Czytaj książkę: «Stay With Me»

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by J Lynn

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The Hot Guy Brigade surrounded me.

A lot of people believed that the Hot Guy Brigade was a myth. Nothing more than a campus urban legend, kind of like the story about the homecoming queen who’d pitched herself out of one of the dorm windows because she was tripping balls on LSD or crack, or she had fallen in the shower and busted her head open or something. Who knew? The story changed every time I heard it, but unlike the supposed dead chick who haunted Gardiner Hall, the Hot Guy Brigade was a real living and breathing thing—several things to be exact.

Several hot things.

It was rare that they were all together nowadays, which is why they’d become sort of campus lore, but wow-wee, when they got together, it was a whole lot of eye candy.

And it was probably the closest to perfection I’d ever get in my lifetime—that and the miracle makeup called Dermablend, because it almost covered the scar on my face.

We were all piled into Avery Morgansten’s apartment. Based on the rock on her ring finger, she was well on her way to getting a last-name change, and although I didn’t know her well, really didn’t know anyone except Teresa, I was happy for her. Anytime I’d been around her, she was always sweet. She could be a little quiet sometimes and seemed to disappear into her own head, but anyone could tell she and her fiancé, Cameron Hamilton, were deeply in love by the way they watched each other.

Like the way he was watching her now, as if there were no other woman in the world but her. Even though they were sitting together, Cam on the couch and Avery in his lap, those bright blue eyes were fixed on her as she laughed at something his sister Teresa said.

If I had to rank the Hot Guy Brigade, I’d say that Cam was the president. It wasn’t just his looks, but also his personality. No one felt odd or left out around him. He had this . . . warmth that was absolutely contagious.

Secretly, and I’d totally take it to my grave, I envied Avery. I barely even knew her, but I coveted what she had—the gorgeous hot guy, who was also genuinely a good guy, who still could make you feel comfortable around him. That was rare.

“Want another drink?”

I dipped my head to the left and then back, toward the voice of Jase Winstead, and my breath caught a little. Here was the opposite of Cam—extremely good-looking, but totally did not make me feel comfy when my eyes locked with his deep gray ones. With his swarthy skin, longish brown hair, and almost unreal, model good looks, he’d be the lieutenant of the Hot Guy Brigade. He was by far the sexiest out of all of them, and he could be supersweet, like now, but he wasn’t as easygoing or charming as Cam, which was why Cam held top position.

“Nah, I’m good.” I raised my half-full bottle of beer I’d been sipping since I’d gotten there. “But thanks.”

He smiled and then moved off, circling his arms around Teresa’s waist. She cocked her head back against his chest as she placed her hands on his arms. His face softened.

Yeah, I was a wee bit envious of Teresa, too.

I’d never been in a serious relationship. There hadn’t been any dates in high school. The scar on my face had been a hell of a lot more vibrant then, something no miracle makeup could camouflage . . . and high school kids, yeah, they could be unforgiving when it came to very visible flaws. And even if someone could look past that, with the way my life had been back then, there hadn’t been room or time for a date let alone a relationship.

Then there had been Jonathan King. He was in my history class freshman year, really cute guy and we’d hit it off. For obvious reasons, I’d been reluctant to go out with him when he asked, but damn, he’d been persistent and I’d finally said yes. We’d gone out a few times, but as the relationship progressed and he, being a totally normal guy, had made a move on me one night, when we’d been alone in my dorm, I’d been stupidly convinced that since he could see past the scar on my face, he’d been able to see past everything else.

I’d been wrong.

We didn’t even kiss and we sure as hell didn’t go out again after that, and I hadn’t told anyone about him and that disastrous night. I didn’t think about him. Ever.

Well, except for right now, damnit.

As I watched the Hot Guy Brigade being all hot, I was totally aware of the fact I was boy crazy due to my lack of . . . well, of boys in my life.

“Got it!”

My chin jerked up as Ollie rounded the couch, his girlfriend, Brittany, trailing behind him, her eyes rolling back so far in her head I thought she might pass out as she shook her head.

Ollie approached the coffee table and leaned down, holding some kind of box tortoise in his hands. My brows rose as the little guy’s legs wheeled. What the . . . ?

“It’s not a party until Ollie breaks out the tortoise,” said Jase, and my lips curved up in a grin.

Cam sighed as he leaned around Avery. “What in the hell are you doing with Raphael?”

“Correction.” Ollie placed him on the table. With one hand, he brushed his shoulder-length blond hair back behind one ear. “This is Michelangelo, and I think it’s pretty fucked up you don’t even know which one is yours anymore. You’ve probably sent Raphael into a depression.”

“I tried to stop him,” Brit said, folding her arms. The two of them looked like they finaled in the Perfect Blond Couple Award. “But you know how he is . . .”

Everyone knew how he was.

Ollie was in grad school now, to become a doctor—surprisingly—but his antics were as big a legend as the Hot Guy Brigade. Ollie would be second to the lieutenant. He got a lot of bonus points for coming down to Shepherdstown every other weekend to see his girlfriend and for being a shameless goofball.

“As you can see, I have fashioned a new leash.” He gestured at what looked like a miniature belt secured around the tortoise’s shell.

Cam stared up at him. “Are you serious?”

“You can walk them now.” And then he proceeded to demonstrate this by leading Michelangelo across the table, and I had to wonder if Avery and Cam ate off it. “It’s better than yarn.”

Walking a tortoise? That . . . that had to be worse than walking a cat. I started giggling. “It looks like a Barbie belt.”

“It’s a designer leash,” he corrected, his lips twitching. “But I did get the idea while we were in Walmart, checking out the toy section.”

Teresa frowned. “Why were you in the toy section?”

“Yeah,” Jase drew the word out. “Is there something you two aren’t telling us?”

Brit’s eyes widened.

Ollie just shrugged. “I like to check out the toys. They are so much cooler now than when we were kids.”

This statement led to an all-out discussion about how our generation had been sorely cheated when it came to the sophistication and cool factor of today’s toys, and I had to think really hard about the kind of toys I’d played with. There’d been Barbies—of course, there’d been Barbies—but instead of Big Wheels and board games, I had satiny sashes and sparkly crowns.

And then I had nothing.

As the group started talking about summer plans, I tried to pay attention to where each of them was planning to go. Cam and Avery were going to spend their summer in D.C., since Cam had made it onto the United team. I’d never been to D.C., even though Shepherd wasn’t too far from the capital. Brit and Ollie were doing something amazingly crazy. They were leaving a week after school let out and heading to Paris, and they were planning to road-trip across Europe. I’d never been on a plane, let alone overseas. Hell, I hadn’t even been to New York City. Teresa and Jase were in the midst of planning an awesome beach trip to the Carolinas with his parents and little brother. They were getting a condo on the beach, and all Teresa could talk about was soaking her toes in ocean water. I’d also never been to the beach, so I had no idea what sand felt like under my feet.

I really needed to get out more and have a life. Seriously.

But that was okay, because those things, including gallivanting across the continent with a Hot Guy, weren’t part of my goals—the Three F’s.

Finish college.

Find a career in the nursing field.

Finally reap the benefits of following through on something.

Goals were good. Boring. But good.

“You’re awful quiet tonight, Calla.”

I tensed up, unable to help myself, and then I felt heat seep across my face at the sound of Brandon Shiver’s voice. Lowering the bottle between my knees, I forced the muscles along my shoulders to relax. It wasn’t like I’d forgotten that Brandon was sitting next to me, to my left. How could I forget that? I was just currently pretending he wasn’t there.

I wet my lips as I shifted my head so a sheet of my own blond hair fell over my left shoulder, shielding my cheek. “I’m just taking it all in.”

Brandon chuckled. He had a nice laugh. And a nice face. And a nice body. And a really nice ass.

And then there was Brandon. Sigh. Like an extended sigh felt around the world. He would also be a close second to the lieutenant of the Hot Guy Brigade with his brown hair and broad shoulders.

