Never Been Good

by Christi Barth

  “I do now.” Rafe wiped his hand across his mouth, his cheek, and then down off of his chin. “Wish you’d told me before.”

  Kellan nodded. “It would’ve explained that perma-scowl hanging off your ugly mug.”

  What the hell? “You get that I’m serious as fucking syphilis, don’t you?”

  “We do. Can you see how equally serious we are that the three of us being together is what matters most?”

  Feeling pricked back through Flynn. Similar to rolling off an arm after sleeping on it for too long. Relief, calm, a release of the blackness that had still filled the parts of him Sierra’s sunshine hadn’t yet melted.

  Kellan thumped his chest. “I’m the brains—and charm—of this group. Rafe’s the brawn. But hell, Flynn, you used to be the heart. You were always the glue for us. You’re the one who makes us work. As brothers. That’s why we haven’t been working since we left Chicago. Not because I left law school and Rafe left his criminal scumbag lifestyle. We haven’t worked because you haven’t been you. You’re all we need.” He straightened up. Threw his arm out and pointed a finger at Flynn. “So stop trying to take all the sucky credit. It turns you into an asshat.”

  Laughter rolled out of him. “Is that the technical, legal term, Counselor?”

  “You could also go down as an assclown. Douche canoe. Twittlefuck.”

  Rafe snorted. “Come on. That last one isn’t even real.”

  “Look it up,” Kellan taunted, throwing back the command Rafe used to give him as a kid when a big word went over his head.

  Flynn kept laughing in sheer joy. They were back. They were fine. And god damn it, if he hadn’t been an idiot for not admitting sooner to them how he felt.

  “Although . . .” Rafe shifted. His gaze bopped around between the file cabinets and the doors and a shelf of wipers and headlight bulbs. “If it’s okay with you guys, I’d like to add Mollie to that list of things that matter, too.”

  Kellan grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Fine by me.”

  “That’s the other problem.” Rafe’s eyebrows shot up. Flynn hurried to clarify. “I mean, yeah, Mollie’s one of us. Definitely. But I think I feel that way about Sierra.” Be honest with them, idiot! “No, I know I do. But I’m scared that Sierra won’t be with me. Because of, well, all the lying.”

  Without even blinking, Kellan said, “Go ahead. Take the leap.”

  That was fast. The way Flynn’s luck was turning today, he should buy a lottery ticket on the way to the Gorse.

  Or just be fucking grateful that he’d already won at life by having such kick-ass brothers. “Yeah? You’re sure? It could lead to trouble.”

  After a grunt, Rafe said, “Trouble lingers around us closer than a fart in an elevator. Coming clean with Sierra won’t make things any worse. Officially, anyway.”

  “Dude, you haven’t really done anything for yourself, from what I hear, for your whole life. Start this new one right.” Kellan opened the door to the service bay. “Now let’s go pick out some god-awful clunker of a chariot for you and your lady.”

  Flynn was on a roll. He’d buy a car, tail Pat O’Connor’s smelly ass then spend his shift behind the bar figuring out how to tell Sierra that she wasn’t the only one of them leading a double life.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sierra was grateful that the post office provided mailing supplies. Super happy that she didn’t have to drop any money at Target to get the heavy-duty packing tape to properly seal her finished canvas inside layers of paper, bubble wrap, and cardboard.

  But after five minutes of struggle that felt like twenty, she was ready to march across the street to the bait and tackle shop and ask for a spool of fishing line to wrap around the box oh, eight thousand times. Why did the tape keep resticking to itself? On the roll. On the handle of the tape gun. Was this a secret skill she would’ve learned if she’d stuck around for the final semester of grad school?

  “I think you need a bag.”

  The low murmur in her ear had Sierra whipping around. “What?”

  Yup. She was still super jumpy. Even though it had been seven months of time and space between her and Rick. Even though the voice was a woman’s, and now that she’d turned around, recognized that it belonged to Norah, Mollie’s grandmother.

  Norah rummaged in her sack, tie-dyed in shades of green, then held out a crumpled brown paper bag that looked like it had held sub sandwiches. “Here.”

  “Thanks, but my painting won’t fit in there.”

