tears welling in her burning eyes. God, leave it to her mother to put a healthy dose of salt on the wounds.

  “I don’t know why you don’t date that nice man Daniel Knickerbocker. He’s rich, he has a good, safe job, and he’ll take care of us.”

  “Us?” Was she mad? “I guess you didn’t hear the news, Mom. Daniel tried to scam the city and is under investigation.”

  “Oh? Well, that is a shame.” She wore the same pinched look she’d worn since Bree’s father died. “You just need to find another safe, stable man who will be there for you.”

  “Mom, I love Storm. The last thing I want is another man.”

  “What’s love got to do with anything? Forget about those romantic notions. Love should never be on your short list. It will do nothing but leave you hurt and broken.”

  She was hurt and broken, all right, but how much of that was her own fault? How much of it was because she was paralyzed by fear? How much of it was because she was as trapped as her own mother, only in a larger cage? God, she had to get out. The walls closed in on her and she could hear every door and window slamming shut, trapping her and making it hard to breathe.

  “I’m going to leave the bags for you to empty. I’ll pick them up later.”

  “But you always unload my groceries.”

  “Not today, Mom. Today I’m shaking things up. Bye.” She ran out of the house so fast, she wasn’t sure the door had even closed
behind her, and she didn’t care. Her mother could close the damn door by herself. Bree was finished being suffocated by her mother. She was finished with a lot of things.

  * * *

  Bree rushed into the bar like a diver kicking to the surface, gulping air as she broke through the door. She walked in on what looked like a private powwow over beer. She didn’t bother asking what everyone was doing there on a Monday. She had too much to do to care.

  Pete, Logan, Rocki, Patrice, and Francis wore matching stunned expressions. What the hell was going on? She didn’t bother to ask for fear she’d lose her nerve.

  Bree pushed her hands into her pants pockets to keep them from shaking, took a deep breath, and jumped off her virtual cliff. “I have an announcement to make. I’ve decided to take a vacation, starting immediately. Logan, you have the bar. The liquor orders are all ready to go; just give them to the salesmen. Next week Pete can help you with the orders if you have questions. Francis, did you get that time off? Can you cover me?”

  “No problem, Bree.”

  Patrice elbowed him, and Francis gave her the please-don’t-make-me-sleep-on-the-couch-again look, which made no sense. Patrice and Rocki had both pushed her to get her passport, they’d pushed her to take time off, and they’d pushed her to chase after Storm. Bree shook the questions from her thoughts. She couldn’t afford to slow down; if she lost momentum, she’d be sunk. “Good, then it’s all taken care of. I’m going upstairs to pack.”

  Bree power-walked to her office with the click, click, click of Rocki’s high heels trailing behind her. Bree pulled out her brand-spanking-new passport and shoved it into her back pocket. She was really going to do this even if it killed her. She was going to escape her cage and find Storm. She wasn’t going to die without ever going more than a hundred miles from home. She wasn’t her mother.

  Rocki blocked the door. “What the hell is going on with you?”

  “If you want to talk, you’d better do it while I pack. I don’t have time to screw around. I’ve got to get the next plane out.”

  “What’s the rush?” Patrice took up whatever space Rocki left in the doorway.

  “Move or I’ll knock the both of you on your asses.”

  They moved, but they followed her into her apartment.

  Bree needed to pack but realized she didn’t even own a freakin’ suitcase. How sick was that? “Pete,” she hollered, “I’m borrowing your luggage.” Not waiting for a reply, she stepped into the storage closet and took the largest piece of luggage she could find. It looked like something she’d seen tied to the back of the Beverly Hillbillies’ truck. Fabulous. At least it would be easy to spot.

  “You’re using that?” Rocki and Patrice asked in stereo.

  “I don’t have luggage of my own—I’ve never been anywhere.”

  Rocki spread her legs and arms, blocking the hallway, and looking like a sexier punk version of Elastigirl. “You can’t take those relics. They belong in a museum. Use mine. I just have to run home and get them.”

  “No time.”

  “When is the plane?” Patrice asked.

  “I don’t know. I have to call and book a flight.”

  Patrice stepped in front of Rocki. “Where’s the fire, Bree? It took you two weeks to make the decision, and now you’re racing to leave? What are you running from?”

  “Nothing. It’s what I’m running to. I can’t stay, and I’m afraid if I slow down, I’ll lose my nerve and I’ll be trapped here forever.”

  Patrice looked hurt. “You think we’re trapping you?”

  “No, not you, me. Storm was right. I’m turning into my mother. I have to find him and make things up to him. You two will look after my mom and Pete when I’m away, won’t you?”

  Patrice and Rocki both gave her a stunned nod.

  “Good. That’s good.” Bree pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I have to go, don’t you see? I have to, or I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting it. Even if it doesn’t work out between us, he’s worth the risk. If Storm doesn’t want me, at least I’ll have done something, I’ll have put my heart out there on the line, I’ll be living—really living and not trapped in some kind of sick half life. I love you guys, but I have to go.”

  A look passed between Rocki and Patrice as if they made a silent agreement. Patrice grabbed Bree’s shaking, slightly clammy hand and squeezed it. “Okay. Come on Rocki. Let’s run to your place and pick up your luggage. Bree, we’ll be back in twenty minutes, thirty tops.”

