by Kyra Jacobs
After a full morning of painting today, all Brent had left to do inside was hang the molding—a task he dragged out as long as possible. Unfortunately, even with Miles interrupting to “help” a few times, Brent finished just after six o’clock. With a sigh, he headed downstairs and out to his truck, determined to man up and face reality.
Your grandmother really does rule the roost, doesn’t she?
Brent scowled at the memory of Kayla’s taunting as he drove and did his damnedest to block the images that were sure to follow. Thankfully, the moment he stepped foot inside his back door, an overgrown ball of fur slammed into him and demanded his full attention.
“Miss me, boy?” he asked, dodging his pup’s wet, slobbery kisses. “Oh, come on, now. I was only gone for a weekend.”
Though his four-legged roommate was used to Brent working dawn to dusk, it was rare his owner ever stayed away for an entire night. Even so, Brent couldn’t help but think for the hundredth time that the enclosed dog run, which extended off the back porch, was worth its weight in gold. It kept him from being burdened with guilt if he worked too long.
Once kibble and water bowls had been refilled, Brent ignored an angry snarl from his own stomach and headed upstairs. Food could wait. What he needed was to wash a day’s worth of paint and sawdust off his weary body.
Melancholy filled him as he made his way down the main hallway and up the creaky old staircase. It had never been Brent’s intention to settle down in Mount Pleasant—he’d always dreamed of leaving the small town behind, of chasing his own dreams to somewhere warmer. But when his parents died, their home, filled with their memories, their scents, and their history, was all he had left. Usually he found comfort in his solitude, strength in these familiar surroundings. Tonight, loneliness was all the quiet old farmhouse had to offer him.
Nothing a hot shower and some HGTV couldn’t fix.
No sooner had he reached the top step than his cell phone rang. A long sigh escaped him as he spied Miles’s number on its display.
“What?”
“Hey, coz. Whatcha doin’?”
Miles’s voice was loud, the background noise only slightly lesser so. Brent pinched the bridge of his nose. Please don’t need me to bail you out of anything tonight… “Getting ready to jump in the shower. Why?”
“You’re just now getting cleaned up? I left you hours ago.”
Brent reached his room and swiped a pair of clean boxer briefs from his top dresser drawer. “Yeah, I know. Took me all afternoon to fix your work.”
“Whatever. You eaten yet?”
Brent’s stomach rumbled in answer, the sound followed this time by a stabbing pain. Not enough pain to risk admitting his hunger. Lord only knew why Miles was even asking. “Not hungry.”
“Liar. You’re always hungry; you just forget to eat.”
He sighed. Miles knew Brent all too well, as he should—they’d been nearly inseparable as kids. Growing up out in the country, away from downtown Mount Pleasant, there weren’t a lot of other options. And while the boys had their differences and went on to make new friends in high school and college, they’d stayed close.
When fate stole Brent’s parents, his friends had tried to comfort him, to boost his spirits. Over time, all but Miles grew tired of his new unsociable ways and moved on. When Miles’s parents moved to Nebraska a year later, he stayed behind to oversee the finances at the Checkerberry Inn. He also maintained his role as relentless wingman for one forever-jaded Brent Masterson.
A role that, well-intentioned or not, often drove Brent to near insanity.
“What do you want, Miles?”
“Remember that cute blonde I said I was meeting up with tonight over at Chevvy’s? Well, she brought a friend. A lonely friend. And you know how I can’t stand to see anyone be alone.”
Brent snorted. “Is she hot?”
“Give me some credit, B. Would I set you up with anything less?”
Wouldn’t be the first time. “Is she wet?”
“Wow, one night in the sack sure stoked your appetite.”
“And made of porcelain?”
There was a pause on the other end. “Well, she’s not an albino, if that’s what you mean.”
“What I mean,” Brent said, cranking on the hot water in his bathroom, “is I want a shower tonight, nothing more. I appreciate you looking out for the lonely blonde and all, but I—”
“Come on, man. Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Have one great night with someone and then close yourself back off to the rest of the world. We miss the old Brent.” He lowered his voice. “I miss you.”
