“I got roaring drunk so I’d stay away from her.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Walsh let out a breath. “Oh, hell.”
Exactly.
“Well,” Walsh said after more silence. “This will be interesting then.”
With his bottle, he indicated a small group of people walking through the grounds. Ash and Cleo, each carrying a box. Accompanying them was a male stranger, and…Rachel.
“Who’s that with your kindergarten teacher?”
“I don’t know. She asked if she could bring a friend today.”
“A male friend? Or…not a friend?”
He shrugged. “We’re not exclusive. Her words. Her choice.”
But he’d been figuring that exclusive was just a matter of a little more time.
Walsh was studying him with narrowed eyes. “I like the kindergarten teacher.”
“Me, too.” Brody started in her direction.
She was going to keep his feet on the right path. The one that didn’t include drama, tears, jealousy, and shattered hearts.
The person Rachel brought was named Max Beacon, an old family friend who also lived in a condo in her same complex. He was a music buff, she said, linking her arm in Brody’s after he bent to kiss her cheek.
She smelled a little like crayons, which he kind of liked.
“I’ll try not to be obnoxiously impressed I’m at the infamous Laurel Canyon Velvet Lemons compound having brunch with Rock Royalty,” Max said with a self-deprecating smile and in such a way that Brody decided the man himself wasn’t going to be obnoxious at all.
Ashlynn looked at the twelve-pack of beer Max carried and then the cupcakes in the plastic box Brody took from Rachel. “I feel terrible. Everybody brought something.”
“You brought all that pretty hair and your beautiful smile,” Max said, and that could have come out sleazy as shit, but Brody conceded it sounded, instead, sincere and kind. Then Max took the small box she was carrying for Cleo and handed over his heavier carton. “Take this and it will look as if you brought the beer.”
Flashing him that smile, Ash pretended to stagger under the new weight, and they all laughed and walked toward the outdoor kitchen.
One big happy brunch group.
Brody supposed it seemed natural for the two who knew the fewest, Max and Ash, to gravitate toward each other. But he kept an eye on the blonde even as he talked with Rachel and introduced her to Payne and Rose, whom she’d not met before.
The Cami-situation had been smoothed out, apparently, because she was laughing as she slipped between Cilla and Ren after they’d all filled their plates and took their seats at the long table. Max and Ash sat beside each other on one end. Brody observed their animated conversation—and shared smiles—until he felt eyes on him.
Three pairs.
Fuck me.
Bing, Cilla, and Ren were all watching him watch Ash.
He resorted to twin-communication. Knock it off. For good measure, he flipped his brother a subtle bird. Before Bing could respond, Cleo’s Obie distracted him, asking for help with the ketchup bottle.
Brody half-turned to respond to Rachel’s question about a minor repair needed in her classroom. His gaze took in the sleekness of her dark hair and the round apple of her cheek. He smiled at her, and she gave him a little flirty glance through her lashes.
Yeah. He’d take her to bed. Soon. Have the exclusivity chat. Move another step along the right path.
As he forked up a bite of fruit salad, a soft laugh caught his attention over the chatter at the table. His attention shifted left.
Her mouth turned up, her eyes shining, Ash was focused on the tablemate who sat next to her. Not Max, but the one on her other side.
Her hands clasped tightly together beneath her chin, she smiled as an obviously smitten Eli tried impressing the new girl of his dreams by balancing a spoon on his nose. When it wobbled, then fell to the table, she still gave the young boy a round of applause.
Next, he handed over the spoon for her to try the trick, and she looked at it with such comic dismay that Brody felt himself grinning. As if she felt his amusement, her gaze flicked down the group, found him.
He sat back in his chair, lifting his chin in unspoken challenge, still smiling wide.
She narrowed her eyes, made a little face at him, and then appeared to appeal to Eli. Even from here Brody could tell the boy gave her detailed instructions. As the boy’s directions wound down, he saw her draw in a deep breath, and hold it.
With a light touch, she balanced the utensil on the end of her perfect nose, then slowly moved her hands away.
Her eyes shifted to him again, her look triumphant.
His mouth curved once more as he noted the sparkle in her silvery eyes, the flush of pleasure on her cheeks, the clearly happy mood that his fallen angel had found at the Velvet Lemons table.
“Brody. Brody.”
He glanced around, realizing that Rachel had been trying to get his attention. For long minutes, he’d completely ignored her, the woman who was going to keep him balanced and on the straight and narrow.
Shit.
How was he going to keep to his good intentions when just looking at Ash could make him forget everything and everyone else?
An echo from the past welled up inside Brody. His mother’s face, her fingers slipping away from the clutch of his small hand. What had he been…six? She’d been beautiful, mercurial, unfaithful.
Now he heard her voice, the words she’d said as she climbed into another musician’s van on her way out of her children’s lives. I have to go with him, sweetheart. Someday you’ll understand that when I look at him I don’t see anyone else in the world.
That wasn’t the only time, though it might have been the first, when he’d learned that love had a destructive side in the hands of the wrong person.
