Kickback (Caldwell Brothers Book 3)

by Colleen Charles

  “Why did you leave, really? And don’t just say because dad died. You weren’t the only one left fatherless, but you’re the only one who ran.”

  The awkward silence stretches between us as it demands to be filled, more awkward than a conversation where I actually tell the truth, so I take a risk and offer something else. “I didn’t want her comfort. I’m an asshole, I know. I was so overwhelmed with emotion that I just couldn’t take anymore.”

  I didn’t want Haylee’s lips on my skin or her arms around my core. I didn’t want anyone touching me. My skin had been so sensitized from the horrific moment I received the news until the day they put my dad in the cold, hard ground, I couldn’t stand her or anyone’s touch. It felt like fire burning the neurons that were too overwhelmed to understand the threat wasn’t real. It even felt like too much to have her standing beside me, in my personal space. Worse, she didn’t understand my behavior and kept asking me how I felt. Like most young men, I couldn’t articulate it, not even to myself. So, I did what any coward would do. I ran away with my tail between my legs, and I never, ever looked back.

  Until now.

  Nixon picks up another pencil and grinds it into a nub in the shiny chrome sharpener. He makes a spectacle of getting the point razor sharp and then a show of snapping the entire thing in half before tossing it into the wastebasket.

  “I understand. You were always like that as a kid, withdrawing and hiding when things got rough. I felt that same way until the day I saw Marcella standing in the lobby of this casino. I’d bet that you got out of it faster than I did. The darkness comes, and it stays some days, but I can eradicate it much faster than I used to be able to. Marcella somehow shined a light into that dark space that lived inside me for so long, and although there are still dark days, it’s not as dark anymore. I’m sure you and Haylee will have closure. It’s just going to take time.”

  I give a pathetic chuckle, trying to ease the emotion that’s whirling around us like a summer tornado in Kansas. One little nod and nothing further needs to be said. Fuck, this isn’t a therapy session anyway.

  “Tell me where she lives,” I say, keeping it calm but making it a demand at the same time.

  “Ford–”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Nix. I will go over to her house and check on her. We can do this the hard way, or we can do it the easy way. Don’t make me call Hawk.”

  I’ll probably call Hawk anyway just because he’s a friend, and I want to touch base, but Nixon doesn’t have to know that. My brother’s always worried that Hawk is going to spill some trade secret that will make him look less than in my eyes. There’s nothing that could make Nixon Caldwell fall off his pedestal, except maybe the man himself.

  Nixon doesn’t speak, he just taps his computer, then opens the top drawer of his gleaming chrome desk, pulls out a Post-It and jots down an address with a fresh pencil.

  “Don’t do something stupid,” he says, narrowing his eyes in that brotherly way that doesn’t require any further explanation.

  “I won’t.” I stand, hold out my hand for the paper that has the power to change my life and turn toward the door.

  No thanks needed.

  At the lobby, I inquire after Cruz at the concierge and am assured he’s at the curb. Once through the revolving doors, I scan the valet area until I spot Nixon’s driver. I know my brother. He’s going to be in for the duration, working himself to the bone on that Mona Lisa takeover that he and Reagan are plotting. I don’t want to have anything to do with it. Dante’s still pissed at me for the fashion show embarrassment, and I don’t need him coming after me with both guns cocked and loaded. Not now while I have other things to distract my attention.

  I give Cruz the address, and he makes a face. I didn’t recognize it myself, but hell, I haven’t been home in years, and I’m not familiar with the new suburban developments.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, opening the door for me.

  I hand the Post-It to him, and he scans it.

  “This is the address I got,” I say, sliding into the leather seat.

  Cruz closes the door and gets behind the wheel. As he expertly pilots us to wherever we’re headed, I take that time to lean back and close my eyes so I can fantasize about my favorite subject. I’ve had this low-level anxiety ever since I found out she’d missed work after blowing off her first day as a model for Taryn’s app. Once I’ve seen her for myself, everything will go back to normal. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

  About twenty minutes later, I feel the limo glide to a stop. Cruz opens my door before I can even get my wits about me. The searing Vegas sun hits my head, taking my breath away. I sure as shit am missing the mild California weather. I’d forgotten what an oven my home state can be in the dead of summer.

