Better When He's Bold

by Jay Crownover

  Sighing, I made my way inside. There were no lights on because Karsen wasn’t home and my mom was undoubtedly passed out in bed. I swung by the kitchen to grab a beer that was actually cold and puttered by my dad’s office on the way up to the floor where my room was. He was seated behind the computer, like always. His balding head bent down and his eyes locked on whatever was on the screen. I frowned a little and twisted the cap off the neck of the bottle.

  “Hey.”

  I saw him start and his gaze jerked away from the monitor. “Brysen Carter, you scared the piss out of me.”

  “How was she?”

  He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the computer. “Fine. Everything was fine.”

  That was highly unlikely.

  “Did you even check on her tonight, Dad?”

  “Brysen, this is very important. Can it wait?”

  Not really, but everything came second to his job. I didn’t say anything, just pulled off my shoes and wandered around the corner to where the master bedroom was located. The door was cracked and the TV was on. I pushed the door open with the flat of my hand and hissed out a swearword.

  My mom was sprawled sideways across the bed. Her head was hanging over the edge and the same whitish-blond hair that I had on my head was in a tangled mess, touching the floor. An empty bottle of vodka was resting on the pillow and light snores were coming from her. I put the bottle of beer down on the dresser and went in to set her to rights. Clearly Dad hadn’t bothered to pull himself away long enough to make sure she was all right. He had just left her to her own devices, and this was always the end result.

  She peeled one watery eye open to look at me and mumbled my name as I wrestled her under the covers. I snatched up the empty bottle and resisted the urge to smash it on the floor. Just barely. She hadn’t always been this way. She was always a little off, struggled with emotional ups and downs, but then a car accident, a horrible back injury and endless amounts of pain, plus the inability for her to go back to work, and my mother had become this drunken, sad shell of a woman. It always made my heart twist and my guts tug because it didn’t have to be this way. She could get help, my dad could support her, and maybe my life could go back to some kind of normal, but that wasn’t happening, and for now I just had to make do until Karsen was old enough to get out on her own.

  I flipped off the TV and shut the door behind me with a thud. It would take a tornado to rouse my mom from that kind of drunken slumber anyway. I sighed heavily and finally found my way to my own room.

  Living back at home as an adult was so weird. It wasn’t like I had a curfew, or the same rules and regulations to follow as I had when I was a teenager, but everything about this childhood room felt wrong. I felt like I left some part of myself outside the door every time I resigned myself to another night, another day, spent here.

  I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and pulled up the last message I had sent to Dovie asking her to go to the party with me tonight. Now that she had a full-time job at a group home for all the kids lost in the system, I hardly saw her anymore. Add in the fact that she was living with and involved with the only guy in the Point I considered scarier than Race meant I rarely went by her house or saw her outside of school anymore. Tonight she had declined the invite because she had homework to do, but I secretly wondered if Bax had told her not to go.

  He hated everything that had to do with the Hill. He was from the streets, an ex-con, a thief, and there was no doubt he was up to his eyeballs in Race’s criminal enterprise. Shane Baxter had a reputation in these parts that was as legendary as the man who sired him. The man he and Race had taken down. They were not the kind of guys you wanted to mess with, but I really liked Dovie, so I braved the shark-filled waters she swam in to keep her in my life and call her my bestie.

  I twisted my phone around and sent her a message:

  Saw Race at the party tonight.

  It took a few minutes for her to answer back.

  What was he doing there?

  He said working.

  I bet.

  I rolled my eyes a little at what was construed as “work” for him and typed out:

  Someone had a gun and fired off shots inside. Race got me out but took off because of the police.

  I was still pretty steamed about it, and still heated from the inside out by that kiss. Why did he have to taste so good, feel so right, yet be so wrong?

  She answered back in a matter-of-fact way only someone firmly immersed in the Point could do:

  He can’t risk messing around with the police. No one from here really can. I’m not surprised he took off. Is everyone okay?

  Fine. Everyone was fine.

  I wasn’t fine. Having an idea that someone was a criminal, that they might not be on the up-and-up, was something entirely different from having the proof right in front of your face. I didn’t understand that world, didn’t want to understand it, therefore, no matter how hot he was, how much he pulled me out of the monotony of my day-to-day life, Race Hartman would never be the guy for me, and that made things deep inside me burn.

  Dovie and I chitchatted some more. Me about nothing in particular, and her about the guys. Bax scared me so much I was nervous and anxious around him, and I think Dovie tried to make him more human, more likable in my eyes, to offset that. And Race . . . well, he spun me around and it took every effort I could make to pretend disinterest instead of rabid curiosity every time she mentioned something about him. It was getting harder and harder to do.

  I told her good night and sent a message to my sister to tell her good night as well. Karsen was a good egg, a kid who deserved to make it out of this house unscathed and unscarred from the state the Carters were currently in. She was a small little thing, with the same pale hair I had, but our mom’s brown eyes instead of Dad’s blue like I had. She was as sweet as could be, and when she shot back a smiley face, I finally settled into my routine for the night.

