Which meant she was more susceptible to feeling things, damn it.
“I don’t know…”
“I miss them too,” Viv said, sympathy written all over her face. “We came here for years when your dad ran the place and looked forward to seeing Brae every time once she took over. It’s hard to believe they’re gone.”
Every day and night Ashlynn kept it together by not examining the truth of that in any real way. Keeping busy, filling silences, shrouding the grief allowed her to continue forward.
She swallowed again and tried pasting on another smile, aware of how weak it must look. “I know, Viv.”
Irv pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his leather jacket.
“We picked this up at the Topanga Community House, darlin’,” he said. “Maybe it could help.”
Ashlynn unfolded the yellow flyer. Grief Group it read across the top. They met bi-weekly at the community building. We can help you confront your feelings.
Staring at the words, a familiar numbness infiltrated Ashlynn’s heart. Her body went heavy, and her outer shell re-hardened as everything inside her rejected the idea of confronting those kinds of emotions.
“How kind of you,” she said anyway, and made a show of setting the paper on the shelf beneath the register.
She’d throw it away at her first opportunity. “How very kind of you to think of me.”
Irv and Viv exchanged glances. She probably wasn’t fooling them into believing she’d be joining that group any time soon.
“Really,” she said, because they had been stalwart supporters since she’d arrived, spending most Saturday nights right where they sat now. “I do appreciate it—and your patronage, too, of course.”
“Watching you is like having our Brae back in our lives,” Irv said. “It’s as if she’s not entirely gone.”
There was that four-letter word again. But now it bounced right off Ashlynn’s anesthetized heart. Still, the couple’s sincerity and encouragement were two of the reasons she’d been galvanized to change her life and commit to staying. They cared about her, Irv and Viv, and that was special. Smiling again, she reached for each of their hands, squeezed.
“I—”
But her attention was snagged by the bouncer who stood by the door. He was waving at her, both hands overhead.
With an apology to the older couple, she gave the other bartender the sign to look after her customers and hurried to the entrance. There, linebacker-sized Jim leaned toward her ear.
“I’ve gotta take a piss,” he murmured. “Can you get someone to handle the door?”
“I can do it,” she said. “You go ahead.”
Jim’s heavy brow furrowed with a dubious expression. “Um…”
“Brae would take over, right?”
“Yeah, but Brae was…tough,” Jim said, looking down at her five-feet and three-inches, thanks to the two added by the heels of the boots on her feet.
“I’m tough, too,” Ashlynn declared, standing straighter. She’d have to be to keep Satan’s up and running. Glancing toward the bar, she saw that Mike had everything under control there. “Why don’t you take your break now, too?”
She had to physically shoo the big guy away. But finally Jim headed toward the employee area, his mountain-sized physique making it necessary for him to skirt the customers instead of weaving through them. Then the entry door opened and a gust of damp air had her looking around again.
“Welcome to Satan’s!” she said with a wide smile.
Though Jim wasn’t required to play Happy Host—his forte was Beefy Bouncer—she was the new owner of the roadhouse, and she wanted people to feel at home here. The group of four smiled back. Residents of Malibu, she decided. They all wore expensive boots—the men’s were rugged, the women’s sheepskin-lined—and she supposed they worked behind-the-scenes in the film industry since she didn’t recognize them as celebrities. Or maybe they were successful science geeks from the research facility there that had a killer ocean view and a reputation for super-secret projects.
Both types were good tippers.
But because she was new at this and had heard rumors of sting operations out of the local sheriff’s station, she asked to see their IDs. The men agreed without comment or complaint, the women, who looked to be about thirty, seemed pleased.
“We could pass as underage,” one said to the other with a wink.
Win-win, Ashlynn thought and directed them toward the tables with another bright smile. “Enjoy yourselves!”
As they disappeared into the throng of other paying guests, she grinned, this time to herself. Yes, tonight was going to be excellent. Her lucky evening.
A few minutes later the rain was really pouring down as another knot of people came through the door, almost falling as they pushed and shoved each other to get out of the inclement weather. Five young men, she could tell, though their faces were obscured by baseball caps with dripping brims worn low on their foreheads.
“It’s damn cold,” the one at the rear said, nudging the guy in front of him forward. “I need a beer to warm up.”
They made to angle past her without actually making eye contact.
“Hold up,” she said, blocking their path. “Welcome to Satan’s.”
“Yeah yeah,” one muttered. “Thanks.”
“I’ll need to see some ID.”
“What?” The closest one, the presumed leader of their small pack, dipped his chin so he could see her from beneath his Dodgers hat. “We’re regulars.”
“Well I’m new,” Ash said.
“Brae—”
“And I’m not Brae.”
The young man in the back muttered something but she ignored him. “IDs, gentlemen, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
The atmosphere surrounding them seemed to darken. She took in a quick breath and decided they’d already been drinking. They smelled like beer and whisky, and her stomach knotted. With a force of will, she stopped herself from looking around for Jim or someone else to come to her aid.
I’m the new owner and operator of Satan’s Roadhouse. I can do this.
“Gentlemen?”
