Fighting for Us: A Small Town Family Romance (The Bailey Brothers Book 2)

by Claire Kingsley

  Because damn it, I should have been.

  “No, you keep it. You found it, you should hang onto it.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I’ll take good care of it.”

  He helped me replace the floorboard, making sure it sat securely in place. I took the box to my room for safekeeping and when I came out, Asher was waiting near the door.

  I didn’t want him to go, but I had a feeling he wasn’t going to stay, even if I asked. I could still feel the distance he was keeping between us.

  “Thanks again for your help.”

  “Anytime.”

  He opened the door and stepped outside. I leaned against the door frame, feeling both glad that he’d come and sad to see him go.

  Turning, he hesitated. His eyes dipped to my mouth and a tiny spark of hope flared in my chest.

  Go ahead, Asher. Come closer and kiss me. You know we both want it.

  He looked up, meeting my gaze. “I’ll see you later.”

  Trying not to let my disappointment show, I smiled. “Yeah. See you.”

  He went out to his truck and I shut the door behind him.

  Feeling a little forlorn, I went back to my bedroom. The box was sitting on my bed, so I opened it and took the mirror out again. I traced my fingers over the name. I felt a connection to Eliza. Based on the notes, she’d probably been in love with a man she couldn’t have. Although my situation wasn’t the same—Asher and I had never had to meet under cover of darkness—I still understood what that felt like.

  It basically sucked.

  16

  Asher

  I came home from work in the late afternoon, tired and sticky with sweat. I’d replaced a set of front porch stairs, which had put me in the full sun for most of the day. Gram wasn’t home. I wasn’t sure where she’d gone, but that was typical. She kept herself busy.

  The floorboards creaked beneath my feet and I wondered if it would be worth trying to fix them. On the other hand, there was a certain charm to it. The floors had always creaked in this old house. I went upstairs, passing the photos Gram had on display. Pictures of us boys. An old photo of her and Grandad. My parents’ wedding portrait.

  I understood why she kept them there, although I found them hard to look at. Especially the photo of my parents. She had several photos of Grandad around the house—pictures of him alone as well as some of the two of them together. Their faded wedding photo hung on her bedroom wall, and there was a picture of him in the kitchen. I’d heard her say that it helped her keep him with her all the time.

  More than once, I’d wondered how she’d weathered the losses in her life with such grace and still seemed to find so much joy in living.

  I peeled off my sweaty clothes and got in the shower. Despite the hot water, I couldn’t relax. My back tightened and my heart thumped in my chest. I kept glancing out into the bathroom, checking the door, as if someone would come in. Logically I knew I was alone in the house, but the compulsion was too strong to ignore.

  Finally, I stepped out of the shower and quickly locked the door.

  Frustrated at my irrational reaction, I got back in and turned up the heat. Closed my eyes and took deep breaths to slow my racing heart. Repeated to myself, over and over, that I was home. I was fine.

  I’d felt calm for most of the day, so this sudden flare of panic made me angry. Rage felt better than fear, so I gripped it tight. Let it smolder in my gut and flood my veins like fire.

  God, I was so fucking mad.

  The worst part was, I had nowhere to put all this anger. Or maybe I had too many places to put it. I was angry at the world, looking for a fight I couldn’t have.

  Angry at the inmates who’d constantly fucked with me.

  At the prison guards who’d looked the other way.

  At the judge who’d handed down the sentence. At the fucking prosecutor who hadn’t given me a break. At the attorney who’d convinced me the plea deal was my only option.

  And at that piece of shit who’d attacked Grace.

  Memories flashed through my mind. I couldn’t stop them. Blood and pain. The sound of bone crunching. I felt pinned down. Helpless. Too many arms holding me in place.

  A surge of rage and fear ripped through me, and for a second, I had no idea where I was. Reacting on instinct, I struck out with my fist, punching something solid.

  But my knuckles didn’t sink into flesh over ribs or crack against someone’s jaw. Gasping for air, I reached out with my other hand to brace myself, finding cool tile against my palm. Hot water streamed over me, the low hum of the shower the only sound.

  Opening my eyes, I looked down at my right hand. Goddammit, I’d just punched a shower tile. I slowly flexed my fingers, hoping I hadn’t broken anything. I could move them, but my knuckles were already bruising.

  That was going to be fun to explain.

  But that wasn’t the worst part. The real bitch was, I felt better. My hand began to throb with pain, but my head was clear, my heart rate returning to normal. I opened and closed my fist a few more times. Apparently when I got out of control like that, I just needed to hit something.

  Fuck.

  I still felt the itch. The desire to unleash my anger and fuck someone up. The fact that hitting things—or people—was so cathartic was not a good sign. I’d been hoping that urge would go away once I got out. But so far, it hadn’t.

  Careful of my newly bruised knuckles, I finished up in the shower and got dressed. There was plenty of time before it got dark, so I decided to go work on the new chicken coop. Gram had mentioned at dinner last week that a new home for her peckers—god, why did she have to call them that?—was a great idea. And I needed to keep busy—do something with all this pent-up energy.

  And anger.

  I went out to the shop, strapped my tool belt around my waist, and walked out back.

