by Karen Renee
“No. I just said you two might work it out and she needed to leave it until she hears something from you or Ronnie.”
“Thank you for that, Kenzie.”
I shook my head. “You’re welcome, but I did it for Aubrey. It’s not healthy for her to glom on to something that won’t happen. Anyway, I know you’re busy, so I’ll let you go. Have a safe flight home.”
I hung up before he could respond.
After a fortifying swig of wine, I pulled up my text string with Brute. My gut was to text him, but I didn’t want to scare him off. The phone buzzed in my hand, and I saw a text come up, but it was from Caleb.
Sorry for mentioning PMS earlier today. Been stressed.
I debated my response. If I left it, he’d probably call me in the morning, but at the same time I couldn’t possibly say, ‘that’s okay,’ because it damn sure wasn’t.
With a shrug, I texted back: I imagine. Please don’t take it out on me again. Good night.
The dots jumped around for a bit after that, but I closed out his thread and re-opened Brute’s. His insistence in his last text that I had two choices on what to call him gave me an idea.
I just wanted to thank you for a fabulous lunch date today, Brute. One of my customers warned me to wear my sunscreen because my cheeks were so rosy. :)
I sent that text, grinning. Then, before I lost my nerve, I tapped out my next text.
And thank you, Sam, for bringing your business to First Bank of Biloxi. See you soon.
After I sent that message, I wished I hadn’t. Sometimes that was just the way of texting, where I second-guessed myself, but deep down I knew the last message made me look like a huge dork. And why wasn’t there some way to recall a text?
My phone rang in my hand. Brute’s name listed as the caller. “Hello?”
“Who’s this customer?” he demanded.
I giggled. “He’s a regular.”
“He?”
I laughed. “You can’t be jealous! He’s old enough to be my father and he runs a hot dog stand. No joke.”
He chuckled. “Fine. But for the record, you do not have to thank me for my business at the bank. As long as your coworkers and other branches take care of shit, I’m more than happy to keep my money local.”
I snorted. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
“Your girl asleep?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“What are you wearing?”
My eyes slid to the side before I looked down at myself. “Uh, pajama pants and a tank top.”
When he hesitated for so long, I suspected I failed a test or something.
“What color?” he asked, his voice sounding thicker.
“Red. Why?”
He laughed. “You know why. But I’m gonna stop there. Kissed you twice, but no way we’re ready for phone sex.”
I fell to my side with laughter. “You’re crazy.”
“That wasn’t a joke, Zee. But no way I’m gonna tell you to touch yourself when I haven’t even had the pleasure.”
My mouth went dry and I struggled to swallow. “You’re trouble.”
“Not for you, baby.”
“What are you wearing?” I blurted.
“We’re not going there,” he said.
“I know, but what are you wearing?”
“Zee.”
“Bee.”
“You drunk?”
“No. Two sips of wine does not make me drunk, but if I can be Zee, you can be Bee, sir. Now, what are you wearing?”
He huffed out a laugh. “Gym shorts, boxer briefs, no shirt, no shoes, and since you ain’t here, no damn service.”
I smiled and inhaled at the visual. “Nice,” I murmured.
“Friday will be ‘nice,’ baby. Actually, should be better than ‘nice.’”
I surely hoped so. “Why are you picking me up in your truck?”
He hummed a little before he answered. “It’ll be dark, the start of the weekend, and I don’t trust people not to hit us. Plus, I’m looking forward to seeing what you wear on a first date when you don’t have to dress for transportation.”
I laughed. “‘Dress for transportation.’ Is that how you think of it?”
“Sometimes. Not nearly as much as I used to.”
“My ex is getting divorced.”
Now why did I do that?
The line went so silent, I rushed to speak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It slipped.”
“No way, babe. Don’t regret sayin’ things... as long as they’re honest. You, um, sound bothered by this news. Question is, why?”
