RACHEL GIBSON
Dedication
This book is dedicated to
the original tyrannosaurus Tex,
Mary Reed,
who is my inspiration for all things Texas.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Teaser
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Rachel Gibson
Copyright
About the Publisher
Teaser
“Are you here to start things up again?
Continue right where we left off?”
“Don’t, Jack.” She raised her hand between them and pressed her fingers against his lips. “Don’t say any more.”
Her touch took him off guard. He caught the scent of perfume, but underneath that, he smelled her. Daisy.
Sometimes he’d have to search hard for the scent, but he’d always found it. Usually in the crook of her neck. He grabbed her wrist and took a step back. “What do you want from me?”
“I told you. I want to be friends.”
“We could never be friends.”
“I’m trying to be nice about this, but you really don’t have a choice. You’re going to listen to me; and if you get ugly, I’ll become your worst dang nightmare.”
Damn, but she was the old Daisy. All hot temper and feisty belligerence wrapped up in such a soft girly package. He almost smiled. Almost.
“Too late, buttercup,” he said as he turned to go. “You became my worst nightmare years ago.”
Chapter 1
Heat waves drifted across the concrete as the ’63 Thunderbird slid from the shadow of the garage. Her big V8 and Holley two-barrels purred like a satisfied woman, all warm and sexy and throaty. The hot Texas sun made a hundred little bursts of light within her wire wheels, slid along the chrome fins, and poured over the glistening black paint. The owner watched as she rolled toward him, and he smiled in appreciation. Several months ago, the Sports Roadster had been little more than a home for mice. Now fully restored to her former glory, she was dazzling—a reminder of a time when Detroit had been more interested in cracking sixty in eight seconds than miles per gallon, safety features, or where to put the cup holder.
Jackson Lamott Parrish sat within the red leather interior of the big T-Bird, one wrist hanging over the red steering wheel. The light caught in his thick brown hair, and fine lines creased the corners of his green eyes as he lowered his lids against the blinding sun. He revved the big engine one last time, took his hand from the steering wheel, and shoved her into park. He swung the door open, and the sole of his cowboy boot hit the pavement. In one smooth motion, he stood and the owner of the restored Roadster stepped forward and handed him a check. Jack glanced at it, noted that all the zeros were in the right places, then folded it in half. He slipped it into the breast pocket of his white dress shirt.
“Enjoy,” he said, then turned and walked into the shop. He moved passed a nineteen-seventy ’Cuda 440–6, its huge Hemi engine suspended from a cherry picker. Over the sounds of air compressors and power tools, Jack’s younger brother, Billy, called out to a mechanic beneath a ’59 Dodge Custom Royal Lancer.
The space just vacated by the T-bird would be filled the next day with a nineteen-fifty-four Corvette. The sports classic had been found in a dilapidated garage in Southern California, and Jack had flown out three days ago to take a look at it. When he discovered it had only forty thousand original miles and all the numbers matched, he bought it for eight grand on the spot. Once fully restored, the ’Vette would bring ten times that. When it came to restoring vintage cars, Parrish American Classics was the best. Everyone knew it.
Ground-pounding, ear-assaulting muscle cars were in the Parrish boys’ blood. Since they’d taken their first steps, Jack and Billy had worked in their daddy’s garage. They’d yanked their first engine before either of them had grown their short-and-curlies. They could tell a 260 V8 from a 289 with their eyes closed and could rebuild fuel injectors in their sleep. Proud native sons of Lovett, Texas, population nineteen thousand three, the Parrish boys had grown up loving football, cold beer, and tearing up asphalt on the flat open roads—usually while some big-haired, loose-moraled female repaired her lipstick in the rearview mirror.
The boys had been raised in a small three-bedroom house behind the garage. The original shop was gone now. Torn down and replaced by a bigger, more modern space with eight bays. The yard behind the garage had been cleaned up. The old cars and junked parts had been towed away long ago.
The house was the same, though. Same roses their mama had planted, same patches of dirt and grass beneath the towering elm. Same concrete porch and the same screen door that needed a good dose of WD40. The house had just been given a fresh coat of paint, inside and out. The same white color as before. The only real difference was that Jack now lived there alone.
Seven years ago, Billy had married Rhonda Valencia and had happily given up his wild ways for domestic bliss. As far as anyone in town could recall, Jack had never been tempted to give up his wild ways. As far as they knew, he’d never met a woman who’d made him want a one-on-one. A forever.
But they didn’t know everything.
Jack made his way to his office at the rear of the garage and closed the door. He stuck the check in a desk drawer and pulled out his chair. Before he’d purchased the ’54 Corvette, he’d searched out her history then flown to California to inspect her to make sure there wasn’t any serious damage to the structural integrity of the car. Searching the history of a vehicle, finding replacement parts, and restoring it, compelled him and kept at him until the vehicle was once again perfect. Fixed. Better. Whole.
Penny Kribs, Jack’s secretary, walked into his office and handed him the day’s mail. “I’m leaving to get my hair done,” she reminded him.