  Gram came home not long after I got started and poked her head out the back door. “Bear, you be careful of my peckers. Watch your step.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t step on a chicken.”

  She narrowed her eyes, like she wasn’t quite sure she trusted me around her poultry. I chuckled softly and shook my head.

  I heard a vehicle pull up out front and a minute later, Levi came around the side of the house. He wore an old t-shirt and jeans and had a tool belt around his waist. He carried a measuring tape and had a pencil tucked behind his ear.

  I stood, pocketing the nail I’d been about to hammer in. “Hey. What’s going on?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Building Gram a new chicken coop. You know, for her peckers.” I nodded toward the chickens scratching in the dirt nearby.

  His jaw tightened, and his defensive posture triggered a hit of adrenaline. I didn’t actually think he was about to come at me swinging, but I’d been in enough fights to recognize the hostility in his eyes.

  “I came over to do that,” he said.

  I paused, the hammer dangling from my hand. “Okay. I’ve got it, though.”

  “Did you measure everything properly? Do you have the dimensions?”

  “Getting locked up didn’t make me an idiot,” I snapped. “Yes, I measured everything.”

  “I didn’t say you were an idiot.”

  “Fine, but why are you looking at me like I just pissed in your toastie flakes?”

  “I just want to make sure it gets done right.”

  What the hell was his problem? “I’ve got it, Levi. If you want to help, go bring some lumber around.”

  “Asher, you—”

  Gram opened the back door and stepped onto the porch, cutting him off with a sharp look. She crossed her arms, her eyes moving between the two of us. “Boys. I’m sure I don’t need to get the old boxing gloves out.”

  In the early days after our parents had died, all five of us had harbored a lot of aggression, and we’d taken it out on each other. One day, Gram had come home with two pairs of boxing gloves. From then on, if our fighting got out of control, she’d have us put t
he gloves on and go at each other in the backyard. After we’d thrown some punches and gotten it out of our system, she’d made us take the gloves off and hug it out. We’d called it the Arena.

  I flexed my fists. There was no way I was boxing with my brother, no matter what we’d done as kids. “No, Gram. We’re good.”

  “Are you sure? Because I still have them.”

  Levi’s eyes flicked to me. “Nope. We’re fine.”

  “Good,” she said with a smile, then went back inside.

  Levi and I eyed each other for a second. I didn’t understand why he was being such a dick. Why did he care if I built a new chicken coop? I was about to ask why it mattered, but with a scowl, he turned around and left.

  17

  Asher

  My job Thursday took me downtown, to the Art of Manliness, a barber shop still owned by Gerald McMillan. His old-fashioned barber pole had stopped spinning and he’d called me to see if I could fix it. Totally outside my wheelhouse, but I told him I’d see what I could do.

  As I stepped back and watched it spin, I couldn’t help but congratulate myself. Not bad for having no clue what I was doing.

  Gerald came out wearing a white apron over his broad chest. He was bald on top, but sported a thick auburn beard. “Looks great, Asher. Thank you.”

  “Hey, no problem.”

  We shook hands and he paid me, then I gathered up my stuff and went back to my truck.

  The firehouse was just up the hill. I put my tools in the truck and revisited the same internal debate I’d had with myself at least a dozen times since I’d been home. Chief Stanley. Should I go talk to him?

  It seemed like half the town had wanted to gawk at me. But I hadn’t heard from the chief. Of course, I hadn’t reached out either. But this was a tough one. He’d been my mentor. Given an angry kid a place to stay out of trouble. Encouraged me to follow my dream.

  And watched me get hauled away to prison after pleading guilty to manslaughter.

  But avoidance would only work so long in this town. Sooner or later, I’d run into him. It would probably be better to go see him now. Get it over with. The firehouse was a short walk from where I’d parked, so I pocketed my keys and started up the hill.

  As I crossed the street, voices down by the Zany Zebra caught my attention. A bunch of kids were outside the black-and-white-striped burger joint, but it didn’t sound like they were joking around or having fun. It looked like three of them were ganging up on the fourth.

  The victim’s head was buried in a hoodie, so I couldn’t see his face. But the way he backed away from the others, I could tell he didn’t want to be there. One of the other kids stepped forward and shoved his shoulder. He staggered and clutched his backpack strap to keep it from falling. His hood slipped back and I got a glimpse of his face.

  Oh hell no. That was Elijah.

  “Hey,” I yelled. “Assholes. Get the hell away from him.”

  Fixing the little shits with a hard glare, I stalked down the street toward them. They were just kids; I wasn’t going to hurt them. But it did give me a great deal of satisfaction to see their eyes widen with fear and their faces go pale. They looked like they were about to piss their pants. One took off running in the opposite direction. That seemed to jolt the other two into action, and a second later, all three were sprinting down the street.

  Elijah’s hoodie was still partly off his head, so I could actually see his face. He looked so different—so much older. I hardly saw any of Naomi, or even Grace, in him. He must have taken after his dad, which probably kind of sucked for him. He was old enough to realize that if he didn’t resemble his mom, he might look like his father. The father who’d abandoned him and was now in prison. Not that I was one to judge a guy for being in prison—obviously. But Grace and Elijah’s father was a piece of shit regardless.