  “Of course not. The bag’s to breathe into. You’re so worked up that you’re hyperventilating.” She rubbed her hand in a light circle on Sierra’s back. “Or, if you’d prefer, I could give you a peanut butter cookie with white chocolate and coconut. They’re very calming.”

  Sierra loved peanut butter cookies. But she knew better than to go near Norah’s cookies. Because the secret ingredient wasn’t love—it was marijuana. “Thanks, but I’ve got to be on my toes to handle the Saturday crowd at the Gorse tonight. No cookies for me.”

  “Then at least get some air with me.” Norah handed the box—with its flaps still open—to the woman with hot pink dreadlocks behind the counter. “Rosie, fix this up and hold it until we come back.”

  Before Sierra could protest, Norah had her outside, sitting on the red metal bench next to a matching trash can repurposed as a planter, exploding with orange and yellow blooms. “Just sit for a minute and breathe.”

  “I’m fine. I’m not actually hyperventilating, I promise.” Sierra was frustrated to the max, but not out of control. “I’ll cop to having a bad morning.”

  Norah opened and closed the pincer attachment to her prosthesis. Flexed her wrist. “After I lost my hand, everything was . . . hard. But I didn’t complain. The only point in complaining is when you expect something to change. You complain about cold soup, and the waiter brings you another bowl. You complain about global warming, and start recycling. My hand was gone. It wasn’t ever coming back. So I kept my frustrations to myself. I didn’t want to be a downer, or bother anyone.”

  That was incredibly brave. Going it alone was hard. Sierra knew that down to the bone. “I’m sure your friends would’ve understood.”

  “Well, they did. Eventually. What they didn’t understand was why I kept my problems to myself for so long. Why it took me losing it in line at the grocery store when I got my prosthesis stuck in the side of the cart. I yanked and pulled and finally unstrapped the damn thing from my arm. That’s when it came loose. So I chucked it across the aisle where it knocked down an entire pyramid display of Triscuit boxes.”

  Sierra giggled. Then her hand flew to cover her mouth. What sort of horrible person was she to laugh at a story about a missing hand? And then she heard Norah laughing softly next to her, and knew it was okay. “Sounds like a rough day.”

  “Rougher than the waves around Cape Horn in winter. And that’s saying a lot. Talk about a pukefest. Anyway.” Norah grimaced, and then patted Sierra’s thigh. “Holding your frustration inside is no good. Talk to somebody. Mollie—who thinks you’re sweeter than a strawberry daiquiri. That good-looking hunk of a boyfriend you’ve got. Or, if it’s easier to unburden to a person who barely knows you, talk to me.”

  Sierra had gone it alone her whole life. Literally. Until Flynn. Until he’d shown her that leaning on someone didn’t make you weaker. It made you twice as strong.

  Everything had gone wrong this morning. She’d tripped turning sideways to get out of the tiny shower. Looked everywhere for her red tee shirt before finding it in the laundry hamper. Only found her keys by stepping on them in her bare feet. Ever since the night before, when she’d decided to proclaim the orchid painting finished and send it to Miriam Newberry, her mind had been doing somersaults. Clearly, making the decision wasn’t the same as being okay with the decision.

  She’d been brave enough to share with the girls at dinner on Thursday. Sure, it’d led to one heck of a pa
nic attack. Sierra just chalked that up to growing pains. Two steps forward, one step back. As long as the end result was forward motion, she had to keep pushing herself.

  Why not talk to Norah? Sierra had never had a real mother/aunt/grandmother figure in her life. No mentor to turn to for the wisdom that came with extra years of living.

  Now seemed like a good time to start.

  “I’ve been keeping a secret for a while. Out of guilt, but mostly out of fear.” Sierra’s hand slid around to the back pocket of her denim shorts. To the envelope with her apology to Miriam Newberry. The one she hadn’t decided whether or not to include with the painting.

  “That must be hard on you.”

  “It is.” Funny how being on the run, scrabbling for every dollar, worrying about having enough to eat—none of that had been half as difficult as struggling with the fear/guilt combo that kept her awake so many nights.