Jack looked up at the wispy black pile on top of Penny’s head. He’d gone through all twelve years of school with Penny, and he’d played on the football team with her husband, Leon.
He rose and set the mail on his desk. “You goin’ to get yourself beautiful for me?”
She had rings on just about every finger and long pink nails that curled like claws. He’d often wondered how she typed without hitting extra keys or managed to put on all that mascara without poking out an eye. He didn’t even want to think about her wrapping her hand around Leon’s johnson. The thought sent a shiver down his backside.
“Of course,” she said through a smile. “You know you’ve always been my first love.”
Yeah, he knew. In the third grade, Penny’d told him she loved him then she’d kicked him in the shin with her black patent leather shoes. He’d always figured he didn’t need that kind of loving. “Don’t tell Leon.”
“Oh, he knows.” She waved a hand and moved to the door, leaving a trail of perfume in her wake. “He also knows that I would never get involved with you.”
Jack folded his arms across his chest and leaned his butt against the edge of his desk. “Why’s that?”
“Because you treat women like an anorexic treats a Whitman Sampler. You nibble here and nibble there. Maybe you take a few bites, but you never eat one
whole.”
Jack laughed. “I think there are a few women who could set you straight on that.”
Penny wasn’t amused. “You know what I mean,” she said over her shoulder as she walked out the door.
Yeah, he knew what she meant. Like most women, Penny thought he should be married, raising children, and driving an SUV. But as far as Jack was concerned, he figured his younger brother had taken care of that task for both of them. Billy had three daughters ranging in age from six months to five years. They lived on a quiet cul-de-sac with a swing set in the backyard, and Rhonda drove a Tahoe, the alternative choice of soccer moms everywhere. With all those nieces, Jack felt no pressure to bring another Parrish into the world. He was “Uncle Jack,” and that suited him just fine.
He returned to his chair and unbuttoned his cuffs. He rolled his sleeves up his forearms, and got back to it. It was Friday and he had a mountain of work to clear off his desk before he could start his weekend. At five, Billy opened the door to tell him he was leaving. Jack glanced at the Buick Riviera clock sitting next to his computer monitor. He’d been at it for three hours and fifteen minutes.
“I’m headed for Amy Lynn’s T-ball game,” Billy said, referring to his five-year-old daughter. “You gonna make it by the park?”
Amy Lynn was Billy’s oldest and Jack tried to make it to her games when he could. “Not tonight,” he answered and tossed his pen on the desk. “Jimmy Calhoun’s bachelor party is tonight over at The Road Kill,” he said. Until recently, Jimmy had been a real carouser. Now he was giving up his freedom for a pair of matching gold rings. “I told him I’d stop by for a few.”
Billy smiled. “Is there gonna be strippers?”
“I imagine.”
“Don’t tell me you’d rather watch naked women than a game of T-ball?”
Jack’s grin matched his brother’s. “Yeah, it was a tough choice to make. Watch women take their clothes off or five-year-olds run around bases with their helmets on backward.”
Billy laughed, in that special way he always had of tipping his head back and letting loose with a few heh-heh-hehs. It sounded so much like their father, Ray, Jack figured it had to be genetic. “Lucky bastard,” Billy said, but without much heart. They both knew that Billy would rather watch Amy Lynn run around with her helmet on backward. “If you need someone to drive you home from The Road Kill,” Billy added on his way to the door, “call me.”
“Of course.” A drunk driver had taken their parent’s lives when Jack had been all of eighteen. The brothers made it a point to never drive drunk.
Jack worked for another hour before he turned off his computer and headed out of the garage through the bays. Everyone else had already left for the day, and his bootheels echoed in the silence. He locked the door and set the alarm, then he jumped into his Shelby Mustang. It started to rain as he drove toward the outskirts of Lovett. A light sprinkle of drops mixed with the dust and wind, and turned the car’s shiny black paint a dull gray.
The Road Kill was a lot like other bars strewn throughout the Texas panhandle. Country music poured from the juke while the patrons drained the beer spigots of Lone Star. A big red-white-and-blue DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS sign hung on the mirror behind the bar, while old road signs, stuffed armadillos and rattlers decorated the walls. The owner of the bar was also a taxidermist, and if a patron was so inclined, or was drunk enough, he or she could purchase a rattler belt or an ultra-attractive armadillo handbag at cut-rate prices.
When Jack walked into the bar, he pushed up the brim of his Stetson and paused in the doorway long enough to allow his eyes to adjust before he made his way to the bar. He exchanged a few heys with some of the regulars. Over Clint Black on the jukebox, he could hear the sound of Jimmy’s bachelor party going full tilt in the back room.
“Bottle of Lone Star,” he ordered. A bottle appeared on the bar and he handed over a five. He felt a soft hand on his arm and looked across his shoulder into the face of Gina Brown.
“Hey there, Jack.”