  “Hey buddy, are you okay?”

  Elijah stared at me, his blue eyes piercing. He looked angry, but maybe he was just upset. Or embarrassed. Getting picked on sucked no matter who you were.

  Grace had said he didn’t talk much, but I still wanted to know if he was all right. So I tried again. “Do those kids pick on you a lot?”

  “Why do you care?” He adjusted his backpack on his shoulder.

  At least that was a response. “Because I do. You’re Grace’s little brother. I’m Asher. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Okay. Do you need a ride home or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Buddy, I live right next door to you. It’s not a big deal.”

  The groove between his eyebrows deepened. “I’m not your buddy. Just leave me alone.”

  He hiked his backpack up his shoulder and walked away.

  I thought about following him, but I didn’t want to be creepy, so I let him go. Still, I had that same unsettled feeling I’d had when I saw him the first time. Was Elijah being bullied? Was that why he was so silent and sullen? I wondered if Grace knew anything about this.

  Of course, I might have witnessed a random encounter. I had no idea if those kids picked on him all the time, or if they’d just decided to be assholes because it had been three against one. Maybe he’d even started it. It was hard to say.

  I turned around and headed for the firehouse but stopped again at the intersection. My back tensed with the familiar feeling of eyes on me.

  Someone watching.

  Fuck, I hated this feeling.

  It had happened a couple of times since the other night at the gym. Not every time I went out, but enough that I was either being followed, or I was really fucking paranoid.

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure which would be worse.

  I’d been home for about three weeks and was trying to hold it together. My mental state wasn’t as steady as it probably appeared. I’d been able to fake it so far, but the truth was, I was hanging on by a thread. I had a hard time sleeping, and it was a rare night that I didn’t wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. I’d started barricading my room at night, and I couldn’t take a shower without locking the bathroom door, even when no one was home.

  The other day, I’d shut all the curtains in Gram’s house. She’d opened them all again, muttering about it being too dark inside. I still couldn’t explain it, but I’d felt so exposed. Like I needed a place to hide.

  And every time I left her house, I took roundabout routes wherever I was going, in case I was being followed. I watched the rear-view mirror as much as the road in front of me, always half-convinced someone was back there.

  It was fucked up, and I knew it. But realizing it didn’t do anything to change how I felt.

  My heart pounded in my chest. I scanned the road, but I didn’t see anything suspicious. Elijah had cut through Lumberjack Park and disappeared. People were out and about, a car drove by, and a squirrel scurried past, racing up a tree. If someone was watching me, they were doing a good job of staying out of sight.

  Telling myself I probably wouldn’t be attacked in the street in the middle of the afternoon, I kept walking.

  The feeling subsided by the time I got to the firehouse. Either that, or the sensation of being watched was edged out by the dread of going in there. Of facing this part of my past.

  Just looking at the building made my chest ache. It had been a second home to me, the crew an extension of my family.

  It was where I’d proposed to Grace.

  Fuck.

  One of the garage bays was open, but the engine wasn’t there. A couple of guys were working on the ambulance. There’d be others inside. I wondered if my brothers were on duty. The fire chief’s truck, with its Tilikum Fire Department emblem on the door, was in the parking lot, so Chief Stanley was here.

  Time to do this.

  I went in the side entrance and waited, shoving my hands in my pockets. Everything looked the same. The TFD emblem painted on the wall. Chief Stanley’s portrait with his name and title underneath. Another wall had a bulletin board with
community notices and posters on fire safety. And a table held stacks of red plastic fireman’s helmets for when kids came in for field trips.

  Reminded me of Elijah. I’d brought him a bunch of those hats so he’d always have one.

  I avoided looking at the memorial wall. Wasn’t really prepared to face the photo of my dad.

  “Holy shit.” Christian came down the stairs, dressed in street clothes. “Asher?”

  Seeing Christian hit me hard—kicked some of the breath from my lungs. He’d been there. “Yeah. Hey, man.”

  “Goddamn, it’s good to see you.” He gave me a quick, back-slap hug. “I heard you were out already. How are you doing?”

  “Not bad, considering.” That wasn’t exactly a lie, and I certainly didn’t want to dig too deep into that question. “Is Chief here?”

  “Yeah, he’s upstairs. Hey, can I just say something?”

  “Sure.”

  He paused for a second. “I just wish there’d been something else I could have done. Something I could have said differently to the cops, I don’t know.”

  “There wasn’t. You just told them what happened, same as everyone who was there. It wasn’t your fault.”

  He scratched his jaw. “Yeah, I suppose. You know, no one here blames you for what happened. We all would have done the same thing.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Sorry, man. You probably don’t want to revisit all that shit. Chief’s upstairs. You can go on up.”

  “Thanks. And Christian?” I held out my hand. “Thanks for having my back.”

  Meeting my eyes, he took my hand and shook it. “Anytime.”

  He dropped my hand and headed for the garage. I went upstairs in search of the chief.

  I found him in his office, seated behind his desk. He was on the phone, so I waited nearby. A few seconds later, his eyes caught mine and he held up one finger, indicating for me to wait.