Booze and Bullets (Brooklyn Brothers #3)

by Melanie Munton

  Well, she had been. Before I’d opened my mouth and smacked that blinding smile that could light up Times Square at Christmastime right off her face. Something burned in the middle of my chest when her entire face had fallen…but I told myself it was just acid reflux. I didn’t care whether she was happy or not.

  This woman was nothing more than a business transaction to me.

  Just like I was nothing more than a safe haven to her. A means to an end. A temporary escape until her father could handle his shit and come take her off my hands. We might have been legally tied together, but we weren’t lovers. We weren’t confidantes. We weren’t friends.

  And we’d both be wise to keep those lines firmly drawn.

  As I led her onto the plane and watched her take in her new surroundings, I put every ounce of my energy into ignoring how cool under pressure she’d seemed since the moment I met her. Being forced into a marriage she didn’t want, dodging bullets, and being squired away on a private plane with a man she barely knew would have been enough to send most people into a hyperventilating nervous breakdown.

  I didn’t want to like that.

  Didn’t want to like the fact that she was treating the entire situation as if she were just having a bad hair day. From the first angry words she’d spewed in my direction, she’d handled every scenario with an unexpected brand of steel and sass.

  And I really didn’t want to like that.

  After informing the pilot we were ready to take off, I fell into one of the buttercream leather seats and loosened my tie with a heavy exhale. My eyes drifted shut as exhaustion started working its way through my tired muscles. I’d wiped the blood from my mouth and knuckles in the car, barely even feeling those small scrapes. But that son of a bitch back at the compound had gotten in one solid punch to my ribs that twinged as I attempted to get comfortable. As I’d told Lexi before, I’d had much worse than a bruised rib or two. It was just going to be bothersome for the next few days.

  I heard Lexi’s quiet footsteps shuffle over to the seat across from me and settle in. I didn’t open my eyes again until we’d gone through takeoff and reached our flying altitude.

  But when I opened them, I was taken aback by what I saw.

  Lexi sat in her seat, ankles crossed primly, fingers fidgeting in her lap, teeth worrying her bottom lip. She looked…nervous.

  That’s a first.

  She hadn’t even appeared nervous when the priest had been blessing our union. She’d been spitting mad then. Even when I’d found her in the hallway as gunfire exploded around her, she’d been more alert and confused, rather than nervous. Was the enormity of how drastically her life just changed finally sinking in with her? Coming down from an intense adrenaline rush could do that to a person. I knew better than anyone what that crash felt like.

  So, why on earth did I feel the compulsion to put her nerves at ease?

  I didn’t have an answer to that.

  But I did have alcohol.

  I walked over to the sidebar where various bottles that my company distributed sat waiting. I filled a lowball glass with one of my favorite brands of whiskey. Then I picked up the only bottle of vodka on this entire plane and poured it in a second glass. I walked back over and wordlessly offered it to Lexi.

  It took her by surprise, I could tell. She jolted in her seat, brows slamming together, as she examined the glass. Her movements were cautious, almost wary, when she accepted it. “Thank you.”

  I grunted in response as I reclaimed the seat across from her.

  “I need to call my father,” she said, frowning down at her lap. “I need to know that he’s okay.”

  “I’ll make contact with him once we’re out of Russia.”

  He’d left me an emergency number, stating explicitly to only use it if Lexi’s life was in immediate danger. Otherwise, he was going to remain off the grid and radio silent until he’d handled all of his business.

  But he hadn’t exactly planned for an invasion of his own home, now had he? I needed to at least make sure he was alive and that our deal was still on.

  Her eyes flew up to mine. “Why not until we’re out of Russia?”

  “You don’t find it an odd coincidence that your father’s compound was invaded the same day we got married? The same day I make a deal with him to buy his shares of the company?” I shook my head. “I don’t like the way any of that played out. So, I won’t be making any calls into Russia until I’m sure that neither of us was the target.”

