by Jen Davis
She tried distracting herself with plans for Will’s birthday party. His first since he’d gotten out of prison, she’d been planning the celebration for weeks.
Skipping lunch to visit his work site had been totally worth it. The delight in his eyes when she presented his cake mirrored the joy she remembered from his birthdays as a kid. She missed seeing a smile on her brother’s face, and if she could, she’d put one there every day. She loved making him happy almost as much as embarrassing him with her open party invitation to his friends.
Her thoughts flitted to the big man who’d caught her eye during her announcement. Now, he was something she could focus on.
He had something about him that drew her like a magnet. Something in the eyes. Something she couldn’t put into words.
He wasn’t handsome. His face was broad, his features were wide-set, and his nose had clearly suffered a break or two in his lifetime. He was—compelling. Raw. Powerful. His brown skin had a golden undertone, indicative of an ethnicity she couldn’t quite place. She pictured it warm to the touch, like the sun’s rays had soaked its very essence into his flesh.
He’d watched every move she made so intensely, he looked as though he would’ve lifted a car out of his way if it got between the two of them.
She shivered.
He made Ryan, her ex from before, seem like a boy by comparison. Yeah, he’d been in his late twenties, but he was pretty, not compelling. At the time, she’d thought she wanted a pretty man. He fit the pattern of the other guys she dated. They went to museums and plays. He talked about literature and…carbs.
He talked a lot about carbs.
Dinner always required reservations, and last year they’d summered in the Hamptons. Actually, they’d spent two weeks there last August, but Ryan said things like “summered.” He came from money, and while their financial disparity didn’t exactly cause their problems, something between them didn’t quite click.
At least not for her. She hadn’t seen it at the time, but it had been a blessing he left when she got sick. He fit all these check-boxes she’d had about what a man should be: successful, articulate, manicured—but looking back, he’d left her cold.
The guy at the work site gave off nothing but heat. She set down her glass and closed her eyes at the memory of those thick, muscled forearms, his intense stare.
A man like him might burn her alive.
And for the first time in her life, Liv Turner was ready to burn.
Chapter 3
Brick
A one-two punch to the gut almost took Brick to his knees. The man facing him in the ring had to be close to three hundred pounds and within an inch of his own six foot, four inches in height. The guy hit like a battering ram, but he moved slowly, and his eyes telegraphed his plan of attack. Brick only let him score the hits to his midsection to stretch the clock on the fight.
Sucre wanted it to last twelve minutes to make maximum bank, and he called the shots.
Three minutes left.
His opponent’s short black dreads swayed as he circled the ring. The guy had a lot to learn, because one day someone would grab his hair and use it against him. Not tonight, though. Brick had other plans to put him down.
Two minutes.
He threw out a punch to the guy’s solar plexus, but at half his regular force. It paid to keep his boss happy in more ways than one. Not only would it keep him at the top of the heap, but Sucre would throw a few hundred bucks his way for the trouble, a bonus on top of the cash he made fighting in one of these bare-knuckled matches.
One minute to go.
The cheers and jeers of nearly two hundred people crammed into the small gym echoed like thunder in his ears. The weak fluorescent lights flickered, but no one gave any sign they noticed. The crowd paid well for the pleasure of watching him bleed, and they were getting what they paid for.
He could live with a couple of bruises and broken ribs if it got him closer to his goal. Plus, these kinds of fights added to the legend of his strength. The better fighter he was in the ring, the less he had to fight on the street.
Sucre tugged on his right ear, giving the signal to end the match.
He balled his left fist and plowed it into his opponent’s bare midsection. As the guy’s head and shoulders jerked forward with the impact, he punched him in the back of the skull, dropping him to the mat like a bag of concrete. The crowd roared its approval, and Sucre gave him a short nod.
Brick stayed stone-faced. No one wanted to see him smile.
Monsters don’t have emotions.
The so-called referee grabbed him by the wrist and lifted his hand into the air in victory. The signal meant eight hundred dollars in the bank. Or in the legs of his coffee table.
He climbed out of the ring, breathing through his mouth to avoid the scents of body odor and cheap beer coming from the crowd. For the hundredth time, he wished he had a decent hot shower waiting for him to wash away the blood and the stink of this place, but hot water was a luxury other people had.
“Need a ride home, Big Man?” One of the girls who worked the corner down the way pursed her blood red lips into the semblance of a kiss. He didn’t know her name, but he couldn’t mistake her invitation.
He shook his head and kept walking straight toward the door. He used to take the whores up on their offers when the loneliness got to him, until he realized he left their beds even emptier inside than before he touched them.
Those women didn’t want him. Some wanted the dubious prestige of being an enforcer’s girl. Others thought they could use him to pay off a debt to Sucre. And in a few cases—those he didn’t want to think about—someone coerced the girls into his bed to further their own agenda.
He had no problem with whores, but the transaction had to be fair, his money for their sex. It was only to give his body release. It would never be more.
His apartment was less than a block from the gym, so he had no need to get dressed. Pulling the key out of his sock, he unlocked the door and ran an eagle eye over his space. Nothing looked disturbed. He allowed his shoulders to droop as he trudged to the bathroom.
