by Jen Davis
She glanced at the empty chair beside her. Took in the silence of the room. Drinking alone—so fucking cliché.
Dumping the rest of the glass in the sink, she ordered a Lyft and waited out front for the driver to arrive. She had her license back—Will had left in the mailbox as she’d demanded—but if she drank, she didn’t drive. Within five minutes, she walked through the door at Moe’s.
Maybe some part of her hoped she’d see Brick there again, even if it wasn’t logical. She’d never seen him there before the night they met. He’d probably only come for the party. Still, she scanned the room for his face.
A fickle emotion like hope rarely made sense. Old Liv only did things if they made sense.
Of course, Brick wasn’t there. She took a seat on one of the black leather bar stools and ordered a Jack and Coke. She downed it in five minutes. She ordered another and stared at the highball glass when the bartender—Brent, according to his nametag—set it in front of her with a crooked smile.
Was he flirting or did he feel sorry for her?
A single woman, drinking away her disappointment at the bar. Another fucking cliché.
This was a mistake.
Her legs ached too much to stand, though. She dragged the glass closer and took a gulp before the ice could melt. Her eyes squeezed shut. The second drink definitely tasted stronger than the first.
“It’s not safe for you to drink by yourself.”
She froze, her hand still wrapped around the glass. She recognized the deep rasp of his voice instantly. Goosebumps broke out on her arms as her body processed his proximity. “Brick,” she breathed, opening her eyes to see the man who refused to leave her thoughts.
His black eye had healed, but his hands were still busted up. A dark T-shirt hugged his barrel chest, and the shadow of a beard crept over his jaw.
She ran her fingers over her lips as she wondered how the bristles would scratch her skin if she kissed him.
He sighed deeply as he sat down on the stool to her left. “What are you doing here, Olivia?”
Thinking of you. “Same thing as you, I’d imagine.” She pushed her drink toward him and lifted her brow.
He answered her unspoken challenge, fitting his lips over the glass where hers had been seconds earlier. He drained the rest of her whiskey in an instant. Nodding to the bartender, he procured a replacement in seconds, but Brent left off the smile with the delivery. Brick didn’t spare him a glance.
He stared at the amber liquid, then swirled the ice around with his finger.
The dozen or so people at the bar had doubled in the past few minutes, but everyone else disappeared into the background. Her focus lasered only on Brick. Inches away from her. Taking up all the air in the room. The sass and confidence she had fueling her at the construction site abandoned her.
When he spoke again, he did it so quietly, the music drifting from the overhead speakers almost drowned it out. “Did you come here to see me?”
Say no. Say no.
“Yes.” Her mouth had broken free from her brain.
“Why?” he asked hoarsely, flexing his fingers on the bar.
She turned to him fully and picked up the hand closest to her; he flinched at the contact. “Your hands are hurt.”
Finally, he pulled his gaze from the whiskey and stared at his big hand in hers.
What a contrast they made. The pads of his thick fingers were darkened by work, his fingernails jagged and worn. Her nails were short and clean, and a gold ring glinted on her pale thumb.
He tried to pull away. “You don’t want to touch them. Trust me. You don’t know where they’ve been.” His voice sounded hollow.
She held on tight. “Brick—”
His dark eyes flashed heat as they locked with hers. “What do you want from me?” he growled. “Are you trying to take a walk on the wild side? You looking for a hard fuck? Because that’s all I’m good for. And you’re better than some cheap quickie. Too good to roll around in the dirt with me.”
“You don’t even know me.” Her temper flared. She was not some kind of porcelain figurine.
He finally succeeded in pulling his hand away, and she felt the loss of his touch in an instant.
“No. You don’t know me. It’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Maybe I want to know you. Is the possibility so hard to believe?”
He reared back at the words, and she wished she could stuff them back in her mouth.
She had to quit making a fool of herself. The man couldn’t have made himself any clearer. She shook her head at her own stupidity and laughed ruefully. When would she learn she couldn’t trust her own instincts when it came to a guy?
“I’m sorry. I don’t usually throw myself at men. Especially men who aren’t interested.” She dug into her purse and dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar before striding out.
***
Brick
Brick remained on his stool, staring dumbfounded as Olivia stormed out of the bar.
“Maybe I want to know you.” That’s what she’d said.
And what did he do? He fucking chased her out of the place.
Why did she want anything to do him? Did she imagine him in her bed? He’d practically offered to fuck her, and she never blinked an eye. Instead, she’d held his hand.
The same hand he’d used to dump Pete’s body. The one that put his last boxing opponent in the emergency room. The one that punched the heavy bag until he bled, trying to beat away his ridiculous fantasies…of her.
Their entire exchange only lasted five minutes. Their others hadn’t lasted much longer. In all, he’d spent fifteen minutes with her. Twenty, at most. How could he be so obsessed with a woman he’d barely spoken to? How could she feel the same way?
It’s simple. She can’t.
This whole thing was stupid. He was stupid.
He knew shit about this girl except her taste in music and choice of whiskey. And Asti. She loved the bubbles.
