“Why all the nicknames? I thought I was the only one—well, and Q. But he’s obvious.”
“I grew up in the bar business. Even as a kid sitting in a corner doing homework, it became a way to keep everyone straight. Remembering a person’s name makes them feel important, but a nickname gives them a feeling of acceptance, like they’re part of a club.”
“Or maybe part of the family?”
Maybe Ashlyn understood me better than I did.
Something I couldn’t yet identify passed between us. Then the door to the bar opened. Without taking my eyes from hers, I raised a hand and called, “Hey, Dusty.”
Ashlyn turned her head, following him with her gaze. From my peripheral vision, I watched Butch pat Dusty on the back. A cloud of red dust rose into the air.
“Dusty, ha-ha. Okay, I get it,” she said.
Just as she started to say something else, the front door opened again. Another regular arrived, this one a mail carrier. I reached for a pilsner glass and pulled the tap on his beer of choice.
“Hey Cliff,” I said.
Ashlyn’s head swiveled Cliff’s way, then grinned. I sent her a wink, pleased she’d caught the obvious reference.
He reached for the drink when I slid it across the bar, then took a swallow. The head stuck to the edges of his mustache. He nodded politely to Ashlyn when she smiled and handed him a napkin. “Hey, you’re that girl from the theater, right?”
“One of many,” she said.
“You’re the writer. I remember seeing your picture in the paper. My wife made me take her to see one of your shows a few months ago for date night. It wasn’t half bad.”
Her grin broadened. “That’s a glowing review.”
Cliff wiped his face and smiled back. “It is, actually. I’m not much of a theater guy, but my wife grew up here in Phair. She and most of her family have seen every single production the Marshall’s have put on since they were kids.”
“I’ll pass that along to Lucas,” Ashlyn said. “He’ll appreciate hearing it.”
“See?” I said, leaning toward her over the bar. “The Marshall Theater isn’t just about tourists and commercialism. It’s about generations of people, of family coming together for a few good hours of mind-off-their-troubles entertainment.”
Cliff nodded agreement. “Some of the wife’s best memories stem from that place. My kids’, too.” He raised his beer to us both then headed toward his friends gathered at the other end of the bar.
“I understand how important the theater is,” Ashlyn said. “But I’m not the one who walked away yesterday. Whether either of us like it or not, Noah, the improv is working. After the new material I gave to Lucas earlier today, he’s more convinced than ever he made the right decision forcing us to work together.”
The cook came out from the kitchen, carrying two heaping plates of nachos, one of which he gave to Butch, the other he set in front of Ashlyn.
Ashlyn dug into her food and reached for her Coke. “You know what I think?”
The way her lips closed around the straw, I couldn’t keep my mind from going where it shouldn’t, from wishing it were me she sucked deep into her mouth. And the way my cock stirred at the sight, I lacked the brain power to care much about anything she thought.
“The way you acted outside my door yesterday after our improv tells me Andy Rich is forcing you to face yourself,” she said.
I doubted my issues were the same as Andy’s.
A burst of rambunctious laughter sounded from the other end of the bar, saving me from acknowledging Ashlyn’s remark. Babs had made her way that direction and stood, with one arm propped on the counter, the opposite hand waving that damn cigarette. I could tell she’d been the instigator of the noise.
“You’ve really found something special here, haven’t you, Noah?” Ashlyn watched Babs, too. “No disrespect to your father’s memory, but I don’t remember ever seeing Babs this happy.”
No disrespect taken. Ashlyn was right. These last eighteen months in Phair had brought Babs back to her old self, to those carefree days when I was ten—after she and my father had first married. Before things went bad.
“It was her idea to come to Phair,” I said, watching Babs through Ashlyn’s eyes. “Our Houston location has thrived for years. After my father’s death, I started scouting for other Texas options. Babs heard about Phair while talking to some tourists one night at the River Walk in San Antonio.”