“With Ollie here, it’s always a lot to take in,” he commented, eyeing me over the rim of his bottle. “Wait until he starts talking about the tortoise roller skates idea he has.”

I laughed, relaxing a little more. Brandon was hot, but he was also a nice guy, somewhere in between Cam and Jase. “I can’t even imagine tortoises on roller skates.”

“Ollie’s either bat-shit crazy or a pure genius.” Brandon shifted on the ottoman. “Jury’s still out on the verdict.”

“I think he’s a genius.” I watched Ollie scoop up the tortoise and head back around the couch to the pretty extravagant habitat the little green man lived in. “The way Brit talks, he’s acing all of his courses. Med school can’t be easy.”

“Yeah, but most really smart people are totally insane.” He grinned when I laughed under my breath. “So, has the epic battle for next-semester classes ended?”

I nodded as I grinned again, settling back in the moon chair. With only a semester and a half left before I graduated with my BSN in nursing, getting into classes was like arm-wrestling Hulk Hogan. Everyone who knew my name, or was within earshot, knew I’d been battling my schedule for what felt like an eternity. We were currently a week away from the end of the semester and almost a month since academic advisement for next semester had closed up.

“Yeah, finally. I think I had to give up my right leg to get my classes, but I got all I needed. I have to meet with someone in financial aid on Monday, but I should be good.”

His brows knitted as I glanced at him. “Is everything okay with that?”

“I think so.” I couldn’t think of any reason why it wouldn’t be. “Any plans for this summer?”

One broad shoulder rose. “Haven’t really thought much of it since I’m taking summer classes.”

“Sounds like fun.”

He snorted.

I started to say something else ridiculously not clever since I was doing pretty good with this one-on-one convo with Brandon, but I lost track of what I was about to say when there was a knock. My gaze tracked Ollie to the door. He answered like he lived here.

“What up, pretty lady?” he said, and I sat up, my fingers tightening around the neck of the beer bottle.

A pretty, little brunette cruised on into the apartment, a red Sheetz bag dangling from her fingertips. She smiled at Ollie and gave Brit a little wave.

I didn’t know her name.

I sort of refused to learn it, because after the last two semesters of knowing Brandon, I didn’t put the effort into knowing any of the girls he “hung out” with because there were many and they never stuck around long.

But this girl—with her tiny brown pixie cut and ballerina body—was different. They had a class together this semester and they’d started hanging out in March, but this was the first I’d seen her with Brandon outside of campus.

Actually, I’d never really met her. I’d never really met any of his frequent flyers, just seen them around school and sometimes at parties, but Brandon hadn’t been on the party scene since . . . well, since March.

“There she is.” His green eyes lit up.

Oh shit.

I was a slow learner.

I inhaled through my nose and smiled as she made her way around the couples, coming to Brandon as he straightened from the ottoman and opened his arms. She went right into them, easing onto his knees and looping her arms around his neck. The Sheetz bag bounced over his back, and her mouth was like a Brandon-heat-seeking-missile, and I couldn’t blame her for that.

They kissed.

A big, wet, and deep kiss—a real kiss. Not the “we’re getting to know each other” kind of kiss or “we’re just hooking up” kiss, but a “we’ve already swapped lots of body fluids” kind of kiss.

And God, I watched them kiss like they were trying to eat each other’s faces up until the moment I knew I was upping my creeper status to a whole new level. I forced myself to look away, and my gaze collided with Teresa’s.

A sympathetic look crossed her pretty face as she turned in Jase’s arms, because she knew . . . oh lawd, she knew I’d been harboring a big gushy crush on Brandon.

“I brought you a cheesy pretzel,” the girl announced when they came up for air.

Brandon loved cheese-stuffed pretzels like I loved double fudge brownies.

“She brought you a pretzel?” Ollie asked. “Man, you put a ring on that.”

Brit rolled her eyes as she looped her arms around Ollie’s waist. “Does not take much to impress you.”

Twisting in her arms, Ollie dipped his head to hers. “You know what it takes to impress me, baby.”

I kept waiting for Brandon to fly out of the chair and run away from the idea of putting a ring on the finger of a girl he’d known for only a couple of months, but since I didn’t get the lovely view of his ass heading for the door, I glanced at him when I knew I shouldn’t. But I was a glutton for punishment.

Brandon was staring at the girl, grinning in a way that said . . . that said he was absolutely happy.

I swallowed my sigh.

And then he looked over at me, and before I could freak over the fact that he caught me staring at him like a stalker, his smile went up a blinding notch. “You haven’t gotten a chance to meet Tatiana yet.”

Damnit. I didn’t want to learn her name, but Tatiana was such a cool freaking name.

Tatiana shook her head as she turned brown eyes toward me. “No, we haven’t.”

“This is my friend, Calla Fritz,” he said, smoothing a hand up her back. “We had music class together last semester.”

That was who I was—Calla Fritz, always and forever the friend of the Hot Guy Brigade. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I blinked back the stupid sudden rush of tears as I wiggled my fingers in Tatiana’s direction. “It’s nice to meet you.”

That wasn’t a lie. Not really.

On Monday, I left my dorm early enough to head down to Ikenberry Hall, which was all the way down a huge hill my ass so did not appreciate. It was early May, but the temps were already cracking into the eighties, and even with my hair pulled up into a hasty knot, I could feel the humidity cloaking my skin and threading its annoying fingers through my hair.

Soon, before the end of my finals today, I’d look like a frizz ball.

I cut down the side path outside of Ikenberry and winced when I had to open the door and dip inside before a spiderweb of epic proportion dropped from the little roof over the door and onto my head.

Cold air was cranking in the building as I pushed my sunglasses onto my head and walked down the hall, entering the financial aid offices. After giving my name, the overworked and frazzled-looking middle-aged woman motioned me to take a seat.

I only had to wait five minutes before a tall and slender older woman with silvery hair cut in a fashionable way came out to get me. We didn’t go into one of the cubicles where aid advisers worked. Oh no, she led back into one of the closed offices farther down the hall.

Then she closed the door behind us and walked behind her desk. “Please have a seat, Miss Fritz.”

Knots formed low in my belly as I sat.

This had never happened before. Usually, when I got called down here, it was due to information being missing from the file or a paper needing to be signed. After all, it couldn’t be a big deal. I only used financial aid for living expenses that weren’t covered by the crappy waitressing job I had, and it came in really handy when I quit at the beginning of the semester to focus more fully on my studies.

The nursing program was no joke.

I slowly placed my book bag on the floor beside my legs as I scanned her desk. Elaine Booth was on her nameplate, so unless she was pretending to be someone else, that’s who I was sitting in front of. There were also a lot of photos on her desk. Family photos—black-and-whites, colored, photos ranging from toddlers all the way up to my age, maybe even older.

I looked away quickly as an old pang hit me in the chest. “So . . . what’s going on?”

Mrs. Booth folded her hands over a file. “We received word from admissions last week that your check for next semester’s tuition has bounced.”

I blinked once, and then twice. “What?”

“The check didn’t clear,” she explained, glancing up from the file. Her gaze drifted over my face and then quickly averted away from my eyes. “Due to insufficient funds.”

She had to be wrong. There was no way that check bounced because that check was attached to a savings account that I only used for tuition, an account that held all of my money for school. “There has to be something wrong. There should be enough money in there for the next semester and a half.”

Not only that, there should’ve been enough money in that account just in case of some crazy emergency, and to carry me through at least a couple of months after graduation while I did the job hunting thing and decided where I wanted to live, if I stayed here or . . .

“We verified with the bank, Calla.” She’d dropped my last name and somehow that seemed worse. “Sometimes we have problems with checks due to the amount or a typo in entering the account number, but the bank confirmed there was insufficient funds.”

I couldn’t believe it. “How much did they say was in the account?”

