She’d been a perfect match for Asher, though. Which was actually pretty fitting, seeing as how the guy had been in love with her since the day he’d clapped eyes on her. Not that Finn could blame him. Even in high school, January had been a fucking knockout, with those ice-blue eyes that crinkled around the edges when she laughed and that dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose that she’d hated, but Finn had always secretly thought were sexy.
God love Asher and his titanium sense of honor, though. He’d never worked up the nerve to risk turning his friendship with January into anything more. Or hell, maybe he had, after the night everything had gone to shit between the three of them.
Jamming a hand through his hair, Finn shoved his thoughts back down where they belonged. The past was behind him for a reason, just as he’d left Remington for a reason. Yeah, his friendship with January had ended as a consequence, and yeah again, he missed her hard, more than he’d usually admit.
But he couldn’t go back. Not to the friendship he’d never deserved, even though she’d given it so fast and so freely. Not to the dilapidated house his father had left him two years ago when the old man had died. Not to the shitty reality of who he’d been and how he’d been raised—or more to the point, not raised by the man when his mother had pulled her disappearing act.
No, Finn most definitely couldn’t go back. But there was one thing he could do.
As soon as he and Edwin and the Cup were checked in all safe and secure at the Remington Plaza hotel, he could go find that drink he was beginning to desperately need.
Finn tipped his head to take in the sign reading The Crooked Angel Bar and Grille, and good Christ, this was more like it. After sitting at the bar in the lobby of the Plaza for a solid half an hour, all he’d gotten was an under-poured glass of whiskey and an overwhelming case of hives. His suite, with its panoramic view of the city and its fully stocked gourmet kitchen and its bathtub big enough for him and half his teammates, was definitely kickass. But all the chi-chi old money business that went with a hotel like the Plaza?
No fucking thank you. A cold bottle of beer and the corner bar stool were so much more Finn’s speed.
Tugging the front door open, he spun a gaze around the inside of the Crooked Angel. The place was pretty crowded, although considering the two-sided chalkboard sign propped over the sidewalk had boasted Thursday Night is Ladies’ Night! that wasn’t exactly headline material. The white lights strung from the rafters brightened the darkly paneled main dining room just enough to offer visibility while keeping the definitely-a-bar vibe. The sports memorabilia slathered all over the walls told him the probability he’d be recognized was likely to be high, but the Rage had been a Cinderella team all year. He was getting used to people picking him out of a crowd, and with the exception of diehard Spartans fans and overzealous puck bunnies who would screw anyone associated with a hockey team right down to the assistant equipment manager, it wasn’t so bad. Plus, he vaguely remembered Asher mentioning the Crooked Angel as a place he’d wanted to sneak into from time to time in high school, so walking the six blocks between the bar and the hotel to throw a few back seemed pretty damned fitting.
A pang centered itself over Finn’s breastbone, but he ran a hand over the front of his T-shirt to kill the sensation before it spread out. He’d come here for a drink. No jaunts down memory lane. No reminiscing about the past that was good and well behind him. Nothing but a couple of beers and a trip back to the Plaza to watch highlight films before grabbing some shuteye. His agent might be good, but that bright and shiny new contract wasn’t going to earn itself.
Finn stepped a little farther into the bar. For a second, he considered snagging a table in the dining area, but discarded the idea just as quickly. Sitting at the bar had never bothered him, and eating alone…well, yeah. He’d done enough of that by the time he was fifteen to last a lifetime.
Sliding onto the last stool at the far end of the wood by the corner, Finn realized belatedly how packed the place truly was. Waiting out the bartender gave him some time to relax and check out the beer menu, though, and by the time the black-haired woman arrived in front of him, the unease Finn had felt a few minutes before had disappeared.
“Hey, sorry for the wait. We’re a little short-staffed tonight,” she said, but he shook his head to cancel out the apology, so she smiled and continued. “My name’s Kennedy. What can I get you?”
“This IPA you’ve got on tap looks good.” Finn tapped the menu with one finger.
“Sure thing. Small or large?”