  Amazing how Norah had zoned right in on that. Guess there really was something to being older and wiser. Not that she’d say that out loud. Norah kept her brown hair dark with monthly trips to the Beach Hair Don’t Care salon and definitely looked more like Mollie’s aunt than her grandmother. Well-traveled and wiser? Was that a safe way to put it, with Norah’s trips all over the globe in the Navy?

  “There are lots of reasons to keep secrets. Some good, some bad. Some cowardly, some heartbreakingly brave. You want to know my secret du jour?”

  “Um, yes. Of course.”

  “I’m sad that Mollie’s in love with Rafe.” Norah dropped her hand into her lap and sucked in a long, deep breath. “Sad that it means she’ll move out soon. That she won’t be around as much to help with Jesse. Sad that after all the years she spent away learning to be a doctor, that I don’t get her back, under my wing, as much as I’d hoped. I want her to be happy. To be strong and independent and with a man she adores. I just also want her five steps down the hall.”

  Completely understandable. Sierra stared at the gray shingled roof of a building, to avoid rolling her eyes at Norah and her winner for most obvious reveal ever. “I’m not sure that’s really a secret. You raised Mollie. Of course you want to spend time with her.”

  “But I can’t admit it. I can’t let out so much as a peep of wistfulness. You know why? Mollie would hunker down and stay at my house longer. Out of pity. Respect. Love. All of the above.”

  Norah’s obvious adoration of the woman she’d raised gave Sierra a lump in her throat. It was the usual unresolved longing for her own lack of a mother figure, which she didn’t let herself notice much . . . anymore. On the plus side, Sierra got the feeling that Mollie and her friends could turn into sisters of the heart for her.

  She put an arm around the older woman and squeezed her shoulders. “That just means Mollie loves you enough to want to fix whatever’s making you sad.”

  “Exactly. Which would be a huge mistake.” Norah shook her head, lips scrunched together into a tight line. “If I told her, she’d adjust her life to make me feel better. So revealing my secret would be pretty darned selfish. It would make me feel better. But it would make Mollie feel a hundred times worse.” Norah tapped the tip of her prosthesis against the red slat of the bench between them. “Will revealing this secret make someone else feel better? Or just you?”

  Why, that wily woman. She’d circled back from what Sierra thought was a totally innocuous comparison to hit the nail right on the head. Without even asking for the details. Without passing any judgment of her own.

  Norah was a freaking genius at this motherly advice thing.

  Sierra stood. Paced a half circle around the trash can planter, and back. Then all the way around the bench. Cars whizzed by, but they weren’t moving nearly as fast as her thoughts. The note to Miriam in her back pocket didn’t reveal Sierra’s involvement. She wasn’t that careless in her quest to relieve a tiny portion of her guilt. It simply said, I’m sorry for the pain you suffered. Hopefully these orchids will give you some measure of peace.

  Or she could send just the painting. No note. Simply a beautiful gift that wouldn’t set off any alarm bells, given Miriam’s well-publicized love of the flower and all the shows she entered.

  The note could be a trigger. Maybe Miriam had just gotten to the point where she didn’t jump at noises. Didn’t relive that fall down the stairs in her nightmares anymore. Would this note bring it all rushing back?

  It could.

  Then Sierra would be responsible for causing a whole new level of pain. Just to ease her own conscience infinitesimally.

  Talk about selfish.

  She bent her arm, pulled out the envelope, and ripped it in half before walking over to the real trash can at the door to the post office. With a little spring in her step, she returned to Norah. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? After I mail my package? I think you just saved me from doing something stupid and quite possibly hurtful.”

  Norah laughed as she stood. “I run a coffeeshop. You don’t have to spend your hard-earned money caffeinating me. But I’d love to take you back to Coffee & 3 Leaves and linger over a blueberry latte with you. That’s our specialty today.”

  “I’d like that.” If Sierra couldn’t pay for her coffee, she could at least give the gift of honesty. “I don’t have any family. I’m not used to having anyone to ask for advice,” she admitted.

  Walking back into the post office, Norah said, “You came to the right place. Bandon’s one big, weird family. Once we suck you in, there’s no getting out.”

  It sounded like heaven.

  “Truly, thank you, Norah. You made this easy for me.” Sierra pulled her into a long hug.