All this mooning over her was ridiculous. He finished the drink in front of him and set the glass down on the polished wood. This place was way too nice for the likes of him. Even in his nicest jeans, he stood out like a sore thumb. It had been stupid to come here in the first place.
Time to move on, starting at the gym, his salvation whenever he needed escape from his fucked-up life. He made it in fifteen minutes in his truck. Then the familiar, dank smell welcomed him back into the pit.
Binding his hands tightly with tape, he stubbornly pushed aside thoughts of blue eyes and freckles, warm skin, and gentle touches. His eyes narrowed on the heavy bag as he rammed his fists into the leather. Each hit slammed harder than the last, and the force shook his target from the chain where it hung.
For ten minutes—twenty—thirty—he pummeled the damn thing, until a crowd formed around him to watch his punishment. And it was punishment. For seeking her out. For allowing himself to know her touch. For letting her leave with a wounded expression on her face.
“Fuck,” he roared as he delivered one more punishing blow. Suddenly, he had no fire left. Exhausted, he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the spectators on his way out the door.
At least he was too tired to dream of her now.
***
He did dream about her, obviously, the kind of dream a lesser man might blush about. But Brick promised himself on the way to his work site he would spend his waking moments focused on the job. He did his damnedest, but the sunshine was the same color as her fucking hair, and twice he had to walk past the spot where she’d flirted with him days ago.
He kicked a chunk of wood-scrap in the yard, sending it flying to the curb. A man should be able to control his own thoughts, and he was…failing.
Despite the constant specter of Olivia hovering over him, late in the afternoon, he stopped mooning over her long enough to pick up on something strange going on with Robby. The guy kept circling around him like a shark in blood-infested water.
Brick snorted.
Robby was as far from a shark as any human being could be. Maybe a dolphin or a baby otter, but not a shark.
What do baby otters circle?
Robby gave him the side eye, and Brick schooled his features. He had no desire to invite a conversation. He came here to work, not to socialize.
His knees ached as he hunched over the partially constructed wall lying on the slab.
“Can I help?” Robby’s voice pulled his attention back.
He glanced up, lifting his eyebrow in a way Robby never seemed to find as badass as other people did. “You know how to inlet hurricane bracing into the studs?”
“I don’t mean if I can help you with the house.” Robby waved the question away as if the answer were obvious. His job involved scheduling the crew, ordering supplies, and reporting back to Xander. “I’m asking if I can help with what’s bothering you.”
He stopped working, leaned back on his heels, and took in the guy’s earnest expression. “What makes you think something is bothering me, kid?”
“Because I have eyes.” Robby wrinkled his nose. “And why do you always call me kid? I’m twenty-three years old, Brick.”
Maybe, but he looked closer to twenty, and a naive twenty at that. Had he ever been so innocent? Lifting his hands in surrender, he shook his head. “I didn’t know it bothered you.”
“It doesn’t really,” Robby sighed, settling on the floor beside him. “Not from you, anyway. Sometimes, though, there are people I wish would see me as more.” He lowered his voice, almost speaking more to himself than Brick. “As if wishing would make a difference.”
Aw hell. It bugged the hell out him for Robby to sound so small.
He made himself comfortable next to the kid—man, whatever—and uncapped his water bottle. “You talking about someone special?”
“I’m talking about a guy. A completely unattainable, completely straight, completely perfect…guy.” Robby let his pronouncement hang in the air defiantly, then he deflated a little. “Does it bother you?”
He chugged down about half the bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. “You being gay? I hate to break it to you, but it’s not exactly a secret.”
“Who told you?” Robby’s eyes held the panic of a rabbit trapped in a snare.
When an animal got scared, it needed soothing, or else it could break its own neck fighting its fear. He modulated his voice to speak as gently as he could. “Nobody had to tell me. And I don’t give a shit, Robby. You don’t judge me. I don’t judge you.”
He meant it. Robby was sweet. Kind. He extended genuine friendship to people, which was a rare thing. Who the guy wanted to warm his bed didn’t matter in the least.
Robby stared at him like he’d unleashed the secrets of the universe. “Thank you,” he said softly.
“Don’t sweat it.”
Robby gave him a wobbly smile. “You’re a good guy, Brick.”
He shut down whatever softness must be showing on his face. “I’m really not. You should believe me when I tell you. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m really like.” He returned to his knees, bending back over the wall he’d been working on.
The dismissal worked as intended. When he looked up again, Robby had moved on. The kid didn’t talk to him for the rest of the day, but he smiled and waved when Brick headed toward his truck at quitting time.
For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what was happening. No one had ever looked at him through rose-colored glasses before. Now, twice in the same week, he had to shut down the crazy-ass idea he was someone safe to be around, someone worth knowing.
The envelope on his passenger seat told a very different story. It had been waiting under the windshield wiper when he left for work this morning. A five-inch lock of grey hair rested inside, no doubt his grandmother’s. Sucre always delivered his message crystal clear; no one was out of his reach.
He scratched his head as he pulled his beat-up blue truck to a stop, waiting out the red light. The windows were down, the smell of freshly cut grass reminding him how far he was from home. He could cover the distance from the work site to his apartment in a half hour, but this neighborhood might as well have sat on another planet, it functioned so differently from his own.
