by Cat Porter
Lock & Key
Copyright © 2014 by Cat Porter
Smashwords Edition 2014
Lock & Key
Copyright © 2014 by Cat Porter
Smashwords Edition 2014
Cover
Tatiana Fernandez, Vila Design
https://www.viladesign.net/
Editor
Chelsea Kuhel
www.madisonseidler.com
Formatting & Interior design
Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats
Skeleton Key Necklace
Blue Bayer Design NYC
http://www.etsy.com/shop/billyblue22
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
PROLOGUE
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EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Once upon a time I lost everything.
Then I ran away.
But I returned because I had to, and I stood on the edge and looked over.
Truth is a painful sword. It cuts deep and stings, but the pain evaporates, the blood dries, and in the place of such savagery is a gleaming absolution and an absolute purity.
It’s blinding.
It hurts.
And it is utterly beautiful.
You can’t escape it. Truth demanded a leap, I took it.
This is a story of my love for two men at two different moments of truth in my life. One man is gone forever; the other is very much alive.
Love not only stings when you lose it, when it’s ripped away from you, but when it first bites, it can sting just as deeply.
This is also a story about the love between my sister and me, and our redemption through two families—one bonded by blood, the other by brotherhood—that tore us apart yet bound us together forever.
Real life is messy and strange, and our ride through it left plenty of bruises, slashed hearts, a few lifeless bodies, and blood and smoke in its wake.
But it’s our story, this rather mangled tale.
I should have left when I had polished off that first drink.
That had been my initial plan, but the Doobie Brothers “Eyes of Silver” was playing on the jukebox, and that really deserved another drink for old time’s sake. Not for the sake of the future, though.
Isn’t that why I stopped here in the first place? I was less than two hours out of Rapid City, but I wanted to put off harsh reality just a little while longer.
Just one more drink.
I gestured at the bartender with my empty glass. He winked at me.
My motel room across the highway was most certainly not a fabulous destination, but I just couldn’t face another night watching bad reality TV or the usual sitcoms as I had done the night before at the motel in Montana. Tonight was different. No, I couldn’t sit still tonight. The walls of the room seemed to stretch to hold me in. Dead Ringer’s Roadhouse was a much, much better alternative.
It hadn’t changed much in the fifteen years I had been away. License plates from all over the fifty states still covered the walls. That original poster for a Doors concert in California was thankfully now secured in a thick brass frame along the wall. A dramatic spotlight glowed over it for all those who came regularly to pay their respects. I suppose the owners finally realized its worth.
The enlarged vintage photo over the bar of a 19th century gold prospector had been professionally framed and dramatically lit as well. Another photo, it too now framed, of an old locomotive stuck in over twelve feet of snow during the infamous blizzard of 1949, took pride in its place on the opposite wall. Gentrification had arrived in this little corner of South Dakota. The same beer-soaked smell filled my nostrils, though.
Three pool tables were up on a raised section of the room where some older pot-bellied bikers were playing a game. In the center of the spacious bar was a sunken dance area, its wooden floor polished and worn from years of use. The dart boards still dotted one wall as did the myriad of hunting trophies peering down at us from overhead—an eccentric variety of antlers, furry, glassy-eyed heads, and even a few stuffed fish, all mute, somber witnesses to the whirligig of flesh and alcohol below.
Tables topped with glass jars holding a votive candle surrounded the below level dance floor. All of the seats were filled with spirited partiers, both young and old. The bar was still as long as I remembered it with the same worn stools to match. I lowered myself back on my barstool and waited for my refill. The couple at my right laughed uproariously at a joke the waitress told them. The lights lowered a notch.
I leaned on the bar and rubbed the back of my neck. I definitely needed to have a laugh and relax before I got into town tomorrow and faced the music. I was too wound up to sleep tonight.
All my belongings, and there weren’t many, were packed in my Toyota Land Cruiser. It’s good to be mobile at a moment’s notice, like I was when my sister called me. She wouldn’t have asked me to come home if it wasn’t serious. I quit my job, packed my things, and came back to South Dakota. Anything for Ruby. Anything.
But I’m not going to think about that right now. Right now, I’m going to have a good time. Well, at least have a laugh or two. Or something. That’s why coming to Dead Ringer’s had seemed like such a good idea a couple of hours ago after I had checked into the motel. My home town was located on the other side of Rapid City, so there wasn’t too much of a chance of anyone recognizing me here tonight.
I had taken a long hot shower, scrubbed the grime of the road off me, and eased the ache in my lower back from sitting in the car most of the day. I had put on my black jeans and my favorite charcoal-grey graphic t-shirt dotted with studs and tiny rhinestones along the wing design, and shoved on my oldest pair of engineer boots, then set off for Dead Ringer’s. My legs always felt solidly weighted into the ground with these treasured puppies on, which is always a good thing, especially now. They were definitely a nice change from the high-tops I had been wearing to stay comfortable as I drove.
