“Tucker McKay,” Jase said offhand, still reading her flight itinerary.
“Who’s Tucker McKay?” Velma asked.
“Shut up. You don’t know who Tucker is?” Aspen gaped.
“Clearly not,” Velma pointed out. “Seriously, who is he?”
“Five-time Grammy nominee, three-time winner. Used to be with the Skintight Bandits but went out on his own.” Jase gave her the evil eye. “Seriously, you don’t know him?”
Velma shook her head. “No.”
Jase threw his hands up in the air. “He and Brek are buddies, but I wouldn’t have suspected Brek would go visit him. Guess that’s why he went.”
Aspen shifted her son and laid a kind hand on Velma’s shoulder. “Thank you for going to get Brek.”
“Do you have a plan for when you get there?” Pam asked.
Velma let out a worried breath and shook her head. “No.”
No plan. That was the plan.
It had to work.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Three Weeks After Claire & Dean’s Wedding
Bullets of sweat beaded along Brek’s hairline. His big plans for the night included a beer, his guitar, and dinner. He paused on the concrete sidewalk outside the bar up the street from where he was staying and checked his phone again. No voice mail.
His hands shook, which was unacceptable. He had moved on. Velma was free to be happy. Free to live her life.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and reached for the door. Except, she called every night at seven. On the dot.
But not tonight.
His throat constricted like it had when he’d seen the score on Velma’s spreadsheet. He should probably touch base with Jase to make sure Velma was okay.
A coat of regret covered his tongue. He swallowed and looked back to his bike. The thing had taken a beating in the elements over the past week, but it had held up. His mind worked to calculate the distance back to Denver.
Five hours. Way too long.
Maybe he could call Ma and have her go check on Velma? Nothing major, just a Hello, I’m making sure you’re not dead in a ditch or something welfare visit.
His cell buzzed against his palm.
He practically jumped out of his fuckin’ motorcycle boots. Velma’s name and picture showed up on the caller ID. The pic he’d snapped when he brought her tacos for lunch the week before everything had gone to shit.
Thank God. Not that he was a praying man or anything, but he sent a silent salute to whoever the hell was in charge. Gratitude and all that. He itched to answer the phone. Hear her voice in real time.
Her smile lit up the screen, and his dick stirred with the hope he might actually call her back this time.
He couldn’t. She deserved her ten, and it wasn’t him. Acceptance would come eventually, and they’d both figure out their lives.
The stucco siding of the bar dug into his leather jacket when he slumped against the building. He would get dinner and head someplace quiet so he could listen to Velma’s voice mail over and over again, like every other night since he’d left.
He had become a pussy-whipped pansy. Soon enough he would be doodling hearts with her name in the middle like a lovesick idiot.
Time for dinner and to figure out his next move.
Tucker was happy to entertain him, but Brek had taken enough of his time already. Tucker didn’t need a moping jerk wrecking the little time he had with his family.
Brek headed inside and waited the few seconds it took for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Typical dive. The scent of grease hung heavy in the air. Low lighting slipped through a handful of small windows, slicing through the air where the dust motes swirled. A couple of pool tables sat on one side, and music blared on the jukebox—country, this time. Along the edge of the room was a long bar with the resident jackass trying to pick up a pretty blonde. Perfectly combed hair, a pink sweater and skirt, and matching Mary Janes. She had clearly wandered into the wrong place.
He couldn’t make out her face because she was turned away from him, but he could’ve sworn she looked like Velma. Except Velma was tucked away in Denver. He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thick molasses that seemed to always be trapping his thoughts lately.
Everywhere he turned the past week, he could swear he caught Velma’s scent or her image out of the corner of his eye. Once, he’d followed a woman into a gas station when he thought she was Velma, but the chick standing between the display of Bugles chips and the fountain drinks was brunette and definitely not Velma. He’d stomped out in a worse mood than when he had started the day. But that wasn’t today. Wasn’t now.
This woman wasn’t Velma, either. His brain was mind-fucking him again.
Except…
She laughed, and a zing of awareness shot straight through him. He knew that laugh.
“Velma?” he asked, positive his brain was tripping.
The blonde turned on her barstool. Velma’s gray eyes met his.
“Brek?” He did know that voice, and those eyes, that mouth, that body. Hell, he’d spent months tasting every inch of her. How had she found him?
Brek swallowed hard. He’d learned long ago that certain events burned themselves onto the retina to be taken out later and mulled over—the memories that never fade. No, they always stayed as crisp as the original memory. This was one of those times. The image of Velma sitting at a bar in the mountains with a small stream of sunlight playing across her face would stay with him forever.
He was fucked, and he didn’t even care.
“You with him?” Jackass jerked his chin toward Brek.
“I’m not sure.” Velma shifted and toyed with the white paper wrapper from her straw.
She looked smaller, her eyes haunted.
Jackass stepped back, and Brek got the full punch of Velma. Fuck, he missed her.
He was lost. No point in fighting it. He wouldn’t be able to walk away again.
“Am I?” she asked.
“What?” he replied.
She tilted her head to the side. “With you?”
Brek briefly studied the dried mud caked on the toes of his boots.
