Going Hard: Steele Ridge Series

by Kelsey Browning

  She sighed. “Those two stubborn men do remind me of one another.”

  Why he’d brought up his dad, another family member he really had no interest in discussing, Grif wasn’t sure. “You put together a nice party.”

  “You sure looked like you were enjoying yourself out there playing corn hole. Maybe small-town life still suits you.”

  Like hell. “Just doing my job.”

  “As the new city manager, you mean?”

  Now he was the one to heave out air. “It’s only temporary. Jonah was smart enough that he only agreed to provide a city manager. The contract didn’t name me specifically.”

  “But you would be the best choice, hands down.”

  “You have to say that. You’re my mother.”

  “So?”

  “So, you also thought I built the best pinewood derby car the Boy Scouts had ever seen, and that thing was a heap of crap. I’ve never felt so betrayed in all my life.” Which was total bullshit and they both knew it. He hadn’t understood real betrayal until the Madison Henry incident a few months ago. While he’d been embroiled in the whole thing, he hadn’t had time to feel the deceit, only the shell shock. But once he’d been cleared, the bone-deep sickness over his stupidity had set in and refused to leave.

  His mom’s eyes went soft, with either nostalgia or sympathy—he wasn’t sure which, but was sure he didn’t want to know—and she gripped his hand in hers. “You have plenty of self-confidence now, so there’s no need for me to stretch the truth. And the truth is this town needs you.”

  “There are plenty of people more skilled at running a city than I am. I know nothing about it, but I can find someone who does. In fact, I’ve already done phone interviews with four candidates.”

  “But you know everything about this community, about these people.”

  He rubbed at his forehead hard enough to permanently crease the skin. “Why does everyone seem to have forgotten I already have a job? One that’s a couple thousand miles away.”

  “And has that job made you happy recently?”

  “It’s not about being happy, it’s about—”

  “Being someone,” she said. “You think I don’t know why you moved so far from home? You wanted to make something of yourself. And honey, that’s admirable, but you always assumed you couldn’t be someone here.”

  “I like what I do.” At least he used to before…

  “She broke something inside you.”

  The sun was shining, his beer was cold, and he didn’t want to talk about her. “I have clients who rely on me.”

  “Of course you do.”

  But his athletes spanned the continent from Seattle to Florida, which meant he could effectively run his business from anywhere with cell service, high-speed Internet, and a relatively close airport. Grif sipped his beer and let the thought roll through his mind. “Are you hinting at something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That I could leave LA and come back here?”

  His mom tilted her head in that way she had, completely innocent on the outside, but packing a left hook on the inside. “Oh, now there’s an idea.”

  Shit. He’d stepped in that one, hadn’t he? But now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. When what he should be thinking about was getting his ass back to the city where he’d built a successful business. Where he thought he’d built a life.

  With her tea glass, his mom gestured toward the dessert table. “That Aubrey sure is a pretty one. She’s always struck me as slightly familiar. Don’t you think she looks a little like Evie?”

  “No. Evie’s hair is dark and Aubrey’s is—” As he watched, Aubrey’s face transformed into a thoughtful yet predatory expression Grif had seen on his sister’s face hundreds of times. Every damn time she knew she had the upper hand with one of her brothers.

  His focus shifted to the person Aubrey was giving that look to. Carlie Beth. Their hair was the same color.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  “What’s Aubrey’s last name?”

  At his sharp tone, his mom gave him disapproving look. “Weren’t you just chatting with her?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t feel the need to grill her about her entire life.” Not like he did right this second.

  “Well, she’s standing there with her mother, just as plain as day. Of course, her last name is Parrish.”

  When he’d heard Carlie Beth had a daughter, he’d imagined a girl of eight to ten. Not one who was… “How old is she?”

  His mom tapped her cheek. “Let’s see. She’s in eighth grade, so that would make her about fourteen.”

  Son of a motherfucking bitch.

