More importantly, she needed to figure out exactly how she was going to pin her brother down to determine what the hell was going on with the stunt it looked like he’d taken part in last night.
Kennedy tugged the keys to The Crooked Angel from the side pocket of her bag, firming her shoulders and tacking her resolve into place despite her throbbing hand and worn-out lungs. She had an hour before Sadie arrived. She’d already texted her an hour ago, along with January, Javier, and Marco, to tell them what had happened, and she’d spent a solid thirty minutes on the phone with Miles last night, convincing him not to fly out from Sonoma. So, first thing was first. She needed to get down to business and focus on her bar.
Getting past the front door and through the dining room, Kennedy stowed her stuff in the office before putting on a pot of coffee behind the bar and taking a visual of the back of the house. The dumpster was far enough away from The Crooked Angel’s back door that no water had breached the threshold when the firefighters had put out the blaze, but close enough that she could definitely smell the bitter-burnt stench in the air from fifteen paces away.
Ugh. Lovely. At least most of the space affected by the smell was taken up by her office and the walk-in freezer, which had—thank God—been blocked off from the smoke getting in by the air lock system that kept the cold air in and the air from the kitchen out. Their fridge was equipped with the same system, and the pantry, liquor, and dry goods were far enough away to be safe, so Kennedy headed back to the bar. The four shots of tequila that she hadn’t cleaned up last night still sat in front of the very last seat, lined up like soldiers, and her gut panged involuntarily at the sight of them. Heat spread out in her belly, heading quickly lower to settle between her legs at the memory of how Gamble’s hands had felt on her, how his voice had sounded when he’d asked her permission to put them there. How badly she’d wanted him to put them everywhere. How if he hadn’t smelled the smoke from the fire, they’d have…
“Stop.”
Kennedy picked up the shot glasses one by one and put them on a bar tray before carrying them to the sink for a good wash. She’d had an uncharacteristic moment of weakness last night, letting Gamble stick around to help her close down the bar, but she wouldn’t make it again.
With the way he’d looked at her in that ambulance, as if he could see right freaking through her, and the fact that her brother might now be involved in whatever prank had started that fire, she couldn’t.
A firm knock echoed through the dining room from the front door, snuffing out the thought and sending her brows up, just slightly. It was a little early for Sadie to arrive, although she and Marco were married, and sometimes he liked to come in early to make breakfast for whoever was scheduled to open. They’d both been worried when they’d gotten her text about the fire. Chances were, they just wanted to make sure the bar was good to go.
Kennedy flipped the lock on the heavy mahogany door and pulled it open. “You guys, you didn’t have to…”
The rest of her words log-jammed in her throat at the sight of Gamble standing in front of her.
“Hey,” he said, and for Chrissake, did he have to fill the entire doorframe with those ridiculous shoulders of his?
“What are you doing here?” Kennedy blurted, quickly gathering the game face she hadn’t realized she’d need. Damn it. “We don’t open until eleven.”
“I’m not here to eat. How’s your hand?”
Kennedy slipped her bandaged hand behind her back. “Good as new.” Of course, the stupid thing pulsed in disagreement, but whatever. She’d put more ointment on it after she sent Gamble on his merry way. “If you came by to check on me, you wasted a trip. I’m fine.”
He studied her, his dark brown eyes narrowing. “Actually, I didn’t.”
He followed the words with nothing but silence, and finally, she caved. “Okay. Why did you come, then?”
“I want to know why you lied to the police last night about that car.”
Kennedy’s heart beat fast enough to rattle her ribs, but she forced her expression to remain entirely blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But rather than retreating at her icy reply, Gamble stepped forward, close enough for her to catch the scent of leather and soap, and see the sheer determination in his dangerously sexy stare as he said, “I think you do. And I’m not leaving until you convince me otherwise.”
