Brazing (Forged in Fire #2)

by Lila Felix

  Brazing

  A Forged in fire series novel

  Lila Felix

  Rachel Higginson

  Text Copyright ©2014, by Lila Felix and Rachel Higginson. Striking and Brazing (The Forged In Fire Series). The series, characters, names, and related indicia are trademarked and © by Lila Felix and Rachel Higginson.

  This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this novel with another person, please purchase an additional copy accordingly, for each recipient. If you are reading this book without purchasing it or being the recipient of a gifted copy, please proceed to a valid e-book market and purchase your own copy.

  Further, No Part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For Information regarding permission, write to: authorlilafelix@gmail.com or rachelhigginson@live.com.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of all respective terms, people, places and products.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Author and publisher do not have control of and do not assume responsibility for third party

  Websites and their content.

  Cover design by Lila Felix / Rebel Writer Productions, LLC

  Printed in the USA

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  More information about this author’s works can be found at:

  www.lilafelix.com

  www.rachelhigginson.com

  Lila:

  To our families for putting up with our rowdy hours, our incessant craving for coffee, and for measuring our and your time in words instead of hours. Thanks for sticking with us. It means the world.

  Rachel:

  To Rob, if you were a girl and didn’t have Maggie, this would be your story. Okay, maybe not. I’m sorry you went through what you did, but look! It’s now fiction. So worth it. Love you, brother.

  Chapter One

  Bridger

  “Come on, man. Get your ass in gear. You’ve been studying too hard. Everybody needs a break. You’re making my brain hurt.”

  I heard his words, but I wasn’t listening. My little brother had become quite the partier, but I just wasn’t interested. Partying was nothing but trouble and the last time I’d been to one, was the one time I’d wished I hadn’t gone.

  I’d taken a chance on Jesse, even though she was my sister’s best friend—even though it felt wrong—she swore she wouldn’t do to me what she did before. And I’d looked into her deep brown eyes and somehow saw some truth.

  I walked into a big, white mansion, more plantation estate than animal house, but the bass pumping from inside was louder than a freight train. She’d made friends with some of my college buddies and they’d invited us all to a party. I was kind of stoked. It was gonna be great to see Jesse in my world instead of having to go back home to see her.

  I walked into the front door and weaved my way through the hordes of dancers and drinkers, some loners, some plastered to each other in the thralls of lustful rhythm, others happy enough to dance with their beer. I saw my friends but didn’t see Jesse. I figured she must be late. I grabbed my own cup of the cheap stuff from the keg and explored the house. One room held a piano, with a girl passed out underneath the bench seat. I didn’t dare venture upstairs. Instead, I finished my beer walking around the enormous house.

  I made one last pass of the back of the house and stopped to look at the partiers in the hot tub. And that’s when I saw Jesse. It seemed innocent. She had the same red cup as me in her hand and she was talking to everyone in the bubbling tank. But then the guy next to her, looking like some kind of Vin Diesel in Fast and Furious wanna-be, ran his finger under the string of her bikini top. And that’s when she leaned forward, practically crawled on top of him—and ruined me for parties and women for good.

  “I hate parties. You know that.”

  “You just hate them because of Jesse. I won’t even drink. I’ll be the DD and you can get sloshed.”

  I looked back at my desk. It looked like it belonged to an accountant instead of a college student. I was way too stuck up. Business ethics textbook or beer?

  “Ok, I’m in. Let me get showered and changed.”

  I showered and threw on some clothes, nothing too nice as beer didn’t need to be impressed to give it up—just a simple t-shirt and jeans would suffice.

  “Hey,” my brother, West, threw me a cell phone when I got back in the room, “Stock.”

  I put the phone to my ear while pulling on my Chucks, “Hey, Stock, what’s up?”

  “I want you both to come home for Thanksgiving. Will’s coming home too and Cami and Mallory are cooking. And there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Yeah,” I looked at West who was spraying some gunk in his hair. The boy always overdid it with the hair products, but the girls seemed to love it. “We’ll be home.”

  “Good. Y’all be careful tonight. Love y’all.”

  Stockton had gone from being a more stoic version of Oscar the Grouch to a big, muscled lump of goo. It still shocked me from time to time.

  “Gross, you’re so sappy now.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Love you too, Stock.”

  Six techno songs and countless beers later, I had glued my back to the wall. The wall and the floor were always safe bets. I knew if I tried to move too fast without a specific target, my drunken legs would fail me. Even in my wobbly state, I could see a girl across the way with brazen, red curly hair; her arms in the air, her hips popping back and forth. She captured my attention and every mans’ eyes in the room. She was perfectly content to dance by herself in the middle of the room. The corner of my mouth rose in a smile while I watched her. The air was thick with the longing from the men in the room for her curves and the women in the room for her brazenness. Gorgeous—that’s what she was. As if she heard my thoughts, she opened her eyes and looked my way. She crooked her finger in my direction, inviting me to join her in her scandalous gypsy-like display. As beautiful as she was, she was just another one of them. And I was a fool for love—always had been. I’d fallen for Jesse, and she’d broken my heart.