Finn was tempted to point out how loaded the question was. But even though Kennedy was pretty in an edgy, pierced, dark lipstick sort of way, he’d always had more of a soft spot for blondes. Plus, while the thought of getting laid wasn’t a terrible one, he wasn’t in Remington to do anything other than tie up loose ends once and for all, so he simply answered, “Large works.”
“You got it, boss.”
One song dropped off the overhead soundtrack, followed by another, and Finn began to wonder if his beer had gotten lost in the shuffle. Sitting up taller against the ladder-back of his bar stool, he shifted to look through the crowd for Kennedy, but instead, he found himself face to shocked-as-hell face with a pretty blonde standing on the business side of the bar.
Make that a very familiar pretty blonde.
Finn’s pulse clattered like a puck being dropped at center ice, but he battened down to cover the reaction with a small, guarded smile. “Hey, Calendar Girl. Long time no see.”
“Finnegan.” January hitched, but only for a second before those pale blue eyes went from wide to wary. “What the hell are you doing here?”
His smile turned into a chuff of irony-laced laughter. He had to hand it to her. She might be the kindest person he’d ever met, but she’d never pulled any damned punches, either.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing?” Finn volleyed. “I thought you worked at the firehouse.”
Her lips parted, betraying her surprise. But just because he hadn’t spoken to her at Asher’s funeral didn’t mean he hadn’t seen her with the firefighters who had laid their brother to rest, or overheard them talking about her administrative position at Station Seventeen.
She didn’t give him an inch, though. “And I thought you lived in New Orleans.”
“I’m in town for a few days. Figured a drink wouldn’t be so bad,” he said, lowering his gaze to the beer in her hand so he wouldn’t stare at her instead. Christ, she looked fucking gorgeous. He shouldn’t be surprised, he guessed. She’d been gorgeous since the day he’d met her on Asher’s front porch over a decade ago, all honey-colored hair and huge-hearted disposition and sweet, sexy smiles. “And for the record, no one calls me by my full name but you.”
“Well that’s interesting,” she said, her gold-blond brows arching slightly as she plucked a cocktail napkin from the plastic dispenser to her left and placed his beer on the bar in front of him. “Since I don’t call you at all.”
Finn bit down on the urge to wince. Not that he didn’t deserve the direct hit, but… “No. I guess you don’t.”
Silence settled between them, thick and tightly strung, until finally, January shocked the hell out of him with, “Congratulations on winning the Cup. I know it’s what you wanted.”
“Thanks. I did.” Whether it was the fresh emotion of seeing her after so long or the old emotion of being back in Remington, Finn had no clue. But something twisted in his chest, prompting his mouth open without his brain’s permission. “Listen, I know I—”
“Christ on a Pop-Tart, Sinclair! Do you know whose beer you just poured?”
Finn blinked at the tall, dark-haired guy standing beside him, his knee-jerk frustration at the interruption quickly chased off by relief. Had he seriously been T-minus two seconds from blabbing to January—of all goddamn people—why he’d come back to Remington?
“I used to,” she murmured, so softly that Finn barely caught the words before she pasted an ov
er-bright smile onto her lips. “Mmm hmm! Kellan Walker, meet Finn Donnelly. Kellan’s a firefighter at Station Seventeen,” she told him, her cheeks flushing just enough to trip Finn’s oh-fuck-yes trigger before she turned her attention back to the guy, adding, “And Finn is…obviously Finn. We used to know each other back in high school.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Kellan said, extending his hand toward Finn for a firm shake. “I’m a Remington transplant, so I’ve only been here for three years. But I’d heard you were from the area. Congrats on winning the Cup, man. We were rooting for the Rage all the way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Finn shifted his gaze back to the spot where January stood behind the bar, smiling at Kellan as she twisted the lid from a fresh bottle of beer before exchanging it for his empty one. An unwanted thought flared to life in his brain, followed by a stab of something hot and ugly he couldn’t quite identify. “So you two know each other from the firehouse?”