5
For the love of all things sacred and holy, Gamble was a righteous pain in the ass. But since he was a pain in the ass who had refused to budge from Kennedy’s threshold unless she let him cross it, and she could think of no less than a thousand things she’d rather do than argue with the big ox in front of God and everybody on Marshall Avenue, she stepped back with a frown.
“Fine. Come in. But if you want my time, you’re going to have to take it while I work. I have a bar to run.”
“Fair enough,” he said, giving Kennedy one less reason to throw him out. Not that she needed a reason—perks of running the place, and all—but still. No point in calling attention to the fact that she didn’t want to talk to him about last night when she could dodge him in a less obvious way.
She anchored her armor into place, watching Gamble carefully as he crossed the threshold into the bar. He was shockingly lithe for such a big guy, as if every ounce of his bulk had a precise purpose, and she swallowed past her suddenly Sahara-like throat.
“Don’t you have a shift at the fire house, or something?” she asked, pivoting on her boot heels to walk back to the bar.
Gamble shrugged out of his leather jacket to reveal a black T-shirt that surrendered to his muscles and showcased the ink running down his left arm all the way to his wrist as he followed her to the back of the dining room. “Not until tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred. And nice try, going for a subject change.”
“No point in trying to change a subject that’s closed.” Kennedy shrugged for good measure. “Like I already told the police, I didn’t see who was driving that car.”
“You saw something,” Gamble said, and her heart tapped faster at the accuracy of the statement. But she’d taken care of Xander ever since they’d been little—for Pete’s sake, she’d been the one to drop him off for his first day of kindergarten on her way to her fifth grade classroom. She might not have seen her brother for far too long, but she knew he was a good person, just like she knew people like cops and judges and pretty much anyone not from her neighborhood never saw it that way when they clapped eyes on a Northie. The vandalism of torching a dumpster had been epically stupid. Kennedy couldn’t—and wouldn’t—try to justify it, brother or not. Still, she couldn’t throw Xander under the bus without at least knowing what the hell was going on first, and she really hadn’t seen anything other than his face.
“Everything happened really fast,” Kennedy said, sticking to the truth she could tell. “Coffee?”
Gamble tilted his head from the customer side of the bar, his gaze not budging from hers even though she’d held up the carafe in an effort to distract him. “You like to change the subject, don’t you?”
Damn. “Is that a no?”
“No, thank you.”
Kennedy’s curiosity bubbled despite her defenses warning her that she should remain uninterested. Gamble had come out to her bar at eight thirty on a Saturday morning to try and bully her into spilling her guts about what she’d seen, yet he was all manners when she asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee? He’d called that paramedic “ma’am” last night, too. Who even did that anymore?
Her brain gave up the sharp reminder that she couldn’t care, and this time, it stuck. “Suit yourself,” she said, pouring herself a cup and hitting it with a heavy splash of the half and half they kept in the fridge built in beneath the service station.
“You want some coffee with that cream?”
Kennedy looked up, a brassy retort ready to roll right off her tongue. But then she caught the way one corner of Gamble’s mouth had lifted just enough t
o form a devastatingly hot half-smile, and her comeback coalesced into a breathy exhale.
“Don’t hate on my coffee,” she managed to say a second later when she’d found her voice. “You probably drink yours black and strong enough to stop a charging rhino.”
“I drink mine any way I can get it.” His smile stuck around, but now, Kennedy was prepared for it.
“Unless I’m pouring?” she asked, gesturing to the empty spot in front of him at the bar.
Just like that, his expression hardened, his lips pressing into a firm line amidst a solid three days’ worth of dark stubble. “I told you, that’s not what I came here for. Look, is somebody bothering you here at the bar? Maybe trying to scare you?”
Surprise filled Kennedy’s chest. “What, like that jackass from last night?” Fenton Ames, according to the credit card receipt she’d pulled for the police after the fire marshal had let her back inside to do so last night.
“You and I both know that guy doesn’t have one tenth of the balls to do something like set that fire,” Gamble said with a snort. “So, what? Is someone trying to shake you down?”
