by Raen Smith
Liam: Branded Brothers
By Raen Smith
Copyright © 2013 Raen Smith
All Rights Reserved.
Cover design by Stephanie Nelson of Once Upon a Cover
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author
Links to other Books
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Two Years Ago
The red pin on Charla Taylor’s screen indicated she’d arrived at her location, but the dirt path winding through the thick evergreens didn’t show much promise. She craned her neck and squinted through the trees, attempting to get a visual on the house. There was no mailbox or address marker in the grass. Just a dirt path and GPS pinning her at N2387 Lake Drive.
She turned the wheels of her Corolla, leaving a swirling cloud of dust behind her as she followed the path. The trees flanked her on both sides, overgrown and dangerously close to scratching the car, as she wound down the drive until there was a break in the trees. In the center stood a quaint log cabin, stark and lonely as if it didn’t belong in the wilderness surrounding it. Its wood was a weathered grey in contrast to the small area of freshly cut grass around it. A pot of red petunias sat on the bottom step of the porch. She breathed a sigh of relief and pushed forward.
This could be exactly what she needed - a bit of peace and quiet to let her breathe. No one would find her here, or at least they’d have one hell of a hard time. She was only one hour away from her hometown, but Mud Lake was as desolate as rural Illinois came. The only sign of life she’d seen was a small gas station and connected food mart about five miles away. The nearest city, Blackwell, was in the suburban outskirts of Chicago and a solid thirty minutes away.
Before she shifted the car into park, a man wearing a cowboy hat and knee-length bathrobe appeared at the front door. She grabbed the newspaper on the passenger seat and scanned the advertisement one last time. In-home caregiver needed for man in late fifties diagnosed with disease that makes him forget everything. No smoking, no pets. Good sense of humor required. Must be willing to drink Guinness. Free room and board on Mud Lake. Hourly rate negotiable based on qualifications. Bonus points for a young, beautiful woman who seeks the comfort of a Silver Fox.
She wasn’t exactly sure what “comfort” meant in this context, but she figured she’d at least check it out. If he ended up being an old sleezball, she’d hightail it out of here without ever looking back. Charla had learned at an early age to be adept at not looking back.
The newspaper fluttered back to the passenger seat. She couldn’t beat the prospect of getting a free place to stay along with an hourly wage. Freshly graduated from a nursing aide program, her reality was that she’d find a job working in a nursing home for eight bucks an hour. The Silver Fox was looking like a viable alternative, bathrobe and all. She just prayed he didn’t let it fly open because she doubted he wore anything underneath it. She sighed and glanced at her reflection one last time in the rearview mirror. She tucked a wily strand of hair behind her ear, doing her best to qualify for those bonus points, before stepping out onto the dirt path.
“Welcome!” the man called, lifting the cowboy hat and tipping it toward her. A silver streak ran thick through his black hair. The Silver Fox front and center, Charla thought. “What’s a pretty young lady like you doing here?”
“Hello,” Charla called to him with a small wave. “I’m here about your advertisement. I called yesterday, but no one answered. I thought I’d stop by and see if you’re okay.”
“Well, isn’t that so?” he asked, putting his hat back on his head. He shut the door behind him and leaned up against the porch railing. The bathrobe split open at his knees, dangerously close to exposing more than she needed to see. “I bet you’re thinking you’ve already earned a bump in pay just for being beautiful.”
“Maybe.” She smiled. The man must be delirious too. She was sure all he saw were her long olive-toned legs stalking toward him. That’s what most men saw. “I’m Charla Taylor, and I’m guessing you’re the Silver Fox.”
His mustache twitched upward, and he grinned a wide smile that lit up his face. He looked like Burt Reynolds in Boogie Nights, one of many movies she’d seen growing up way before she should have. Her mother had a penchant for Burt Reynolds and mustaches.
“Otherwise known as Jack Davis,” the man said.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. She looked down at the wave of petunias cascading down the pot. “You put these here?”
“Yes, ma’am. Every summer,” he replied. “I grow ’em in the back. Only damn plant I’ll ever grow.”
She nodded her head. “They’re beautiful.”
“So are you.” He gave her another twitchy smile.
She cringed, trying to gauge if he was serious. A laugh seemed close to his lips, but she wasn’t sure. “I’m going to be completely upfront with you so I don’t waste your time.”
“Shoot, I love me a girl that gets straight to the goods,” he said, slapping the porch railing.
“I meet all the qualifications of your posting, except that little bit about comfort. If by comfort you mean sex, I’m not your girl. Otherwise, I’ll throw down a Guinness with you, shoot the shit, and wipe your ass,” she said, putting her hands on her hips.
His face curled up into a scowl. “You know you’re the twenty-first person I’ve seen in the last three months?”
“Oh yeah?” She nodded her head, figuring the twenty-second would be pulling up the dirt path some time later today or maybe tomorrow, just to turn right back around and welcome lucky number twenty-three.
