Hometown Girl
Page 1
HOMETOWN GIRL
A Bad Boys of Red Hook Novella
Robin Kaye
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
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COPYRIGHT © ROBIN KAWCZYNSKI, 2012
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
Excerpt from Bad Boys of Red Hook
CHAPTER ONE
“I can’t believe I shaved my legs for Conan the Barbarian,” Elyse Fitzgerald whispered to her friend, Ronna. She walked down the sidewalk trailing well behind her blind date, and was in no hurry to catch up. Elyse not only shaved her legs, but other places—places no woman would ever want to nick. “What’s his name again?”
Ronna shot her a disapproving glare.
“Doug? No, Dan? Damn, that isn’t right either. I know it’s a ‘D’ name.” She snapped her fingers. “Dave!”
The moment she said his name, Dave turned and Elyse had the urge to duck into the alleyway, but then realized he wasn’t turning to look for her, he was pulling the door open to the bar without gentlemaning up to wait for her. The man was a real prize.
A moment later, Elyse stepped into the Crow’s Nest—the third bar they’d hit since coming to the Red Hook section of Brooklyn that night. She’d suggested leaving the first two under the guise of finding a decent band whenever Dave became too attentive.
Ronna nudged her shoulder to get her attention. “Dave’s not that bad, and I hear he’s really good in bed. Isn’t that the point of this exercise?”
Elyse shot Ronna a skeptical look wondering why, if Ronna was such a big fan, she didn’t sleep with him. “Maybe, but I’m just not feelin’ it.”
Ronna tossed her long red hair over her shoulder and pulled her shirt down to maximize her cleavage. “Probably because you won’t let him touch you.”
Just the thought of Dave putting his meaty paws on her had Elyse stifling a shiver. She ripped her eyes away from her blind date de jour to stare at the bartender who stared right back from across the crowded bar. “No. It couldn’t be. That would be way too it’s-a-small-world-after-all-ish.”
“What are you talking about now?” Ronna hollered over the band and bar chatter.
“The bartender. I think I know him.” Elyse elbowed her way across the crowded space for a closer look to make sure she hadn’t imagined him. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time she thought she’d spotted her schoolgirl crush during the six years since they’d last met. She stepped up to the bar, and her mouth dropped open as she stared into the fathomless silver-gray eyes of none other than Simon Sprague. Elyse couldn’t believe her luck and was suddenly thrilled she’d shaved in all those places. Carefully.
* * *
Simon Sprague hated full moons—especially on a Saturday night when the bar was packed. Full moons raised high tides, made dogs howl, and caused people to do things they wouldn’t normally do—which was why the Romans came up with the word “lunatic.” There was always a marked increase in three things: crime, bar fights, and admissions to emergency rooms.
The bar’s house band, Nite Watch, kicked up the volume as Simon pushed a margarita, no salt, across the bar to the normally shy and quiet blonde auditioning for a place in his bed. The full moon was working its black magic on her, at least. He hadn’t the time, energy, or interest, so he scanned the busy restaurant and bar, keeping an eye out for problems and locking in on the dark-haired, dark-eyed goddess who’d just entered.
He knew her from somewhere. She looked so familiar, but then he was sure he’d never forget a woman with the face of an angel, the body of a centerfold, and the knowing gaze of a courtesan. His fingers itched to sketch her, and the rest of his body went on full alert. His mind spun trying to figure out their connection, and there was a definite connection between them. He’d make time for a girl like her.
“Simon? Are you okay?”
He blinked and turned to Bree Collins, his boss and good friend. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
Bree was a looker, a tall, green-eyed redhead with a wicked sense of humor, the biggest heart this side of the Hudson, and a temper that confirmed the redheaded Irish stereotype.
“I have the bar under control if you want to do a fact-finding mission.” She pulled a bottle of Stoli from the well and poured. “Go ahead. I dare you.”
“Simon?”
He turned toward the end of the bar to see the woman he’d been talking about pushing past the blonde.
“I thought that was you. How are you?”
She must have stepped on the rail to lever herself up, leaned over the bar, and pulled his head close to kiss his cheek.
He sucked in a breath. Her scent was soft, familiar, sexy, and subtle with a spicy kick that didn’t hit until she pulled away, taking half his functioning brain cells with her. He stared, knowing he was supposed to say something but not remembering what it was.
“How are you?” she prodded, as her eyes danced with undisguised mirth, dimples appeared right where he knew they would, and he had the urge to explore them with his tongue. Damn, she was gorgeous.
“Simon?”