A brief grin crossed my face. “I guess I prefer him being married because the first thing out of Aubrey’s mouth was that she wanted me and Caleb to work it out. Not for him and Ronnie to work it out.”
“Ronnie?”
I smiled. “Yeah. Short for Veronica. Anyway, explains why he’s been more of a jackass than usual lately.”
“Don’t make excuses for that shit.”
Those words hit me deep. My father had died of an unexpected heart attack when I was nineteen, but the tone and the words themselves brought my father’s spirit to mind so strongly it was like I could reach out and touch him. Dad didn’t like anyone treating Mom or me like shit, and if I tried to see it from someone else’s perspective, he’d usually shut it down.
Just like Brute had.
Wow.
My voice was croaky when I said, “I won’t.”
“You crying?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Woman. I want to haul my ass over to you, and I don’t even know where that is. Though, you need to text me your address so I can pick you up Friday. Now, don’t lie to me. Are you crying?”
I sniffed and realized that didn’t help matters. “No. You just reminded me of my Dad, the way you said what you said, and it hit me hard.”
“Don’t you talk to your Dad?” His voice sounded like this was a big deal to him.
“I don’t, but that’s because he passed away ten years ago.”
He sighed. “Fuck. How’d we get into such heavy-ass conversation, Zee?”
I grimaced. “I don’t know, Brute, but I’m sorry it happened. Like you—”
“Don’t be sorry. I’d rather hold you when we talk about shit like this.”
My heart soared at that, but I had to bring it down to earth or it would shatter. “Well, new topic. Definitely. What would you like to discuss?”
He laughed, loud and long. And it sounded completely sincere. “You’re funny, baby. ‘What would I like to discuss!’ I’d like to discuss how I plan to fuck you, but that’s a little too forward, seein’ as we haven’t had a full first date.”
My eyes widened at his coarse words, but I shook my head. “What do you mean? What was today, if not a first date? Hell, you said it wasn’t right to end a date and not see me safe back to work earlier.”
He chuckled. “You got me there, but that’s like half a date, woman. At least in my book.”
I twisted my lips as I debated being totally blunt.
“You’ve gone quiet.”
“Not really,” I said in a quiet voice.
“Yes, really,” he said, just as quiet.
I sighed. “Well, I don’t normally... fuck, on the second date, Sam.”
He made a humming noise of conceding the point, then, “Well, I don’t normally kiss anyone five minutes after meeting them. And you deny this, I’ll hunt you down, but every time we kiss, you light up. It’s unexpected and I like it a helluva lot.”
I liked that he thought that, but he was wrong. “I don’t really—”
“Address?”
“What?”
“What’d I say? You’re denying my words, Kenzie, and I’m hunting you down. Need to kiss you goodnight and prove your sexy ass wrong.”
My blood raced through my veins at his words. I wanted him to come by and prove me wrong, but I knew that was a bad idea. Especially since it would prove me to be
a liar. If he came by and kissed me, I’d lose control and drag him to my bed.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. No need to hunt me down. Or hunt at all, really.”
He chuckled. “Those are fightin’ words, Zee.”
My brows furrowed. “You hunt?”
“Do we live in Mississippi? Of course, I fuckin’ hunt. Though, haven’t done it in five or six years, but to say there’s no need... baby, that’s just wrong.”
He really was Caleb’s opposite.
“I’ll make a note of that. And I’ll text you my address... on Friday morning.”
He chuckled. “Chicken.”
I huffed out a laugh. “No. I’m a mother, with a little girl in the house.”
“Right,” he drawled in a way that I wished I hadn’t reminded him.
“Well, have a good night, Sam.”
“I’ll try. You sleep well, Zee.”
IN THE MORNING, I STOOD next to the microwave glaring at my daughter. She had her arms crossed while aiming a pout at the table.
“Little miss, tell me what you want for breakfast, or it’s oatmeal. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you need to adjust your attitude, stat.”