  8

  Grif sat at his mom’s new dining table at the edge of her vast farmhouse kitchen. With the sun slanting in from the windows overlooking Tupelo Hill’s backyard, the morning should’ve been cheerful.

  But the coffee in front of him tasted bitter on his tongue.

  He’d barely slept last night, but his insomnia had nothing to do with twisting himself into a full-size bed rather than his luxurious king back home. For at least six hours, he’d replayed the one time he and Carlie Beth had been together.

  The steam from his cup curled up, reminding him of that hot humid night.

  He remembered what Carlie Beth looked like out at the Rockin’ Rio, a county-line dive bar that was no longer in business, probably because they hadn’t been big on checking IDs. Happiness and confidence radiated from her as she danced to every song, shaking all her assets to a J Lo tune and swaying to Creed’s “Arms Wide Open.” Her long hair gleamed in the neon beer signs, and he was more than attracted. He was fascinated.

  And so damned turned on he asked her to dance and then take a drive with him.

  He didn’t make an assumption about sex. If it happened, he would be happy. Very happy. But it was enough to have her snugged up against his side as they flew down backroads and she sang along with Destiny’s Child on the radio.

  When they drove down by the creek, she opened her purse and pulled out a couple of condoms. That was a first for him. The girls he’d been with before Carlie Beth had all relied on him for protection. She seemed so mature in comparison. He’d been blown away. And smug, thinking they were so damn worldly.

  And so he’d done what any eighteen-year-old guy would’ve done. He’d gone for it.

  They made love in the backseat of his car. They slid around on the fake leather seats and laughed like crazy. He finally braced his feet against the front seat and hauled Carlie Beth onto his lap. His hands, her ass. His tongue, her mouth. His mouth, her breast. When she orgasmed, her eyes shot wide, as if she hadn’t expected something so damn good.

  For the second round, he talked her into letting him toss a thin blanket over the hood, and they did it again out in the open. This time slowly, maybe even a little seriously. Her body was so soft, so right under his. When she cupped his face and kissed him, something inside his chest twisted.

  But he breathed away the feeling.

  All in all, it had been a hell of a send-off. He’d dropped her off at her own car around three in the morning, scooted back by his mom’s house to shower and pack. After his mom cooked him a tearful breakfast of pancakes and bacon, he’d thrown a couple bags in his car and headed west on I-40. A little bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, but grinning like a possum from sexual satisfaction and excitement about his future.

  That was the day his new life had started.

  Now he wondered if he and Carlie Beth had also started a new life the night before.

  Grif dropped his head into his hands and stared down at the dark pool in his cup, breathing in the acrid scent.

  Think about this rationally, Steele. Do what you tell your clients to do. Don’t get emotional. Think with your brain instead of your gut.

  Damn hard for him to do lately.

  So Aubrey Parrish had a couple of Evie’s mannerisms. Girls who did the hair flip probably weren’t one in a million, so that proved nothing.r />
  The girl’s hair, thick and the color of muted copper, was obviously inherited from her mother. What about her eyes? Why hadn’t he looked at them more closely?

  Probably because he’d had no reason to at the time. And once his mom had pointed out the likeness between Aubrey and Evie, Carlie Beth and her daughter left the party only minutes later. Which cheered Reid right up since he’d jumped ship over to Britt’s team.

  But Grif couldn’t stop wondering if Carlie Beth had fucked him over. He squeezed his eyes closed, which only intensified the ache behind them. The Carlie Beth he’d known wasn’t that kind of woman, but his judgment wasn’t exactly accurate these days.

  No birth control was fail-proof. And he’d been flying so high that night, it was possible he’d made a mistake somewhere along the way. Put the damn thing on too late. Not used enough care when he pulled out.

  But even if…if…Aubrey Parrish was his…

  Jesus, it was hard to even think the word.

  Even if Aubrey was his daughter, it wasn’t as if she needed him. Obviously, the Parrish women were doing just fine.