Shit. He shook his head, praying for his brain to reengage. “I’m great. How are you doing?” He studied each of her features hoping something would jog his memory and at the same time wondering what the hell was wrong with him that he could even for a second forget this woman’s name. Her mouth was a bit too wide for her face and broke into a beautiful smile; her lips quirked up and were full enough to make a man lose sleep wondering what she could do with them; and then those dimples appeared ag
ain.
“I’m good. Finishing up my masters at Pratt, looking for a job . . .”
She let that hang there and he couldn’t help but think that whoever the beautiful woman was, she was looking for more than a job. Whatever else she was in the market for, he hoped he fit the bill.
“What field?”
“I have my BS in Construction Management and I’m finishing up my masters in Regional and City Planning.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
“It’s Pratt, not Princeton.”
She knew he’d gone to Princeton. A clue as to how he knew her, but damned if he could figure it out. “You should talk to my friend Bree over there.” He nodded to the bar manager. “She’s on Red Hook’s Revitalization Committee. I’m sure you’ll have a lot in common.” And maybe she’d introduce herself and he’d figure out how the hell he knew her. “Have a seat and tell me what I can get you.”
“I’ll take a Sixpoint Sweet Action, but I can’t stay. I’m kind of with someone.”
Simon put an iced mug under the tap and poured, thrilled that she was a beer girl and not into frou-frou martinis. “Someone?” All the hot, sweaty visions he had of getting properly reacquainted with her went up in smoke.
Just then a big guy came from behind and wrapped his paws around her waist, pulling her against him. “Babe, we snagged a table close to the band just for you.”
Damn, Simon knew this guy—he was a weekend warrior, the kind who drank too much and talked too loud. And on a full moon Saturday night, that spelled trouble with a capital T.
Something clicked, something about her—damn, it was right there, yet he couldn’t reach it.
The blockhead looked from Simon to the goddess and back, shooting him a warning that failed miserably.
She pushed away and looked at him over her shoulder. “I’m just getting my drink—I’ll be there in a minute, Dave.”
Dave released her and speared Simon with another look before sauntering away.
Simon gave the bar a cursory wipe. “Dave, huh?”
* * *
Elyse levered herself up against the bar and leaned forward as if drawn by the strong pull of attraction like metal to a magnet—invisible yet powerful. “What’s that line from Casablanca? ‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.’ But in my case, I walked into yours.” She couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
“Let’s hope this meeting has a happier ending. If I recall in the movie the girl left Bogey standing alone on a runway as she took off with her . . . date.” He looked in the direction Dave had gone. Simon seemed more put out about her date than he did about her presence, which in and of itself was reason enough to alert the media. He looked at her the way she’d spent most of her life wishing he would.
Elyse shook her head. Maybe she’d had too much to drink. Every time Dave spoke to her, she’d taken another sip of beer—her way to keep from having to make yet another excuse not to go back to his place for a little mattress mambo.
She took a draw of beer and watched Simon over the rim of her mug. It had been a long time since she’d seen him—probably since her and his sister, Melissa’s, high school graduation six years ago—but then only from a distance.
She and Mel had been best friends since kindergarten, and she cringed when she remembered some of the stunts they had pulled on Simon until their freshman year of high school when he left for Princeton. It was no wonder he called her Trouble—her half of the dynamic duo he dubbed Double Trouble. Her face heated as memories of her most embarrassing moment flooded her partially inebriated brain—the day she followed Simon, like a lovesick puppy, into the bathroom. Before she realized where they were, he’d had to ask her to leave. God, she’d been the biggest dork, not to mention pest.
Looking at Simon now, she had to admit she’d always had great taste in men. Simon was tall. She topped out at five-foot-six, and he still had eight or nine inches on her. He had her definition of the perfect body—commanding height, broad shoulders, thin waist, lean but muscular—more Iron Man than Thor. His dark, thick hair was cut short on the sides and longer on top, making her fingers itch to see if it was as thick as she remembered. His deep-set silver eyes and high cheekbones made his face look like something Michelangelo should have created, not Bitsy and Ralph Sprague.
Elyse had always wondered if he’d been adopted, and looking at him now—all filled out in glorious manhood—she still did. But then his sister, Mel, was beautiful too.
Melissa was the kind of girl Elyse didn’t want to introduce to her dates. Not that Mel would even look twice at them, but she couldn’t help the second, third, and fourth looks every straight man in the vicinity gave Melissa. The same could be said for Simon and the female population. The only female not staring at him was the other bartender.