“God, no,” Kennedy said. “I would never let that happen.” She’d worked far too hard to make The Crooked Angel a successful bar and grill to let anyone intimidate her. Plus, aside from a handful of aggressive offers from a cheesy local real estate developer to buy the place, and the occasional stupid review on Yelp—both of which were more cause for eye-rolling than actual concern—no one had been anywhere near enough to disgruntled to mess with the bar.
And yet, Gamble persisted. “What about your boss? Is he in debt, or in some kind of trouble, maybe?”
Kennedy’s laugh lasted for a full second before she realized he was serious. “Are you kidding? Miles is as straight as an axe.” She’d never caught so much as a whiff of trouble on the financial end of things. The rent on the building, the utilities, the bills for food and liquor deliveries, the payroll—everything was paid in full and on time.
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t get in over his head with a bad investment or a big loan,” Gamble said.
“Miles has been a successful restaurateur for over twenty years, and The Crooked Angel is one of seven places he currently owns. He made his way up from the bottom of the food chain in the restaurant business. He’s not dumb enough to make a bad investment that big, and even if he did get jammed up, he’s independently wealthy. I’m telling you, this fire was probably just a prank.”
Gamble crossed his arms over his chest. “And I’m telling you, I think you’re hiding something.” Instead of pushing harder, he shocked the hell out of her by softening both his expression and his voice as he added, “Look, if someone is trying to intimidate you, I can help.”
Just for an instant, Kennedy froze. For all his serrated edges and terse demeanor, it was obvious that not only did he mean what he’d said, but that he was genuinely concerned for her. A strange sensation—one she didn’t recognize—arrowed through her, tempting her to tell the truth. But she’d never needed help in all of her twenty-eight years, and anyway, Gamble’s version of “help” would be to go straight to the cops if she told him about Xander. Cops who wouldn’t think twice about slapping a Northie with a laundry list of charges that would send him directly to jail, do not pass GO, do not collect two hundred dollars.
And she couldn’t let that happen until she could at least figure out what was going on with him first.
She planted her hands over the hips of her jeans, working up her most and-I-mean-it expression. “No one is trying to intimidate me, and I can assure you, I don’t need any help.”
His frown was all menace, his dark brown stare glinting in the daylight spilling in from the windows on the far wall. But before he could deliver the argument he was very clearly working up, the front door opened, and her brother walked into The Crooked Angel for the first time in his life.
Gamble turned toward the door, his fingers becoming fists out of ingrained instinct. Kennedy must have forgotten to lock it after she’d let him in—a move he’d bet his left nut was uncharacteristic as fuck, especially given the soft swear he’d just heard her utter under her breath. The guy who had slipped over the threshold didn’t look familiar in a way that made Gamble think he’d ever seen him before, but something about his dark hair and wary stance tickled at the back of Gamble’s awareness, like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.
“Hey, Ken. It’s, uh, good to see you,” the guy said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his threadbare gray hoodie. Kennedy stood perfectly still behind the bar, wearing the same shell-shocked expression that had crossed her face last night as that car had whipped past, but only for a fraction of a second before she replaced it with something far less readable.
“Hey, Xander. It’s good to see you, too.”
He spun a gaze around the dining room, taking in the high-backed booths and trendy yet comfortable décor. “Wow. This place looks”—he paused as if pulling a human auto-correct—“really great.”
“Thanks,” Kennedy said softly. “Why don’t you come on in? Coffee’s fresh, and it’s on me.”
The guy—Xander—eyed Gamble with a not-small amount of distrust. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” Kennedy insisted, pouring a cup of coffee and putting it down at the opposite end of the bar from Gamble. Subtle, she wasn’t. “This is a friend of mine, but he was just leaving.”
Gamble telegraphed every ounce of I-don’t-think-so that he possibly could into his stare without pissing her off outright or spooking Xander—whoever he was—into bolting. He opened his mouth to say something to that effect, but Xander’s chin snapped up before he could launch so much as a syllable.