“Yeah.” Kellan passed over a few bills, tipping January well, and dammit, Finn actually liked the guy. “Well, that and January’s old man is my girlfriend’s sergeant over at the Thirty-Third. So I guess you could say we’re one big convoluted family.”
Just like that, Finn’s affection for the guy tripled. “I’ve got one of those myself. If you count a bunch of smelly lunatics who also just so happen to know their way around the ice.”
“Sounds like firehouses have a lot in common with hockey teams. Speaking of which”—Kellan’s face lit with a genuinely friendly smile that made Finn understand why Asher had wanted to be a firefighter so much—“a bunch of us from Seventeen are over at our regular tables. If you’re hanging out solo, you’re welcome to join us.”
Finn’s gaze took an involuntary trip to January, which prompted Kellan’s to do the same before he tacked on a quick, “Unless you two are catching up.”
“No. We’re not.”
Although Finn had expected January’s reply, it still hit him right in the solar plexus. But he couldn’t make up for the last seven years in a night. Hell, even though he’d had damn good reasons for cutting her out of his life so abruptly, Finn couldn’t make up for the last seven years ever.
The damage between them was done. He’d been the one to do it. So now he had no choice but to say, “It was really good to see you again, Calendar Girl. Have a nice night,” before sliding a twenty across the glossy wood of the bar and walking away.
Two
January methodically filled three more drink orders before she remembered how to breathe. But come on—the last time she’d seen Finn had been at Asher’s funeral, where he’d steadfastly ignored her presence, and the time before that, he’d crushed her feelings into dust. Now he was here in her favorite hangout like it was no big deal, calling her by that silly nickname only he used and looking hot enough to require a legal disclaimer stamped across his freaking forehead?
On second thought, maybe she hadn’t remembered how to breathe just yet.
“Whoa.” Kennedy’s olive green eyes widened beneath the heavy fringe of her bangs as she looked up from the row of tequila shots she’d just poured. “Are you okay?”
“Yep. I’m great.” The answer shoveled out of January’s mouth by default, probably much the same as Kennedy’s snort in response, and dammit. Her friend was as street savvy as she was sharp-eyed. January wasn’t going to get away with anything less than full disclosure.
She adjusted the dark red half-apron knotted over her jeans before helping Kennedy arrange the shot glasses onto a tray in a precise row. “You didn’t tell me the hot IPA guy at the end of the bar was Finn Donnelly.” She waited out her friend’s apologetic ooookay-style pause for a beat, then two before adding, “He plays center for the Cajun Rage. They won the Cup a few weeks ago. We had all seven playoff games on every screen in the bar.”
“Ah, hockey. Well, that explains the ridiculous muscles,” Kennedy said, turning to hand off the tray full of bad ideas to a passing waitress. “I take it you know the guy.”
Hello, gargantuan understatement. But since January couldn’t exactly come off with if by ‘know him’ you mean ‘truly, desperately, deeply lusted after him all the way through high school until he shot me down cold, had a huge blowout fight with our other best friend, then went completely radio silent even when said best friend suddenly died in the line of duty’ then yes, I know the shit out of Finn Donnelly, she went with, “What makes you think that?”
“Aside from the fact that he’s looked over here three times in as many minutes and your cheeks are doing a fabulous impression of a five-alarm fire, you mean?” Kennedy asked, and January’s laugh in reply was as soft as it was humorless.
“Believe me, he’s not looking over here. And yes, Finn and I went to high school together, so I, um, used to know him.”
One corner of Kennedy’s merlot-colored mouth kicked up into a smirk as she dropped her voice to a volume too quiet for any of the nearby patrons to hear. “Are we talking like, you knew him in passing, you’d say ‘hi, how’s it going’ on the way to algebra, or did you know him-know him, like vaginally?”
Heat shot down January’s spine at the thought of Finn anywhere near her girly bits, and God, so much for her cheeks getting back to a passably normal color. “Neither, actually.”