  “What am I going to do for thirty minutes?”

  Rocki rolled her eyes. “Primp, of course, and then get everything together to pack.”

  “I need a ticket.” Bree left them staring after her and ran down to her office, got on the computer, Googled plane tickets, and clicked on the first recognizable name.

  She was really going to do this. The words blurred on the screen, and she had to remind herself that people flew every day. She wasn’t afraid of flying. She just had never done it before. The whole taking off and landing thing made her nervous, so she chose the fewest number of stops—one. New York to LA and then direct to Auckland.

  “Twenty-three hundred dollars? Damn, who knew last-minute flights were so expensive?” Bree reminded herself that she’d saved money all her life, saving every last cent without even knowing what she was saving for. God, she was worse than she’d ever imagined.

  Bree typed her credit card information, took a deep breath, and with a shaking finger clicked the Purchase button. Fear mixed with exhilaration and filled her as the printer spit out the boarding pass and itinerary. Now all she had to do was pack and find several pairs of big-girl panties. She just hoped they didn’t look like Depends.

  CHAPTER 22

  The last time Storm had made the trip from JFK to Red Hook it had been the middle of the night, and, in the heat of summer, it had felt like a drive straight into hell. It was amazing how his entire life changed in just two months. The bright blue skies and chilly temperatures welcoming him home would have made the trip enjoyable if he hadn’t been sweating his reception.

  He’d screwed up royally—again. He scrubbed his hands over his face and imagined what Breezy would hit him with when he came through the door this time. He was just glad New York had strict gun laws.

  Storm had spent the last twenty-four hours trying to come up with a way to win Bree back. When his cab pulled up to the Crow’s Nest, he still hadn’t come up with a sure thing. And that was what he needed—a sure thing. He couldn’t afford to lose Breezy again. He couldn’t imagine his life without her in it. He didn’t want to. Being away from her for a few weeks had been worse then the eleven years they’d been apart. He couldn’t go on like this.

  Storm got out of the cab and found Francis backed up against the wall with fear in his eyes and Rocki and Patrice bearing down on him like a couple of rabid dogs—cute dogs, but dogs all the same.

  Patrice poked Francis in the chest, sharpened claws enunciating every word. “If you let her leave, Francis Salvatore DeBruscio, you’ll spend the rest of your natural life on the couch. Got it?”

  Storm heaved his duffel over his shoulder, grabbed his computer case with the other hand, and stepped into Francis’s line of vision.

  A look of pure relief crossed his face. He stood straighter and pointed right at Storm. “He’s here. He’s here.”

  Rocki and Patrice turned, spotted him, and shot him matching grins. He wasn’t sure if they were happy to see him or looking forward to planning his funeral.

  Francis wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. “Bree’s upstairs. I hope for your sake, and mine, it’s a warm welcome. I’ll say a prayer.”

  “Thanks, man. You’d better light a candle for me too. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  Patrice put her hands on her hips, stepped in front of him, and got in his face. “Well, Storm, what the hell are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

  “Calm down, Patty.” Storm adjusted his duffel, sliding i
t against his back so he could fit through the door when Patrice hauled off and slugged him right in the diaphragm. The air whooshed out of his lungs, and he put his free hand up to block her.

  “You leave Bree again and you’ll answer to me. Do you know how painful broken kneecaps can be?”

  “I have a picture in my mind.”

  “Good, keep it there.” She turned to Francis and said, “Come on, we’re going to pick up Nicki from school.”

  “We are?”

  Patrice rolled her eyes. “Just get in the car, honey. I’ll explain it all to you on the way.” She patted his shoulder and grabbed Rocki. “Come on, Rocki. We’ll give you a ride home.” Patrice was already pushing them in front of her toward the car.

  Storm looked around the neighborhood he grew up in with new eyes. He was home—in Red Hook, a place he’d known all his life but had to search the whole world to find.

  He drank in the scent of home, climbed to the top of the stairs, and found Bree’s door wide open. She’d just walked into her bedroom. He slipped down the hall and peeked in.

  Breezy had her head buried in her closet, taking clothes out, examining them, and either putting them back or tossing them on a pile on the bed. “How long does it take to pick up a freakin’ suitcase? Where the hell are they?”

  Storm needed to say something. He’d intended to surprise her, but the longer he watched, the more he felt like a creepy stalker. “I saw Rocki, Patrice, and Francis leave just a minute ago.”

  Bree stumbled out of her closet and sat hard on the bed, crushing a slanted pile of clothes beneath her. Her mouth hung open, her eyes confused and unblinking, her face devoid of color. He’d seen that look before—it was the same look she wore when he’d told her that he’d made love only to her. It was as if she thought she was hearing things, or in this case seeing things.

  “Breezy, can I come in?”

  She blinked once, so he took it as a yes.

  He held his breath and stepped inside. Damn, he should have stopped to get her some flowers, a ring, something. He just stood there, looking stupid with his duffel bag and computer case. Maybe he did deserve a crack on the head. He dropped his bags on the floor, pulled her off the bed and into his arms. “Now that’s much better.” He nuzzled her neck, drinking in her scent of citrus, spice, and Breezy. “God, I’ve missed you.”