That was also the night I got the call from my realtor. The Upper East Side penthouse where I’d grown up and where Babs had lived, too, had sold. Neither of us had any qualms about selling the apartment. The bad memories there out-shined the good.
When I was seven, my mother got fed up with my father’s drinking and his temper. She left both me and my dad, causing the brunt of his anger to fall to me. Then Babs came along. Things got better for a while. But a couple of years after he married her, things went south again. It didn’t take long before Babs stepped in, bearing the burden of his rage that I knew was meant for me. I’d forever feel guilty for not being stronger.
Ashlyn pushed her food away, pulling me out of my thoughts. When her blue gaze met mine she had that look, like she’d heard everything I hadn’t said. “You came to Phair for Babs, didn’t you?”
“No. Buying this location was a sound investment that matches the new vision I have for the Double Shot enterprise.”
Ashlyn leaned forward. “Forget the business justification. You feel like you owe her.”
Damn straight I owed her. But it wasn’t the kind of debt I’d ever be able to repay.
The night I turned eighteen, I came home to find my dad going after Babs with his fists. When I couldn’t stop him, I reached for the one thing that would—my baseball bat.
Babs had covered for me when the police and ambulance arrived, making sure my name wasn’t affiliated with reports that could jeopardize my college admission. She’d claimed she’d acted out of self-defense.
Breaking eye contact with Ashlyn, I reached for a bottle of gin. Time to switch up the subject. “I’ve come up with a new recipe I think you’ll like.”
Aware of the contradiction I was making against my earlier statement about drinking, Ashlyn glanced down at her Coke and said, “Okay.”
Grabbing a shaker, I experimented with a few ingredients. Adding here and mixing there, I took the top off and poured the liquid into a martini glass. Then I sipped. After making a mental note to go lighter on the gin next time, I added a touch more lime, a ginger leaf, and slid the glass across the bar.
Ashlyn reached for the martini, inadvertently putting her lips the same place mine had been. Without even trying, the woman slayed me.
“Oh, my God, Noah.” Her eyes widened with pleasure. Then she took a bigger sip. “This is amazing.”
She had a look on her face, one that made my heart stutter-step and my breath catch in my throat. Then she moaned. I felt its vibration at the core of every single cell that made me a man. But even though I hadn’t grown comfortable with my body’s attraction to her, the eroticism of her enjoyment was more welcome than the way she’d picked at the scab of my old wounds.
“Is this an original?” She pointed to her glass. “Did you make up this recipe just now?”
I shrugged.
“What are you going to call it?”
I thought for a second. “Ash Thursday. I’m thinking it should be a weekly special. Once you become a famous Broadway playwright, you can write the story of how it originated. We’ll print it on a plaque and hang it on the wall.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes. Maybe I’d tell her the truth later—that this was exactly how her mouth tasted, citrusy sweet with a hint of spice, minus the alcoholic bite.
Ashlyn set her glass down on the mahogany bar top. “You know who gave me my first gin and tonic?
I had a pretty good idea.
“Your father,” she said. “When I was fifteen. It was my first time visiting Quinn when you two were
at Columbia.” Her eyes searched mine. “Do you miss him?”
By the time he was diagnosed, Michael was in stage four lung cancer. He’d gone fast. At least by then his final stint in rehab had stuck.
“He was a hard man to love,” I finally said to Ashlyn. “But, yeah, sometimes I do miss him.” I never would have reached peace with my father if it hadn’t been for Babs. In light of his illness, she’d pushed me to work through my issues with him, to deal with the emotional trauma he’d caused. Because of her, he accepted accountability. And in the end, he apologized—and I’d accepted his apology.
That got me thinking about Kyle Pritchard.
Clearly what happened years before had left an emotional mark on Ashlyn. Maybe she needed to get Pritchard’s apology in order to move on. Maybe her past was hanging up her future. And even though my gut told me Kyle was still slime, for Ashlyn’s sake I hoped the fact he’d saved that kid was proof that I was wrong—maybe he had changed.