“I want Daddy,” she whined.
It took all my control to put the bowl down gently because I thought we’d moved past this. When she woke up this morning, she bounded into my room all sunshine and light but talking a-mile-a-minute about how great it would be when Caleb got back and maybe we could go to the beach on Saturday. After I set her straight, she went sulky, but got dressed and came out for breakfast right on time.
Except, when I asked her what she wanted for breakfast, she ignored me.
I stirred my bowl of oatmeal. “We’re back to that, eh?” I asked, looking over my shoulder.
“Can we call Daddy?” she asked, softening the sulk.
I faced her. “Your Daddy has tons of work to do when he’s out of town, baby. You know that. What do you need to talk to him about? Can’t it wait until this evening? We can call him then.”
Her eyes lit up. “We’ll call him tonight?”
“We can try, if you have something important that can’t wait until tomorrow. He’s picking you up from school tomorrow.”
She gave me her big eyes, full of attitude. “You and Daddy getting back together is important, Mommy!”
I took my oatmeal to the table and edged it toward her in case she wanted to eat it. “Listen, girlie-girl. It’s too soon for me to tell you things like this, but Daddy and I split up for a reason. It was between me and Daddy. You were not the reason we divorced. You know, that right?”
“Yes, Mommy,” she drawled.
I grabbed her hand. “I’m serious, honey. You aren’t the reason Daddy and I divorced. It’s important that you know that.”
She nodded. “I know, Mommy.”
I nodded back. “The thing is when two adults get married or live together and then break up, there’s a reason for it. And those reasons are different for different people, but they’re important. And when two people break up or get divorced, they should stay that way.”
She exhaled deeply and fiddled with the spoon in the oatmeal.
I fought off my knee-jerk stress-relieving actions, like shoving my hands in my hair, tipping my head back to stare at the ceiling, or sighing too loudly. My girl knew when I was stressed, and I didn’t want to communicate that to her during this conversation.
“Do you have any questions, pumpkin?”
She picked up a spoonful of oatmeal. “No, Mommy. I’ll eat the oatmeal.”
After I re-warmed the water and made another bowl of oatmeal, I joined my girl for breakfast.
Chapter Four
Mugshots It Is
Brute
At ten-thirty in the morning, Brute parked his truck at Har’s custom paint and body shop. He saw Gamble had a bike on a stand and he was focused to distraction. Har had noticed Brute pulling in and had stopped what he was doing to wipe his hands off.
“What’re you doin’ here, man?”
“Followin’ up on my message to you, Prez. I don’t like Tovar staking out my bike.”
“Or threatening your business,” Har muttered.
“Right.”
Har shook his head. “Hate to say it, but you can’t be surprised.”
“Yeah, actually, I can. Why wouldn’t they make this play last year? Seems odd to do this shit now.”
Har wiped his fingers, then tucked the rag into his back pocket. “You’re right. Told Cynic to trail Callie, Layla’s sister, but she isn’t doin’ anything out of the ordinary.”
“Why would she? The cops say they’re gonna put pressure on me, she’d lay low.”
“Yeah, and Block’s been watching Wreck’s Mom during the day. She hasn’t led to anything. Though, Tovar did pay her a short visit on Tuesday.”
Brute sighed. “Got a bad feeling.”
Har slugged him on the bicep. “Go to the clubhouse and work off some steam, man. I can see you’re wound up tight.”
He pressed his lips together. “No. Not gonna do that. Maybe I’ll hit the gym again.”
Har gave him a sideways look. “Since when don’t you want to get laid?”
He considered telling him about his lunch with Kenzie, but thought better of it. Thinking of the gym, reminded him of another reason he was there. “Dad knows I did it.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me. Wasn’t intentional, I didn’t keep my reaction in check when he said it wasn’t like I did it.”
Har shook his head. “I’ve told you, man. You gotta keep your guard up with everybody.”
