Never Been Good

by Christi Barth

  “But when I got a little older, I wondered if something I did could’ve changed everything. The butterfly effect, they call it. If I hadn’t whined about taking the trash out, her whole day would’ve been two minutes ahead, and maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”

  Sierra angled her head up to look at him. His thick hair was uncharacteristically mussed. His eyes looked almost as dark blue as Rafe’s, deepened with pain and ghosts. “Please tell me that now that you’re even older, you know that’s not true. That there’s absolutely nothing you could’ve done.”

  His back teeth audibly clicked together. “Yeah. That’s been made abundantly clear to me. The only people responsible are the asshole who pulled the trigger, and the fucking violent dirtbag who gave the order.”

  What? “You mean it wasn’t an accident?”

  His whole body jerked. “No. Just . . . you know, gang rules, right? Somebody orders a hit, for retaliation or initiation into the gang, and suddenly there’s a whole bunch of people caught in the cross fire. Accidents happen. I’m glad Matthew’s looking out for his mom, is all.”

  Sierra didn’t think that was all.

  Not one bit.

  But she’d take the gift of vulnerability and pain that Flynn had shared, and not push for more. One step at a time. They’d been friends for a month. More than friends for a week while they figured out where to go next. And now they’d been lovers for one whole, glorious week.

  They’d get there. Men weren’t great about opening up about their feelings. She knew his feelings on chip flavors, grunge music, women who wore cowboy boots nowhere near horses, and even politics after a spirited 2:00 a.m. discussion about how different countries handled medical insurance.

  The rest would come. Especially since Flynn couldn’t possibly have a deep, dark secret like Sierra’s.

  What were the odds?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sierra watched as Flynn tucked his change into the tip jar at Coffee & 3 Leaves. Then he opened his wallet again to add a few more bills.

  He snagged her gaze, then flashed an almost guilty smile. Like he’d been stealing cookies instead of rewarding hard workers. “Should’ve probably tossed in another twenty for the hell of it. The people here deal with caffeine-deprived monsters all morning. They deserve every cent in my wallet.”

  “Thank you, but you don’t have to buy my coffee.” Sierra went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  “It’s been three weeks since the first time I tasted your lips. What makes you think it’s okay to just give me a peck?”

  A hand at her waist prevented her heels from touching the ground again as he took her lips in a long, slow kiss. No tongue, not with all the people around them in the coffeeshop. Didn’t make it any less thorough, though. Not to mention arousing.

  Visibly, on his part. Sierra could tell as she slid back down his body. Giggling, she pointed at the arousal tenting his cargo shorts. “Sorry about that.”

  “Do not ever, ever apologize for turning me on. But do feel free to say the feeling is mutual.”

  “Let’s just say I should’ve ordered an iced coffee to cool me down. Thank you again for treating me.”

  Flynn widened his stance and pulled Sierra in between his legs to hide what she did to him. “You don’t have a coffee maker in that matchbox-sized house of yours. Buying you coffee is a matter of survival. Because I need it. And I don’t want to let you go yet.”

  “I could buy a jar of instant—”

  He cut her off with a palm over her mouth. “Don’t finish that sentence. We’ve got a good thing going right now. But if you suggest I drink freeze-dried flakes, I’ll have to assume you hate me. Or are trying to murder me. Or both.”

  Over the last few weeks, most of his guardedness had slipped away and this teasing side of him came in its place. Sierra absolutely adored this newer side of Flynn. And she loved volleying it right back at him. A nip at his fingers got her mouth free. “Is that because you’re so much older than me? You need coffee to keep up with my youthful vigor?”

  “I need coffee to rejuvenate after you drain my manhood twice a night.” Flynn pulled her more snugly against him and the still rock-hard erection. Then he ran his knuckles down her cheek in a casual caress. One that thrilled her and almost felt like a stamp of possession in the crowded shop. That he was letting everyone know they were together.

  Which was absolutely fine with Sierra.

  Poking an elbow into his ribs, she asked, “Did you really just use the word manhood? Like you’re a Knight of the Round Table?”