Chapter 6
Brody entered the dim confines of Satan’s Roadhouse, cursing himself with each step. After Sunday’s brunch he’d decided to avoid Ash, sending over guys from his crew in order to distance himself from her and her undeniable appeal to him. Yeah, he’d thought he’d get his hands dirty on her project himself, but then he’d reconsidered.
Somehow this woman had a powerful hold on him, and getting in too deep with her would have consequences for them both. The inevitable bad ending would leave them with only more pain and regrets—burdens neither of them handled well. He figured they’d both had the hangovers to prove it.
She was just too much—too lovely, too arousing, and especially too new to her own loss, he’d told himself. White knight or whatever you wanted to call it, it was his nature to want to step in and rectify situations—make his mother choose to stay with her children, keep his friend Lynn free of the bad influences at the compound, protect Ash from the ravages of her own grief.
But Christ knew he’d failed time and time again.
He’d never been enough.
So on Sunday afternoon he’d convinced himself that getting further involved with Ash would not only mean not helping her, but it would also set him up for a return to his old self-destructive habits.
Yet even recognizing and accepting all those fine, wise sentiments, after three days without seeing her face he was an addict yearning for a fix—and he’d found an excuse to visit.
Still damning himself for his weakness, he took a seat at the bar and made a promise to his reflection in the mirror opposite. I won’t stay long.
He glanced around the interior of the roadhouse. The Thursday night crowd was tame in comparison to the weekend throng, but the place was more than halfway full. Almost all the pool tables were in use, and there was a gaggle of women gathered around the jukebox. At the moment no one was tending the beer taps, but then Ash came around the corner¸ head down, carrying a case of Pellegrino.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, and he took the opportunity to let her beauty soak into his pores. Those well-worn boots were on her feet, and cream-colored lace tights, shre
dded here and there, covered her slender legs. A ruffled short skirt, more cream lace, came next. On top of it all was a chunky, fuzzy sweater in a sweet baby blue. The sides of her hair were pulled to the back of her head and held there by a sparkling clip.
He wanted to smell her, taste her, run his mouth over the heat of her skin. His blood started chugging in his veins as he watched her slide the box behind the bar. Then she straightened and their gazes met.
His first clear view of her face hit him like a punch to the gut. Her mouth was pink and moist-looking, and a blonde tendril or two had escaped to brush her forehead. Most remarkable was the silver and blue glitter that had been scattered below her crystal-colored eyes, sprinkled from the lower lids to halfway down her cheeks. The look suited the ethereal air about her.
She took a step so that only the scarred wooden surface separated them and licked her lips. “You’re staring.”
“It’s not often I run across someone who appears to have been caught in a star shower.” He touched his face.
She mirrored the movement.
“Oh.” Her mouth curved in a small smile. “The Topanga tattoo artist came in this afternoon. I opted for a temporary enhancement over the more permanent statement she was promoting.”
“No tattoos for you,” Brody said quickly. He’d been over every inch of her bare flesh, and it was perfect in its golden-rose glow.
Her downy brows came together as she frowned. “You’ve got one on the inside of your hipbone.”
Inked there on his skin was the depiction of a small carpenter’s level, a builder’s device he used every day. She’d traced her tongue around it that first night and the bubble—drawn perfectly balanced in the middle of the instrument—had throbbed with its own pulse. He shoved the memory out of his head.
“I lost a bet.”
“Your sister showed me the half heart she has on her arm that matches up with Ren’s.”
Rather than going further down this road—he had a bad feeling that if he said any more he’d goad her into setting up an appointment just to spite him—he changed the subject.
“I heard you came by the B&B Construction office today.” His excuse. “You were looking for me?”
Beneath the glitter, he detected a blush. “What can I get you to drink?” she asked.
“A beer. Anything on tap.”
She filled a frosted glass and placed it in front of him on a cardboard beer mat that advertised the roadhouse with that devil-on-hog illustration.
“Food?” She glanced at the clock behind her. “I can squeeze you in for Happy Hour. It goes until nine on Thursdays.”
He shook his head. “I can’t stay.” Of course, he shouldn’t have come. “Why’d you drop in at the office? You have my number.”
A male customer to his right signaled for her, and she hurried off without answering. He watched her smile and chat with the new arrival for a few moments before he looked away, a tactic to control the ridiculous surge of jealousy filling his chest.
Just more evidence to prove he should stay away from her. He’d never been the possessive type, but she brought out the caveman in him.
Ah, but if only you could get your hands on her, taste her, touch her, it would quiet this grasping need, a voice whispered in his head.
He took a long swallow of beer, trying to drown the thought.
Then Ash was back, and she gripped the edge of the bar. “I stopped in to talk to you about the guys on my roof.”
“You know the roadhouse needs—”
“The ones on the roof of my…my home.”
“C’mon, Ash. Repairs are needed there, too, obviously. When Bing and I went up to the third floor, we saw the pots and pans set out the leaks.”
“But that’s not what we talked about.” Her eyes narrowed. “And when I went by your office today, I saw the photos of your other projects that line the walls.”
“Oh.” He ran the back of his knuckles along his jaw. “What’d you think?”
She huffed. “Of course I thought they were incredible. Gorgeous.”
He smiled. “Thanks.”