  I could tell just by her gait what kind she was. If one of her friends described her, they were bound to say she was wild and free. Wild and free was a layman’s term for “gonna cheat on you.”

  I pushed off the wall and went for a refill—I was thinking way too much. This was supposed to have been a thoughtless night. My mind wanted to be filled with nothingness—anything but Jesse.

  “Hey, can I get one too?” A female voice chirped as her arm swished against mine.

  “Sure,” I refilled the cup next to mine without even looking at the owner—I was an equal drinking opportunity kind of guy.

  “Thanks.”

  “Yep.”

  “So, you don’t dance or you’re not into chicks? I didn’t see you with a guy—or a girl.”

  That got my attention. I looked up to find the questioner to be the redhead. Her nose and the apples of her cheeks were speckled with freckles and it made her look a little less wild, a little more innocent—such a farce. And her long pink skirt and white tank top tried
to prove her case more.

  But I knew the truth.

  There were no innocent girls.

  They were all out to eat my heart.

  Except Cami.

  But she was a rarity.

  I wasn’t so lucky.

  “Nah, I’m not into guys. But I’m not into random screws either.”

  And with that, I walked away.

  I found West out back after dodging shady conversational bullets on the way. One guy tried to wrangle me into a conversation about aliens. Though, it was partly my fault. I did ask him if he’d seen my brother after spotting his X-Files t-shirt. Drunken conversations with people about aliens never ended well.

  I also spent a lengthy amount of time scouring the meaning behind that particular frat’s emblem. I’d never seen one that had an actual goat in it. What did they call themselves—the goat heads? It hung by the back door with pride. They were proud of their horns, maybe?

  Probably just horny.

  Like I said, I spent way too much time analyzing it.

  Finally spotting a blurrily familiar shirt outside the back door, I proceeded to find my brother and ask him to take me home. I was dulled enough not to even think about the J girl. He was hunched over a rail talking to someone below. I touched him on the shoulder and he spun around laughing. I knew that laugh. My brother was hilarious most of the time. But he had one particular kind of cackle, it was reminiscent of a hyena being slowly castrated by a clown that was reserved for only special occasions.

  Like when he was gassed at the dentist’s office.

  And when he was pissed beyond measure.

  So when he spilled half a bottle of whatever liquor he was holding in his hand all over the front of my shirt, I wasn’t a bit surprised.

  “West, shit, you were supposed to stay sober.”

  “I did,” he smiled at me, showing way too much gums for a normal person. For some reason when West was drunk, his smile was downright menacing. His upper lip rested on top of his teeth and it reminded me of a horse.

  “You’re an ass. Now, we have to walk home. You’re an ass.”

  He turned to whomever he was talking to below the railing and thumbed my way, “You see how he talks to me. He called me an ass—twice.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Audrey Hepburn.”

  “Audrey Hepburn is in the bushes? Wait, how do you know Audrey Hepburn?”

  “Cami was watching Dinner with Beth or some shit. She was on it.”

  I knew he was wrong about that movie. Maybe I wasn’t as drunk as I thought, or as drunk as I wanted.

  “Let’s get walking,” I said.

  “No. I’m not ready,” he shook the bottle in my direction, sloshing more of the stuff everywhere. He was a messy, loud-ass, weird drunk. Which is why I’d agreed to come here only if he were sober.

  Instead of waiting for him to begin another imaginary talk with Audrey, I grabbed the shoulder of West’s shirt and dragged him down the weathered steps of the back porch, trying not to stumble down and have him crash on top of me. I made it, barely, but found that West was now ass up in one of the flower beds.

  “Get up!” I screamed at him and kicked his boot.

  Eventually, he got up after more prodding and yelling. At least I think it was yelling. It may have been all in my mind. We’d walked at least seventeen miles when I noticed a car coming up beside us. I figured it was another group of loopy people such as ourselves out to have some fun. I imagined any minute now I would be covered with some substance—or vomit.

  “Hey,” someone hollered. I turned, still firmly grasping West’s shirt and looked.

  And hanging outside the window, with flames of wild, red curls flailing in the wind was not the ride I had hoped for.

  Chapter Two

  Tate

  I thought about stomping on the gas and running him down for just one second. Okay… a second and a half. Fine. Thoughts of gunning the engine and making new highway out of that surly bastard had been flipping through my head on repeat since I spotted the drunken bozo stumbling down the middle of the street.

  I couldn’t believe he didn’t remember me!

  Like, he didn’t even have a momentary flash of recognition.

  This boy had all but forgotten my existence.

  He had made my life hell for six years, made me fall in love with him and then forgotten about me!