She shook her head. “That’s proprietary information we’re not privy to, so you’d need to talk to the bank about that. Now, the good news is that you’ve always paid your tuition early, which means we’ve got time to work something out. We’ll get this fixed, Calla.” Pausing, she opened my file as I stared at her like my butt was suddenly frozen in my seat. “You’re already in the system for financial aid, and what we can do is adjust the requests for next semester, ensuring that your classes are covered . . .”

My stomach had dropped to my knees at some point and was quickly plummeting to the floor as she continued on about increasing loan amounts, applying for Pell grants, and even a crap ton of scholarships.

At this moment, I didn’t give two craps about any of that.

This couldn’t be happening.

There was no way there wasn’t money in that account. I was meticulous when it came to which account I used for which bill or need, and I never used that account unless it was for tuition. I hadn’t even activated the debit card attached to it.

Then it hit me as I watched Mrs. Booth pull form after form out from racks next to her desk, stacking them neatly and calmly as if my entire life hadn’t just slammed on the brakes.

Ice drenched my veins as I tried to drag in my next breath, but it got stuck in my throat. This might not be a giant fuckup by the bank and the college. This could very well be seriously happening.

Oh my God.

Because there was someone other than me who had the means to get access to that account—one person who was virtually dead to me, so virtually that I behaved as if she were dead—but I couldn’t believe she’d do this. There was no way.

The rest of the meeting with Mrs. Booth was fuzzy to me. Numbly, I took the FAFSA applications and I walked out of the chilly offices, out into the bright sunlight of an early May morning, loaded up with forms.

There was still time before my final, and I found the nearest bench, sat down, and shoved the papers into my bag. I pulled out my cell phone with shaky fingers, looked up the number to the bank back home, and hit call.

Five minutes later, I sat on the bench, seeing nothing beyond the shades of my sunglasses, and feeling nothing, which was good—the blank and empty feeling in the pit of my stomach was all right because I knew it would turn to red-hot, blinding and murderous, cut-a-bitch rage in no time. I couldn’t do that. I had to stay calm. Keep my emotions in check, because . . .

All my money was gone.

And I knew—every cell of my body knew—this was just the beginning, the tip of the iceberg.

Chapter 2

How my life went from mostly being okay, with the exception of being a little lonely sometimes, to one giant hot mess in a span of a week was beyond my ability to comprehend.

I was so screwed, and not in the fun and sweaty way.

It wasn’t just my savings account that had literally been cleared out two weeks before I’d written my check for tuition. Oh God, if only that was it. I could’ve bounced back from that. I could’ve even let that go, because what else could I have done?

After all, I knew it had been my own flesh and blood that had cleared me out, my own mother—my hocked up on pills, and most likely drunk off her ass, mother who my closest friends believed was dead. In a way, that hadn’t been too far from the truth. A terrible lie, but I hadn’t talked to her in ages and the alcohol and the pills and God knows what else had over the years killed the caring and fun mother I remembered from when I was little.

But she was still my mom. Therefore, the last thing I wanted to do was involve the police, because seriously, her life was already shitty as it was, and inexplicably, after all the drama and the heartache, a whirl of pity always surfaced when I thought of her.

That woman had to experience things no mother ever should.

But it hadn’t only been my savings accounts. Over the course of last week, during my finals, which I somehow managed to still complete without losing my ever-loving mind, the tip of the iceberg sunk the Titanic.

I pulled my credit just because . . . well, I had this horrible feeling it was worse. And it had been.

Credits cards I’d never seen in my life had been taken out in my name and they’d been maxed out. A student loan with a major bank I hadn’t even known existed had also been taken out, and that alone cost more than four semesters at Shepherd did.

I was in debt, to the tune of over a hundred thousand dollars when it was all said and done, and that wasn’t even including the debt I racked up on my own with the small student loans I’d taken out and the car loan I now wasn’t sure I could afford.

My stomach dipped and my chest seized every time I thought about how badly I was screwed, and it took everything in me to talk myself down from losing my shit. Credit and debt made or broke you in this world. I wouldn’t be able to get a loan if I needed one. Worse yet, even if I managed to scrape together the money to finish out college, any job I applied for could pull my credit and base their decision to hire me on what it showed.

On Thursday, after my last final, I’d suffered a minor breakdown, which involved a lot of tears, even more double fudge brownies, and maybe a little bit of rocking in the corner. I would’ve stayed in that corner for at least a month, but I refused, absolutely flat-out refused, to allow my life to get sucked away from me again.

Obviously, none of my friends knew what was going on or knew anything about me. Hell, they thought my mom was dead and Teresa thought I was from around the Shepherdstown area.

All lies.

And how could I tell Teresa, or worse yet, Brandon? Oh hey, I got to go home, and you know, commit an act of homicide and strangle my mother—yeah, the one you thought was dead, because I’m also a horrible liar—to death for dicking me over. Can we hang out at your place and have drinks when I get back? That convo was way too humiliating to even think about, because then I’d have to tell them about the drugs, the alcohol, the absolute fail at life, and then the weird separation between Mom and Dad, which really was just Dad freaking disappearing, and then that convo would ultimately lead to the grief and the fire that had destroyed my entire family and almost destroyed me.

I wasn’t going there.

So I told them I was spending the summer with extended family, and hopefully, they didn’t end up reading about me in the news after I murdered someone.

No one questioned those plans, because just last year I had pretended to go home over break when in reality I had checked into a hotel in Martinsburg, had splurged on room service . . . like a loser.

A total loser.

Anyway . . .

I was putting the Three F’s on hold and I was going home. And hopefully, praying to every god out there, Mom still had some of the money that had been awarded to her, and that money had been substantial. There was no way she could’ve blown through all of her money and mine. I just needed to get her to—I don’t know—get her to fix this somehow.

That was Plan A.

Plan B consisted only of the realization that if she didn’t have a dime to her name, then at least—again hopefully—I had free housing for the summer, a summer where I’d be praying that my financial aid would go through. I was also praying that I managed to make it through the summer in a nowhere town and not murder my mother, so I could put use to the financial aid if I got it.

My hands had shaken as I clenched the steering wheel and hit the exit that led to Plymouth Meeting, a town just a few miles out of Philadelphia. I’d thought I might vomit all over myself as the thick oaks and walnut trees crowding the two-lane highway had thinned out and the hills stopped climbing. The trip hadn’t been long, a little under four hours from Shepherdstown, but it had felt like forever.

Now I was stopped at the red light across the street from a dollar store, in a town I never ever—ever—wanted to go back to, and I rested my forehead against the steering wheel.

I’d gone home first. No cars. No lights on.

Lifting my head an inch or two, I dropped it back onto the steering wheel.

I’d pulled out a house key I’d never ever—ever—wanted to use again, and had let myself in. The house had been virtually empty. A couch and an old flat screen in the living room. The small dining room had been vacant with the exception of a few unopened boxes. Barely anything in the fridge. The bedroom downstairs had a bed in it, but no sheets. Mom’s clothes had been piled on the floor and it had been a mess, scattered with papers and stuff I hadn’t wanted to take too close a look at. Upstairs, the loft bedroom that had been mine for a few years was completely changed. The bed was gone, as were the dresser and the little desk my grandmother had bought me before she passed away. There was a futon that looked a little clean, and I didn’t even want to know who was sleeping up there. The house hadn’t looked lived in. Like someone, namely my mother, had dropped off the face of the earth.

This had not boded well.

There also hadn’t been a single photo in the house. No picture frames on the walls. No memories. That hadn’t surprised me.

I lifted my head and dropped it on the steering wheel again. “Ugh.”

At least the electricity had still been turned on in the house. That was one good thing, right? That meant Mom had some kind of money.

I winced on my third steering wheel head bang.

A horn blew behind me, and I immediately straightened and peered out the windshield. Green light. Whoops. My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I blew out a determined breath and continued on. There was only one other place she could be.

Ugh.

Yet another place I never ever—ever—wanted to see again. Forcing myself to take several long and deep breaths, I coasted along the main road, probably driving under the speed limit and annoying every car behind me, but I couldn’t help it.