“Aw, you’re warming my heart.” And making me feel like a complete asshole.
“You owe me,” Miles insisted. “I checked on your dog twice yesterday, remember?”
“Yes. And as memory serves, you still owe me way more than I owe you.”
“Would it sweeten the deal if I mentioned your little one-night stand is here, too?”
Brent froze. Kayla was still in town?
It couldn’t be her. She had a job back in Indiana, one she seemed to love, judging by the way she yacked everyone’s ear off about it at dinner the other night. Maybe she’d stayed a little longer to visit with her brother?
No, no maybes, and no Kayla. Miles was just trying to get him out of the house, and Brent wasn’t falling for it.
“Wow, man, you must really be desperate for my company because that’s low, even for you.”
“I don’t do desperate, and I’m not blowing smoke. She’s here.”
Damn. Miles sure didn’t sound like he was lying. And the guy was one sorry-ass bluffer. But so what if she was still in town, Brent wondered as he tugged his shirt off. It wasn’t like she’d want to see him again. They’d shared a night together, then gone their separate ways. Clearly, she was fine with that, since she hadn’t bothered to say anything to him before she left on Saturday.
Then again, he hadn’t really given her a chance to.
Brent stood, listening to his limited supply of hot water run down the drain and weighed his options: go and see for himself if she was there, or stay home and try not to think about how he’d blown the chance to catch one last glimpse of those blue eyes and hourglass figure. Because, whether she was there or not, he knew it would be the last time. Kayla had Indiana, and that’s where he wanted her to be. It was better that way.
Still, sneaking one last peek at her couldn’t hurt any…
“Where’re you at?”
“Chevvy’s. Just promise not to spend your whole date gawking at Kayla, all right?”
“Fine. Give me twenty minutes. And order me the usual.”
Chapter Nine
Mid-state Suicide. Gamble-Your-Bowels Spicy Garlic. Campus Curry. Kayla set the wings menu down and threw her brother a skeptical look. A look he didn’t see, as he was lip-locked with his pixie-haired girlfriend. Again.
All that huggy-bear, kissy-face nonsense was putting a serious damper on Kayla’s appetite. And since the repair parts for her car wouldn’t even arrive until mid-week, her time as captive audience was just beginning. Yay…
“Does this place offer any sauce that doesn’t threaten to kill you?”
Tommy drew back from Heather and grinned. “Yeah, the milder options are on the other side. But I thought you liked hot and spicy.”
Hot and spicy is what I had at the Checkerberry.
The memory of Friday night instantly jabbed at her lonely heart. From night of passion to playing second fiddle to her brother’s love interest. Oh, how far she’d fallen.
“Yeah, I’m kinda feeling like keeping it mild tonight.”
“Then you should go with the teriyaki boneless wings. If you get a basket, there’ll be a ton of fries, too,” Tommy said.
She nodded, then glanced over at Heather, who was busy studying her cuticles. Kayla wanted to like the girl, really she did. Too bad the feeling didn’t appear to be mutual. “So, Hea
ther, what do you usually get here?”
“Me?” Heather looked up, boredom written all over her face. “Oh, just a salad. Gotta watch my weight—I’m auditioning for a show next week that calls for a tall, thin waitress.”
“That’s why she’s been working at EAT,” Tommy chimed in. “To train for her role, you know?”
“Oh. Cool.”
Pride laced her brother’s voice and shone in his eyes. Clearly, he was smitten with Pixie Cut. Kayla snuck another glance at her, trying to figure out why, but came up empty. Sure, the chick was cute, but she seemed a little lacking in personality. And low on the friendliness meter, too. Kayla went back to hiding behind her menu.
“So?” Tommy asked.
She looked up, confused. “So, what?”
“So, didn’t she seem like a natural at the diner on Friday? I think she’s a shoo-in for the part.”
“Aw, you really think so, pooky?” asked Heather.
“Uh-huh.”