I raised my chin and inspected my appearance in the huge, cracked antique mirror that hung behind the bar next to the photo of the prospector. My grape lip-gloss had faded, of course, but my thick, chestnut hair that I had highlighted over the years with honey tones had achieved full volume all on its own. The waves cascaded to my shoulders with layers around my face. I had kept it bound in a ponytail all through my days of driving to keep it out of my face and off my neck. I combed my fingers through the loose spiral-curled ends that fell over my chest.
“There you go.” The bartender broke my girlish reverie. He sl
id a whiskey neat towards me on a small white napkin.
I shot him a smile. “Thank you.”
I drew deep on the amber liquid, and that delicious warmth flowed through me once more and settled in my blood.
A Miranda Lambert song flared up, and suddenly a rumble echoed over the old wood floors as a good number of eager couples, both young and old, scrambled to the dance floor. Laughter and whoops swirled through the room. I took another swallow of my whiskey and savored its richness in my mouth.
This was good, comfortable. I tugged a strand of hair from one of my long silver earrings. Am I really an upgraded version of the Grace Quillen who ran away from Meager, South Dakota fifteen years ago?
Ran away, crashed, absconded, escaped…
“Are you really drinking that without ice?” a deep voice vibrated right through me.
My eyes snapped up to my left, and I had to raise them up a bit higher to see the face behind that voice. My fingers slid down my glass.
I drank in the large, almost black eyes lined with thick dark lashes that were pinned on me. His face was full of planes, angles and high cheekbones. He sported a long, determined nose that must have been broken at some point, because it had an odd bump to it and a small scar on its side that travelled down his cheek. Those flaws may have blunted any overt handsomeness he might have been blessed with, yet they gave him an unforgiving, grim quality. My gaze settled on his full mouth. His smooth skin was a light bronze hue. He definitely had Native American blood in him, but not completely.
He had to be over six feet tall with pronounced shoulders and a closely cropped head of dark hair peppered with some grey. There were faint traces of stubble on his face. A small silver hoop hung from his right earlobe. His long arms and broad chest filled out his black hoodie that was zipped up most of the way. Faded and frayed blue jeans hung low and loose just below his waist and extended down a long pair of legs which ended in heavily scuffed black leather boots. A worn-out road warrior.
He leaned against the bar, one feathery dark eyebrow quirked higher than the other at my glass of whiskey. “Never met a chick who liked it straight,” he said.
I choked on the swirl of liquor at the back of my throat. He swallowed his drink, his eyes on me, and waited for a response to his ridiculous remark, his face unsmiling. With my eyes locked on his, I put down my glass.
“Well,” I said, licking my bottom lip and tilting my head at him. “Lucky you. I suppose.”
He shifted his weight and leaned in closer. “I meant the drink, not…”
I could swear his irises had silver threads in them at this angle. His full lips pursed into a thoughtful pout. He didn’t break into chuckles or a flirty pose. He really wanted an answer to his question.
“Yeah, I got it,” I said with a slight smile. “Ice only dilutes the flavor. Why order a great whiskey if you’re going to insult it with water or sugary soda?”
He studied me for a moment, perfectly still, then he nodded once and drank from his ice-filled glass. “Very true,” he said, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “Insult—that’s perfect.”
I turned back to my drink. He moved in closer.
“It’s just that most women order everything with a diet, you know?”
“Women or was that ‘chicks’?” I asked.
He let out a laugh. His face seemed almost boyish, then in an instant the relaxed look was gone and the somber returned.
“I hate soda,” I said. His dark languid eyes riveted on me once more, and I swallowed hard. I could soak in those soothing pools of darkness.
“Guess you’re not most women.” His voice was warm, almost gravelly. His eyes glinted at me as he drank. The chunks of ice in his glass clinked together, and the sound filled the thick air between us.
“No, I’m not,” I said quietly.
His teeth crunched on ice as he studied me. “I’ll bet you don’t like much diluted or watered down, huh?”
I tore my gaze away from those dark eyes of his and cleared my throat. “What are you drinking?” I asked.
“Vodka. Thought I’d change it up from beer tonight.”
“Good idea,” I murmured. “Change is always good.”
“Keeps the blood flowing, right?”
I glanced up at him again.
He was trying to make conversation with me. Being friendly to strangers is good for one’s karma, isn’t it? And I need all the help I can get in the karma department. Why not indulge in conversation with the attractive Mr. Vodka on the Rocks?
“Ever tried it with a slice of lemon?” I asked.
A hint of amusement passed over his eyes.
I grinned. “The drink, I mean.”
He shook his head and sighed. “No.”