My heart banged around in my chest as I hung a right and hit what was considered the main drag in town, only because it was where all the fast-food joints and chain restaurants surrounded the mall and shopping centers. About ten miles down the road was where Mona’s sat, across from what looked like a pretty dicey strip club that was lined with rough-and-ready-looking motorcycles.

Oh boy.

The streets were congested, but as I cut across the lane and pulled into the all too familiar parking lot littered with potholes and God knows what else, there weren’t a lot of vehicles there.

Then again, it was Monday night.

Parking the car under the neon sign at the back of the parking lot that was currently missing an a in the name Mona’s, I took several more deep breaths and repeated, “I will not kill her. I will not kill her.”

Once I was sure I wouldn’t break down and go all redneck on her ass when I saw her, I climbed out of my Ford Focus and tugged on the hem of my denim cutoffs, then readjusted the soft and flowing cream long-sleeve blouse that would’ve been longer than my shorts if I hadn’t tucked the front of it into them.

My flip-flops echoed off the pavement as I crossed the parking lot, clutching the strap of my bag in a way that meant I could wing this thing around like a deadly weapon.

As I neared the entrance, I shored up my shoulders and let out a low breath. The square window in the door was clean, but cracked. The white and red paint that used to be so vibrant and eye-catching was peeling off like someone had splashed acid across the walls. The big window, tinted black and with a flashy OPEN sign, was also cracked in the corner, forming tiny spiderweb fissures across the center of the glass.

If the outside looked like this . . .

“Oh God.” I so did not want to do this.

My gaze drifted back to the dark square window in the door, and my blue eyes looked way too wide and my face too pale in the reflection, which also made the superhot scar cutting down my left cheek, starting just below the corner of my eye to the corner of my lip, more visible.

I’d been lucky. That’s what the doctors and the firemen and everyone in the world who had an opinion had declared. Less than an inch higher, I would’ve lost my left eye.

But standing where I was now, I didn’t feel so lucky. Actually, I was pretty sure Lady Luck was a coldhearted bitch who needed to die.

Telling myself I could do this, I grabbed the rough handle and yanked the door open. And I immediately stumbled to an awkward stop just inside the bar, losing one of my flip-flops as the familiar scent of beer, cheap perfume, and fried food washed over me.

Home.

No.

My free hand closed into a fist. This bar was not home to me. Or should not be home to me. It didn’t matter that I’d spent almost every day after high school holed up in one of the back rooms here or that I snuck out to the main floor to watch Mom because this was the only place where she smiled. Probably because she was usually drunk when she was here, but whatever.

Things looked the same. Kind of.

Square and high round tables with rough and worn tops. Bar stools with backs and tall chairs. The clang of billiard balls snapping off one another drew my attention to the back of the bar, beyond an empty raised dance floor, to the pool tables.

A jukebox in the corner played some kind of tear-in-my-beer country music as a middle-aged woman I’d never seen before barreled out of the Dutch doors across from the dance floor. Her bright blond hair, obviously not natural, was piled atop her head. A pen was shoved behind one ear. Dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, she looked like a customer, but then again, Mona’s had never been a uniform-wearing kind of bar. She carried two red baskets stacked high with fried chicken wings as she sashayed over to one of the booths lining the wall near the jukebox.

Balled-up napkins were under tables and there were patches of the floor that looked sticky. Other sections looked like they simply needed to be replaced. With the dim bar lighting, I knew I wasn’t even seeing half of it.

Mona’s looked like a woman who’d been ridden hard and left out to dry. It wasn’t dirty, but more like almost clean. As if someone desperately tried to stay on top of the losing battle and was doing the best they could.

Which could not be Mom. She had never been into cleaning, but she used to be better. There were distant, blurry memories of her being better.

Since I was standing at the door long enough to look like an idiot, and as I scanned the floor, I didn’t see Mom, I decided it would be a good idea to, I don’t know, move. I took a step forward, then realized I’d left one of my flip-flops by the door.

“Damnit.” I turned, dipping my chin as I wiggled my toes back into the shoe.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

I twisted toward the sound of a surprisingly deep male voice, a voice so deep and smooth, it rolled over my skin like I’d been draped in satin. I started to point out that, duh, since I was standing in a bar, I probably did look like I needed a drink, but the snappy words died on my tongue as I faced the horseshoe-shaped bar.

At first, the guy behind the bar seemed to have straightened, as if he was drawing back. It was a strange reaction. In this low lighting and the way I was standing, there was no way he saw the scar, but then I got a real good look at him, and I wasn’t paying attention to that anymore.

Oh my, my, my . . .

There was a man behind the bar, the kind of guy I would not ever in the history of ever expect to see behind Mona’s bar.

Whoa, hot-bartender alert to the max.

Goodness, he was gorgeous, stunning in the way Jase Winstead was, maybe even more so, because I couldn’t quite remember seeing someone who looked as good as he did in real life, and I was only seeing Hot Bartender Dude from the waist up.

He had brown hair that looked like a rich, warm color under the brighter lights of the bar area. It was cut close to the skull on the sides and a little longer on the top. Wavy, it was styled back off his forehead in an artfully messy look, showing off his broad and high cheekbones. His skin was tan, hinting at some kind of foreign and exotic ancestry. With a strong and sculpted jaw that could cut rock, he could be the poster boy for shaving ads. Under a straight nose that had a slight hook in it were the fullest, most downright sinful, pair of lips I’d ever seen on a guy.

Good lawd, I could stare at those lips for hours, like way beyond the acceptable time limit and right into creeperville, population Calla. I forced my gaze back up.

His brows appeared to be naturally arched over the corners of his eyes, which drew the attention right to his eyes.

Brown eyes.

Brown eyes that were currently slowly and casually drifting over me in a way that felt like a warm caress. My lips parted on an inhale.

He was wearing a worn gray shirt that clung to broad shoulders and an unbelievably defined chest. I mean, I could actually see the cut of his chest through the shirt. Holy crap, who knew that was even possible? From what I could see down to where the bar top cut him off was an equally hard, and probably equally dazzling, stomach.

If this dude went to Shepherd, he would’ve dethroned Jase for lieutenant of the Hot Guy Brigade. And the sigh associated with Hot Bartender Dude would most definitely be felt around the world and in the lady parts.

Probably in some boy parts, too.

Those delicious lips curved up on one side. Yep, he even had a panty-dropping hot smile. “You okay, honey?”

He used the term honey like it was natural to him. Not cheesy or slimy, but a sexy endearment that had my belly warming.

And I was staring at him like an idiot.

“Yeah.” I found my voice to say one word, and it had croaked out of me. God, I wanted to body-slam myself through the floor as heat zinged across my cheeks.

That sexy half grin tipped up a notch as he extended an arm, curling his fingers back toward him. “Why don’t you come over here and have a seat?”

Okay.

My feet moved forward without any brain involvement because, seriously, who didn’t respond when Hot Bartender Dude wiggled long fingers at you like that? I found my butt planted in a bar stool with a ripped and slightly uncomfortable cushion.

Dear God in heaven, up close like this, he was truly a masculine masterpiece of mouthwatering hotness.

That half grin didn’t fade as he placed his palms on the edge of the bar top. “What’s your poison?”

I blinked at him, real slow like, and all I could think about was why in the hell was he working in this dump? He could be in magazines, or on the TV, or at least working at the steak house down the street.

Hot Bartender Dude tilted his head to the side as his grin spread to the other corner of that freaking mouth. “Honey . . . ?”

I resisted the urge to plop my elbows on the bar top and stare up at him, even though I was already halfway to doing that. “Yes?”

He chuckled softly as he leaned in, and I mean, waaay in. Within a second, he was all up in my personal space, his mouth mere inches from mine, and his biceps flexed, stretching the worn material of his shirt.

Oh my golly gee, I hoped his shirt just ripped up the sides and fell right off.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

What I would like was to watch his mouth move some more. “Um . . .” My brain emptied.