I placed my hand on top of hers, turning it palm up, and wrote the address where she’d find Pritchard across her skin. “If you have to do this alone, promise me you’ll be careful,” I said.
But she wouldn’t be alone. Her brother and I would have eyes on her at all times. And she wouldn’t know it, but I’d be there, too, at the ready in case things went south.
Chapter Nine
Ashlyn
Noah had come through for me. I had to admit, I’d liked it when he wrote the address where Kyle was staying on the palm of my hand. Kinda reminded me of high school. And the tingles that had shot up my arm reminded me of the same tingles I used to feel when I was around Noah. Before the whole Kyle Pritchard thing.
As I drove out to Lost Meadows shortly after leaving the Double Shot, I hoped to convince Kyle to recuse himself as judge. How could he claim to not be biased, given what had gone down between us? I never should have invited him there in the first place. Sure, I’d wanted Kyle’s famous father to read my script—I’d had stars in my eyes about being a playwright. I’d hoped if Noah saw me with another guy, he might realize what he’d tossed aside and profess his love for me. But none of that was to say it was okay Kyle had manhandled me and didn’t stop when I said no.
I’d had so many hopes when I ran away to New York. I’d already fallen in love with the city on previous visits. What I hadn’t planned on was falling for my brother’s best friend. That week I spent in the apartment, with Noah looking after me, he’d been the perfect gentleman. He did a great job of taking care of me, the way he’d promised my father. It was during a visit to Central Park that everything changed.
That afternoon, we’d been together on a picnic blanket, with me yammering about a book I was reading on Christopher Marlowe while Noah was on his back, tossing a football to himself, pretending to listen. Just as he threw the ball in the air and positioned his hands to catch it, I knocked the football away.
“Hey, what was that for?” he asked.
“How did Marlowe die?”
“Who?” Noah’s brow knit, then he grinned. “I’m kidding, Training Wheels. He took a knife to the head.”
I dove for the loose ball. Just as I reached it, Noah grabbed my ankle and pulled me toward him.
“Lucky guess, smarty pants,” I said, laughing, kicking at his hand with my free foot.
His palm wrapped around my other ankle and he flipped me onto my back. “No offense, Wheels, but that book sounds boring as hell.”
Indignant, I threw the ball at him, a wild toss under pressure that would’ve missed him by a mile. His hand shot up. Fingers grazed pigskin just enough to knock down the pass. And though he was on his knees, he lost balance and landed on top of me.
Instinctively, my legs wrapped around him. His hands came up to pin mine to the ground. The brown of his eyes deepened, and for a moment, I thought what I’d been dreaming of since arriving in New York would finally happen. Noah Blake was going to kiss me. I closed my eyes and waited for it to happen.
Only it didn’t.
Noah released me, then stood. His back to me, he snapped out, “Playtime’s over, Wheels. I’m out of here.”
“Wait,” I said, confused. “I thought you were taking me to a play tonight?”
“I have other responsibilities. Find someone else to play babysitter.”
He took off, then, leaving me behind in Central Park.
Unsure of what happened and why, I hung out at the park for a few hours longer, crying and feeling miserable for myself, before hailing a taxi to take me back to the apartment. I could tell Noah had come and gone—not just from the utter disarray of the place, but from the fist-sized crack that had been punched in the crumbling plaster wall of the living room.
Over the course of the last few days, I’d fallen in love with Noah Blake, and if the way he acted today was any indication, he had feelings for me, too. He just needed space, time to get used to these new feelings. So I picked up the mess in the living room, taped a picture over the dent in the wall, and went to the theater alone.
That’s where I met Kyle Pritchard. And had invited him back to the apartment, hoping Noah would see and would get jealous. But Kyle had gone straight from ignoring the script in my hand to first base in a flash. By the time he went for third, I was freaking out.