One of the boys sniggered. She decided then and there that’s what they were—boys. Their skinny hips and ragged shoes were suddenly making that point very clear.
“We just want to play some pool,” the leader said in a sullen voice.
“Not unless you can prove you’re over 21.”
The door behind them opened, but she didn’t let her attention wander to newcomers.
Without another word, the leader tried stepping around her again, but she moved quickly to obstruct his path. His anger was palpable.
“Lady, just get the hell—”
“I’m sorry,” she said in her firmest tone. There was only one solution to this circumstance. You only needed common sense to realize that. “But I’m now asking you to leave.”
She thought a new, lower voice sounded from behind the pack, but the music—something rock that she didn’t recognize—hit a drum solo, and she couldn’t be sure. The boy at the front tilted his chin to meet her eyes again.
Without flinching, she stared into his. “Time to go.”
That voice again from the back. In response to it or perhaps to her stare, the leader retreated a step, tripping on the shoes of the boy behind him. He cursed, spun, and then shoved that guy into the others in the group. They all pitched unsteadily like bowling pins—or half-drunken fools—then righted themselves and departed in a rush of heavy footsteps and under-the-breath curses.
The final malevolent backward glance from Dodgers Hat made obvious she’d embarrassed if not downright humiliated him.
Still, that thought didn’t stop elation from welling up inside her as she watched the door close behind the troublemakers. She’d handled a real problem on her own. For the first time, she was actually running the roadhouse instead of merely going through the motions.
Her lucky night.
“Ash.”
With a start, she whirled toward the sound of her name. The person who had come in behind the underage boys had moved aside as they exited. He stepped toward her now. Brody Maddox, stealing her breath with his chiseled cheekbones and arresting blue eyes.
No!
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, hyperaware of what she was wearing. Brae’s gauzy blouse was cut low, and her black velvet skirt’s hemline was high. The scrunchy lace of the boot cuffs she wore covered her knees, but there was a lot of bare thigh still revealed. Brody’s gaze, however, didn’t leave her face.
“You shouldn’t be dealing with that,” he said, nodding toward the door.
She frowned. “My customers?”
“They aren’t your customers. They’re punks. If they’re 21 then I’m the latest champion of the Westminster Kennel Club.”
Since he was the farthest thing from a dog of any man she’d ever seen, she pressed her lips together.
“This is not the place for you, Ash.”
Anger shot up her spine. “I’m the one who determines the place for me.” Finally, she was doing that—as opposed to what others expected of her. She slammed her arms over her chest. “I have a right to be at the roadhouse.”
His brows lifted. “I meant manning the front door. You’re not exactly bouncer material.”
Oh. Still, she lifted her chin. “I got them to leave, didn’t I?” Then she narrowed her eyes. “What will it take for you to do the same?”
So much for playing Happy Host, but she didn’t want him around on her lucky night. With other men, she’d had no trouble keeping them far from her inner self. But in the space of a few dark hours during their one-night stand, Brody Maddox had exposed emotions she locked behind high walls, emotions that were too big to manage and too painful to address. Caution advised putting distance between them now because in his arms she became too vulnerable.
“Hostile,” he remarked, his tone mild.
Just then Jim returned to his post and Ashlynn decided the fastest way to get rid of the unwelcome Brody Maddox was to pretend he didn’t exist.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, gathering her dignity as she turned away. “I have responsibilities at the bar.”
Where there wasn’t an empty seat, she was gratified to discover, meaning she wouldn’t have to serve her former one-night-stand. Sure, she could ask Jim to encourage Brody to exit Satan’s altogether, but that was taking things too far, she decided, sneaking a peek in his direction. He’d found his way to one of the open stools alongside the drink-wide ledge lining the side wall.
There was no sense in not taking his money. She was a businesswoman, after all.
One who poured herself a shot of vodka from which she took tiny sips as she worked. It wasn’t a habit, despite what Brody likely thought. When they’d met it had been her third night at the roadhouse after returning to Topanga. She’d gotten drunk, and then egged on by the customers and inspired by the stories about the way Brae ran the place, she’d jumped up on the bar and danced, laughing and smiling each time a man tucked a bill in her boot.
All the while her gaze had been drawn to the dark-haired hunk watching her out of those amazing blue eyes.
Full of false courage and determined to keep ghosts at bay, at the evening’s end she’d propositioned him, expecting all the surface excitement that his male beauty and meaningless sex promised.
Fuck him and forget him, her sister had whispered in Ashlynn’s head, and she’d done the first very, very well.
Too bad the second continued to elude her.
Even as this lucky Saturday night came to a close, and she realized that unforgettable Brody Maddox had left Satan’s without saying goodbye.
Ridiculous, how that rankled, she thought, shaking her head. Ashlynn being her own worst enemy again.
The cleaners arrived, and she collected her things, waved to the husband-and-wife team, then slipped out the front door. It was the most direct route to the trailer where she’d been staying. The security lights in the parking lot weren’t much help against the darkness, but they revealed the silvery bullets of the drenching rain she could hear pattering on the blacktop. She slung her purse over her chest and shoved her arms in the sleeves of a slicker, cinching the hood around her head.