“You should.”
My gaze swept over him once more. A tattoo crept across the base of his neck from his shoulder. Was it a feather? I tried not to stare at it too long. He looked to be around my age. There were creases around his eyes and mouth to match my own budding crow’s feet. His face was a bit weathered. A wise, dry humor flashed from the crooked angle of his brief smile, which I liked.
No, he wasn’t some young’un hoping to score a cougar. My eyes rested on the bulky silver ring of a sculpted eagle’s head he wore on the hand that was wrapped around his glass. I frowned. He leaned over the bar and plucked a thick slice of lemon from the tray of condiments and dropped it into his glass. He swirled the vodka around the ice and the lemon and took a swig.
His attractive lips puckered. “It adds a little something without overwhelming it. I like it.”
“I’m Grace, by the way,” I said.
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Pretty name. Nice to meet you, Grace.” He tipped his glass in my direction. “I’m Miller.”
“Hi, Miller.”
He signaled the bartender for another round for both of us.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. My hand darted out to his long arm. The wiry muscles under the plush softness of his hoodie tightened, and I snapped my hand back right away as if I had been burned.
“Why not?” His eyes scrunched together. He leaned in closer, his one elbow touched mine on the bar top, his warm breath fanned my neck. “I usually don’t do this sort of thing,” he said, his voice lower. “But tonight, for a woman like you, I’m going to splurge.”
“Oh, a woman like me?” I smirked into my empty glass.
What does that mean? Mature? Older?
“And why does a woman like me get the formal treatment?”
His eyes gleamed at me. “Because I admire your respect for that whiskey,” he said in a smooth, honeyed voice that melted right over me.
I straightened my back as I absorbed his dark gaze. A buzz zipped through my veins. I knew I was already in trouble here, but this was… fun. Isn’t this why I came here tonight? To relax, distract myself? What’s a little flirting? It had been so long since I had actually felt attracted to a man, anyhow.
Really attracted.
“I appreciate your appreciating it,” I said.
He grinned, and my mouth abruptly went dry. The bartender slid our new drinks in front of us and took our empties away. I took in a breath, and my gaze shot up at Miller. His eyes were softer this time, like dark pools of full-flavored coffee. There was something calming to me about his gaze, like the calm that suddenly comes after a violent storm. Or was that before the storm?
He held up his glass and clinked it against mine. It might as well have been an alarm bell heralding our move into new territory. We had shifted gears, and we both knew it.
“To appreciation, then,” he murmured. His eyebrows bunched up for a second, and he let out a laugh at the banal sentiment.
I liked that small, unfettered laugh of his. He immediately segued into serious once more, though. We swallowed our liquor, our eyes fastened on each other. My face heated.
Danger, Will Robinson.
I quickly diverted my gaze to scan the increasing number of patrons lining th
e bar, but all I really wanted to do was look into those rich eyes again. I held my breath and tamped down the urge. Blake Shelton’s “Ten Times Crazier” blared loudly through the Roadhouse.
Miller’s glass slammed on the bar. “Come on, Grace. Let’s dance.” My head jerked back to him. He seized my hand and tugged me off my bar stool. His long calloused fingers pressed into my flesh.
“Dance?” My eyes widened at him, yet all the while I enjoyed the firm heat of his hand over mine.
He led me through the crowd to the dance floor. “I’ve got you, no worries,” he whispered in my ear.
His arms slid around me and pulled me close to his solid frame. I tried to ignore the shiver that zipped across my skin, but it was useless. His very masculine scent of leather and musk intoxicated me immediately. My stomach fluttered as we moved easily to the music across the floor, his hand pressed against my back. He tucked me in closer, and our hips swayed against each other.
I blinked up at him. Miller was tall. I was a bit over 5’7” and considered myself average. But there was nothing average about me dancing with this gladiator. His large, hot hand at my lower back burned a hole through the thin cotton of my t-shirt. His face had softened, and his dark eyes seemed to shimmer over me. It was as if he were a different person from the somewhat brooding figure at the bar.
My long silver earrings prickled the suddenly sensitive skin of my neck as we danced to two more songs. Miller teased me about the two old cowboys at a table near the dance floor who had been allegedly ogling my ass. We laughed over the melodramatic lyrics of the current song. My breathing began to return to normal.
Well, a more intense level of normal.
I liked being held in the long lean arms of this man, a man who sent that glorious buzz humming through me. It had been years, hundreds of years, since I had been rendered nearly speechless by that rush.
I am usually a sensible girl. Maybe I should have made some excuse and headed out the door, but I didn’t. I liked the way he kept me close. I liked how his solid body moved against mine and led me through the music. His warm, heady fragrance ignited my insides as Kenny Chesney crooned softly about all the potential damage that could be done.