  She pinched her lips shut. “But what if they captured my father? What if he’s hurt?”

  I rolled my neck on my shoulders. That damn knot in the center of my nape never seemed to go away. “I’m fairly certain he hadn’t returned from his business meeting, but I’ll verify his well-being as soon as I deem the line secure enough.”

  She nodded without responding, looking dazed.

  Over the rim of my glass, I watched her take her first sip of the vodka. Her eyebrows shot up her forehead, as if impressed. She glanced back at the sidebar to get a glimpse of the bottle.

  “I’ve never heard of this label,” she said, shifting around to face me again. “Who makes it?”

  “One of the distilleries I own.” The only distillery of mine that produced craft vodka. “That’s the first batch we’ve made so far.”

  She took another sip, a much slower one. My gaze lasered in on her throat as she savored the alcohol. She didn’t automatically take it down, like a shot. She held it on her tongue, swishing it around for moment, before finally swallowing it.

  And then she grinned. In pleasure.

  That might have been the hottest fucking thing I’d ever seen.

  A sinfully beautiful woman like her appreciating quality liquor the way it’s supposed to be appreciated. That was some seriously sexy shit. Even if vodka wasn’t really my style.

  “It’s good,” she praised. “Really good, actually.”

  I did not need to like the sound of her approval. Didn’t need my cock to stir at the fact that my label of her home country’s bread and butter pleased her. Didn’t need that at all.

  I propped my elbow on the armrest, lifting my half empty glass to mouth level. “I don’t make bad alcohol, legs. If you’ve learned anything about me so far, it should be that I’ve got incomparable taste.”

  I intentionally let my gaze travel over her figure, lingering on those ridiculously long legs that always seemed to squeeze together under my scrutiny.

  What was that reaction? Was she affected by me?

  You don’t care. It’s better if she hates you.

  Sinking further down in her seat, she mimicked my position and propped her elbow on the armrest. “Sorry, I should have been more specific. For American vodka, it isn’t bad.”

  She seemed more relaxed than before. The lines of her face had smoothed out. No more finger twitching. No rigid spine. Her focus had transferred from whatever stresses currently plagued her mind, to me.

  A perverse sense of pride slithered through me.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what you meant,” I murmured wryly.

  We both took sips at the same time, our gazes clashing over our glasses. Being alone in such close quarters for the first time, it was clear we were taking each other’s measure.

  “How many distilleries do you own?”

  I found it a little surreal that this was our first real conversation since we’d met. After the wedding, after the shooting. Up until this point, it had been backhanded insults and thinly-veiled innuendo.

  I stretched my legs out in front of me. “Four.”

  I caught her eyes briefly flick down to my lap before reverting to her glass.

  I bit back a smug grin.

  God knew I’d been checking her out since I first laid eyes on her, so the reciprocity was nice to see. Lucky for her, I’d gotten my erection under control before her attention had zoned in on it.

  And that’s exactly where she’d been looking. I wasn’t blind.

&n
bsp; “One in Scotland, one in England, one on the Bourbon Trail, and one I’m about to open in Brooklyn.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Bourbon Trail?”

  “Kentucky, legs. Where the best bourbon whiskey in the world is made.”

  “Oh. And now you’re trying to break into vodka? That’s what the business with my father was all about, right?”

  “I’ve got my hands in nearly every pie of the booze business. I own five breweries, too, as well as a distribution center in the States. It’s the second largest in the country.”

  She frowned. “And you run all of them from Brooklyn?”

  I tapped my finger against my glass, trying to figure out what that change in her tone meant. “I travel extensively.”

  She slowly nodded and took another sip. “And what about this trip to Istria?”

  “There’s a winery there I’m considering buying. Wine is my newest venture, and let’s just say it’s in a completely different wheelhouse than my other acquisitions.”

  “How so?”

  She was actually interested?