  “It’s nine in the morning. And there’s a ton of people around. I’m being discreet.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible. You’re too arrestingly handsome to be discreet.”

  Behind her, he stiffened. And not in a good way. That perma-erection vanished in a heartbeat. All she’d done was offer him a well-deserved compliment.

  “Let’s not imagine a scenario where I get arrested.” Drumming his fingers on the iron back of a stool, Flynn asked, “Do you miss the snow?”

  Weird. Talk about an obvious topic change. One about as smooth as a rubber eraser dragging over handmade paper. Sierra turned to face him, trying to see what was going on behind the utterly unreadable flat compression of his lips and that distracted glance over her shoulder.

  “It’ll be July in one day. So, no. I’m happy to be wearing shorts. More to the point, I’m happy that you’re wearing shorts so I can do this.” Sierra rubbed her thigh against his. Maybe good, old-fashioned feminine wiles would pull Flynn back into the moment.

  She just wished she knew what had catapulted him out of it.

  “I mean from . . . before.” He shrugged one shoulder. “From the other place.”

  Sierra whipped her head left and right. They were around the corner of the counter, by the front window with its old-fashioned glass jars full of crumbled herbs. Okay, one particular herb in many different varieties. But there weren’t any people next to them. Most were at tables, or clustered in the back around Lorena Hunley’s six-week-old on her first official outing.

  In a harsh whisper, she asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Wondering how weird and difficult this—” he circled his hand in the air, “—all is for you.”

  Didn’t Flynn realize that her secret was not to be discussed in public? How was she supposed to hide if he dropped nuggets of information in front of half the town?

  Flynn took her hand. Brought it to his lips and tenderly kissed each of her knuckles in turn. “Don’t be so jumpy. Think about what I said. The words themselves, not the depth of meaning and history you know are behind them. Everyone here knows you’re from somewhere else, because you only appeared four months ago. What I asked wouldn’t set off alarm bells, if anyone happened to overhear. Which they didn’t.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m . . . a little paranoid about someone else knowing about me. Not because I don’t trust you. I do. Completely. I’m just going through a mental adjustment.”

  “I’m careful, Sierra. I wouldn’t do or say anything to put you in danger. Not ever.” An urgency infused his voice. “Please say you believe me.”

  “I do,” she stated, without any hesitation or second-guessing. Which was still a kick in the pants to Sierra. She’d assumed that after Rick’s astounding betrayal that the right thing, the smart thing to do was not trust men again.

  But his sudden intensity made her wonder what the heck else was going on in his head.

  “One large black, and one frozen blueberry with extra whip.” Norah set the paper cups on the stylized counter painted with a giant marijuana plant. “Now don’t you skedaddle off yet. I need to ask you a favor.”

  “I’ll stay.” Flynn popped off the plastic lid and held up one finger. “As long as I can drink this while I listen.”

  “Slurp away. Remember that specialty cocktail you made for me?”

  “Of course.” Sierra nudged him as a reminder that Carlos wanted him to
follow up with Norah about that. Flynn winced, then scratched at his temple. “Oh, yeah. I’m supposed to ask about your birthday.”

  Norah rolled her eyes at Sierra. Then she turned a scathing look on Flynn. “Didn’t your mother teach you never to discuss birthdays with women over a certain age?”

  “My mother’s dead. And my dad.”

  Sierra’s heart dropped down into her stomach at his cool statement. She never went back—inexcusably—to ask Flynn for details about his dad’s death after he’d told her about his mom. She’d gotten caught up in the whole don’t ask questions you can’t answer yourself habit. Living in the now.

  How self-centered of her.

  On the other hand, Flynn sort of . . . paused whenever she asked about his past. Maybe it was too painful for him to discuss? What had happened to him? How had the Maguire brothers survived, being so young when their second parent’s death turned them into orphans? Flynn said they were alone, but there must’ve been a grandparent or uncle or someone who took care of them.

  It explained why he lived with his brothers, now. A way of banding together after . . . what had to be tragedy?

