Breaking Free (Steele Ridge Book 5)

by Adrienne Giordano

  Today, she’d leave it all behind.

  Finally.

  “This time, I’m going.”

  2

  If Gage had to hear another minute of Reid’s bitching about the contractor’s schedule, he might slide his .45 from the drawer, prop that baby under his chin, and—pow!

  “Dude,” he said, “please. You’re driving me batshit crazy. You come in here every day complaining about construction being two weeks behind. I know it’s frustrating, but it is what it is. The weather sucks and certain things can’t be done in the rain. And, oh, yeah, your brother is the contractor.”

  “Exactly! You need to talk to him. You’re the admin guy.”

  Nuh-uh. No way. “I’m not getting into the middle of any family shit. If you’re pissed, take it up with Britt.”

  Gage’s cell phone rang. His mother's ringtone. By now, Reid knew that.

  “Go ahead and take it.”

  “Sorry.” He poked at the screen. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Good morning. Have you talked to your father yet?”

  No preamble. No warm-up. No pleasantries. Just—bam.

  Yesterday, when Gage had called to wish them a Happy Thanksgiving, she'd begged him to speak to his father about half a dozen things Dad was apparently too stubborn to listen to her about.

  “Not yet. But I will. I'm in a meeting right now. Can I call you back this afternoon?”

  His mother sighed as if his job were a major imposition. “Of course. You know where I'll be. Right here. Wondering when my boy is going to come see me.”

  Ah, the guilt. “I'll come soon.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you, too. And don't worry about Dad. I'll talk to him. I promise.”

  Gage punched off and set the phone down. “Where were we?”

  Reid pushed out of his chair, his long jean-clad legs eating up the length of the office Gage had claimed as president of the Steele Ridge Training Academy. Gage liked the view of the outdoor shooting range. The first time he’d seen it, he’d been taken by the bordering bright green grass and Callery pear trees loaded with leaves. All in all, not a bad view.

  The building, originally designed as a sports complex, now housed the administrative offices Reid and Jonah Steele had hired Gage to oversee. All of it was in Steele Ridge, a tiny town ninety minutes from Asheville that Jonah, billionaire game developer and baby brother to Reid, had bailed out of bankruptcy and slapped their family name on.

  When it came to the training center, Gage was the admin guy, handling all the paperwork and finer details that Reid couldn’t manage to wrap his mind around. Just as well. Gage liked the quiet, analytical stuff. Even if it had become harder since his injury last spring, he’d still happily let Reid handle the tactical angles and design the courses.

  “Tarzan is being a pain in the ass,” Reid said. “He keeps hanging up on me.”

  Gage laughed at Reid's use of his brother's nickname. Hadn’t he just sat at a table with the brothers celebrating Thanksgiving, laughing and just happily breaking balls? “Maybe because you call him ten times a day.”

  “We got shit to do here. A schedule to keep. We’re opening doors February first and our shoot house isn’t nearly complete.”

  “The shoot house is fine.”

  Wasn’t it? He thought they were on schedule with that. He’d have to check it.

  Refusing to make a note of it in front of Reid, he focused on that little detail, hoping if he thought about it hard enough, it would somehow get cemented in his brain.

  Reid gripped two handfuls of his dark hair and tugged. “The shoot house is not fine. We don’t have any walls!”

  Wait. Walls? Crap. The shoot house. Right. Wrong building.

  “Sorry. My mind left me for a sec.”

  “I guess.”

  “The walls are my fault. He wanted to do drywall. I told him plywood instead. Nobody’ll be living there, and with the way the walls will get beat up, the plywood’ll hold up better. Couple of days is all he needs. Let’s get the outside stuff done first. The rain isn’t helping.”

  Gage stood, moved too fast, and immediately regretted it. He set one hand on the edge of his desk and took a second to let his spinning head settle in.

  “Whoa,” Reid said. “You okay?”

  He held up a hand. “I’m good. Stood up too fast.” He swirled one finger. “My head spun.”