  “Think you could give my grandson a testimonial to that effect? Getting Jesse to open up and talk to me isn’t going so well. On the bright side, he ignores Mollie’s opinions and mine equally.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on,” Sierra said fiercely. A thought popped into her head. A potentially stellar way to pay back Norah for the advice. “Mollie mentioned that Jesse’s working at Wick’s Garage, but he must have some spare time, since it’s summer vacation. Do you think he’d be willing to help out with the float for the Cranberry Festival? Another set of hands wrangling all those kids would be appreciated. I guarantee I’ll slide in a mention of how smart you are at least once a week.”

  “For that, I’ll give you a blueberry latte and a scone.”

  The clerk hefted the box back onto the counter as Sierra stepped up. “You ready to move forward with this?”

  With a grin, Sierra said firmly, “You bet.”

  She could hardly wait to tell Flynn.

  Flynn spotted Delaney crossing the jam-packed Starbucks lot in Bunker Hill. He’d seen her in boring, please don’t notice me suits for the Marshals Service, all sexed up for pretend dates with Bandon’s sheriff, but today’s look felt like the first time he was seeing the real Delaney Evans.

  Her long blond hair was in a messy ponytail. A pale pink tank top tucked into jeans shorts, and she wore hiking boots. Not to mention what appeared to be a fully loaded backpack, from the way it drooped off her shoulders.

  Huh. He’d never really thought about their marshal as a person. Only as a necessary annoyance—and the person Kellan annoyed more than life itself. Which was often entertaining, even when Flynn had been eight hundred miles from able—or willing—to crack a smile.

  Leaning across the cabin of his new-to-him used truck, he popped the door for her. Delaney handed over two tall paper cups. Unzipped the top of her backpack, stowed it in the foot well, and sat down.

  “Hey, thanks.” Flynn popped the lid to note that she’d added milk. Impressive that she remembered that small detail about him. Was it from memorizing his file or just being observant? “You didn’t have to buy me a coffee.”

  She cocked her head to the side, giving him a look like he’d just told her the sun was green. “I did, actually. That’s how this whole undercover thing works. If I meet someone at a coffeeshop and want to go unnoticed, I bu
y a couple of coffees.”

  “Oh. Right.” Here he’d thought Delaney was just being nice. Guess that was a side effect of living in Bandon. That whole small-town, help-your-neighbor vibe was becoming second nature to him.

  Well, not second nature. Maybe fifth nature, if there was such a thing. He wasn’t volunteering to go out fishing at dawn with Rafe and the colonel in a giant kumbaya sunrise moment. Didn’t want to bother running against the Chamber of Commerce president to unseat the giant, annoying douchebag.

  But Flynn had refused to pocket the donations his self-defense class offered him. Instead, he collected the cash to put toward buying supplies for it, like a strike shield and a body opponent bag. And now that he had a truck, he planned to offer to help Elena take the leftover flowers every Sunday from the big events at the resort over to the senior center to spruce it up. Sierra had mentioned that it took her friend a bunch of trips in her tiny Volkswagen.

  Did that mean he’d finally turned the corner from pretend good guy to a real one?

  Delaney removed her lid and took a big swig. “It amazes me how you mobsters stayed out of trouble for so long if you can’t even follow the logic of a damn latte in my hands right now.”

  “You know I never pulled any of that illegal stuff. I didn’t need to be sneaky to run a construction company.” Flynn dialed back his knee-jerk temper. He’d sure as hell never skulked around with a tire iron threatening people. Unless you counted threatening McGinty’s crew to file their god damned taxes.

  “Ah, that’s right. You’re the mobster poser brother.” Delaney made air quotes around the word mobster.

  “There’s nothing halfway about belonging to the Chicago mob. And what’s with the bitchy insult?” Usually the marshal—unless being baited by Kellan—was nothing but professional. Blunt as a butter knife, but she’d never passed judgment or been mean to them about their past affiliation.

  “Sorry. Honestly?” Another slurp, as if to buy time while debating what to say. Which was not the marshal’s MO at all. “I’m kind of annoyed that you called me for help. Which is the right thing to do, and you deserve a ticker tape parade for following protocol, yada yada yada. But it’s Saturday morning of Fourth of July weekend. I’ve got plans.”