  Norah, however, just barreled right along. “If that was an excuse for not having manners, Prince William wouldn’t be so darn suave.” But then her tone gentled, and she patted his wrist. “I am sorry, though.”

  Flynn gulped at his coffee and sucked in a breath between his teeth as he probably burned the entire length of his esophagus. “Look, Carlos wants to put all the special cocktails I make on the menu permanently in rotation. Yours would be up the month of your birthday.”

  “Isn’t that nice!” Norah positively beamed.

  Sierra loved knowing that Flynn had made the veteran feel special. Especially since it had been Flynn’s idea—not Carlos’s—to highlight the locals in this way. But he also wanted neither the credit for the idea, nor the responsibility of tracking down the birthdays. Her guy sure liked to fly under the radar.

  Norah took back his cup and scrawled her name and the number eleven after it. “The month’s November. I’ll tell you the date if you promise to give me a free drink on it.”

  “Fair enough.” Flynn leaned over. Dropped his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone else, though.”

  Norah tapped her index finger against her chin. “The thing is . . . I need you to make up two more.”

  “Why? You don’t like the flavor? Because I think I watched you suck down three of them last Tuesday.”

  “Love it. I’m going to make you a very special coffee as turnabout.”

  Flynn reared back dramatically, waving his hands. “No. I’ve heard what you put in your ‘special’ coffees. I want to be able to pass a drug test after my morning jolt.”

  “Most of what I sell is purely medicinal.” She winked broadly. “Especially if the State Board is the one asking.”

  “Of course.” Flynn took a much more cautious sip of his coffee.

  “In the meantime, I want you to make Mollie and Rafe their own drinks. For their engagement party.”

  Flynn did an actual spit take. It was sort of amazing how much of a mess one little mouthful of coffee made as it sprayed onto the counter. And onto Sierra’s drink. And the cranberry muffin that just got plated. As awkward as Sierra felt letting Flynn pay for her, she’d feel no guilt in asking him to replace that muffin for her.

  “No. No freaking way. Rafe’s not engaged.”

  His shock would be funny if his tone wasn’t so adamant. Oddly adamant, given that Sierra had watched Rafe and Mollie interact quite a bit at the Gorse. They weren’t just into each other. They were seriously head over heels, ignore the rest of the world gone. How could his own brother not see that?

  With a roll of her eyes, Norah whipped a towel off a magnet shaped like an anchor on the side of the enormous espresso machine. “You and your commitment phobia are a menace to my establishment, Flynn.”

  With a wince, he said, “Sorry.” His apologetic grimace encompassed Sierra, too. “This isn’t me playing the man card. Rafe has no plan for getting engaged. No offense to Mollie. It’s that it’s only been a few months.”

  Odd how the more he explained that it wasn’t about Mollie or a fear of commitment, the more that was exactly what it sounded like. A few weeks ago, knowing Flynn didn’t want a relationship would’ve thrilled Sierra.

  Now it made her sad. For him, as well as for herself. Curious, too, to know what was behind his strong stance.

  “They’re established adults who know their own minds. It’s obvious they love each other.” Norah waved the metal pincer prosthesis that stood in for her missing hand in the air. “Life’s short. If you ever take that for granted, just look at me. Or what’s left of me. When you realize what makes it good, what makes it worth getting up each morning, you embrace it. No matter what the timing or rules or any little life complication that might stand in the way.”

  Norah’s words resonated right through to Sierra’s heart. It was why she’d decided to take a stand and stay in Bandon. Why she’d risked telling Flynn the truth. Being here, being with him—that definitely made it worth getting up in the morning.

  Norah’s words seem to have struck a chord with Flynn, too. Because he stared at her prosthesis—no, through it, his gaze fixed on the window behind her. Was he happily imagining standing next to Rafe in a tuxedo?

  Or imagining that with dread in his heart?

  Fuck a duck backward.

  Trouble had found the Maguire brothers . . . again.

  Flynn’s heart raced like it’d been juiced up with a shot of adrenaline mixed with five shots of espresso. Patrick O’Connor stood just across the street. Patrick O’Connor, a loud, brutal, mean-spirited soldier in Danny McGinty’s crew.