“Hey, Gina.” Gina was the same age as Jack and twice divorced. She was a tall, lean cowgirl who liked riding the mechanical bull at Slim Clem’s over off Highway Seventy. She wore her Wranglers tight, her Justins stacked, and her hair dyed red. Jack knew she dyed her hair because she liked riding him too. But lately she’d hinted that she had him in mind for husband number three. He’d had to cool things down so she would get that idea right out of her head.
“You here for the bachelor party in the back?” She gazed up at him out of the corners of her blue eyes. He would have to be blind to miss the invitation curving her lips.
“Yep.” Jack raised the bottle to his mouth and took a long drink. He had no interest in heating things back up. He liked Gina, but he wasn’t husband material. He grabbed his change from the bar and shoved it in the front pocket of his jeans. “See ya around,” he said and turned to walk away.
Gina’s next question stopped him in his tracks. “Have you seen Daisy Lee yet?”
Jack lowered the bottle and suddenly had trouble swallowing the beer in his mouth. He turned back to face Gina.
“I saw her this morning at the Texaco. Pumping gas into her momma’s Cadillac.” Gina shook her head. “I think it’s been what, about ten or twelve years since she was last in town?”
It had been fifteen.
“I recognized her right away. Daisy Lee Brooks hasn’t changed that much.”
Except that Daisy Brooks was now Daisy Monroe and had been for the past fifteen years. And that had changed everything.
Gina took a step closer and played with a button on the front of his shirt. “I was sorry to hear about Steven. I know he was your friend.”
He and Steven Monroe had been almost inseparable since the age of five when they’d sat next to each other at the Lovett Baptist Church, belting out “Yes, Jesus Loves Me.” But that had changed too. The last time he’d seen Steven was the night the two of them had beat each other bloody, while Daisy looked on horrified. It was the last time he’d seen Daisy too.
As if she didn’t notice that Jack wasn’t keeping up his end of the conversation, Gina rattled on, “I can’t imagine dying at our age. It’s just horrible.”
“Excuse me, Gina,” he said and walked away. An old anger, one he’d thought he’d buried, threatened to pull him into the past. He pushed against it, tapped it down tight, and shut it out.
Then he felt nothing at all.
With his beer in his hand, he wove his way through the rapidly filling bar and moved to the crowded room in the back. He leaned a shoulder into the doorframe and turned his full attention to Jimmy Calhoun. The man of honor sat in a chair in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen or so men, all watching two women dressed like rodeo queens bumping and grinding against each other while the Dixie Chicks sang about a sin wagon. Already stripped down to sparkly G-strings on the bottom, the girls popped the snaps to their silky blouses. In unison their shirts slid down their toned shoulders and perfect bodies, exposing big breasts crammed into tiny sequined bikini tops. Jack lowered his gaze from their full breasts to their G-strings tied at their hips.
Marvin Ferrell paused in the doorway beside him to watch the show. “Do you think those breasts are real?” he asked.
Jack shrugged a shoulder and raised the beer to his mouth. Obviously Marvin had been married too long because he was starting to sound like a woman. “Who cares?”
“True.” Marvin laughed. “Did you hear Daisy Brooks is back?”
He looked down the bottle at Marvin then lowered it. “Yeah, I heard.” Again he felt the old anger, and again he tapped it down until he felt nothing. He returned his attention to the strippers and watched them sandwich Jimmy between their half-naked bodies while they kissed each other above his head. The wet, open-mouthed tongue-thrusting kisses had the guys hollering for more. Jack tipped his head to one side and smiled. This was getting good.
“I saw Daisy at the Minute Mart,” Marvin continued. “Damn, she’s s
till hot as she was in high school.”
Jack’s smile flat-lined as an unbidden memory of big brown eyes and soft pink lips threatened to drag him into the black hole of his past.
“Remember what she looked like in that little cheerleader outfit of hers?”
Jack pushed away from the door and moved farther into the room, but he couldn’t escape. It seemed everyone wanted a trip down memory lane. Everyone but him.
While the strippers took off each other’s tiny bikini tops, the topic of conversation was Daisy. Between whistles and catcalls, Cal Turner, Lester Crandall and Eddy Dean Jones all asked if he’d seen her yet.
Disgusted, Jack left the room and made his way back to the bar. It was a hell of a deal when a man wasn’t allowed to enjoy two mostly naked women making out with each other six feet in front of him. He didn’t know how long Daisy would be in town, but he hoped like hell it was a short trip. Then maybe people would have something better to talk about. Mostly he hoped she had the good sense to stay the hell out of his way.
He set his bottle on the bar and made his way back out of The Road Kill, leaving behind talk and speculation of Daisy Monroe. Rain pelted the top of his hat and wet his shoulders as he made his way across the parking lot. But with each step he took, the memories followed close behind. Memories of looking into a pair of beautiful brown eyes as he kissed soft lips. His hand sliding up the back of her smooth thigh, slipping beneath her blue and gold cheerleader skirt. Of Daisy Lee wearing a pair of red cowboy boots with white hearts on the sides, and nothing else.
“Leaving the party so soon?” Gina asked as she walked toward him.
Daisy's Back in Town Page 1