He arched a brow as his gaze tracked from my mouth to my eyes. “Do I need to card you?”

That snapped me out of my hot-inducing stupor. “No. Not at all. I’m twenty-one.”

“You sure?”

Heat infused my face again. “I swear.”

“Pinky swear?”

My gaze dipped to his now-extended hand and to his pinky. “Seriously?”

A dimple started to form in his right cheek as his grin turned into a smile. Holy crapola, if he had a set of dimples, I was so in trouble. “Do I look like I’m not serious?”

He looked like he was up to absolutely no good as I stared at him. There was a downright mischievous glimmer to his warm, cocoa eyes. My lips started to twitch, and then I reached up and wrapped my pinky around his much larger one.

“Pinky swear,” I said, thinking that was one hell of a way to verify age.

That grin of his was downright delicious. “Ah, a girl who’ll pinky swear is after my own heart.”

Yeah, I had no clue how to respond to that.

Instead of letting go as I pulled my hand away, he slipped his fingers around my wrist in a gentle, but firm, hold. As my eyes started to pop out of my head, he somehow got closer, and he smelled . . . good. A mixture of spice and soap that went straight to my before-mentioned lady parts.

My phone went off in my purse, blaring “Brown Eyed Girl.” As I dug around for it, Hot Bartender Dude laughed.

“Van Morrison?” he asked.

I nodded absently as my fingers wrapped around the slim phone. The call was from Teresa. I hit silent.

“Nice music taste.”

My lashes lifted as I dropped the phone back in my purse. “I . . . um, I like the old-school stuff better than what’s big today. I mean, they actually sang and played music then. Now they just prance around half naked, scream, or talk through songs. It isn’t even about the music anymore.”

Appreciation lit up his eyes. “You pinky swear and listen to old-school music? I like you.”

“You aren’t very hard to impress then.”

He tipped his head back, exposing his neck as he laughed, and good golly Miss Molly, it was a damn nice laugh. Deep. Rich. Playful. The sound turned my tummy to mush. “Pinky swearing and music are very important,” he said.

“Is that so?”

“Yep.” Amusement danced over his face. “So is swearing on Boy Scout honor.”

The twitch at the corners of my lips spread into a grin. “Well, I was never a Boy Scout, so . . .”

“Want to know a secret?”

“Sure,” I breathed.

He tipped his chin down. “I wasn’t a Boy Scout, either.”

For some reason, I wasn’t very surprised by that. Especially when he was still holding on to my wrist.

“You’re not from around here,” he announced.

Not anymore. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, this is a small town, and Mona’s usually sees regulars, and not hot little pieces of distraction like you, so I’m pretty sure you’re not from around here.”

“I used . . .” Wait. What? Hot little pieces of distraction like you? My train of thought was totally derailed.

He let go of my wrist, and not all at once, and he didn’t break eye contact, either. Oh no, it was a slow slide of his fingers along the inside of my wrist and then across my palm to the tips of my fingers, sending a wave of shivers dancing up my arm and then doing a jazz routine down my back.

God, it made me feel crazy, but it felt like there was a spark there. Something tangible that snapped between him and me. Totally insane, but I was finding it hard to breathe and to make sense of my thoughts.

Without taking his eyes off me, he reached down into the ice cooler and pulled out a bottle of beer, twisted off the lid, and sat it on the counter. A second later, I realized there was someone standing next to us.

I glanced to my side, spying a young and good-looking guy with something close to a buzz cut. He nodded at Hot Bartender Dude as he grasped the neck of the bottle. “Thanks, bud.”

And then he was off and we were alone again.

“Anyway,” Hot Bartender Dude said. “How about I make you my special drink?”

Usually when a guy offers to make me their “special drink,” I’d run for the hills screaming bloody murder and mayhem, but I found myself nodding again, which totally cemented the fact I was shallow and maybe a little dumb.

And totally not in control of the situation, which was a . . . unique experience for me.

I watched him pivot around, and the muscles of his back rippled under his shirt as he reached for the pricey liquor on display behind the bar. I didn’t see which bottle he grabbed, but he moved with a fluid grace, grabbing one of the rock glasses, used for smaller mixed drinks and shots over ice.

The fact that I remembered the kind of glass made me want to bang my head off the bar top. I also resisted that urge—thank God. As I watched him make the drink, I tried to figure out his age. He had to be at least a year or two older than me. Within a few seconds, he placed an impressive mixed drink in front of me.

It was red on the top, then graduating into the color of a sunset, with a cherry to garnish. I picked up the drink and took a sip. My taste buds about had a mouth-gasm at the fruity flavor. “You can’t even taste the liquor.”

“I know.” He looked smug. “It’s smooth, but proceed with caution. Drink too fast and too much, it’ll knock you flat on your pretty ass.”

Chalking the “pretty ass” comment up to typical bartender charm, I took another tiny drink. I didn’t have to worry about being careful. I never overindulged when it came to liquor anyway. “What’s it called?”

“Jax.”

My brows rose. “Interesting.”

“Oh, it is.” He folded his arms on the bar top and leaned in, giving me what I was quickly learning was a distracting and devastatingly sexy half grin. “So, you got any plans for tonight?”

I stared at him. That was all I was capable of doing. Besides the fact that after a handful of minutes of being in his presence, I’d almost forgotten why I was here, which was not to socialize, he seriously couldn’t be doing what I thought he was doing.

Flirting with me.

Asking me out.

These things simply did not happen in Calla land. I couldn’t even believe they happened to really hot chicks like Teresa or Brit or Avery, but I definitely knew they did not happen to me.

Hot Bartender Dude shifted his weight forward, and that did amazing things with the muscles in his arms, and then those gorgeous eyes locked on mine, and I forgot how to breathe for a second. The way his lips curved in that moment told me he was fully aware of his effect. “In case I need to clarify what I just said, I’m wanting to know if you’re free to do something with me.”

Chapter 3

Holy poo.

It was a good thing that I’d placed the drink down because I probably would’ve dropped it. “You don’t even know my name,” I blurted out.

His gaze lowered, giving me a view of ridiculously long lashes. “What’s your name, honey?”

I gaped at him in what was probably a very unattractive manner. He couldn’t be serious.

Hot Bartender Dude waited as he lifted those lashes.

Oh my God, was he really serious?

“Do you ask every girl out who walks into this bar?” If so, after taking one long look around the bar, he had some real slim pickings. With the exception of the guy who’d gotten the beer and was sitting with a couple other guys, most of the people in the bar were a few years shy of retiring.

His half grin spread. “Only the good-looking ones.”

I went back to gaping at him.

Part of me wasn’t surprised by his response. I had a face. Always had a face, ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper and was wearing onesies. Mom used to praise how symmetrical my face was, how perfect it was. When I was younger, I looked like one of those porcelain baby dolls and I’d been paraded around as such. And as I grew up, my features had stayed symmetrical—full lips, high cheekbones, small nose, and blue eyes to match the blond hair—real, blond hair.

But the key words here were had and was, and while I was a lot of things, stupid wasn’t one of them.

Well, on most days.

Right now, staring at this guy, I was feeling about three kinds of stupid.

“Correction,” Hot Bartender Dude continued, grinning until that dimple appeared in his right cheek. “Hot girls with sexy legs.”

This guy was so full of it. “I’m sitting down! How can you see my legs?”

He chuckled deeply, and damn if that wasn’t a nice sound, too. “Honey, I saw you walk into the bar, and the first thing I noticed was those legs of yours.”

Okay. I did have really nice legs. Three days a week, I pretended to be into my fitness and ran. I was lucky when it came to my legs. Fat never deposited on my thighs or calves. It ended up in my ass and hips. And okay, there was also a pleasant hum trilling through my veins in response to his words, but I . . .

I sucked in a sharp breath, going cold on the inside.

Hot Bartender Dude and I were face-to-face, full frontal face-to-face, and we had been this entire time. There was no way he hadn’t seen the scar on my face, and not once since laying eyes on Hot Bartender Dude had I thought about the scar. So caught off guard by him, it hadn’t even crossed my mind.