  The Chicago mob was here. They’d found the Maguire brothers.

  “Flynn? Do you want a muffin, too?” Sierra’s question dragged his gaze off the mobster and back to the sweet, wonderful, beautiful woman at his side.

  The woman he refused to let be touched by any of the filth of his past life. The one he’d fucking defend to his death.

  He needed to get away from Sierra. Right now. He couldn’t risk Patrick even catching a glimpse of them together.

  Flynn whipped out his phone as though it had vibrated. “You know what? I’m sorry, I have to bail on breakfast. Forgot that I promised to help Rafe with something for the Festival. I’m late already, and he’s pissed.” He waved the phone as if a pissy text burned up the screen. “You stay here and enjoy yours. Enjoy your night off. Norah, I’m sorry about the mess.” He dropped another ten to cover the replacement drink for Sierra. Kissed his girl on the cheek as if he’d see her again tomorrow, no problems.

  He was on his way out of the café and in the front of the store before Sierra could even respond. He angled himself behind some big-ass smoking-related thing with eight long tubes coming out of it. Kept an eye on Patrick while texting Rafe to meet him behind the shop now.

  And not to get out of his car.

  Then Flynn added a shamrock emoji. It was their warning signal. The unofficial symbol of McGinty’s crew, the one every man got tattooed upon full membership, was a mashup. The pale blue stripes of the Chicago flag, but instead of the red stars, in between were three shamrocks. A reminder that you were in the Irish mob.

  Flynn’s sat just below his waistband, by his right hip. Smaller than everyone else’s, because McGinty knew that as the face of the “legit” business, Flynn’s couldn’t be obvious. Doing business in Chicago meant being out on a boat in trunks during the summer, sharing a locker room at a golf club. His tattoo had to be discreet.

  God, he wished it was gone. The moment the trial was over, he was getting that thing burned off. The first step in his official mob-free life.

  If he got to have one.

  Patrick went into the bait shop and Flynn took the opportunity to walk out. He immediately cut right, putting his back to the shop, in case he came right back out. Then he s
topped just around the edge of the building. Flynn scanned the street. Not too busy, this early in the morning and the crowd was thin enough that it was easy for him to scan. No other Chicago faces popped out at him.

  Yet.

  But Pat was in a bait shop. That meant fishing. Was everyone else on a boat? Were they doing the tourist thing during the day as a cover, before coming to take out the Maguires at night? From his hiding place, all Flynn could see were the tops of some masts down at the marina. No way to tell without going down there and searching all the boats.

  The silver lining to not seeing anyone meant that nobody had seen him with Sierra, either. As long as she stayed safe, Flynn could handle whatever came at him.

  Footsteps crunched over the mix of gravel and crushed oyster shells of the back parking lot. Flynn didn’t bother turning around. If it was a bullet to the back of the head, he didn’t need to see the face of the coward pulling the trigger. Otherwise, it was Rafe.

  “Tell me your finger slipped.” His brother’s voice was harsh and low. “That you meant to send me a flaming shit emoji, and not the shamrock.”

  “Although they’re one and the same in my book now, no.” Flynn met Rafe’s worried gaze head-on. Let him read the certainty in his own expression. “No mistake.”

  Rafe’s hands fisted at his sides. “They’re here?”

  “One is. Built like a fireplug. Red hair. Nose broken so many times it looks like that famous curvy street in San Fran.”

  With a double snap of his fingers, Rafe said, “Pat O’Connor.”

  “That’s the guy. I saw him through the window of Norah’s shop. Hightailed it out of there.” Flynn held up a hand to cut off the next obvious question. “He didn’t see me. I’m positive.”

  As Rafe flexed his fingers, he gave a nod of agreement. “Pat’s big on muscles and temper. Massively lacking in the brains and patience departments, though. If he’d seen you, there’d already be blood on the ground. Where is he now?”

  Flynn looked around the corner again. “Bait shop. Easy to spot, too. He’s wearing a Hawaiian-type shirt covered with sharks.”