“What happened to your hand?” Xander stared at Kennedy’s bandaged palm. He looked weirdly stricken, his light green eyes round and wide, and God, how did Gamble know him?
Kennedy closed her eyes for just a beat too long to be a blink before dropping her hand back behind the bar. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
“She burned it. There was a fire here at the bar last night,” Gamble said. He knew he’d earn a death glare from Kennedy in response, and if the heat on the back of his neck was any indication, she was already delivering in spades. But what he’d wanted to know was how Xander would react to the particulars of Kennedy’s injury, so he didn’t take his eyes off the younger man as the words sank in.
“You were hurt last night?” Distress hung heavily in Xander’s voice, which didn’t surprise Gamble all too much since he and Kennedy seemed to be friends. The guilt that accompanied it? Now that was interesting as hell, and not at all what he’d been expecting. How the fuck did these two know each other, and what, if anything, did it have to do with the fire that Xander was looking increasingly agitated about?
“Barely,” Kennedy said, emphatic. “It’s no big deal.”
“Good. I’m…really glad you’re okay.” Xander took a step back, turning toward the door. “Well, sorry I busted in on you like this without calling. I know you’re really busy here, so—”
“No, wait.” Despair clung to her tone, sparking Gamble’s interest yet again, but she quickly cleared her throat to smooth it out. “It’s just been a while since the last time I saw you. I was hoping we could catch up.”
Xander shook his head, his expression suddenly tough and unyielding. “Yeah, you know what, I forgot I have a thing. An appointment I have to get to. I just, uh, wanted to stop by to say hey. I’ll catch you some other time.”
“Xander, wait—”
Anything else Kennedy meant to say was cut short by the heavy thump of the front door closing in Xander’s wake, and damn, the kid was fast.
“Thanks a lot,” she hissed, skewering Gamble with a stare that said she wasn’t done with him by a long shot. Which was fine by him, because that made them dead fucking even.
“Kennedy,” he started. But the word went unanswered as she strode out from behind the bar and through the d
ining room, headed toward the door. Gamble followed her—Christ, she was just as fast as Xander, moving in the same wily, street-smart manner—nearly crashing into her when she stopped short on the sun-brightened sidewalk in front of The Crooked Angel.
“Shit,” Kennedy muttered, twisting a stare up and down Marshall Avenue, which was dotted with a handful of pedestrians, but none of them were Xander.
“He must’ve gone down the side alley,” Gamble said, gesturing to the small cut-through in the city block two storefronts down. Either that, or he’d parked incredibly close by.
As soon as the thought delivered itself into Gamble’s brain, a silver sedan pulled away from the curb from five spots down, tires spinning over the pavement just enough to catch both his and Kennedy’s notice. His heart tripped, slapping against his rib cage as he took in the make, model, and—holy shit—the busted rear brake light. He watched the car speed down Marshall Avenue, memorizing what he could see of the license plate before turning toward Kennedy.
“That’s the same car from last night.” Gamble lifted a hand to stifle any argument she might try to work up. “There might be a shitload of silver Camrys in Remington, but not ones with busted brake lights and drivers who show up at the scene of a crime the morning after, acting suspicious and looking guilty as hell. So, start talking. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go straight to the RPD with this, Kennedy.”
“Fine.” She exhaled, pressing her lips into a dark red line before looking him directly in the eye to say, “That was my baby brother.”
6
Of all the things Gamble had expected Kennedy to pop off with, Xander being her brother had pretty much been dead last on the list. Even now, fifteen minutes later, the revelation still sent ripples of surprise through his mind. Of course, that was why Xander had looked familiar. There wasn’t enough family resemblance to smack a person in the face with the fact that they were siblings—Kennedy’s mouth was fuller, her eyes a much darker green and her skin far more fair than her brother’s darker, almost olive complexion. But now that Gamble knew, he was kicking himself in the ass for not picking up on the similarities sooner.
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