Time blurred after that. I remembered shrieking no. I remembered getting my knee poised between Kyle’s legs. I remembered waiting for the exact right time to knee him in the nuts. And then Noah burst through the door.
By the time Noah pulled Kyle off me, there was no stopping what came next. And when it was over and Kyle was gone, a blood-covered Noah looked at me with what I figured was disgust. Without a single word to me, he called Babs, who’d come over and made sure I was okay. She even rode the train back to Dallas with me and delivered me to my parents.
After that night, the easiness between Noah and me vanished. He became cold, his distance a constant reminder of my stupidity and how I never should’ve invited Kyle back to Noah’s to begin with.
I’d never heard from Kyle Pritchard after that night. For a while, he’d had a lackluster career as an actor, only to find a rousing success as a brutal, yet spot-on critic. He’d been a self-centered, arrogant asshole when I’d known him. I had to hope he’d changed inside. And that he’d do the decent thing and withdraw from judging the festival.
I pulled my car up to where his luxury Air Stream was parked beneath the covering of live oaks and honked. Kyle came outside, dressed in tan walking shorts and a golf shirt, a fluffy golden retriever at his side. He caught sight of me as I got out of my car, and the false smile he wore faded. First recognition and then hatred covered his face.
That’s when I realized just how very wrong I’d been. People don’t change.
“Hello, Ashley,” Kyle said.
My heart beat like a war drum inside my chest. He remembered me. He hadn’t used the right name, but that seemed to be on purpose. Noah used nicknames to make people feel accepted, but Kyle had used the wrong name to demean me—to show just how insignificant he believed me to be.
“Hello, Kyle.” We were past formalities, weren’t we? Though he was a festival judge, I couldn’t bring myself to call him Mr. Pritchard.
The dog barked, and Kyle turned his back to me to pick up a stick, which he threw down an embankment. Tongue lolling, the dog gave chase. I could hear the gentle rush of the Pedernales River in the distance.
“I know you’re one of the playwrights I’ll be judging,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here. You know it’s against festival rules for you to seek me out.” He caught my eye then. “Especially given what happened that night.”
My arms crossed in front of me in response to his tone that brokered no apology. I tried to calm the trembling in my knees, to tell myself to not be afraid. I wasn’t a teenager anymore. And I wasn’t helpless.
He pushed designer sunglasses to the top of his head, making prominent a disjointed nose that dirtied up his Waspish good looks. He didn’t appe
ar to be the kind of guy who needed to take a woman by force.
“I came here to say I’m sorry for what happened.” I figured I would accept my end of the responsibility if he accepted his. “I never should have invited you in that night. I didn’t know—”
His flash of too-white teeth was more a baring of fangs than a smile. “I think you knew exactly what you were doing. The way you came on to me proved it.”
But I hadn’t come on to him. And I’d tried to stop him. I really had.
Kyle had taught me something that night. From then on, I kept most men at a distance. I could count on three fingers how many men I’d allowed myself to get close enough to where sex became part of the relationship—men I’d invited into my home.
He went on. “I can’t believe what you did, after all the things you promised.”
My knees stopped trembling as fear got doused by a good helping of mad. “I didn’t do anything. And I didn’t promise anything, either. You started it. And you didn’t stop, even after I said no.” Pissed beyond reason, I pushed my fingers through my hair. “You wouldn’t have gotten hurt if you’d done the right thing.” What had I been thinking, coming here like this? Kyle hadn’t changed. He wasn’t remorseful.
But that was in the past. “I’m only here to make sure our past doesn’t compromise The Marshall Theater Players’ chances at the festival.”
At that, he glared at me, then sneered.
“It’s not too late to do the decent thing. Recuse yourself as festival judge.”
His lip turned up in a snarl. “The Phair Theater Festival is known for making and breaking up-and-coming artists. Why would I, an upstanding and well-known industry professional, bow out of anything?”
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