  “That happen often?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Cut the shit, Gertrude.” He waved one hand. “I’m just hungry. My body is getting pissy.”

  “Lunch,” Reid said. He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Let’s head up to the house. Mom said something about fried chicken today. After that, you’ll call my brother. Who keeps hanging up on me.”

  Reid flashed a smile that had served him—and most of his friends—well back in their Special Forces days. He might be a loudmouth, but he wasn’t short on his own twisted brand of charm.

  All these years later, though, Gage knew when he was being played. “I’m not calling him.”

  He followed the big man out the door, his mouth already watering over Miss Joan’s fried chicken.

  From the minute Gage had settled into his office two months ago, Miss Joan had treated him as one of her own, letting a stranger sleep in her guest room in the main house—Tupelo Hill—just up the drive from the training center. After renters moved out of the original Steele family home, Gage had moved in, leasing it from the family. But Miss Joan insisted on still feeding him and kept him in a steady supply of his favorite chocolate chip cookies.

  And she refused to take money from him. For anything.

  “Speaking of which,” Gage said. “You gotta talk to your mom about letting me chip in for groceries. I may not be an ape like you, but I eat. She doesn’t need to pay for it.”

  Reid waved it off. “Forget it. She’ll be pissed if I say anything. Consider it part of the training center budget. Executive compensation. Plus, she’s got a soft spot for military guys.”

  “Injured military guys?”

  “Whatever.”

  They both knew he was right. First Reid had come home to Steele Ridge after blowing out his knee and now Gage had taken squatting rights after a paranoid villager decided he was done talking and put a bullet in his chest.

  For both men, their injuries had been enough to earn them a ticket out of Special Forces, and now Gage couldn’t face his own family. Not yet. He loved Iowa. Loved being on the farm, but he wasn’t going back there until he was 100 percent in mind and body.

  And that wasn’t the case. Yet.

  He followed Reid to the main entrance of the building. “At the rate we’re going, the budget’ll be decimated.”

  “Relax, Suds. We’ll be fine.”

  Suds. Six months out of the Army and he couldn’t leave behind the nickname his Green Beret comrades had leveled on him. The sons of bitches had slipped half a bottle of liquid soap into a hot tub and when Gage fired it up and got in? Suds. Lots of 'em.

  “I hope so. February first can’t come too soon. It’d be nice to have money coming in instead of going the other way.”

  Outside, the unrelenting rain had finally slowed to a drizzle and Reid hopped over a puddle. Gage wouldn’t do any hopping. He sidestepped the water and his boot sank into mud.

  Shit. He’d have to leave his boots on the porch, because he sure as hell wasn’t tracking mud into Miss Joan’s.

  Just ahead, a taxi pulled around the long drive that led to the main house. A taxi. In the time he’d been here, Gage could count on one hand how many taxis he’d seen in town, never mind at the Hill.

  Reid picked up his pace. “No idea who that is. My mother didn’t say anything about visitors.”

  The cab came to a stop at the front porch and a few seconds later, the back passenger side door opened and a long—really long—leg appeared. A dark-haired woman slid out. She wore a black jacket with zippers on the side.

 
She hooked a messenger bag crosswise over her shoulder, then gave her shaggy hair a flip before grabbing a duffel from the backseat.

  Whoever this was, she was a tall drink of water. Tight jeans wrapped around her lean body and the damned legs went on for miles, sparking something low and deep in Gage’s belly.

  Reid halted, and a fierce energy charged the air around them. That fucking fast, Reid's cheeks turned to cement.

  The battle look.

  Reid started walking again, his eyes on the porch where the brunette slowly climbed the steps.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “I have no idea if my mother knows she’s here.”

  Well, this didn’t sound good. The woman reached for the door, then paused. Waiting.

  Unsure.

  Hold up, here. His first night at Miss Joan’s, he’d walked around the living room, taking in all the family photos. Reid and his siblings goofing off, school photos, Christmas. An entire life on display.