  It was while I washed my face and climbed into the shower that I could finally admit that I was lonely, that I was sad, that I was overwhelmed with all the things I was feeling and the battle of always keeping the things churning inside me in check. In the shower I could cry and no one could tell. This wasn’t the life I wanted. This wasn’t where I thought I would be at twenty-one, but I had to adapt, had to change in order to do what was best for everyone, and that was just the way it was going to be. I didn’t have any choice in the matter.

  I toweled off, ran a brush through my hair, and climbed into a pair of yoga pants and a tank to sleep in. The adrenaline from everything started to leach out of my system and I finally got to fall onto the mattress face-first. I was letting my eyes drift shut, trying really hard not to relive every flick of Race’s tongue, every scrape of teeth, when my phone lit up with a new message. It was late, and the only person I thought it could be was Karsen, so I bolted upright and swiped a finger over the screen.

  It wasn’t from Karsen. It wasn’t from a number I recognized at all. It was five words, no big deal, but the rock that settled in my stomach when I read them told me something was off.

  You looked so pretty tonight.

  I just stared for a second before answering back.

  Who is this?

  So sorry I missed you.

  What in the hell was that supposed to mean? I asked who it was again, and when I didn’t get a response, I just switched off my phone and tossed it back on the nightstand. I sat there in the dark for a long moment with my pulse thrumming hard and a creepy sense of unease making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I shivered before lying back down on the bed and pulling the covers all the way up over the top of my head.

  Talking about “missing” someone when gunshots had been going off wasn’t funny, and I was raw enough not to like it one little bit. I closed my eyes and my brain started to question why exactly Race had pulled me out the back of the house when everyone else had been stampeding toward the front door.

  This is
why I didn’t have time for a guy like Race. If he had been anyone else, his motivations would have never even been in question. And what had he meant by “you’re the only one I’m worried about”? It was just because he wanted me, liked to play games with me because I was a challenge. But that was it . . . right?

  Ugh. I didn’t have the time or the space for any of it. And yet when I finally drifted off, it was his pretty face and his perfect mouth that followed me into dreamland and not the anxiety and apprehension that was gnawing on me after that weird text.

  Chapter 2

  Race

  I PULLED MY FULLY restored and totally tricked out ’66, cherry-red Mustang through the security gates that surrounded the garage that looked like nothing more than a crumbling pile of concrete and rusted metal. If only the outside world knew the treasure trove of monster mechanics that were housed behind the ugly façade. Millions of dollars’ worth of restored muscle cars and sleek foreign imports lined the walls. Some were there to be revitalized and repaired, but most were being housed because I was waiting for their owners to come through on this debt or that loan that they owed me. If the owner didn’t pay up, I kept the car and then let my best friend chop it and turn it over for a tidy little profit.

  It was a system that had proven profitable and played to both my and Bax’s strengths. People didn’t like it when you took their ride. It was hard to explain the missing family car to your wife and kids, so my payoff rate was higher than the average number runner and loan shark. Bax had connections upon connections in the world of stolen cars, and when a debtor didn’t come through, it was an easy way to recoup the loss. Besides, I think Bax still needed the thrill of jacking a car now that he was mostly on the straight and living pretty clean. We had a hard-and-fast rule that we never discussed this part of the garage business around my sister.

  Dovie was a doll. She was sweet, full of love and kindness, and had somehow gotten through all the barbed wire and chain link that surrounded Bax’s heart and taken up permanent residence. She was from the streets, had grown up very differently from me, and she knew inherently that life wasn’t always easy, that the things we did in the Point changed us. I knew Bax had clued her in on what was going on in the highly secured compound he had started to build shortly after the death of his dad—Novak—the man who had ruled the underbelly of the city with his brutal iron fists. But she loved us both enough not to ask questions or get between us and what we had to do. So far it was a system that was working out for everyone and my business keeps growing and growing.

  Dovie was awesome, and as much as I had initially hated the idea of her and Bax as a couple, I understood now that she needed someone like my best friend to keep her safe; protect her from this place and this life. And Bax . . . well, he needed Dovie to keep him human, to give him something real and tangible to keep on living for. I needed both of them to make the takeover of the underground of the Point complete. Bax was my right-hand man. He had the connections both inside and outside of prison walls, the reputation, the presence to make shit happen, and Dovie was the conscience, the light that reminded me why someone like me needed to take over where Novak had left off.

  In a place like the Point, there were always going to be bad things that fueled the day-to-day grind. When people live in a place covered in filth and grime, they have to have vices to make it through. Sex, drugs, money, gambling, murder, and all sorts of general mayhem were commonplace on this particular battlefield, and when a tyrant—an evil, horrible man—was in charge of the flow of all of those things . . . he could hold the city in a choke hold. I had no desire to do that.