  Once I stand up and get my bearings, I hiss in a breath. Even the one hundred ten degree heat can’t hold a candle to my surroundings. Slum doesn’t even begin to describe the neighborhood I find myself in. She fucking lives here? The smell of sweltering trash, pavement, and rotting brush assaults my nostrils. The homes are small, unkempt, and most have bars on the windows. There are fucking bars on her windows.

  Haylee is not safe. And if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to get her the hell out of here. I wonder what happened to make her life end up someplace like this. She had so many plans and was always so smart. The dots simply don’t connect in my mind.

  A crushed Mountain Dew can blows by my loafer on a stiff breeze along with a tumbleweed floating in a cloud of dust. The concrete’s cracked and buckling, creating a trip and fall hazard. She probably took a header on her own damn sidewalk. I imagine her toddling around on a walking boot because she sprained her ankle. It better not be anything more serious or I fear I might lose it.

  After I approach the faded front door, I stab the doorbell a few times, taking my frustrations out on it while enjoying the peals of noise that shoot through the interior of the home. If it could even be called a home. The stucco’s crumbling in the corners, the cracks are deep and long, and the tile roof is so chipped, I’d be amazed if the roof doesn’t leak every single time it rains.

  I assault the doorbell at least five more times until I hear, “Coming!” It’s Haylee, and she’s approaching the entrance. The moment of truth is upon me, and I inhale so I don’t lose my nerve. Enveloping my body in my cloak of anger and righteous indignation is what’s going to help me through this confrontation, so I steel myself for the argument that’s sure to follow my showing up here unannounced.

  “Impatient much,” she says, breathlessness overtaking her husky voice and giving it a sexy quality. I’m eye fucking her, taking in every curve of her body. As I inhale, I realize there isn’t a mark on her. Where’s this supposed injury or illness that kept her from work?

  That kept her from me.

  “What’s wrong with you, Haylee?” The question comes out like a demand, which wasn’t what I wanted. Seems all I can do around her since my return home is fuck everything up. Haylee causes emotions to course through my body and ratchet up to such an uncomfortable level, I act like an asshole just to release some of them before they explode.

  She crosses her arms over her chest, anger tightening her jaw. “You’re the one just showing up unannounced, firing questions. It’s none of your damn business.”

  Just as she’s about to slam the door shut in my face, I wedge my sneaker between her anger and the outside world. Her bare feet tempt me more than anything else. Haylee’s always loved her toes painted bright red. At least that hasn’t changed.

  “Is it wrong for me to be concerned when you blow off a golden opportunity? That’s not like you. I know there’s something more to it,” I say, yanking the screen door open and shoving my way inside the house without an invitation. There was a time when all it would take is a certain look in her eye to bring me to my knees. But the sands sift through the hourglass, and we can’t go back and regain everything we’ve lost as much as that guts me.

 
; “You’re not coming in,” she snaps, eyes flashing fire. Her full breasts heave with the effort of her little pants of rage underneath her thin t-shirt. I want to rip it off her. I want to crush her to my chest and kiss her until she softens.

  “I’m already in.”

  She stands her ground, hands on her hips, bare toes digging into the worn carpet. Her mouth tempts me, and it becomes more than I can bear. I lean in, drinking in her scent, the heat emanating from every pore. Haylee’s overtaken every sense.

  Ugh.

  A grunt pierces through the lust-filled haze. Haylee backs up, breaking the electric connection between us. Something furry, heavy, and pink runs into the back of my knees, sending me off balance. I careen into Haylee. In an instant, my arms embrace her, and my lips capture hers in a kiss so blinding I see stars before my closed eyelids. I quickly recover, and my tongue searches the seam of her lips, and she opens, allowing me greater access.