“But it made it clear that you kept from me the kind of upscale operation you and Bing have going. You’re not just a couple of guys who take on random repair jobs.”
“Bing wanted to do the work. You can ask him. It was he who insisted.”
“You mean you were against it.” Her expression turned embarrassed.
“No!” Yes. He groaned silently. “Ash—”
“Never mind.” She waved her hand. “The point is, I can’t afford you.”
“We set the price already. You were fine with it.”
“How much extra is it going to cost me to fix my house?”
“Nothing. I’m covering that as…as your friend.”
She stared at him. “We’re friends now?”
He threw up his arms, his temper lighting. “What the hell else would we be?”
Her mouth opened, but a commotion near the entrance interrupted whatever she was about to say.
Brody turned on his stool to see a bunch of rough-looking men spill into the room, the patches on the backs of their leather jackets proclaiming them to be members of “The Unruly MC.” Christ. They didn’t have the look of a weekend motorcycle club with members who only got together for late afternoon beers and long Sunday rides with their old ladies. These guys were obviously more hard-core.
“Where’s your bouncer?” he demanded.
Ash was already rounding the bar and heading in the direction of the newcomers. They were pulling out chairs and settling at tables. “He’s off on Thursday nights.”
“Where are you going?”
“On Thursday nights I help Madelyn with the table service.”
Though Brody’s intention had been to stay for a single beer, with what looked like a one-percent motorcycle gang—“one-percent” referring to the quote from the American Motorcycle Association that 99% of motorcyclists were law-abiding citizens—on the premises, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere.
Or getting anywhere near Ash, it turned out. She busied herself with her customers, leaving him to his own devices as she delivered drinks and baskets of food and flirted and laughed with men who probably ate pretty little girls like her for lunch. A grizzled older guy Brody hadn’t seen working at the roadhouse before took her place behind the bar and served him a mug of coffee when he asked for it.
As the motorcycle gang’s party turned more raucous, Ash didn’t seem to mind in the least. She sashayed over with a tray of shots and began doing them, too, throwing herself into the rowdy atmosphere despite his glowering from across the room.
Somebody had edged up the volume of the music coming from the jukebox, blaring mostly heavy metal interspersed with the occasional hard-driving country song. A bearded dude with a gut the size of a watermelon pulled the beautiful roadhouse owner into his arms and led her into a spirited two-step around the dance floor. When it was over, another drew her onto his lap, and she laughed even has he threw a meaty arm across her waist.
Then some joker boosted her onto a pool table to set up an intricate shot that involved Ash kneeling on the felt and the pool cue sliding between her spread thighs. Every muscle in Brody’s body tightened to the point of pain, and when she glanced over at him, her expression half-drunk and half-challenge, he finally lost his shit.
He shoved through the gathered crowd of men who smelled like leather, beer, and criminal records. Ignoring their muttered protests, he lifted Ash off the table and strode away with her in his arms.
Behind them, the motorcycle crowd grumbled ominously, like one of their Harley Davidson bikes.
“Don’t worry,” she called out gaily over his shoulder, her arms circling his neck. “This is Brody. We’re friends! Really good friends!”
Not having a clue about where to go or what he was going to do with her when he got there, he headed toward the door marked “Employees Only.”
At the back of what looked to
be a break area was another door that led to a darkened storeroom lined with metal shelves filled with boxes and cans of foodstuffs. Once inside, he kicked the door shut but didn’t flip the light switch.
The only thing in the shadows with them was the sound of his rough breaths and her unsteady ones.
“What the hell?” he demanded. “The Unruly Motorcycle Club?”
His arms tightened around her delicate form. Without thinking, he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent.
“Brae liked them,” Ash said. “I think she dated one of them…or maybe two or three.”
His heart felt as if it was trying to break free of the cage of his ribs. “Damn it, you need to be careful.”
“Of whom?”
Maybe he’d throttle her instead of trying to get through to the beautiful blonde who said of whom like she was at the grammar bee that she needed to watch herself around the roadhouse’s rougher clientele. My God. The Unruly Club had to be a criminal motorcycle gang.
He squeezed shut his eyes. “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”
She squirmed, and he let her slip out of his arms until she was on her own two feet. Beneath his steadying hands she swayed, and he thought of those shots she’d tossed back earlier, and then of their night together. She’d been at least half-smashed that evening, too. And he couldn’t be a sanctimonious shit about it, because he’d had his share of lost nights and lost weekends. Sometimes he’d been lost longer than that.
“You shouldn’t get drunk like this,” he heard himself say anyway.
His eyes had become more accustomed to the dark, and he could see her draw herself up. Maybe she’d not had as much as he’d thought.
“Don’t be a sanctimonious shit.”
He had to laugh. “Can you read my mind? Sometimes Bing does. Did you and Brae communicate without words?”
She shook her head, and her hair swirled around her shoulders. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything.”
“I know.” He didn’t understand himself and the death-wish draw she held for him. He should be on his way home and not sequestered in an intimate darkness with a tattered angel heading for trouble. “Can you tell me what’s going on with you? Why the hell were you playing around with that crowd?”
Wild Child (Rock Royalty #6) Page 9