Elyse’s friend Ronna sidled up to her. “Dave’s pissed and he’s drinking like a fish. You’d better get over there. He’s already looking for greener pastures if you know what I’m sayin’. I think he likes the cocktail server.”
“Good.” Elyse set her half-empty beer on the cardboard coaster. “Ronna, I know you went to a lot of trouble setting us up, but Dave’s not my type.” She didn’t spare Ronna a glance; she was too busy drinking in Simon’s profile and checking out the way his khakis hugged his tush.
“And you think the hot bartender is?”
“You don’t?”
“Fitz, he’s everyone’s type. Look around. He has you and every other woman drooling over him. If you really wanna do what you said you wanted to do—Dave’s a sure thing.”
“Would you keep your voice down? God, Simon is a friend of mine.” Okay, so that was stretching it, but shit. Ronna could really be a pain in the ass. Elyse looked toward the band and wondered for the fifteenth time what she was thinking to consider a date with Dave, no less having sex with him. But then she always managed to find a reason not to sleep with the men she dated, which was why she was a twenty-four-year-old virgin. Unfortunately, it looked like this weekend wouldn’t cure that problem.
Sure, she had all the best reasons: She was focusing on school, she was too busy to date, she wasn’t desperate but when she came right down to it, the main excuse was that not one of the men she dated made her feel one-one hundredth as much as Simon had always made her feel just by being in the same room. It was hard for a woman to consider losing her virginity to someone she felt nothing for. And so far, the only man who had ever turned her on, the only man she’d ever dreamed about, the only man she imagined in every romance novel she’d ever read was Simon Sprague.
He set a fresh beer in front of her and winked. “It’s on the house. Sit tight while I fill these drink orders, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Elyse nodded, and then smirked at Ronna. “Tell Dave I ran into an old family friend, so I’ll probably be a while.”
* * *
Simon turned to the service bar, grabbed Wanda’s drink order, and started mixing. He’d heard the goddess’s friend call her Fitz—weird name, but it worked for her. A family friend? He went through the mental Rolodex of his parents’ friends trying to place her and came up dry. He couldn’t think of one couple who would have a daughter who looked like Fitz, but at least he knew what to call her.
He placed a drink on Wanda’s tray and found her looking over her shoulder and cringing. “Is there a problem?”
Wanda blew her hair out of her eyes. “Just a guy at table ten who is all hands. He wanted me to take his drink order perched on his lap.” She rolled her eyes. “He started drinking long before he got here and won’t take no for an answer.”
“Francis.” Simon called behind him.
Francis ‘The Bruiser’ DeBruscio strolled over. He was the bouncer, bartender, a trained paramedic, and jack-of-all-trades. “What do you need, Simon?”
Francis was built like a small Mack Truck—small only in comparison to the real thing. “There’s an octopus with an attitude problem at table ten. H
e needs a lesson in manners. If he doesn’t take the hint, we’ll have to escort him out.”
Francis tossed his apron and bar rag to Simon. “Not a problem. Is that his order?”
Wanda nodded.
“Wanda, just point the guy out and we’ll have a nice little chat. No one touches our staff.” Francis shot her a grin that transformed him from an ogre to a teddy bear. “Unless of course you ask for it.”
Simon stashed Francis’s apron behind the bar. “Thanks. Let me know if you need help.”
Francis waggled his eyebrows at Fitz. “Simon, buddy, you’re a lover not a fighter. Besides, you have to protect those talented hands of yours. What kind of artist would you be with a broken fist?”
“An unemployed one—from both my jobs.” Simon finished the order and slid the tray toward Wanda. “You steer clear until Francis takes care of business. I don’t want you getting into the middle of anything. Okay?”
Wanda let out a laugh. “Don’t worry. The last thing I want is Dave’s tentacles latched on to me.”
“Dave?”
She slipped her pad into her apron, slid the tray off the bar, and nodded. “That’s his name, he asked me to wear it out. The man is a walking cliché.”
Simon spared Fitz a glance. Her attention was riveted on his conversation.
She shrugged and rolled her eyes.
Simon poured a seltzer and took a sip before placing it next to her beer. “I’m assuming your date is Dave of the wandering hands.”
“My friend Ronna said he had a thing for the cocktail server—as for having wandering hands, I really couldn’t say. He’s a blind date and I’ve been pretty effective at dodging them.”
Simon looked her up and down. There was nothing wrong with Wanda—she was a pretty girl—but Fitz was over-the-top gorgeous. “Blind being the operative word.”
“Thanks, but it’s more of a relief than a disappointment. Blind dates can be so awkward. I’ve been trying to avoid him for three bars now.”