“I need to talk to him,” Velma told Jackass. “Alone.”
Dude got the message, because he grunted in disgust at a conquest lost, grabbed his beer, and headed for the pool tables.
Brek strode to her, his boots stuck against the sticky floorboards from spilled drinks and God knew what else. He planted his ass on the stool next to her and inhaled her scent.
Strawberries and Velma.
“I just called you.” She dropped the paper straw wrapper and angled her body his direction.
“I know.” He rolled his shoulders, but he couldn’t meet her eyes again. Not yet.
“Some things can’t be said on a voice mail. I figured I’d come tell you in person.” She placed her hand on his and linked their fingers together.
He let her.
The wall in front of him held a huge mirror and an assortment of whiskey to numb the type of pain he had experienced. Her thumb stroked his knuckles, and his heart stalled.
“I think I figured out when I fell in love with you,” she said finally.
“Velma.” He dragged his hand from hers and ran it through his hair. God, this hurt.
“It happened around the time you decked that guy for me.”
He glanced to her. The light in her eyes caught in his heart. They couldn’t do this. “Velma, don’t know what you’re here searchin’ for, but it’s pretty clear lookin’ at your spreadsheet…you don’t know a thing about me.”
“You’re Brek. We went up to Red Rocks together.” She hauled a zipped canvas bag onto her lap, dug through it, pulled out a bound report with a clear cover, and handed it to him.
He glanced at the rows and columns…another fuckin’ spreadsheet. Her spreadsheets didn’t know jack shit. He pushed it away. “Not interested.”
Clearly ignoring him, she continued on as though he hadn�
�t spoken. “I printed it. Not really logical to lug my computer all this way.” Carefully, she flipped through the pages and landed on the last one. “You’re on this page. I highlighted your row.”
She had added columns, including number of orgasms given, spontaneity, creativity, and about a dozen other things.
“I went back through and added everything I could think of that really matters. Then I updated the algorithm. You got a five thousand six hundred and ninety-two.” She squinted at the number as she read and traced the tip of her finger over the number highlighted in yellow. “You lost a few points for taking off and not telling anyone where to find you.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. He caught the bartender when he moved past and ordered a Jack on the rocks.
“Also, I talked to Wayne. Jase told me what he said to you. You’ll be happy to know my algorithm gave him a negative ten thousand. I showed him the spreadsheet, so he could see he doesn’t have a chance.”
Brek blinked quickly and snagged the report. “You showed the guy who wants in your pants a spreadsheet that details how many times I’ve made you come?”
Velma drew little circles on the bar with her fingertip, and a sly smile touched her lips. “I don’t think he’ll bother either of us anymore.”
Holy shit, Brek would have loved to be a fly on the wall when that had gone down.
“Also, I got inked.” Velma’s cheeks flushed.
“What?” He took the glass the bartender slid his way. She got a tat?
“Your lily...” The sleeve of her pink sweater dropped, and holy hell, she was serious. The lily he drew for her stretched across the skin of her shoulder, up toward the back of her neck. The artist had even included Brek’s signature.
She’d marked herself for him.
His blood heated, and his dick asked for permission to come out and play. Brek had never been more turned on by anything in his life. And given his experience with Velma’s tits on the couch, that said a lot.
He reached out and ran a fingertip along one of the petals. She winced.
He jerked his hand back. Fresh ink stung.
She considered him, her expression soft. “You should know, I also figured we should get married.”
He stilled. “Say again?”
“You know. Married. Like husband. Wife. Someday kids.” She shrugged but wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Velma Johnson, are you proposing to me?” He couldn’t help the grin playing on his mouth. Picture-perfect, little-miss-traditional proposing to him? In a bar?
“Well…yeah.” She lifted a shoulder. The one with his ink.
Yeah, he would marry her. Right there in the middle of the bar if she’d have him.
“You’re not on one knee,” he pointed out.
She grimaced. “Have you seen the floor in here?”
“This proposal wasn’t very well planned out.”
“The best things never are,” she said on a breath.
He cocked his head to the side. “Did you at least get me an engagement ring?”
She paled. “Um…no. I hadn’t figured…”
Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he grabbed the box with her grandmother’s ring and set it in front of her. Pops had asked for it back if Brek didn’t intend use it, but Brek couldn’t bring himself to send it.
“Brek?” Her fingertips twitched as she weighed the box in her palm.
“Open it.” He took another swig to calm the sudden case of nerves tromping around in his stomach.
She flipped the lid up and gasped. Tears misted her eyes. “This is Gramma Velma’s.”
He lifted the band from the box, his fingers clunky and big against the thin band. Standing, he pushed his barstool back with the bottom of his foot. Then he got down on one knee. In a bar. For Velma.
“Velma Johnson. Will you marry me?”
“Always.” Velma held her left hand to him, and he slipped the ring over her knuckle.
It fit.
“There’s an inscription, too.” He squeezed her fingertips. “It’s short, ’cause Pops was bein’ cheap. But I’ll add somethin’ to it before the wedding.” He paused. “You really love me?”