  It took me years to get over him! Years.

  And one emotional summer of therapy.

  Although, that hadn’t been entirely about him… I went through this Goth/Emo phase and my parents saw the signs of the devil in everything I did or said. Therapy was their way of proving to the community that their daughter’s issues were not their fault.

  Thank God, therapy actually worked.

  Could you imagine their next option to rehabilitate me? I’d put fifty dollars on an exorcism.

  And I just didn’t have the patience to sit through that.

  Or the dexterity to make my head spin all the way around.

  Or the life expectancy.

  Bridger Wright.

  Bridger Freaking Wright after all these years.

  And have I mentioned that he didn’t even remember me???

  It wasn’t like I had forgettable features.

  Usually people tended to remember the bright red curly hair that I could never seem to tame. And if it wasn’t the hair, it was the freckles that painted every inch of my skin.

  This wasn’t even about vanity.

  This was all fact.

  I had a face that people remembered.

  And if anyone should have remembered me, it should be Bridger f-ing Wright. The boy that tortured me all through my childhood. The boy that used to smash spiders in my Bible on Sunday mornings and lure me out to the woods during potluck so he could push me in puddles of mud and ruin my best, er, only dress. This boy used to call me “Little Orphan Annie” and tell the other kids in town that my freckles were contagious. When we were older, he used to ask when my mom was going to let me dye my hair a “normal” color.

  He set me up on a date once. It was supposed to be with his friend Jake Bristol. Jake was this really shy kid, so while he was always nice to me, we’d never actually held a conversation before. But Bridger convinced me Jake was just too shy to approach me. So Bridger set up this date and I begged my daddy for weeks to let me go. I was only thirteen at the time and my parents were not ready to let me see some boy alone. So Bridger promised that it was a group outing and that Jake just wanted to sit by me in the movie. Only, Jake didn’t get the memo that he liked me because when I got there I found out that Jake didn’t know anything about Bridger’s scheming! The stupid boy had set me up to look like a fool and then I had to endure the whole movie before my parents could come back and get me.

  I didn’t even like the movie and I’d ironed clothes for a full week just so I could earn enough to go.

  Some might wonder how this same amateur-bully had managed to make me, the amazing, independent and fabulous Tate Halloway fall in love with him. But it was all that little boy flirting that pulled me in to begin with. He tugged on my pigtails and I heard him confess his undying love. He tripped me so that I skinned my knees and ripped holes in my tights and I read between the lines and saw him planning how many children we would eventually have together.

  Besides, the boy was a charmer when he wanted to be. It was no coincidence that he’d convinced me Jake liked me. Bridger could talk his way out of or into anything he damn well pleased. He was just good about stuff like that. And people listened to him. They always had.

  Hell, I always had.

  But then, when I turned fourteen, my daddy got a new job in Ohio, so we’d left the sticks of Hillbilly Tennessee and made a new life in real, populated civilization.

  I might have loved that boy with every bit of my aching, beating middle school heart, but not enough to be disappointed about our move. I’d said goodbye to Bridger and traded my childhood infatuation
for city life. Even while I still thought about him from time to time. Even while I still wondered what kind of man he’d grown into and what he was up to these days. Still, I’d managed to grow up and move on.

  Although, once, I’d tried to look him up on Facebook, but his profile picture was one of those stupid pictures that didn’t show his face and everything about his page had been private. I wasn’t too disappointed. I couldn’t imagine he put a whole lot of effort into that thing anyway.

  But then here he was.

  I had no trouble recognizing him tonight while he tried to become part of the paint on the wall and watched me dance the night away without making a move to join me. Even through the crowd of people I recognized Bridger Wright easily from a distance. With those sharp cheekbones, and bright green eyes he had turned into exactly the man I always imagined him to be. His mess of dark hair looked as wild as mine tonight as it stuck up in unruly tufts all over his handsome head. His lips were in a perpetual pout the entire time he ignored the party around him, but as full and delicious as they had been when we were children.

  My heartbeat quickened the moment I noticed the man against the wall and all but pounded out of my chest when I realized it was him. I was already on the dance floor so I’d decided to let him come to me.

  Dancing was my thing. I knew I was good at it. I knew I looked hot. And with my hair loose to the middle of my back and in all its “going-out” glory, I practically glowed like a stop sign in the middle of the floor. I fended off plenty of frat-boy-randoms waiting for Bridger to notice me, but he never even lifted his eyebrows.

  When I’d finally found the courage to talk to the butthead, he’d been nothing but rude and condescending.

  And still, he had no idea who I was.

  That was the worst of it. That was why I couldn’t just move on with my life and settle for making this into a hilariously stupid story to share with my roommate, and best friend, Carter. The fact that he didn’t remember me was the reason I was following him now, ready to force a memory into his thick head so I could finally call it a night and take my tired, sore feet home to bed.