  The only women I ever discussed business with were usually the ones directly involved in the business itself. The one and only time I brought up my work to a woman I’d taken to bed, she’d gotten a glazed look in her eye, one clearly of boredom. Pretty sure the only reason she’d given me a blowjob after that was to get me to shut up.

  “For one thing, vineyards require land with the right kind of soil,” I explained. “Climate and average temperatures are huge factors in location. The storage and aging processes are different for wine than for liquor. Materials, supplies, ingredients… It’s a vastly different industry than distilleries and breweries.”

  “Then why pursue it if it’s more trouble?”

  I shrugged. “To say that I did.”

  She tucked her tongue in her cheek, her expression turning skeptical. “That’s it? You’re just a megalomaniac? The end?”

  I winked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re really just in it for the money? You’re not chasing some sort of dream or trying to accomplish certain goals?”

  Maybe.

  Only, it was starting to feel like my particular goals would forever be out of my reach.

  “Is that your rainbows and unicorns take on life?” My voice reeked of condescension. “You set goals, you achieve them, and everything just magically fits into place?” I clucked my tongue. “Sorry, rich girl. People like me, who’ve had to carve out their success in the real world, don’t have time for fluffy dreams.”

  “What a sad, lonely life you must lead. No wonder you went into the booze business. For someone who’s destined to drink alone for the rest of his life, it’s a perfect fit.”

  The moment her expression turned pitying, something ugly took hold of my tongue and wouldn’t let it go. I knew I was about to hate myself a little more, but that wasn’t enough to stop me. It was all for the best anyway. This small talk had been flowing much too easily. And feeling much too comfortable.

  “At least I work for a living. And I keep hundreds of people employed. What have you ever done, except put on a few outfits and flash your cleavage at the cameras?”

  Her face dropped. It felt like she took my stomach along with it, but that was probably because I was drinking on an empty stomach.

  “You’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” Her expression turned stone cold.

  “Almost. I mean, what more is there to figure out except what you were hiding underneath all those skimpy bikinis?”

  Too far.

  My laughter came out flat and hollow. “I guess if I have to have a fake wife, at least she’s not painful to look at.”

  Too far!

  Something twisted in my chest when her face contorted in disgust. Like someone had taken a wrench to my sternum and cranked it as far as it would go.

  Probably gallstones.

  I needed to make a doctor’s appointment for all these health issues I was suddenly suffering from.

  “You are a despicable bastard.”

  I blew her a kiss. “Not the first time a woman’s called me that.”

  She shoved to her feet. “And it won’t be the last. Count on it.”

  After draining the rest of her drink, she slammed the glass down on the sidebar on her way to the separate sleeping area in the back. Sliding the divider shut, she effectively closed herself off from the rest of the plane.

  It was better this way.

  She needed to hate me.

  Because if she even sort of liked me, I would eventually disappoint her somewhere down the road. It was a pattern in my life. I was a commitment-phobe of the highest variety. I never liked to be in one place too long, or get into any kind of routine, especially one of a domestic nature. I was an on-the-go type of person and never wanted to be tied down. Or caged.

  Frankly, it was the same with women.

  I knew I was incapable of keeping one woman happy for the rest of her life. It wasn’t in the cards for me, and I’d accepted that a long time ago. I was much better at satisfying a woman’s physical, rather than emotional, needs anyway. That was what I excelled at, and the women who came to me, knowing what I was about, appreciated that. They knew the score because I told them outright. Told them what not to expect. So, at the end of the evening, there would be no hurt feelings, no longing stares, no frustrated glares.

  I left them happy, satiated, and well-tended.

  Not broken and miserable.

  And thanks to my years of sluttery, I’d become quite adept at sex. I hadn’t been lying to Lexi about that. Since I’d learned long ago that I couldn’t give most women what they needed long-term, I focused instead of fulfilling their short-term needs. Namely, in the form of sexual release and ultimate abandonment of their inhibitions. I’d fine-tuned my skill set, acquired a cash hoard of tricks between the sheets, and become somewhat of a connoisseur of gratification.