Okay, she could handle a kiss or two. But when they went and got all starry-eyed and started in with baby names, that was where Kayla drew the line. She grabbed the wallet from her purse and slid out of her seat.
“I think I’m gonna hit the bar, get a beer after all. You two want me to grab you anything while I’m up?”
“No thanks, Kay.”
“Good,” she muttered once she was out of earshot. A quick glance back found them murmuring God only knows what into each other’s ears. Bleck. Kayla would never dream of hanging all over someone in public like that. Then again, she’d never been with anyone who made her want to.
Except Brent.
She’d considered looking for him Saturday morning before the tow truck arrived, but had no clue where to begin. And besides—if he really wanted to see her, he would have sought her out. Apparently, he was a one-night stand kind of guy. Which, honestly, was all she could afford to give him. Her life was cemented in place three hours south of here.
But even aside from her night of passion with Brent, she’d loved it at the Checkerberry Inn. Spending time there with Ruby and the guys had been the closest thing to a sense of home she’d felt since…well, since her mother had passed.
Kayla swallowed hard and pushed an all-too-familiar ache aside as she wove through the smattering of tables that cluttered the bar. According to Tommy, the building was an old barn restored by some guy who belonged to a local bike gang. So while the patrons could be a bit scary at times, the food was to die for.
She glanced up at the second floor, which was wide open in the center. Railings kept the diners upstairs tucked safely away, but allowed for an open view of the bar and floor below. A vaguely familiar-looking man and two bleach-blondes sat at a table across the room from where Kayla stood. She scoffed at the idea of anyone looking familiar, since the only people she knew in town were—
Wait, was that…Miles?
Distracted, she didn’t see the man ahead of her backing away from the bar with a fresh beer at his lips. Her foot connected with his just before their bodies collided.
“What the hell?”
Kayla’s gaze flashed to the leather-clad biker looming before her. He was a moose of a man with beady black eyes and a zigzagging scar that ran from the corner of one eyebrow down to his cheekbone. His goatee was graying and overgrown but did little to hide the sneer on his face as his gaze raked over her. Darn it, she knew wearing the yoga pants, fitted exercise top, and sneakers she’d dug out of the gym bag in her back seat had been a bad idea. Then again, her corporate attire would have made her stick out even more.
“You lost or something, little girl?” he asked, wiping spilled beer from his chin. “This ain’t no kiddy bar.”
“Sorry. Guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She offered him an apologetic look and tried to step around him, but the big lug blocked her path.
“Oh, I can take you where you want to go, baby,” he said, leaning in closer.
The beer could wait, she decided, and took a step back. But another body stopped her progress. Kayla turned and found herself staring up at a tall, thick woman cracking her knuckles.
“What the hell are you doing trying to pick up my man, you little hussy?”
Brent pulled into the packed lot at Chevvy’s and frowned. Didn’t all these people have something better to do on a Sunday night than drink? Hell, didn’t he have better things to do? Like wake up from this crazy idea that catching one last look at Kayla from across a crowded bar might somehow make his day better?
Deep down he knew the mere sight of her was going to be like pouring salt on a fresh wound. But the fear of missing out on his last chance to see her before she disappeared from his life forever had driven him here. It both amazed and infuriated him that one night had left him so vulnerable. Brent wasn’t the type to get hung up on a woman. Not since Nikki, anyway…
He shook his head and pushed past hurts aside. Time to man up. Go in, eat some wings, catch a fleeting glimpse of Kayla, play nice with Miles and his harem, and then leave. Alone. Without the woman Miles had waiting for him upstairs, and definitely without Kayla.
Brent backed the truck into a far spot on the old barn’s overflow lot and peeled off the Masterson Construction logo magnets on the cab doors. He had a clean reputation to uphold, after all. Though now that he was working for Ruby, who knew how much of his own business he’d have time for anymore? Too bad Miles wasn’t worth a damn when it came to anything construction-related. Computers and women he could do. Wield a hammer or nail gun? Not so much.