But now that I was thinking about it, I immediately dipped my chin down and to the left as I wrapped my suddenly boneless fingers around the glass. Now I knew he couldn’t be serious, because he was totally a part of the Hot Guy Brigade, and I was Calla, the friend of the Hot Guy Brigade. Not Calla, the girl they blatantly flirted with.

Maybe he was on crack.

I decided to ignore what he’d said as I studiously forced myself to remember why I was here. “It is a really good drink.” Keeping my right cheek to him, I started checking out the bar again. Still no sign of Mom. “Pretty and tasty.”

“Thanks, but we aren’t talking about the drink. Unless talking about a drink involves you and me getting a drink when I get off,” he said, and my gaze swung back to his sharply. He arched one brow when he had my attention. “Then I’m all about having a drink.”

My eyes narrowed as I squirmed in my seat. This . . . this I wasn’t accustomed to. “Are you for real?”

Both brows rose, but instead of backing off, he did that thing with his eyes again, slowly tracking over my face, lingering on my lips, before locking with my own blue peepers. “Yeah, honey, I’m real.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Isn’t that what getting drinks together usually takes care of? The getting to know each other part.”

I was floored. “We literally just met a handful of minutes ago.”

“Already explained that, but I’ll explain something else to you. When I want something, I go for it. Life is way too damn short to live any other way. And I want to get to know you better.” Those lashes lowered one more time, his gaze tracking to my lips like they were some kind of Mecca. “Yeah, I definitely want to get to know you better.”

Holy cowbells.

I opened my mouth, but I had no idea how to respond to that, and before I could even come up with a coherent and worthy response, I jumped at the sound of my name.

“Calla?” boomed a deep, gravelly voice. “Calla, is that you?”

My attention swung toward the Dutch doors, and my mouth dropped as I put the familiar voice to the big, bulky, bald guy.

Uncle Clyde, who wasn’t my uncle, but had been around since, well, forever, barreled his way toward us. A big, toothy smile broke out across his ruddy face. “Holy shit for Saturday dinner, it is you!”

I wiggled my fingers in his direction, and my lips split in a smile. Uncle Clyde hadn’t changed one bit in the three years I’d been gone.

Hot Bartender Dude was quiet as he drew back, but I knew what he had to be thinking if he realized I was Mona’s daughter.

Then Uncle Clyde was on me. The big old bear got his massive arms around me and lifted me clear out of the bar stool. My feet dangled in the air as he hugged me, forcing me to squeeze my toes around the thin straps of my flip-flops.

But I didn’t mind if I lost my shoes or was currently having a hard time breathing. Uncle Clyde . . . God, had been there since the beginning, cooking in the kitchen when Dad and Mom first opened Mona’s, and he’d hung around long after everything had gone to crap and then some. And he was still here.

Tears pricked my eyes as I managed to get my arms around his huge shoulders, inhaling the faint scent of fried food and his Old Spice cologne. I’d missed Clyde. He was the only thing I missed about this town.

“Good God, girl, it is so good to see you.” He squeezed me until I let out a little squeal like a squeak toy. “So damn good.”

“I think she can tell,” Hot Bartender Dude said dryly. “Because you’re suffocating her by squeezing her to death.”

“Shut your trap, boy.” Clyde lowered me to my feet, but kept one arm around my shoulders. His height and width dwarfed me, always had. “You do realize who this is, Jax?”

“I’m going to go with a yes,” came another dry, low response, laced with an edge of humor.

“Wait.” I wiggled to the side, turning to Hot Bartender Dude. “Your name is Jax?”

“Jackson James is actually my name, but everyone calls me Jax.”

I mentally repeated his name. Admittedly, Jax was one sexy as hell nickname and made me think of a certain fictional biker babe. “You sound like you belong in a boy band.”

A low laugh rumbled out from under his breath. “I guess I missed my calling then.”

“Hell.” Clyde’s arm tightened on my shoulder. “Jax can actually sing, even strum a few chords on the guitar, if you get enough whiskey in him.”

“Really?” My interest was piqued, mainly because there was nothing hotter than a guy with a guitar.

Jax leaned against the sink behind the bar, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve been known to play a time or two.”

“So, what brings you back here, baby girl?” Clyde asked, and there was no missing the heavy meaning in his words. As in, what in the hell are you doing back in this dump?

I turned toward him slowly. When I’d left for college, Clyde had been sad to see me go, but he’d been the driving force behind getting me out of this town and away from . . . well, everything. He probably would’ve been happier if I’d picked a school clear across the country, but I’d chosen one that was still sort of close by just in case . . . just in case something like this happened.

“I’m looking for Mom.” And that was all I said. Right now, I didn’t want to get into what was going on in front of Jax. The fact that he was now looking at me like he was truly seeing me as more than just some chick that had roamed into the bar was bad enough.

Some people believed the apple never fell too far from the tree.

And sometimes I wondered that myself.

I didn’t miss the way Clyde tensed, or how his gaze darted to Jax quickly, and then back to me. Unease cut deeper, then twisted and spread like a weed across a flower bed.

Focusing fully on Clyde, I prepared myself for whatever was about to come winging my way. “What?”

His big smile lessened and turned nervous as he dropped his arm. “Nothing, baby girl, it’s just that . . .”

I took a deep breath and waited as Jax grabbed another beer from the cooler of ice, handing it over to an older man in a red, torn flannel who didn’t even get a chance to ask for what he wanted, but shuffled off with a happy, if slightly drunk, smile.

“Is my mom here?”

Clyde shook his head.

I folded my arms around my waist. “Where is she?”

“Well, you see, baby girl, I really don’t know,” Clyde said, shifting his gaze to the scuffed-up, and badly in need of a thorough cleaning, floor.

“You don’t know where she is?” How was that possible?

“Yeah, well, Mona hasn’t been around for like . . .” He trailed off, dipping his chin against his heavy chest as he scrubbed a hand over his bald head.

Those knots were back, tightening until I pressed the heel of my palm against my stomach. “How long has she been gone?”

Jax’s gaze dipped to my hand and then flickered up to my eyes. “Your mom’s been gone for at least two weeks. No one has heard from her, or even caught sight of her. She’s skipped town.”

The floor felt like it had dropped out from underneath me. “She’s been missing for two weeks?”

Clyde didn’t answer, but Jax shifted closer to the bar top and lowered his voice. “She came in one night, upset and tearing around the office like a maniac, which, by the way, wasn’t really different from any other night.”

That sounded familiar. “And?”

“She reeked of alcohol,” he added gently, watching me intently from behind thick lashes.

Which was another common occurrence. “And?”

“And she smelled like she’d been in a sealed-off room, smoking pot and cigarettes for several hours.”

Well, the pot was something new. Mom used to be into pills, lots of pills—a smorgasbord of pills.

“And that wasn’t too uncommon, either, in the last year or so,” Jax said, still watching me, and I now learned he’d been around for some time. “So no one really paid her much attention. You see, your mom kind of . . .”

“Did nothing while she was here?” I supplied when his jaw tensed. “Yeah, that’s nothing new, either.”

Jax held my gaze for a moment, and then his chest rose with a deep breath. “She left that night around eight or so, and we haven’t heard from her since. Like Clyde said, that was about two weeks ago.”

Oh my God.

I plopped down on the bar stool.

“I didn’t call you, baby girl, because . . . well, this isn’t the first time your mom has just up and disappeared.” Clyde propped his hip against the bar as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Every couple of months, she hits the road with Rooster and—”

“Rooster?” My brows flew up. Did Mom have a pet rooster? As bizarre as that would be, it wouldn’t surprise me. She’d grown up on a farm, and when I was little, she had a thing for oddball pets. We had a goat once named Billy.

Clyde winced. “He’s your mom’s . . . um, he’s your mom’s man.”

“His name is Rooster?” Oh dear lawd.

“That’s what he goes by,” Jax said, drawing my gaze again.