  I take everything I’ve wanted since the moment I left Vegas and her in my rear-view. It was a dick move. I’m a dick. But that’s in the past. She’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I’m going to win her back. If I have to start with my body, that’s what I’ll do.

  Only after she offers her complete surrender, do I break our kiss and walk away. Since it’s what I do best, I’m ashamed to say anything. Let her stew about the lust flowing between us for a little while longer. At least that hasn’t changed.

  Chapter 9

  Haylee

  “He kissed me. He put his damn lips against mine, and he kissed me like he never left me and his unborn child in the middle of a barren desert wasteland.”

  Dixie sighs the heaving exhale of the long-suffering and gives a little eye roll. “Well, in his defense, that little ole part about the unborn child is still a mystery to him.”

  “That we know of,” I snap. “It’s like he can see right into my soul. He probably already has a college fund set up for her so she can attend MIT and become the next Steve Jobs.”

  The smell of frying bacon assaults my nostrils and my stomach actually has the audacity to rumble, reminding me that I’ve barely eaten anything since Ford Caldwell waltzed into my house uninvited and took over every emotion I possess. But he’s got the market cornered on inciting my anger. He’s standing on the fringe of my life, demanding entry, and all I want to do is slam the concrete door to my heart right in his smug face. How dare he just walk up the driveway and start knocking like he belongs there?

  Maybe he does belong there.

  “From what you’ve been tellin’ me, if Ford knew about Atlee, he’d be doin’ more than beatin’ down your door to steal a kiss or two.”

  She’s right, but I don’t do anything other than give a slight nod because she’ll get herself going with even the slightest encouragement and I’m exhausted. Our shifts just ended and Dixie and I decide to share a graveyard breakfast entrée. Eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon, and toast. And don’t forget the mixed berry jelly. Toast isn’t toast without jelly. Atlee loves it with peanut butter, too, but I’m a purist. Dixie still pisses and moans every time she eats in Vegas that she can’t get homemade grits like her nana made, but she’ll get over it.

  “Haylee, is your shift over for today?”

  No. No. No.

  Please, Lord, anything but Brad. Not Brad. Not today.

  “Hey, Brad. You have to work tonight?”

  “Yup.” He gives me his best smile, which always looks a little creepy. “Always down for dinner here before my shift, though. It’s no fun to always sit down to an empty apartment and a frozen dinner.”

  “I think I hear Justine calling me from the kitchen,” Dixie says. I stab her with my knife-like glare. She knows how I feel about Brad, and here she is deliberately leaving me alone with him. He’s going to start asking me inappropriate things. He’s going to get handsy, and I’m going to get pissed.

  End of story.

  Haven’t I dealt with enough lately with Ford’s trying to control me? Pushing me into a corner and forcing me to feel things long dead and buried? The last thing I need is Brad. What is it with guys always wanting something? It’s like they’re nameless, faceless sets of limbs reaching and grabbing. Anything with a penis can just go fuck right off.

  “Hmm…maybe you should take a cooking class or something. I’ve heard good things about the community college. I know they offer classes for adults to learn the basics so they can always put a simple but delicious meal together. Then you wouldn’t have to come to Manzo all the time just to get a home-cooked meal.”

  He sits down across from me in the seat that’s probably still warm from Dixie’s Benedict Arnold ass cheeks. “I’ve looked into that, but they’re only offering one for couples right now. They say it makes for a really great date activity.”

  Fuck me.

  The expectant look on his face makes me feel sorry for him, but I want to slap him at the same time. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s not my type. At all. I like my men more confident – and less lonely. With black hair and piercing blue eyes. And glasses. Definitely glasses.

  Not that I’ve had a man in the past few years. I’m starting to wonder if my lady parts have gone into hibernation. I’ve only had one boyfriend since Atlee was born. If you could call him that. It was more like a mother/son relationship but with fucking. I took care of him, cooking, cleaning up, paying his rent. All he provided was a cock and the random lukewarm orgasm. After that debacle, I promised myself to swear off men for a while and focus on raising my incredible little girl.