She nodded, reaching a hand to the stubble of his cheek as he stood. “Yes.”
“I love you, too.” With everything he had.
She gnawed at her lip like she did when she got nervous. “Can I kiss you?”
All innocence. All Velma. All his.
“Fuck yes.” He leaned over her, catching her lips with his in an indecent kiss that involved liberal use of tongue. When he pulled away, they both were panting hard.
“I’m not wearin’ a tux, and we’re not having a big wedding. I’m thinking close family and friends. And chocolate cake with dark-chocolate frosting. I know white is supposed to mean purity, but I think we established in the coat closet of the country club that purity isn’t exactly our thing.” He ran his thumb over the apple of her cheek, his mouth close to hers.
“Are you going to be a total bridezilla?”
He thought for a long moment. “Fuck yeah. I think I’ve earned that right.”
She grinned against his lips. “I can live with that.”
Epilogue
Seven Months After Claire & Dean’s Wedding
“Brek?” Velma called, panic settling in her belly because there wasn’t a shoehorn in the world that would squeeze her swollen feet into the satin flats that matched her wedding gown. Her specially made, six-months-pregnant, maternity wedding gown.
She had been so upset when Brek had left, she’d forgot to take her birth control pills a few times. Whoops.
“What’s wrong?” Brek took three strides into their bedroom, lickety-split. He was already dressed for the ceremony—black jeans and a white button-up shirt. He stood firm on the no-tuxedo ultimatum. The truth was, as long as he stood at the end of the aisle, she didn’t care what he wore.
“My shoes won’t fit.” She fell backward onto their bed and rolled to her side. She could just stay here today and lounge in her bathrobe. No need for shoes or wedding gowns. “I knew we should’ve gotten married right away.”
“Waiting was your idea.” A half grin flashed across his lips. He smiled all the time, ever since the little line on the pregnancy test had turned into a plus sign in the stall of a Target bathroom.
Like she could have waited to get home to pee on the darn stick. But he was right, pushing pause on the wedding until after his tour had been her idea. One she now regretted.
The baby remained absolutely perfect and on schedule. Aside from an intense craving for green apple suckers at three a.m. and ankles that swelled to the size of softballs, Velma was fine, too.
“I knew I shouldn’t have eaten potato chips last night.” Salt was not her friend anymore.
Brek knelt at the end of the bed and compared the shoe to her foot. She already knew the laws of physics weren’t on her side today, because no way would she be wearing those darn things.
“Go barefoot. Your dress is long enough. No one will know.” His hands began doing magnificent massage things to the ball of her right foot.
Velma moaned and smacked the comforter. “I cannot get married barefoot in a bar. I have standards.”
Not as many as she used to have, but growth and all that nonsense.
Funny thing: Brek had bought Hank’s Bar when they’d gotten back to Denver. The acquisition was part of his plan to stay put and not have to travel so much. Though she really didn’t worry if he had to go on the road with his band. He’d already gotten his compass tattoo, and she never doubted he would find his way home.
“I’ll call Aspen. She’ll fix this.” He snagged Velma’s other foot and went to work on her toes. “She’ll send Ma to the store or something.”
Claire had agreed to stand up as witness for Velma today. Heather and Aspen, too. They’d spent loads of time together after Brek had returned to Denver. Velma had even helped a few times at events when Aspen was in a pinch. The
Rosette article had done everything Aspen had hoped. She had a client waiting list three pages long.
Baby Montgomery took that moment to do a loop the loop in Velma’s belly. She pressed against her ribs, trying to extract the kid’s foot from her lungs.
“Martin’s practicing to be an acrobat.” If his antics inside were any indication, when he said hello to the world, he would be off and running. The kiddo never stopped.
Brek put his lips to Velma’s belly button. “Trixie, be nice to your mama.”
They had decided to go for the surprise at birth. Brek insisted she carried a girl while she remained certain the baby was a boy. When Velma was a little girl, she had decided her son’s name would be Martin—a nice, normal name that wouldn’t invoke teasing from the other kids.
Brek wasn’t on board at all. He said it was a sissy name, and he would use his veto power. This only prompted her to call the baby Martin more often. Whatever. Brek said if she was a girl, he wanted to call her Trixie. Velma had veto power, too, and she wasn’t afraid to use it.
“He’s not listening to you.” Velma propped herself on her elbows.
Brek grinned his lopsided grin. “Just like her mama.”
“Do you want to put on your dress here or there?” Brek climbed onto the bed beside her and kissed her forehead.
“There. You’re not supposed to see the dress before the wedding.” She leaned against him and tossed her arm over her forehead.
“Thought we established the rules don’t apply to us?” He nibbled on her earlobe. Her breasts felt a little heavier with each nip. “What about just a quick roll in the sheets before we head over?”
He worked his hand lower down her thigh and lifted the corner of her robe.
“People will be there soon, we should go.” With great effort, Velma rolled over and planted a kiss on her almost-husband.
“Waiting’s gonna kill me.” He took her hand and pulled her up, stopping to hold her shoulders until she got her balance. “You good?”
She nodded. “I’ll call Aspen and ask her about shoes.”
Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Page 26