  “Grif, what’s wrong?”

  He looked up to see his mom padding into the kitchen in her chenille bathrobe and a pair of ratty purple slippers. “What happened to the Natori nightgown and robe I bought you for your birthday?”

  “Oh, well…” She glanced down and fussed with the tie that looked as if a band of hungry mice had chewed the ends. “I consider that special occasion nightwear, and I don’t have many of those these days.”

  If Reid heard their mom say those words, he’d probably box himself in both ears, but it made Grif unbearably sad. She was still a beautiful, vibrant woman, and yet she had no one to share her life with. “Why don’t you divorce him?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Maybe so you can move on?”

  “Have you moved on? Made it past Madison—”

  “We’re not talking about her.”

  “We all do things in our own time, including you.” She turned toward the coffeepot. “So let’s talk about why you look like Eeyore and someone’s hidden your tail from you.”

  He had to smile at that. Winnie the Pooh books had been favorites of all the Steele kids. “Just thinking about work.” A big, fat-ass lie. One he’d probably go straight to hell for.

  “I’m sorry if what I said yesterday put more pressure on you…”

  “But?”

  “But I’m not sorry I said it. We need you, Grif.”

  And apparently, he needed to stay in town, too. Didn’t matter what the hell he’d been trying to convince himself of a few minutes ago. He could tell himself all he wanted that it didn’t matter if Aubrey Parrish was his kid.

  But he’d waded through enough bullshit in his life to recognize it. And that’s exactly what he’d been throwing at himself.

  Shooting a strained smile at his mom, he pushed himself away from the coffee that had burned holes in his stomach lining. “If that’s the case, then I guess I’d better get to work.”

  * * *

  “Now, Griffin Steele, you know this isn’t exactly on the up-and-up.” Berna Schroder, the county registrar for the past twenty-five years, pushed her glasses on top of her silvery blond hair and peered closer at him over the counter.

  “The Steele Ridge city manager should understand the demographics of the people he’s serving.” He shot her a confident smile.

  “Steele Ridge, huh?”

  Why wasn’t Jonah the one fielding all the backlash about that? Because he has you, sucker. “Have you heard Jonah’s planning to cover all the costs of the name change?”

  “I like the return address stickers from that Labelocity place online.”

  With a few quick taps, he made a note on his phone. “Any particular color?”

  Berna’s mouth slid up in a little gotcha smile. “Gray would be appropriate, now wouldn’t it? So about those birth certificates you’re asking for…Why do you need information on the folks too young to even vote?”

  “If I know nothing about our citizens, it sure would make it hard to act in their best interests. And children are our future.” His smile was starting to feel brittle around the edges, so he shored it up.

  “But I don’t understand why you need individual birth certificates for all the kids born in certain months of a specific year.” This was one of the many problems with a small town. People felt they had the God-given right to not only offer you their opinion, but also wage an argument about why they were right.

  He leaned on the counter and scratched his head as if he was bewildered. “Ya know, I’m not a hundred percent sure either, but I read about some newfangled research method that some towns—ones that are doin’ real good economically—are using to figure out how well off folks are gonna be in the future.” If some of his California acquaintances heard him slide back into his deep hometown drawl, they would’ve looked at him as if he’d just married his sister. But if Grif was in Rome, then to get what he wanted he was damn well going to put on a toga.

  “By looking at a bunch of teenagers and preteens?”

  “Told ya I don’t understand it. But heck, I’d juggle knives and walk over hot coals to help this town.”

  In the end, Berna printed out fifty birth certificates.

  Soon after, he was sitting inside Louise with most of the pages littering her passenger seat, because the only one he gave a shit about was in his hand. The piece of paper could’ve erased the “Am I or am I not?” chant that had been playing on repeat in his head for the past sixteen hours.

  But it didn’t.

  Because the little box for Father on Aubrey Laine Parrish’s birth certificate was empty.