  I understood that those things were never going to go anywhere in the Point, and as long as I was the guy in charge of how they were running, how they were being doled out to the pitiful masses, then I could make a place that was pretty much uncivilized at least mostly tolerable to live in. It was tricky and risky, but I had always thrived on a good challenge, which was how I had ended up tangled up in the criminal underground with Bax all those years ago. It was also why I couldn’t get enough of Brysen Carter.

  Everything about her was cool and pale. The disdain she felt for me practically rolled off of her elegant shoulders whenever we were within breathing distance of each other. Her denim-colored gaze tried to freeze me in place every time she looked at me, and the way she stiffened and tensed that gorgeous body whenever I got close made my dick hard . . . every single time. She was polished and perfect. She reminded me of another life I had kicked to the curb, and I wanted her like I wanted my next breath. The fact that she couldn’t stand me—obviously thought I was scum—made her allure even more potent. All I wanted to do was get her naked and rumple her up, but because Dovie was so fond of her, I maintained some sense of control. Well, control I had up until tonight.

  As I pulled the car into the garage, closing the bulletproof, metal bay door shut behind me, I had to shift behind the steering wheel at the thought of her mouth on mine. Brysen Carter was a good girl. A pretty blonde from the right side of town, but, man, could she kiss like a dirty girl, like a girl from my side of town. It made all the blood-heating, spine-tingling hunger she had eating at my insides get even more insistent.

  I slammed the car door and rounded the fender just as Bax came wandering out of his office. I never questioned it when he was here late. These cars, the old muscle cars, the classics in disrepair, meant something to him. He was bringing them all back to life piece by piece, which meant that since I lived upstairs in a converted loft, I had to listen to the sounds of revving engines and clattering tools well into the early hours of the morning sometimes. We shared a fist bump, and Bax ran his hands over the shaved surface of his head.

  Physically, we were on opposite sides of the fence. Bax had dark hair, dark eyes, a black star tattooed next to his eye, a hard, unsmiling mouth, and a big, bulky build that was used as a weapon more often than not. He looked like a thug and a criminal but it worked well for him. We were both tall, a few generous inches over six feet, but I was a lot leaner, lankier, and had been born with all the characteristics that made for a perfect fit with my country-club background. I could hold my own, if things ever became physical, but I preferred to talk my way out of a tight spot, figured my brain was always my best weapon, not that this was reflected on the surface. I had wavy blond hair, shot through with gold and honey, that was a little long and shaggy and, more often than not, hanging in my green eyes. I looked like a trust-fund kid on vacation. I knew it, and even though I called the Point home now, I refused to change it. The way I looked made people underestimate me all the time, and since both Bax and I were still in our early twenties, trying to run a city built on the souls of those broken years before we had even been born, I needed every advantage I could get.

  Bax shoved the end of a cigarette in his mouth and lifted a black eyebrow up at me.

  “You get the cash from the frat dude?”

  I nodded and rolled my head around on my shoulders.

  “He wasn’t happy about it.” One of the first lessons I had learned was people didn’t gamble because they thought they would win. They gambled because they were compelled to do it. It was an addiction like anything else.

  “How not happy?”

  I squinted at him through the smoke floating between us.

  “He pulled a gun and popped off a few rounds.” In a house full of drunk college kids. What an idiot, and what a total waste of a threat. Getting hardware pulled on me was just a hazard of my job. Unless the gun was pointed at my face, I tended to just ignore it.

  “Shit. Glad I asked Dovie not to go.”

  I shook my head at him and crossed my arms over my chest. “You asked her not to go because you’re freaked out that she’s going to meet some charming undergrad that can promise her a better life and she’ll drop you on your ass.”

  He grunted and flicked his cigarette butt into one of the drains on the floor and rolled his massive shoulders.

  “She can always do bet
ter.”

  I snorted. “Not according to her.” She loved him, scars, his shitty attitude, his rough past, and the fact he hovered really close to the line of being tamed and being wild—she loved every last bit of it. Bax was her perfect, and I was still surprised he didn’t seem to grasp it.

  “What happened at the party?”

  “I don’t know. I saw Brysen and got distracted. I already had the money, so I thought it was all good, then the idiot starts flashing a piece around and a clusterfuck broke loose.”

  I had grabbed Brysen, headed for the back of the house because I couldn’t see the shooter, and everyone else was trying to shove through the front door. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her, and I got the added bonus of getting to put my hands on her. I felt like a dick for having to bail on her, but the life I had now didn’t line up with sticking around to chat with the cops. I was more of a slink-into-the-shadows kind of guy nowadays.

  “You roll into the party packing?”

  Ever since I had made the decision to try and pick up where Novak had left off, Bax was on me to be more careful. He might be comfortable carrying a gun around, might be used to blood and gunfire, to fists breaking faces and people quaking in fear when he entered a room, but I was still adjusting to this new life and wasn’t really ready to give that much of myself over to the Point yet.

  “No. It was just a bunch of kids. It was fine. He’ll just have to find a new way to pay for his books and beer this semester. He wasn’t really a threat.” People shouldn’t risk what they couldn’t afford to lose. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.