God, this was humiliating in so many ways. Mom was a drunk stoner who abused pills, never did anything with the bar she owned, and had run off with some dude, who was no doubt really classy, and went by the name Rooster.

Ugh.

Next, I was going to find out she was working part-time across the street at the strip club. I needed to find a comfy dark corner to rock in.

“A few months back, she was gone for about a month before she popped back up,” Clyde said. “So, it’s really nothing to worry about. Your mom, well, she’s out there, and she’ll be back. She always comes back.”

I closed my eyes. She didn’t need to be out there. She needed to be here, where I could talk to her, where I could find out if she had any of the money left that she shouldn’t have, and where I could scream and rage at her, and do something about the fact my entire life had spun out of control because of her.

Clyde squeezed my shoulder. “I can give you a call when she gets back.”

That surprised me enough that my eyes popped open just in time to see Jax exchange a hard and long look with Clyde.

“You don’t need to hang around here, baby girl. I think it’s great that you’ve come by to visit, and I’m sure she’ll be—”

“You want me to leave?” My eyes narrowed as my ears perked. Oh, there were most definitely more shenanigans than I was aware of.

“No,” Clyde assured quickly.

And at the same time Jax said, “Yes.”

I stared at him, skin prickling. “Uh, I don’t think you have a say in this, bartender guy.”

Those brown eyes seemed to turn black as coldness crept into him. A muscle popped in his jaw as I held his stare, daring him to disagree. When he didn’t say anything, I turned back to Clyde, who was watching Jax. Something was going on, and with my mom, anything was possible. But I wasn’t leaving—I couldn’t leave because I had nowhere to go. Literally. Unlike the last couple of semesters, I wasn’t taking summer courses, because this year I couldn’t afford it. Which meant I also couldn’t stay in the dorms, so when I packed up to come here, I had to seriously pack up everything. The small amount of funds I did have in my personal account had to get me through until I found Mom or got another job. Either way, I couldn’t afford an apartment or a hotel, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to intrude on Teresa for a place to stay until things got sorted out.

My gaze flickered over the worn-out bar, dancing over the old street signs and black-and-white photos framed on the wall, and, for some reason, I didn’t see it before. Probably because I was too busy focusing on the eye candy that was in front of me, but I saw it now.

Behind the bar, under the red sign that had Mona’s name in elegant cursive, was a framed photo.

Air lodged in my throat.

It was a photo, bright and colorful, of a family—a real family. Two smiling parents, attractive and happy. The mother held a baby boy, no older than one year and three months. Another little boy in a blue sweater, aged ten years and five months, stood next to a little girl, who had just turned eight, and she was dressed in a poofy blue princess-style dress, and she was beautiful, like a little doll, beaming at the camera.

My stomach roiled.

I had to get out of here.

Sliding off the stool, I grabbed my purse off the top of the bar. “I’ll be back.”

Jax frowned as he watched me back up, but he also . . . he looked relieved. The muscle had stopped spasming in his jaw, his shoulders had relaxed, and it was obvious he was happy to see me go whereas a handful of minutes earlier he was trying to get me to share drinks with him.

Yep. Like I’d thought, the guy wasn’t for real.

Clyde reached for me, but I easily stepped out of his space. “Baby girl, why don’t you come back to the office and sit—?”

“No. It’s okay.” I pivoted around and hurried out of the bar, into the warm night air before Clyde could continue.

Pressure clamped down on my chest as the door swung shut behind me and my feet hit the pavement. There were a few more cars in the parking lot, so I cut between them as I headed for the back.

Focus, I told myself. Focus on fixing the problem at hand.

I’d go back to Mom’s house, sort through the crap in her bedroom, and maybe I’d find some clue to where her ass had disappeared. It was the only thing I could do.

Pushing the image of the family photo out of my head, I rounded an older-model truck that had been in the parking lot when I’d arrived and walked toward my parked car.

It was dark in the parking lot and the overhead lighting wasn’t working, so my poor car was cloaked in creepy shadows. I ignored the cold chill snaking down my spine. I reached for the handle on my door when I saw something that didn’t look right.

My fingers curled around empty air as I backed off the door and twisted toward the front. A strangled, surprised cry escaped me.

The windshield was gone.

Gone except for jagged chunks clinging to the frame, and even though it was dark, I could see a brick lying on the dashboard.

Someone had thrown a brick through my windshield.

Chapter 4

“You drive a Ford Fuckus?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I blew out a deep, frustrated breath. After I’d discovered that my windshield had done a meet-and-greet with a brick, I’d walked my butt back into the bar. In a daze, I found myself standing before Jax and telling him what had happened.

Even though I’d been in a state of shock, I had recognized that he hadn’t looked surprised. Anger had flashed across his striking face, deepening his eyes, yes, but surprised? No. Almost like he’d expected this.

And that was weird, but not really important right now. I had a windshield I couldn’t afford to fix.

Opening my eyes, I turned to him. I hadn’t noticed how tall he was while he’d been behind the bar, but standing next to him now, he was a good foot or so taller than me, pushing six feet and some odd inches. His waist was trim and it was obvious the guy took care of himself. “It’s a Focus.”

“Also known as a Fuckus,” he replied, eyes narrowing as he leaned over the hood. “Damn.”

He reached in through the glass, causing me to tense up. “Be careful!” I all but shouted, and maybe a wee bit dramatically, because he cut me a look over his shoulder, his brows raised. I stepped back. “Glass is sharp,” I added dumbly.

One side of his lips kicked up. “Yeah, I know. I’ll be careful.” He picked up the brick and turned it over in his large hand. “Shit.”

I couldn’t even let myself think about how expensive fixing my windshield would be, because if I did, I probably wouldn’t even wait to find a corner to start rocking in.

Jax tossed the brick to the ground and spun. Taking my hand in his large, warm one, he started hauling me toward the bar. My stomach ended up somewhere in my throat at the contact. A step or two behind now, I got a good eyeful of his rump.

Damn. He even had a nice ass.

I so needed to prioritize.

“I’ll get someone out here to take a look at your car,” he said, and I had to walk fast to keep up with his long-legged pace.

I blinked rapidly. “You don’t—”

“Got a friend at a body garage a few miles back toward the mall. He owes me a favor,” he went on as if I hadn’t spoken. Ripping the door so open and so fast I thought it would fly off the hinges, he stormed inside, tugging me along.

“Stay right here,” he said, sending me a look of warning.

“But—”

Letting go of my hand, he turned to me fully and got right up in my personal space. His boots to my toes, his scent surrounded me, and then he dipped his chin. Out of habit, I turned my cheek to the left, and then gasped when I felt his fingers curl around my chin, coaxing my face back to his.

“Stay right here,” he said again, his gaze locking with mine. “I’ll only be a minute. Tops.”

Minute for what?

“Promise.”

Knocked off kilter again, I found myself whispering, “Okay.”

His gaze held mine for an instant longer, and then he wheeled around, and all I could think about was what he said. I definitely want to get to know you better. With long, graceful steps, he disappeared back by the pool tables, heading into the kitchen area.

I stood there.

No less than a minute later, he reappeared with car keys dangling from his fingers. Stopping near the waitress I’d seen carrying baskets earlier, he caught her gently by the elbow. “Can you handle the bar until Roxy gets in?”

The woman glanced at me and then back at Jax. “Sure, but is everything okay?”

Jax guided her over to where I stood rooted to the floor. Up close, she was really pretty, and while I thought she was maybe in her thirties, I didn’t see a wrinkle on her face. “This is Pearl Sanders.” Then he extended a hand toward me. “And this is Calla—Mona’s daughter.”

Pearl’s jaw dropped.

Ugh.

And then the woman snapped forward. With one arm, she gave me a quick and tight hug that left me being the one standing there with my mouth hanging open.

“It’s real good to finally meet you, Calla.” She turned to Jax, pulling the pen out from behind her ear. “You take care of her, okay?”