  Which meant there had been no affidavit acknowledging paternity filed when she’d been born. And if he were a lesser man, he would wipe his hands clean and walk away.

  Even though that box was blank, one that was filled blasted Grif with the force of a slapshot to the temple. Aubrey’s birthday was March 28.

  He’d already consulted his Google calendar and determined March 28 was exactly, to the day, thirty-eight weeks after July 5.

  The date he and Carlie Beth had steamed up his car windows.

  9

  Hours later, Grif was back in his mother’s kitchen, unpacking what had to be the millionth box of dishes. Where the hell had she kept all this stuff in the other house? With a gravy boat and serving platter in his arms, he stomped over to a cabinet and shoved them inside.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught his mom’s warning look at how roughly he was treating her precious items, but it did nothing but stir up the anger that had been simmering under his skin all day. He went back to the box and yanked out a newspaper-wrapped blob. He set it on the countertop and heard a crunch as something inside gave way.

  Shit.

  He’d temporarily forgotten his mom’s new countertops were made of unforgiving tile.

  “Griffin Fletcher Steele.” His mom marched in his direction, her mouth also unforgiving. “My household goods might not mean much to you, but I would expect you to be careful.” She carefully peeled away the paper to reveal a squatty china teapot decorated with winding roses and latticework. A crack trailed up its side and one of its delicate feet was missing.

  Not just shit. Triple shit.

  “Mom, I’m sorry.”

  She just shook her head, but he could see the tears quickly overtaking her eyes. And rightfully so. That teapot had been her grandmother’s and was given to her when she married. It had always held the place of honor in her small china cabinet.

  “I’ll—”

  “Don’t.” She pointed at him with the killer Mom finger. When they were kids, he and his brothers had sworn that thing was more powerful than an AK-47. “Don’t you dare say you’ll buy me another one. There isn’t another one of these anywhere in the world.”

  He started to reach for the bundle of paper and broken fragments, but she elbowed him out of the way. “I’d
thank you not to touch it again.”

  His chest tight with regret and shame, feelings he couldn’t completely attribute to a cracked teapot, he turned back to the box to continue unpacking. It didn’t matter what was going on with him. He shouldn’t take his rage out on his mother. Because she certainly wasn’t the one to blame here. Before he could reach inside again, she said, “You know, I don’t think I need more help.”

  “Mom, I said I was—”

  “You’re obviously stewing over something. I don’t suppose you want to tell me what it is?”

  His jaw clenched hard enough that it felt as though his molars were melding together.

  “Then get out.”

  “What?”

  “Until you deal with whatever’s got you all sideways, you’re no use to me. Why don’t you find your brothers and go outside to find a way to work it off?”

  He laughed, but the sound came out strangled. “Mom, I’m in my thirties. Are you seriously telling me to go outside and play?”

  She used the AK-47 finger to jab toward the back door. “Be glad I’m not telling you to go outside and play in the street. Now get. And don’t come back inside until you can control yourself.

  “Yes, ma’am.” It took every bit of gumption Grif had not to hang his head and slink outside. He forced himself to look straight forward and keep his shoulders back.

  Maybe he should sneak upstairs and change into shorts to take on the sports complex’s climbing wall. He glanced back through the screen door to find his mom glaring at him. No, climbing wasn’t an option tonight.

  If his adversaries only knew his Achilles’ heel, they’d sit Joan Steele opposite him at the bargaining table every time.

  At the edge of the porch sat a gray metal trashcan Grif hadn’t laid eyes on in at least ten years. He walked over and flipped open the lid to expose a jumble of well-used and well-loved weapons. On the top layer, he spotted a red Nerf Centurion, a jumbo-sized slingshot, and a set of cap guns still in their fake leather holsters. He hefted the Nerf and dug around for the gun’s magazine. Another exploration to the bottom of the trashcan scored him a handful of spongey ammo.