He blew out a sigh. “He’s my old man, Har. He’s not about to call Crimestoppers or some shit.”
The pause before Har spoke again made Brute regret mentioning his Dad. Har had lost his father over fifteen years ago, and even though Brute’s dad tried to fill in as much as he could, whenever fathers came up, Brute could see how much Har missed his dad.
“You’re right, man. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m just lucky his phone rang because otherwise I know he’d have said some shit about me doin’ too much for the club.”
Har’s head reared back. “He believes that?”
Brute pressed his lips together. “He’s hinted at it.”
“Go get laid, man.”
He chuckled. “Headed to a jobsite, man. Too damn early to hit the clubhouse.”
“Never stopped you before, brother.”
“Today it does. Later.”
FOR ONCE, SOMETHING was going right in his world. The building inspector approved the plumbing and electrical work his subcontractors had done in the renovated kitchen. Even though he knew the light to the chandelier overhanging the sink worked, he left it off until his filthy-rich client arrived. She was staying in a rental home in New Orleans while his company, Brute Force Demo and Remodeling, redid the main kitchen and installed an additional galley-style kitchen which had the sole purpose of storing alcohol. It made no sense to him, but then again, very little that rich people did made sense. The client wanted a separate area for mixing drinks, chilling the wine, and storing the crystal, he wasn’t there to argue.
The main kitchen had been redone from top to bottom. Huge flagstone-style tiles had been laid on the floor, there was brand new gleaming white cabinetry, stainless-steel appliances, and even the ceiling had been redone, coffered-style with light oak wood accented with matching beams in criss-cross shapes vaguely reminiscent of St. Andrew’s crosses. He wouldn’t have thought this client knew anything about a St. Andrew’s cross, but there were three paintings inside the house which told him otherwise.
He’d yet to meet the woman’s husband. But it wasn’t his place to ask if she was divorced or what was going on, so he kept his mouth shut and collected his payments. If he kept the wealthy happy, they would recommend him to other rich people who wanted to remodel just-because. Jobs like this one were what helped him withstand the
lean times. And the way hurricane season routinely pummeled the Gulf Coast in the past fifteen years, lean times happened often.
He had a hate-love relationship with hurricanes. They forced him and his crews to shut down for days at a time, but when they came back to work it was a feast of work to be had. Occasionally, he wondered what his business would be like if the coastal homes weren’t damaged by tropical storms and hurricanes nearly every year.
He shook his head to rid the thoughts from his mind. It never helped to look a gift horse in the mouth. He turned on the new faucets and checked that the new appliances were working. Some of his subcontractors gave him shit for being anal, but he was on the line for the entire job.
His phone rang and he jolted. He frowned as he wondered if Meg, his new assistant, was calling him. He’d made it clear anything she needed to tell him could be texted until he had met with the client.
When he pulled his phone from the holster, he grinned. “Hey, Zee. What’s up?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. When I mentioned I had your cell number and would call it instead, your assistant seriously balked, but I wanted to personally let you know your new account is established and a debit card has been sent to your home address rather than your business address.”
“Why?”
“Your business mailing address is a post office box and we only mail to physical addresses.”
He chuckled. “I should’ve been clearer. Why are you calling personally? Because of your job or—”
She sighed. “That, and maybe because I thought I’d find out if you had lunch plans. Though I shouldn’t be so forward, and I understand if your schedule is booked. Your assistant—”
“My assistant is two weeks on the job, and subsequently doesn’t know shit about me. Where do you want to eat, babe?”
She hesitated. “I’m really not picky.”
He grinned. “Then Mugshots it is. They got burgers and they got salads. Though, after yesterday’s lunch, you don’t strike me as the salad-at-lunch type.”
She laughed, and he enjoyed hearing it. “There’s nothing wrong with eating salad at lunch, Sam.”
“Not true where I come from. But, my client’s walking up. Things go well, I should be able to swing by in forty-five minutes. That work?”