As she stepped off the porch, a body materialized beside her.
Her shriek lodged in her throat when she realized it was Brody.
“Wha?” she managed to choke out, her pulse still racing.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said.
This time she managed to be more articulate. “Why?”
He better not think she was interested in sleeping with him again. Though you are, Brae’s voice was whispering in her head again.
“Maybe it’s just your night, honey.”
The rain pelted the shoulders of her jacket, the cold penetrating if not the wet. Had he said “Maybe it’s just your night?” It was supposed to be her lucky night she remembered, sending his perfect profile an aggrieved sidelong glance.
Apparently she’d been wrong.
Brody started off in the direction of the trailer, Ash following behind. Her reluctance was tangible, but he continued onward, resolute.
“Brody, what’s this all about?” she asked, coming to a halt in the middle of the lot.
Cold rain wet his hair and was rolling down his neck beneath the collar of his squall jacket. He turned to look at her, her face a small pale oval within the confines of her hood. Even now she tugged at him, her petite size, the sound of her voice, the obstacles that she confronted as the new owner of the roadhouse.
“Why did you send Ronnie away?” he asked, his breath fogging in the air.
The day before, after learning of her loss, he’d directed one of the construction company’s estimators to look over her job. Rather than making an appointment, he’d instructed the man to drop by that afternoon and ask for Ash, anticipating surprise was the best way to ensure her cooperation.
Brody had needed to do something for her, without examining the why of that too closely. Okay, he knew reason. The combination of those tears, her recent losses, his guilty conscience…
“Look,” Ash said on an audible sigh, “we don’t mean anything to each other.”
Fuck. There’s where she was wrong. “You need work done. I—our company—can help, and I guarantee we’ll give you a fair price.”
Instead of replying, she began to walk, passing him up so that he was trailing her now. The soles of their shoes clipped against the asphalt and then on the cement stepping stones as they moved onto path that would take them through the trees to the single-wide.
“So I’ll ask again, why did you tell Ronnie—he said you were nice about it, but firm—to take off?”
Instead of answering right away, she stopped and turned to face him once more, as if unaware of the rain running in rivulets down her cheeks like those damn fucking tears.
“Why did you show up at nearly midnight to ask that question?”
Brody cleared his throat. “I didn’t check my voice mail any earlier. After I listened to it I drove up here.”
As explanations, it had logic holes he realized he couldn’t fill. Why not wait until the next day? Another day? Use the phone and call the roadhouse’s number? Fuck.
“I was out,” he added. “Busy.” His right boot splashed in a puddle as he stepped closer to her.
“Busy with your Rachel?”
The truth kept him a foot away. Yeah, he’d been on a date. After dinner they’d gone for drinks, and when she’d visited the ladies room he’d checked his phone.
“She had to make it an early night.”
That was true. It’s not as if he’d dumped her to rush up to Satan’s.
He cleared his throat. “The teachers at her school are running a 5K in the morning to benefit autism research.”
“That’s a good cause. She seems like a good woman.”
Perfect for him, he’d thought. Stable—emotional
ly and otherwise. After lovemaking, her tears wouldn’t bust open his sternum and leak like acid over his exposed heart.
“You shouldn’t flirt with all those men at the bar,” he said now, apropos of nothing.
“What?”
He was a bonehead, an asshole, a jealous-sounding jerk who had no right to tell her anything.
“They all think they’re going to get in your pants,” he muttered, even as he knew that would make it worse.
There was an audible gasp. “You mean like you did?” she asked then, her tone snide.
“Hey, I wasn’t the one who came on to you, sister.”
Without another word, she spun and started marching for the trailer again.
He squeezed shut his eyes and wondered why this one woman could ignite his temper as quickly as his lust. But two hours ago he’d watched her on the other side of the bar, dispensing booze and smiles. Every man had checked out her cleavage and her legs and her beautiful face. His mood had been on a slow smolder, and by the time he’d finished nursing his beer he’d barely resisted throwing the bottle against the nearest wall.
The kind of behavior that he’d learned at his daddy’s knee and witnessed in his daddy’s band’s compound. The kind of behavior he’d sworn never to replicate. The kind of behavior that stemmed from emotional excess and volatility of temperament that he’d escaped…and never wanted to see in himself.
But his hot-blooded reaction wasn’t something he should take out on her. “Look, Ash—”
“Goodbye, Brody,” she called over her shoulder. “And please don’t come back.”
He gritted his teeth. That wasn’t how this was going to work. Walking away wasn’t going to get her out of his head any more than staying away had.
“Look,” he began again, taking long strides to catch up with her. “Let us help you with the repairs and renovation. You won’t have to see me. I’ll just feel…better if I can do this for you.”
Hearing her say yes would soothe his current vicious mood and, he hoped, give him a fighting chance of forgetting her in the future.
She came to an abrupt stop, so abrupt he had to grab her shoulders to prevent himself from plowing over her.
Wild Child (Rock Royalty #6) Page 6