“Someday you’re going to watch me die, Miss Charla. Probably sometime sooner than later,” he said, leaning over the rails. She could smell his musty cheap cologne five feet away. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t be the first,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest. She hadn’t thought about the prospect of watching him die. She hoped it would be different watching someone die the second time around.
“You’re hired!” Jack yelled as he clamored down the stairs. He stopped at the last step, giving her a long serious look. “And I was joking about that sex thing.”
“Good,” Charla warned. “I don’t like liars or cheaters.”
“I’m tamed, Miss Charla. Been that way for a long time. But a guy’s gotta try, doesn’t he? I’m glad to see you got that good sense of humor about ya. There’s something about you, girl. I knew it the second you opened your mouth.” He wrapped his arm around her. “The first thing I’m going to do is give you an envelope. I trust you, Charla, which means more than you’ll ever know. You see, I don’t trust anyone, not even myself.”
Then she followed him into the cabin, never looking back, a long way from home.
Chapter 1
Present Day
The sealed envelope was burning a hole in her back pocket. One cranberry vodka wasn’t enough for Charla so she ordered another, hoping the second would give her the courage to hand over the envelope
she’d been holding onto for the last two years. She simply needed to follow the directions written on the front: To be delivered to Liam Murphy in the event of my death.
She tried to block out all the crazy shit Jack muttered on his deathbed. She was the only person there holding his hand when he died, and he was right - he had died sooner than later. Much earlier than she’d anticipated, but it wasn’t the time frame in which he died that was troubling her. It was everything he had said before he died. It was so unbelievable, so unlike the Jack she had come to know and love over the last three years. He was delusional and downright insane during his last days, spouting off names and events that surely couldn’t have happened.
It was the Alzheimer’s, she reminded herself as the bartender walked toward her carrying the liquid courage. She ran her fingers through her long chestnut hair that had plumped into a mess of waves. She had driven the thirty minutes in the stifling June humidity to get to the Dirty Leprechaun in Blackwell to find Liam Murphy. The air conditioning of her somehow-still-ticking Corolla had stopped working five minutes in, but she didn’t bother to rant about it or slam her fist into the dash like she usually did. She expected it. Her luck had been all-out shit for the past two months.
“Another cranberry vodka for the lonely woman at the end of the bar,” the bartender said, placing the drink in front of her. She tried to ignore his bright cobalt eyes that studied her. He was the type of guy she needed to avoided. The dark, brooding kind with tattoo sleeves and a black fitted shirt ready to burst at the seams. She spotted a red, green, and white flag near his right wrist. Irish. Check. Military dog tags. Check. No wedding ring. Check. A cocky smile whipped on top. Check. It was a recipe for disaster. She had managed to deter his attention thanks to a pair of tattooed men at the other end of the bar while she slammed down her first drink. But the men were gone now, leaving just Charla, the dangerously good-looking bartender, and the low beat of the Dropkick Murphys in the background of the Irish pub.
It was getting so goddamn hot.
She fanned out the bottom of her tank-top, trying to avoid eye contact. The cotton clung to her, suffocating her skin. She became overtly aware of how the fabric dipped just below the top of her breasts. They weren’t the objects that usually drew attention from men, even though the handful sat high and tight. If Dotti was any indication, they’d avoid gravity and the years of sagging and aging that plagued most middle-aged women. And Charla’s legs, her best asset, would stay lean and long. She hoped they were the only things she inherited from her mother.
The smoldering eyes of the bartender steadied on her, but it wasn’t the usual ogling of a man who had too much to drink. He studied her face with curiosity, like he wanted something from her. She stared back, convincing herself it was all in her head.
Give him the damn envelope and get the hell out of here. But her hand refused to reach into her back pocket.
He held onto the drink and leaned across the bar, waiting for her response. She finally looked up and saw the dark lines of the familiar tattoo peeking out of the top of the unbuttoned Henley. The rest of the interlocking circles were undoubtedly inked near his heart. She was now one hundred percent positive he was the man she was looking for. He was the closest Liam Murphy she had found in a quick on-line search. His address was listed as the apartment above the Dirty Leprechaun.
She studied the tattoo, following the lines into his shirt. The ink was dark and clearly redone. She wondered how long he had the tattoo and how many times he had it touched up. Jack hadn’t gotten his redone in at least twenty years. His was faded and distorted with the wrinkling of his skin, but she could tell it was the same design. Intrigue snaked through her.
“The drink’s on me,” he said with a rasp. Their eyes locked, sending a shiver down Charla’s spine. It was exactly what she didn’t need. She didn’t need trouble by the name of Liam Murphy.
“No, you don’t have to,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. She shouldn’t be nervous. She usually never was around men like this, but there was something about Liam that put her on edge. A sexy curiosity that made her squirm in her seat. Maybe it was the fact he hadn’t eyed up her breasts yet. Or maybe it was the fact that he was the mysterious recipient of a letter she held onto for three years. Standing before her was the elusive Liam Murphy. He was the only person who would read the words Jack wrote. “I don’t need any handouts. I take care of myself.”