The sign above the bar’s back entrance welcomed tonight’s musical guest: The Brotherhood. Brent stopped in his tracks and cursed. The Brotherhood? Really?
Any other band would have been fine with him. Hell, they could have had dueling cellos onstage tonight for all he cared. But The Brotherhood? He wondered if their latest lead singer was as much a girlfriend-stealing dirtbag as the infamous Derek Stringer had been.
If Karma truly did exist, Nikki had run out on that arrogant bastard by now, too.
Brent forced his feet forward once more and pulled the back door open. Shouting, laughter, and catcalls spilled out to meet him. Damn redneck biker bar. If Chevvy’s didn’t serve the best wings around, he’d never come here. Too bad he and Miles both had a thing for wings.
He’d no sooner spotted Miles sitting with two bleach-blondes at a table upstairs than shouts erupted near the bar. Brent turned to see some tall, black-leather-clad heavy woman going off about God only knows what. Guess tonight the bar’s serving dinner and a show, he thought with an eye roll. Hopefully she was all bark and no bite—nothing ruined a meal like police interrogations and eyewitness testimonies.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be. Three steps up the staircase, Brent glanced back to see Noisy’s fist rocket forward. The person before her bobbed out of the way, and the punch connected instead with Butch, an aging, behemoth of a man who was a regular at Chevvy’s. A howl of rage rang out, and heads all around the bar turned. Those closest to the outburst stepped back, providing Brent with a clear view of the person who had dodged the blow—a small, slender brunette dressed in a cheery jogging outfit.
Oh, please God, no.
He squinted and studied the brunette. Sure enough, it was Kayla. Of course it is, he thought as he tore back down the steps and began elbowing his way through the masses. The woman seemed to have a bad luck streak a mile long.
“Stop movin’, dammit,” yelled Noisy. “You dumb enough to hit on my man, then you’re gonna have to deal with me.”
“Really, this was all just a big misunderstanding,” Kayla cried.
“Oh, you got that right.”
Brent reached the inner circle of spectators just as the woman pulled her arm back to throw another punch. She proved to be an even bigger girl up close—he’d have to tackle her to keep her from beating Kayla to a pulp. But if he did that, Butch would kill him for sure.
He looked around, frantic for another optio
n. A young member of their bike gang stood to his left, shouting words of encouragement to Noisy, and something inside Brent snapped. He charged forward and plowed a shoulder into the punk with all he had, then ducked back into the crowd for cover. The kid barreled forward and fell into Noisy’s left side just as her fist propelled forward once more. The collision knocked them both off-balance, and the two tumbled to the floor in a flailing heap.
As the crowd leaned forward to get a better look at the mass of tangled bodies, Brent wove his way over to Kayla. He snagged her arm and gave it a solid jerk away from the mayhem. With a startled squeak she turned to see who’d grabbed her.
“Brent!”
“We gotta move.” He pushed her ahead of him and snuck a quick look back. Butch had the punk by his shirt. The kid was pleading his case, his eyes frantically scanning the crowd for the true culprit. Their window of opportunity for a clean escape was narrowing fast.
The punk’s gaze landed on him. Shit.
“Faster, Kayla.” He gave her another shove.
“To where?”
“The back door. Up ahead.” The crowd was thinner on this side of the bar. Good for speed, bad for cover. No time to worry, though. They’d just have to take their chances. “My truck’s two rows over. No matter what, keep going. You’ve got to get out—”
A hand the size of a bear’s paw snagged his bicep. Brent turned to see one of Butch’s cronies staring down at him, a wicked grin on his face.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
A chorus broke out behind Kayla as she neared the back door.
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
She looked back and froze. The arm of one seriously big—and seriously scary—biker was pulling Brent back toward the mayhem. She had to help him, but how?
“Just go!” he yelled as he struggled to twist free from the other guy’s grip.
“But—”
“Go!”
A flying bottle of beer crashed into the wall beside her. Good God, what kind of place was this? With a scream she bolted outside.