  A virtuoso of vaginas.

  A pro at pussy.

  An authority on getting ass.

  “I’m a dick even inside my own head,” I muttered before pouring the rest of the whiskey down my throat.

  Unable to be left alone with my asinine thoughts any longer, I pulled out my phone and dialed Cris. He was the one I usually called before anyone else when shit went down, even before Dad.

  He answered on the third ring. “Has the honeymoon ended yet? Or did it ever start?”

  I rolled my eyes while he chuckled at his own lame ass joke. “Don’t hold your breath. You won’t fucking believe how my wedding day ended, though.”

  He hesitated. “I take it not with cake and dancing?”

  I snorted. “We didn’t get that far. Some assholes with guns crashed the reception.”

  How pathetic was it that I’d gotten married less than twenty-four hours before, and I’d never felt more alone in my life?

  After shutting myself inside the small bedroom on the plane, I’d stewed in my anger for a while before eventually falling asleep. And I’d remained alone back there until the plane touched down on the tarmac and I’d been forced to come out. Nico and I didn’t speak in the car during the drive to the oceanfront villa he’d rented for this trip that, naturally, had to be gorgeous with breathtaking views.

  Seeing as how we’d arrived at the villa in the middle of the night, we’d gotten a few more hours of sleep—in separate bedrooms, of course. Still without speaking a word to each other. The cherry on top of the cake was when he’d bolted out the door before I’d woken up this morning. Off to his business meetings or whatever.

  Leaving me alone. Again.

  As stunning as the villa was, if he expected me to bar myself indoors and wait for him to come home like a good little wifey, he was stupider than I thought. The sky was cloudless and sunny, the ocean outside the windows was sparkling and inviting, and I needed food in a desperate way. My stubbornness had prevented me from leaving the bedroom on the pl
ane to search for food. And I’d been too tired when we’d arrived at the villa to raid the kitchen.

  My stomach had started eating itself hours ago.

  After dressing in a mustard yellow sundress and sandals with turquoise beading, I slung my purse strap over my shoulder and headed for the door. Something on the kitchen counter caught my eye on the way out.

  A wad of cash. Croatian kuna, from the looks of it.

  He left me money?

  My first impulse was to snatch it up and spend every last coin. Let him buy me useless knickknacks and souvenirs. Or hell, maybe I’d just give it all away to the first homeless person I saw.

  Then I thought, abso-bloody-lutely not.

  He wasn’t going to pay for shit. This wasn’t a real marriage. What’s his was not mine and vice versa. I would just find a place where I could convert my Russian rubles into kuna, and I would pay for my own damn stuff.

  What have you ever done, except put on a few outfits and flash your cleavage at the cameras?

  His words from the plane blared loudly in my head as I left the villa and walked along the narrow cobblestone road adjacent to the water. The worst part was that he was right. I had done that once upon a time. But it’s not like it had been for free, dammit. Modeling, especially at that level, was a real job. I’d often had to work twelve-hour days, I’d had a demanding shoot schedule, events to attend and appearances to make all the time, plus I’d had to travel constantly. Lack of sleep in those days had been my worst enemy.

  I’d been someone else’s property back then.

  The studios, designers, companies—whoever I’d signed a contract with owned me. I’d never been my own person, couldn’t have gone off and done my own thing whenever I wanted. I’d had zero freedom and few friends. In fact, after I’d left the modeling game, all the friends I’d made during those years had vanished along with the stardom.

  I still got recognized when I went out in public. Not every time and everywhere, like it had been years ago. My Instagram account had kept a small spotlight over my head, though not on purpose. My account was all about good vibes, happy thoughts, encouraging words, and positive images. My experience in the modeling industry had really opened my eyes to how poisoned a person’s mind can become if all they’re ever concerned about is seeking others’ approval. Wanting to be loved by strangers. Idolized by fans.