He cocked his head, his lips twitching at the corners. “I think I can give a drink out when I want to, and I didn’t take you as the type who didn’t take care of herself. Just the opposite.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather pay for it,” she said, running her fingers along the cool glass. She’d maybe come across a little bitchy, but she wanted to send a message. She wasn’t going to be wrapped up into whatever was written in the note. She had contemplated opening the envelope for the last three years, but every time she got close to breaking the seal, she stopped herself and thought of Jack. She had promised not to open it, and she wasn’t one to break promises. After all, she still held onto a decade-old secret about the death of her step-father.
If anything Jack said was even remotely close to the truth, she wanted nothing to do with the envelope or Liam Murphy. She should leave and never look back, just like she always did. She could hire someone to clean out Jack’s house and put it up for sale. It could be easy, if she wanted it to be. She had a million other things she should be doing like finding a new place to live, buying a new car, and finding a new job.
A job. The problem was that her only reference was six feet under. Despite knowing he would die one day, she never thought about finding another job, even after she earned her RN license six months ago and was qualified for a much higher paying one. Jack needed her.
“I’m Liam Murphy. I own that stool you’re sitting in and that glass you’re running your fingers over. If you don’t like how I run this place, talk to management.” He extended his hand just inches from her. “I’ve never come across anyone who refused a free drink. Anyway, you don’t seem like the kind of girl to be drinking on a Tuesday at four in the afternoon.”
“I guess you don’t know me very well.” She swallowed hard before she held her hand out to meet his. She tried to ignore the warmth that spread through her body at his touch. He pumped his hand before he stopped, still holding her hand delicately. “Charla Taylor.”
“Well, Charla,” he said, finally letting her hand go, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. The drink’s on me and any drinks after.”
“It’s got to be tough to keep your place open if you offer free drinks to every single woman who walks in here.” She pulled her hand back and gripped the glass.
“I don’t. Just the pretty ones.” He flashed his cocky smile again.
“Right,” said Charla, her eyes steady on him. She knew she wasn’t bad to look at. She had olive skin and deep brown eyes with thick brows. She had an exotic look to her for small-town Illinois, which made her stand out from the sea of fair-skinned, blue-eyed girls in her nursing program. But she was sure she was the hundredth woman to hear the pickup line from Liam Murphy. She contemplated throwing the drink in his face, but Jack’s last pleas four days ago crept into her head. Please, if you don’t do anything else, just deliver the note. I’ll rest knowing this note is in the right hands, Charla. She tried to shake his voice out of her head. “You give free drinks just to the pretty ones, huh?”
“Yeah, between you and me, this is only the second drink I’ve given away in two years.” He leaned against the counter, making his dog tags sway against his chest.
“And what happened to the first girl?”
“Wasn’t my type.” He shrugged.
“And what’s that?”
“Intelligent and goal-oriented with a heart of gold, just like my mom,” he replied. “She was missing the last one. Doesn’t hurt if she’s drop-dead gorgeous like yourself, but it’s not a prerequisite.”
�
�Charming.” She took a swig from the glass. She needed to steer clear of him, and men in general, for a long while. She looked down at her bare finger, where the engagement ring used to be. That was before she found Rex with a giggly blonde and his pants around his ankles. It’d been two years, but the scars still lingered.
Even my goddamn finger looks lonely, she thought to herself.
“Let me guess, Ms. Taylor. Your ex-boyfriend cheated on you with some red head. You busted them going at it, and he lied to you all along. Played you like a fiddle. So you stay away from any man that throws a compliment at you because you’ve been burned beyond recognition.” He raised his eyebrows, studying her face.
Charla shook her head. She hated that he had somehow laid out her cards with a few exchanged words. Was she that transparent?
“Ex-husband?”
She shook her head harder. The envelope was getting hotter by the second.
He furrowed his eyebrows and then slapped the edge of the bar. “Ex-fiancé. That’s it. You were engaged.”
“Maybe.” Charla brought the glass to her lips, letting the alcohol sear her throat. “And it was a blonde.”
“Goddamn blondes.” He shook his head. “It’s always the blondes. Just for the record, I’m not into blondes. Brunettes on the other hand…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Charla replied before she chugged the last of the mixer and slammed the empty glass on the bar. “Let me guess, you always dreamed of owning a bar one day. After leaving the military, where you served bravely and saved countless lives with your expert artillery skills, you opened up Dirty Leprechaun at the age of twenty-six. You work out three hours a day at the gym down the street, only taking natural supplements to enhance your body. Never had a long-term girlfriend. Hell, you have radar for the smart ones who want you to commit. And you get your fill of rotating women each night in the back room.” She nodded her head toward the door behind him.
He gave her a long, silent stare. She envisioned him grabbing a pool stick from beneath the counter and smashing it against the bar. Guys like this were all the same. She would know; she had her fair share of them before she dated Rex. She was prone for falling for the bad guys who needed fixing. Rex, on the other hand, didn’t need fixing. He was the straight arrow All-American boy, enrolled in medical school and surrounded by a steadfast family with a long line of doctors. Except he couldn’t keep his hands just to Charla. She’d been all wrong about the didn’t need fixing part.