“Really?” Kennedy opened one of the glass-topped coolers built in beneath the bar, popping the tops of two bottles of Budweiser for the couple to her left. “This guy—Finn, right? He might not be my type, but I didn’t call him Hot IPA Guy because he looked like he was running a fever. Between that dark, curly hair and that bad-boy smile he’s got going on, he’s pretty lickable, and like it or not, your blush is giving you away. You two seriously never hooked up?”
She and Finn in the kitchen at his going away party…impulsively kissing him after one beer too many…the hot, hungry slide of his mouth on hers as—just for a breath—he’d pulled her against the hard length of his body and kissed her back…
January swiped a dish towel over the bar even though the glossy stretch of wood in front of her was already spotless. “No. Finn definitely doesn’t see me as hookup material. He and I used to be best friends.” She cleared her throat before adding, “With Asher.”
“Asher Gibson?” In an instant, Kennedy’s expression lost its sassy edge. She might not have been raised in Remington like a lot of their crowd, but she’d been around everyone from Station Seventeen long enough to have known exactly who Asher was. Along with what had happened to him. “I didn’t know you two were that close.”
January’s heart squeezed. They had been close. Right up until the night she’d kissed Finn, and then… “It’s kind of a long story,” she said, turning to rearrange the boxes of straws and cocktail napkins beneath the bar.
“I’m sorry.” Kennedy’s tone, usually full of brass and devoid of bullshit, was shockingly soft. “I didn’t mean to push a sore subject.”
Scooping in a deep breath, January shook her head. Asher would’ve been pissed purple at anyone tiptoeing around his memory, and anyway, the debacle with Finn was in the past. Just because he was sitting halfway across the bar instead of halfway across the country didn’t change that.
“It’s really more of a closed subject. At least where Finn is concerned.”
January paused to fill a few drink orders and deliver a plate of hot wings to a pair of women sitting at the bar. Although Kennedy had kept equally busy, January could feel the questions still brewing in her stare, and when they finally had a lull, she nodded Kennedy over to the small service alcove by the cash register, blowing out a breath in defeat.
“When I was in the eighth grade, my dad and I moved in next door to the Gibsons. Asher and I became friends, and he already knew Finn from this hockey league they played in together. The three of us were pretty much Epoxied at the hip all through high school.”
Unable to help it, her gaze moved over the crowded bar to zero in on Finn, and God, wasn’t hockey supposed t
o be hard on a guy’s face?
“Anyway.” She snapped her attention back over to the alcove, rearranging the clean pint glasses stacked on one of the low shelves. “After the three of us graduated, Asher and I went to Remington University, but Finn left town so he could play minor league hockey. He was always really good, and working his way up the ranks to win the Cup was the only thing he ever wanted.”
Kennedy—being Kennedy—didn’t skip so much as a fraction of a beat. “Is that why you’re not tight anymore? Because he left to play hockey?”
“No.”
“No?” Kennedy’s dark brows shot upward, and ugh, better to just go the Band-Aid route even though January knew damn well saying everything out loud would sting.
“No. We’re not friends anymore because I kissed him like a lovesick idiot at his going away party. Asher walked in on us, and the two of them got into a fistfight.”
“Wait. Were you and Asher…” Kennedy trailed off, but January filled in the blanks easily enough.
“Oh God, no.” She punctuated the words with a shake of her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved the guy, but I always looked at him like a brother. I suspected once or twice that he might want more than friendship,” she admitted. “Which he clearly did, since he and Finn got into it that night over the kiss. But Asher had never said anything about it to me before the fight.”
“And you’d had a thing for Finn the whole time,” Kennedy said, and even though she was simply stating the obvious, January’s pride let out a healthy squall.
“Stupidly, as it turned out. After he and Asher went all cage match on each other, Finn told me he was just drunk, the kiss had been a huge mistake”—January paused to let Kennedy mutter a few top shelf swear words in Finn’s honor—“then he left town the next day, and I never heard from him again. Asher and I stayed friends, but not like we had been. We never talked about his feelings for me, and we definitely never talked about Finn. The whole thing ended in a pretty big mess.”
Deep Check (Station Seventeen) Page 2