Maybe the environment tricked Robby and Olivia into thinking he was a regular guy. They’d only ever seen him in places like this, where people could walk around without checking over their shoulder. Where a stray dog posed the biggest threat, and guys like Sucre only existed in the movies.
He took one more deep breath as the light turned green before hitting the accelerator. It would be awesome to belong here, to have a dog and a kid and someone like Olivia in his bed every night, but those kinds of fantasies were dangerous. Sucre would never let him go. The best he could hope for was to save his grandma, then disappear to somewhere his sick fuck of a boss could never find him.
Chapter 7
Brick
The king of Brick’s corner of the underworld was a fifty-year-old Mexican with a bald head and an expensive purple suit that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. Anyone who might hesitate to order the skin flayed from your body.
Sucre proved daily he had no qualms about such things. Still, Brick knew the man refused to think of himself as a thug. He took pride in those over-priced suits and the sparkling rings he wore on every finger. Even his name was an attempt to sound like something other than he was. He’d told Brick once after too many tequila shots it meant sugar in French, and he thought it sounded slick.
Brick didn’t know his real name, and it didn’t really matter. The Sucre persona was firmly in place long before they ever met.
Sucre waited for him on the plush throne in the back of El Cabron, the dark bar where he held court. An actual fucking throne with gold trim and blue velvet seat cushions. No one else dared touch it unless they wanted their fingers broken. Brick knew the bitter lesson better than anyone, since he’d be the one to break those fingers.
No less than four women ever sat at Sucre’s feet. He showed off an assortment of girls, black, white, Hispanic. They were different every day, but they all had the same things in common; they were young, barely dressed, and they wanted either the power or the drugs Sucre could provide. They’d all end up in the man’s bed tonight.
“Brick.” Sucre smiled and swung out his arm, palm up, in a royal gesture of greeting.
He ducked his head in deference, then took a seat in the chair always kept empty for him to the left of the throne. He said nothing. Sucre would let him know when he wanted him to talk.
The bar smelled like stale beer and weed. Everyone here smoked freely. Sucre owned the place, and no cop had ever dared step foot inside. Not if he wanted to step out again.
Sucre stretched lazily in his seat, his body undulating like the serpent living under his skin. He nudged one of the girls with his shiny black wingtip shoe. “We’ve got company, hermosa. Why don’t you greet Brick properly?”
The blonde nodded her head without hesitation and walked on her knees the short distance to Brick’s feet. She barely looked eighteen, but her eyes were old and her spirit, broken. The heavy make-up she wore barely covered the purple bruise on her left cheekbone. He’d seen this kind of girl too many times to count, and he wanted no part of what she had to offer.
The girl would probably fuck him right here if Sucre said the word. She put her hands on his knees and fitted her body between his legs. “What’s your pleasure, baby?”
“Get me a beer,” he growled, fighting the revulsion from her touch. This girl was every bit as damaged and dirty as him. It should have been a match made in heaven, but he wanted out of this cesspool. Not to mention, an eighteen year old struck him as more of a child than anyone old enough to be in his bed. Like the groupies at the gym, the girls Sucre commanded didn’t turn him on; they made him sad. There was no room for feeling anything in a place like this.
The tiny girl sauntered off
toward the bar, her high heels clicking on the floor and her short skirt barely covering the cheeks of her ass. Sucre shot him a knowing look. “Only a beer, huh? One day, I’m going to find a girl you can’t resist, hijo.”
He dug his nails into his palms as he forced an easy smile. “You know I like to find my own pussy, sir, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Por supuesto. Nothing but the best for you, Brick. How’s your grandmother doing? I hear she got herself a haircut this week.” The man never missed an opportunity to rub salt in a wound.
He shrugged. It was futile to pretend like he didn’t care, but they played the game. Sucre’s men sent him a picture of his grandmother almost every day. While she slept, while she had lunch, even once during a sponge bath. He swallowed his rage and forced his words to sound bland. “I appreciate you asking about her.”
Sucre answered with a sly smile, and he imagined a mouthful of sharpened teeth beneath his lips. “Anything for family.” Their dance complete, it was time to move on to business. “So, tell me how things are progressing with Tre.”
He struggled to find an answer his boss would find acceptable. “He has a lot of enthusiasm for the job.”
Sucre tilted his head. “You say it like it’s a bad thing. I want my boys to enjoy their work.”
“Whatever you say.” The slight narrowing of Sucre’s eyes kept him talking. “I only want to make sure he maintains some discipline. He hasn’t crossed any lines. I—We want ’em to be afraid to cross you, but not afraid to do business with you. I don’t want anything to mess with the operation.”
The blonde returned with his beer, but he kept his attention firmly on his boss. Sucre steepled his hands in front of his chin, considering Brick’s words. “You’re right. This is why you’re my guy, Brick. Big man like you, people might underestimate your intelligence, but not me. You’re always thinking.” He tapped at his temple. “And you can rest assured, I know it.”
Why did those words feel like a warning?