  Miss Joan had remarked she had all her children back in Steele Ridge.

  All but one.

  Gage followed Reid up the drive. “Is that…her?”

  Reid snorted, but kept his eyes on the woman lifting her fist to the door, about to knock. “That’s her. Apparently, my sister has come home.”

  Micki stood on her mother’s porch, the damp air closing in, pressing down, forcing her to raise her chin and lock her eyes on the door.

  For nearly a day she’d been stressed about using fake credentials to hop flights that would get her back to Steele Ridge. She’d see her family for a quick visit and then be on her way again.

  This time for good.

  Before Phil caught up to her.

  Now that she stood here, her beloved and missed mother just on the other side of the door, she didn’t know what to do. Walk in? Knock?

  Everything was different. When she left ten years ago, they’d lived in the three-bedroom ranch in town. Eight people sharing one and a half bathrooms. Now it would be two and half, since Britt added the second-floor master suite after the renters moved out. But back when they were kids, the boys fought over space while she, the edgy Goth-like nerd, and Evie, the girly-girl, tried to figure out what to do with each other.

  If she could, she’d go back. In a heartbeat.

  Back then the decisions had been easier. If only she’d realized.

  Now she stood on the porch of Tupelo Hill, the home her mother had gushed about—dreamed about—for years. And it was hers. Not just the house. The property, too. All bought by Micki’s billionaire twin.

  Micki hadn’t been involved in that move.

  At all.

  The time away, the loss, ripped at her and she sucked in a hard breath, fought a wave of tears. If she let them fly, that would be it. Over. Years of compartmentalized sorrow would erupt, all its poisonous venom pouring onto this newly painted and glossy porch.

  Onto her mother’s new life.

  But she wouldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t regret her decisions—right or wrong. She’d done it. Now it was over. Even if she couldn’t stay here in Steele Ridge, she could visit and then move on before Phil found her.

  Besides, why would her family even want her? After all the time away, she didn’t fit anymore.

  “Micki,” a deep voice said from behind her.

  Reid. She might have been gone a long time, but she’d always recognize her siblings' voices.

  She steadied herself once more and turned to see her brother, all six foot three of him striding toward her and—hello. Accompanying Reid was a blond guy who looked like he should be in a Ralph Lauren ad.

  Or a fairy tale.

  But Micki didn’t believe in fairy tales. Not anymore.

  She’d get back to him in a second. Right now, she needed to deal with her brother, who wore the pissy look of judgment he’d obviously perfected. Reid had always been handsome. Man candy, her old friends would say. In the years since she’d moved, his cheeks had molded into sharp, hardened angles. His hair was still that dark coffee brown bordering on black, much like hers, and his eyes were still as intense.

  “Uh, hi,” she said.

  The side of Reid’s mouth lifted into a smirk. Her brother taking enjoyment out of her not knowing what to do. Great start.

  He climbed the porch stairs with the apple-cheeked guy trailing behind and came to a stop in front of her. Her longing to recapture the bond they’d shared as teenagers nearly doubled her over.

  Don’t.

  Never one to allow her brothers an easy mental victory, she steadied herself, stood a little taller and met his gaze.

  “Still a pisser, huh, Mick?”

  “Well, when you stare at me like I’m a freak, what do you expect?”

  He turned back to Mr. All-American, but jerked his thumb toward Micki. “Gage Barber, meet my ball-busting sister, Mikayla Steele. We call her Micki.”

  She slid her gaze to Mr. All-American, then held her hand out. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said in a voice that was pure sex. Brandy straight from the cask. All deep and smooth and so very easy.

  He shook her hand and his palm was warm, the skin a little rough. Work-hardened. Which made her wonder just what the Ralph Lauren model had done to earn those hands.

  He pointed at the duffel in her other hand. “Let me grab that.”

  Tightening her hold, she shook her head. “That’s okay. Thanks.”

  “Here we go,” Reid said. “Forget it, Suds. She does what she wants. You learn to live with it.”