  “Really? I guess I never thought about cooking as romantic,” I say, deflecting. Hoping against hope that he’ll get the hint. But I’ve known Brad for years, and he’s not a hint picking up kind of a dude. He’s more of a “Here’s a kick in the nuts. Does it hurt? Do you get it? I’m not having sex with you if you were the only man on earth with a pail of water and my vagina was on fire” kind of a guy.

  “No, Haylee. It’s really romantic. It is. Think of all that fruit and stuff.”

  Is he hinting at some warped awkward man version of 9 ½ Weeks? Brad is never going to feed either of my sets of lips a chocolate dipped strawberry.

  “Yes, well, I already know how to cook so that doesn’t interest me at all.” The moment the words leave my lips, I worry that he’s going to interpret that as an offhand invitation to cook for him. Not gonna happen in his lifetime.

  “Really? What’s your favorite dish to cook?”

  I falter. I inhale. I want to crawl underneath the Formica table and pretend I never came to work today. “Ah…I don’t know. Things, I guess.”

  He leans closer, his eyes falling to my lips. I suck them into my mouth and away from his gaze. “Sweet things or savory things?”

  Dammit, he just won’t quit, and there’s no way in hell I’m punting him any kind of hard object that he could interpret as a bone. My brain fires on all cylinders trying to come up with a neutral response. I always used to make beef liver and onions with my mom. One of the only kids in my social circle that would actually eat it. The meal reminds me of her, and sometimes Dixie still makes it for me when I’m feeling extra down and lonely. I miss my mom so much.

  “Liver. And onions. Smothered in onions.”

  The disgusted look on his face causes a streak of delight to race up my spine. I think I’ve finally managed to get him to back off. He probably imagines me in an apron and nothing else, whipping up a huge batch of organ meat just for him. Had I said cupcakes, it would have completed his perverted fantasy. No such luck, meathead.

  “Ah, that sounds…delic…interesting.” He’s got his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, and he’s rocking back and forth on his sneakers. Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. But in this case, I wish a stiff desert breeze would whip through the casino so we’d have a man down situation. I’ve had enough of men. Even if they’re ninety, if they have a twig and berries, no matter how shriveled, I’m over it.

  “It’s my favorite meal,” I lie. “I make
it every week. And it has to be beef liver. Atlee has a pet pig, and she’s on a pork strike in his honor.”

  He wrinkles his nose, but is clearly not put off by my food preferences. “You know,” he says, looking me up and down like I’ve developed a skin of sugar and he wants to lick me like a lollipop. “I don’t like animals. They don’t belong in the house. If we start seeing each other, you’re going to have to give him away.”

  I stiffen. Give away Gerald Ford, my daughter’s best friend and confidante. Douche bag Brad did not just say that.

  “Sweetie pie,” Dixie’s voice cuts through my white-hot rage. I fist my hands to keep them from shaking and reaching across the expanse of the table to throat punch a man who’s such an idiot. He’s not ill-intentioned. He’s just that socially inept. “I’m worn slap out. Can you get your pretty little behind in gear so we can go home?”

  Our dinner hasn’t even arrived yet, so I know Dixie’s only saying that so I don’t commit a felony murder in the third degree and force Atlee into the piss-poor Vegas foster system.

  “Got to go, Brad,” I manage to spit out. He doesn’t even notice my barely controlled ire directed straight at him. “See you next week.”

  “Er…bye.” His mouth stays open for several seconds as if he’s a human Venus Fly Trap. I almost want to grab an olive from the server station and see if I can make a bucket in one shot. After staring like a doofus, he finally turns and creeps away.

  “Well, bless his lil’ ole heart,” Dixie says, sinking down into her seat.

  I scowl at her. “Let’s not and say we did.”

  I don’t want to bless any of Brad’s organs. Not his heart or anything else. And especially, not that one. I’d probably have to use a microscope to find it.

  Justine peeks around the corner with a platter in one hand and an empty plate in the other. “Is he gone?”