The soap and water stung cuts and scrapes he didn’t even know he had, but he didn’t mind the burn. He stood under the spray until the water went from warm to downright cold. Teeth chattering, he climbed out and fell into the bed, wrapped only in a towel.
Six hours later, the chimes on his phone had him jumping up with his gun in his hand. One day, he might find an alarm that didn’t wake him ready to put holes in someone, but not today.
His muscles protested as he dragged on his clothes for work, but he couldn’t deny a tingle of anticipation as he buckled his belt. The party at the bar would be tonight, and Will’s sister would be there.
The angel in the white dress. He’d get to see her again.
He’d keep his distance—he had to. She was light and everything soft and good. He was a stain on the darkest part of humanity.
Still. It didn’t hurt to look.
***
Moe’s was a lot closer to the worksite than the downtown scene where Brick usually spent his nights, which meant it was cleaner. The lights shined brighter, and instead of giving him a whiff of beer or decades-old nicotine, it smelled of nothing at all. Wait. He caught the distant scent of a chicken-tenders basket a waitress placed at the center of a table near the front door. It made his mouth water.
The guys from the crew bunched around the pool tables in the back. He arrived last, since he’d run home to shower after sweating it out in the sun all day. He didn’t expect to get close to her, but he didn’t want to offend Will’s sister with the stench of B.O.
As usual, Robby made a beeline straight for him. The kid damn near bounced on the balls of his feet. “You made it. The guys said you wouldn’t come, but I knew you wouldn’t ditch us.” Robby linked a lanky arm in his and dragged him toward the group. “Told you he would come.”
He barely stopped himself from shuffling his feet at Robby’s
proud pronouncement. Not because the guys all looked at him, but because she did too.
Will’s sister wore jeans and a light blue T-shirt. Even in her casual clothes, she still carried the same ethereal beauty she had wearing her white dress two days before. A high ponytail made her neck look long and graceful. It also gave him a better view of her face. She wore hardly any makeup, and with her natural beauty, she didn’t need it. Everything about her fucking glowed.
She’d been playing pool one-on-one with Cyrus.
He resisted the urge to try and spook the good-looking Iranian bastard right out of the bar. Cy was an okay guy, ex-military, and he did good work. He always got it right the first time. He just didn't do well with loud noises. The guys learned their lesson when Kane used the nail gun without warning and Cyrus tried to tackle him for his trouble. It was no small thing, since even he would think twice before throwing down with that tattooed motherfucker.
So, it probably wasn’t fair to call Cy a bastard, but the man needed to find someone else to play pool with. Cy cleared his throat and pulled Will’s sister’s attention back to the game. Brick turned his body away entirely to make himself stop staring.
Kane waited two tables down. He lifted his pool cue in greeting, his smile showing he didn’t hold a grudge from the elbow thing on Wednesday. “Brick. Get over here. I need someone else on my team. Robby can’t play for shit.”
Robby’s smile faltered for a moment. Then, he brought it back, even if it didn’t shine quite as bright as before. “Kane’s right. Pool’s not really my game.”
Brick pressed a twenty into the kid’s palm and spoke softly. “Why don’t you get us some beers? My treat.”
Nodding, the kid scampered away to the bar.
Kane rolled up the sleeves on the red and black checked flannel he wore, revealing the intricate skull tats on his left forearm and the array of female devils and angels inked on his right. “You missed the free booze, brother. Will’s sister bought us all shots.”
He would not think of—fuck, she’s bent halfway over the table trying to hit the shot. Those jeans are hugging her ass in all the right places. Stop. Looking.
Cursing under his breath, he squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then grabbed a stick from the rack on the wall. “Stripes or solids?”
“Solids,” Kane growled. “The kid didn’t sink a single shot.”
Brick shrugged as he knocked the two-ball in the side pocket. As much time as he spent in Sucre’s bar, he had plenty of practice at pool. “He only wants to belong. The kid’s got a lot of heart.” Did he sound like a fucking Boy Scout or what? He shook his head at the drivel coming out of his mouth, then banked the four into the corner pocket.
He waited for Kane to call him on it, but instead the guy nodded in agreement. “I know. Anyone else talk as much as him, I’d tell ’em to shut the fuck up, but with Robby, it’d be like kicking a puppy, you know? I don’t get why he wants to latch on to us. There’s not a soul in this crew who’s not fucked up in one way or another. We’re going to corrupt him, brother.”
The one-ball sank, and he chuckled, the sound of his own laughter foreign to his ears. “I can’t believe it hasn’t happened already.”
Will grumbled from the other side of the table. “You ladies going to keep giggling over there, or are we going to move this game along?”
Brick raised his eyebrow, which in his neighborhood would usually leave a man shaking in his boots. Here, it went ignored. Will snarled and stood next to his teammate, Matt, folding his arms like a pouting child.
For the second time in as many minutes, he wanted to laugh, but this time, he stifled the urge and focused on the table. As he moved to sink the five, Robby returned, jostling his arm.