  If that were true, at least the part about her doing what she pleased, she wouldn’t have spent the past ten years in Vegas. Her brother didn’t know that, though. From his vantage point, he saw a selfish young woman who’d walked out on her family and a college scholarship to work for a creep. Worse than a creep. A scumbag.

  Reid pointed at the door. “Mom know you’re here?”

  When she walked through that door, there’d be explanations to be made. All these years, any trips home had been planned. She’d called ahead of time with an exact schedule of when she’d arrive and when she’d leave. All arranged by Phil to make sure she didn’t get any funny ideas about doing what she’d done yesterday.

  Leaving him.

  “No,” Micki said. “I thought I’d surprise her.”

  “You’ll definitely accomplish that.”

  Micki laughed and her brother shot her a look, all those hard angles softening as he smiled. This was the Reid she remembered. Playful and sarcastic. Before things were…strained… between them and they had shared the same twisted humor.

  Now? She didn’t know what they shared. If anything.

  “Seriously,” Gage said, “your smiles are exactly the same. Are you sure you’re not the twins?”

  How many times had they heard that? Jonah may have been her twin, but she and Reid, in addition to the sibling resemblance, had always had that rebellious edginess to them.

  “Unless the birth certificate is wrong,” she said, “Jonah is my twin.”

  Reid let out a snort. “He’s gonna shit a brick. As shocked as I am to see you standing on this porch, I can’t wait to see his reaction.”

  He slid his keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door. What was that about? Her mother never locked the doors.

  She eyeballed the key in his hand as he pushed the door open. “We’ve had some…incidents. We make her keep the front door locked now.”

  “What kind of incidents?”

  “Later,” he said. “Now, let’s make our mother happy.”

  “Uh,” Mr. All-American said, “I’ll head back to my office. Give you guys some time.”

  Office.

  That’s who he was. On the last call to Mom, Micki had heard all about the training center erected out of a broken-down sports complex, and Britt and Reid nearly killing each other over the rebuild. Mom had mentioned Jonah hiring one of Reid’s military buddies to help with the administrative side of the operation. Mr. All-American must be that gu
y.

  Reid turned to his friend. “You said you were hungry. You need to eat.”

  “I’ll grab something out.”

  “Screw that, Suds. You’re family now. Besides, if I know my sister, we’re not gonna be discussing any deep dark secrets.”

  Oh, he couldn’t resist that shot, could he?

  The hunk met Micki’s gaze, as if…what? Was he really waiting for her to give him permission to stay? Huh. How about that. When Reid spoke, most people simply fell in line. It had been that way since their school days, when he’d threaten to maim anyone who came near his younger siblings. Even back then, he had that commanding way about him.

  “It’s fine with me.” She locked eyes with her brother. “Like Reid said, we won’t be sharing any deep dark secrets.”

  3

  The second they were through the door, Reid was yelling for Mom. Could he not give Micki a second to settle in? To adjust to all those damned family photos scattered everywhere, hers included, and Mom’s lavender scent lingering in the air. All of it, the yelling, the scent, the family photos came at her, making her head spin.

  Micki stepped back, bumped straight into Mr. All-American. And who’d have thunk that under his loose, long-sleeved shirt she’d find a solid wall of muscle. From behind, he set his hands on her arms and steadied her.

  “You’re okay,” he whispered.

  His warm breath tickled her ear and stifled the panic revving inside her.

  “Mom!” Reid hollered again. “Where are you?”

  “Reid Sullivan Steele!” came a return shout. “You stop that yelling in this house! For the love of Pete, I was putting out the trash.”

  Their mother marched into the hallway leading from the back of the house, her eyes murderous as she approached her mouthy son. Then her gaze sliced to Micki and…she halted. Literally skidded to a stop, her Chuck Taylors squeaking against the hard wood and—wow—her mother now wore Chuck Taylors.

  At some point in the past ten years, Mom had obviously started wearing Micki’s preferred brand of footwear, and the evidence of all that she’d missed crashed into her.

  I can’t do this.