“Of course,” muttered Jax, like it was the last thing he wanted to do, which was stupid, because I didn’t need to be taken care of, and I sure as hell didn’t ask him to do it. And what the hell happened to him wanting to get to know me better?

“I think I need—”

“Come on.” Jax got a hold of my hand again. The next thing I knew, I was being spun around and ushered out the door, back into the night, and then we were next to the truck that was in front of my poor car. He was opening the passenger door. “Up you go.”

I halted. “What?”

He tugged on my hand. “Up you go.”

Pulling my hand free, I pressed back against the car door. “I’m not going anywhere. I need to take care—”

“Of your car,” he finished for me, cocking his head to the side. The silvery moonlight seemed to find his high cheekbones, caressing over the angles of his face. “I got that, and like I said, I got a friend who’ll take care of that for you. Clyde’s already getting in touch with him, which is a good thing.”

My brain was shorting out. “Why?”

“Because it’s going to rain.”

I stared at him. Was he a weatherman also?

“You can smell it—late spring, early summer rain.” He leaned in, and my head immediately tilted to the left. “Take a deep breath, honey, and you can smell the rain.”

For some damn reason, I took a deep breath, and yeah, I smelled it, the musky damp scent. I groaned. No windshield meant rain damage.

“So we’ll get your car taken care of so it’s not out here when it starts raining,” he finished.

“But—”

“And I don’t think you want to drive around with your pretty ass sitting on glass and wind blowing in your face.”

“Um, okay. Good point, but—”

“But I’m getting you out of here.” He sighed, thrusting a hand through his messy hair. “Look, we can stand out here and argue about it for the next ten minutes, but you’re getting in this truck.”

My eyes narrowed. “Let me remind you of something. I don’t know you. Like at all.”

“And I’m not asking you to get naked and give me a private show.” Pausing, his gaze seemed to drift down my body again. “Although, that is way interesting. A bad idea, but way interesting.”

A second passed before those words sank in and my jaw dropped.

Muttering under his breath, he stepped around me. A moment later, he had his hands under my armpits, and I was shocked by the contact. His hands were incredibly large and that meant they were super close to my chest. The tips of his fingers brushed the underswell of my breasts. A sharp wave of shivers, tight and unexpected, radiated from my ribs.

Then he hefted me up. Literally. Feet off the ground and all. “Dip your head, honey,” he ordered.

I obeyed because, seriously, I had no idea what the hell was going on here. I found myself sitting in his truck and the door shutting on my other side. Christ. I smoothed my palms down my face, lowering my hands just in time to see him jog around the front. He was up in the truck in no time, closing the door behind him.

Once I was buckled in, I shot him a look and said the first thing that popped into my head. “You drive a Chevy?”

He smirked. “You know what they say about Chevys.”

“Yeah, you’d rather be pushing one than driving a Ford?” I rolled my eyes. “Because that makes sense.”

Jax chuckled as he shifted out of park. I didn’t say anything as he pulled out of the parking lot and hit the road. Wondering about him flirting with me earlier and worrying about a MIA mom weren’t at the forefront of my thoughts as I started nibbling on my lower lip.

“How much do you think it’ll cost to repair the windshield?” I asked.

He slid me a look as he hit the stoplight near the mall. “At least a hundred-fifty, and with the whole thing being gone, probably more.”

My chest constricted as I mentally deducted that from what I knew was in my checking account and groaned. “That’s just great.”

Jax was quiet as the light turned green and he coasted out into the intersection. “You staying at one of the hotels?”

I snorted. Yep. Like a piglet. “Uh, no. Way too much money.”

“You’re staying at your mom’s house?” Incredulity rang from his tone.

“Yeah.”

He fixed his gaze back onto the road. “But she’s not there.”

“So? I used to live there.” I shrugged a shoulder as I lowered my hand to my lap. “Besides, I’m really not going to spend the money on a hotel when I can stay some place free.” Even if it was truly the last place I wanted to stay.

Jax didn’t say anything for a long moment and then, “Have you had anything to eat?”

Shaking my head, I pressed my lips together. I hadn’t eaten since that morning, and even then it was only a Rice Krispies treat. I’d been too nervous to eat anything else. My stomach grumbled, apparently pissed off that I was just now paying attention to it.

“Me neither,” he commented.

We made a pit stop at a fast-food joint, and because I was hungry, I ordered a hamburger and a sweet tea, but when I dug around in my purse for the limited cash I had on me, Jax had already handed over money at the drive-through.

“I have money.” I grabbed my wallet.

He slid me a bland look as he rested one arm on his window. “You ordered a hamburger and a sweet tea. I think I got it covered.”

“But I have money,” I insisted.

He arched a brow. “But I don’t need it.”

I shook my head as I started to open my wallet. “How much does it—hey!” I snapped as he took my wallet and my purse from my hands. “What the hell?”

“Like I said, honey, I got it covered.” Closing up my wallet, he dropped it in my purse and then shoved it behind his seat.

My eyes narrowed on him. “That’s so not cool.”

“A thank-you would be cool, though.”

“I didn’t ask you to pay for it.”

“So?”

I blinked at him.

Jax winked.

I drew back a little. He winked, and my lady parts were like whoa, way on board with that, which was probably a good indication I needed to pay more attention to said parts, because they were getting desperate.

And I was feeling a wee bit boy crazy, but who’d blame me?

A minute later we were back on the road and I had a huge bag of food in my lap and two sweet teas jostling around in a holder. I hadn’t really paid attention to what he’d ordered, but by the weight of the warm and wonderful-smelling bag, it was half the menu.

“You look nothing like your mother,” he said unexpectedly.

That much was true. Mom dyed her hair a sunny blond, or at least she used to. I wasn’t sure since I hadn’t seen her in a while, but the last time I’d been around her, the day I’d left Plymouth Meeting to attend Shepherd, she’d been looking . . . rough.

“Her life . . . it’s been hard. She used to be really pretty,” I heard myself saying as I stared out the window, watching the strip mall of fast-food joints disappear.

“I imagine so, if she looked anything like you.”

My gaze swung to him sharply, but he wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t grinning or smiling. Nothing about him would’ve led me to believe that hadn’t been a genuine statement, but I wasn’t pretty, and that belief had nothing to do with a low self-esteem. I had a scar cutting across my left cheek. That tended to universally ruin features.

I didn’t know what Jax was up to and I didn’t want to find out. I had bigger and more important things to focus on and worry over.

But when I saw that Jax was turning off the main roadway, hitting a back road—a shortcut—I was staring at him again. “You know where the house is?”

He grunted out what I assumed was a yes.

“You’ve been there before?”

His hand tightened on the steering wheel. “A few times.”

A horrible thought formed in my head. “Why have you been to her house?”

“Don’t you mean our house since you used to live there?”

“Uh, no. I might’ve lived there while I was in high school, but it was never my home.”

He glanced at me, and then fixed his gaze on the road. A moment passed. “The first time I had to come out to your mom’s house was with Clyde. Mona . . . she went on a bender. Got so shitfaced that we thought we were going to have to take her to the hospital.”

I winced.

“Then a couple of times when she didn’t show up for a few days and we were worried about her.” His hand had loosened on the steering wheel and now he was tapping his fingers on it. “Every other day, Clyde or Pearl would check on her just to make sure she’s doing okay.”

“And you? You would check on her, too?”

He nodded.

Biting down on my lip, I ignored the wave of muddy guilt that threatened to rise up my throat. These people, with the exception of Clyde, were virtual strangers, and here I was, family, and I wasn’t making daily, or even yearly, trips to make sure if she was alive or to find out if she’d finally overdosed. After all, I knew that was what “checking in” on her meant.

I tried to check the guilt and failed. “I’m not close with Mom. We have—”

“Calla, I figured you two weren’t close. I get it,” he cut in, tossing a reckless grin my way. And it was reckless because he had to know how powerful that half curve of his lips was and he just threw it out there, all willy-nilly. “You don’t need to explain anything to me.”