“Got the beer.”
The shot went wild, and the cue ball scratched. Kane sighed deeply and raked his hand through his long dark hair.
Robby looked totally clueless. “I hope Bud’s okay. The bartender gave me two pitchers. Who’s thirsty?” He held up the beer, one pitcher in each hand.
No glasses in sight.
He could tell the moment Robby realized his mistake, that proud smile starting to slip. “I’ll grab us some cups, kid.” It would be a while before his turn again anyway. He stepped over to the bar, then froze. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, a sure sign someone watched him. He turned his head a fraction and caught sight of her, barely two feet away.
She looked dead at him. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth before sliding free.
As his stomach did a slow flip, he tried to center himself. Maybe she was looking at someone else. He faced her full-on, and her gaze didn’t waver.
Instead of turning away, she tilted her chin and offered a friendly smile. “You work with my brother.” She stuck out her hand. “My name’s Olivia. But everyone calls me Liv.”
Her hand stayed outstretched. Did she want him to touch her? He moved slowly, giving her plenty of time to retreat, before wrapping his big hand around her delicate one. He squeezed gently—carefully—noting the softness of her palm and the warmth of her skin before letting go.
“I’m Brick,” he rumbled.
Her brow furrowed. “Rick?”
“Brick.”
Liv’s forehead relaxed as she gave a slow nod. “Oh, I get it. Cause you’re built like a brick shithouse.”
He gaped. Most people thought it had something to do with him hitting like a ton of bricks. Only he knew it was because his dad used to call him “thick as a brick.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry. My mouth gets away from me sometimes when I start drinking. I swear it sounds downright charming in my head and when it comes out of my mouth…blech.” Her hand dropped dramatically to the bar.
His head spun. Words failed him. Why would she care what she sounded like? Why was she even talking to him? Maybe she was only being friendly.
He could be friendly…or at least pretend to be. A half smile lifted one corner of his mouth. It felt weird. “You sound charming enough to me.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes lit, and she leaned her body against the bar. “What’s your pleasure tonight?”
He blinked. She couldn’t be asking what it sounded like.
“From the bar, Dirty Mind.” She smirked. “What are you drinking tonight?”
“Beer.”
“I’ve always been partial to wine, myself.”
He scowled. “Nasty.”
“Hush. The only thing better is champagne. Though I love an Asti too. The bubbles put it over the top.” She smiled so easily, he could almost forget a girl like her would probably cross a crowded street if she saw him coming.
Olivia raised her hand to the bartender and ordered two glasses of Asti. “C’mon. Try a glass with me.”
The twenty-something college guy served them with a smile, and Olivia pushed one of the glasses toward Brick.
He eyed it suspiciously. It looked like wine.
“Sip it.” She took a small drink, and pleasure lit her face. “Let it roll over your tongue.”
He followed her lead. “Not bad.” Not at all like the shit he’d tried the one and only time he took a date to Olive Garden. The only thing good about that night had been the breadsticks.
“In high school, I had a friend who managed to score us bottles of this stuff from her big sister. We’d go up in her old tree house and drink while we listened to The Killers and My Chemical Romance.” She chuckled. “We thought we were so badass.”
He grunted. “The Killers are still badass.”
“Damn right. What else do you listen to?”
He shrugged. No one had ever cared what kind of music he liked. “Some of the older Linkin Park stuff. Avenged Sevenfold.”
She wiggled onto a barstool. ‘“Bat Country’ is my favorite.”
“No way,” he deadpanned. “You seem more like a Top Forty kind of girl.”
She tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “See what you get for judging a book by its cover? I shudde
r to think what else you thought when you first saw me.”
He didn’t skip a beat. “I thought you were beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” Fuck. Was he writing a high school love letter?
She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. A pink blush stained her cheeks. “I couldn’t take mine off you either. I’ve been thinking about you ever since.” Her eyes widened at her own words.
Every molecule of oxygen left the room. For one second, he allowed himself to imagine how it would be to have a woman like this one as his own. Someone clean. Unexpected. Lovely. His heart raced.
How it would feel to touch her and not have her turn away. To taste her lips.
No.
Reality came barreling back into his brain. He’d only come here to look, to be close to her. He had no business talking to this woman…laughing with her…flirting with her. His hands were damn-near stained with blood. He was broken.
Beneath her.
And if Sucre ever got wind she had caught his eye, it could be a death sentence.
Only her ignorance about his real life allowed her to look at him as though he might be a normal guy. A mistake he needed to correct quickly.
Why the hell would she be thinking about me?
“You shouldn’t.” He pushed his empty glass away and swallowed against the gravel in his throat. “You shouldn’t think about me at all. I’m not a good man, Olivia. Probably the worst you’ll ever meet.” He dropped a ten-dollar-bill on the bar, then snagged a handful of plastic cups. “You’re better off staying far away from me.”
He allowed himself one last look into her wide blue eyes, then returned to his crew. One more drink, then he would leave. And he would not look at Olivia again.
Of course, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the promise. The image of her face had burned in his brain whether he liked it or not.
Fuck it. I’m leaving now.