Back to You: Bad Boys of Red Hook (37 page)

“You made one mistake, but over time, even someone as stubborn as Storm should be able to see you didn’t mean to hurt him. You were only protecting yourself, and you promised Pete. And let us not forget, you weren’t the only one invested in this relationship. That man had it bad for you. He’s probably hurting as badly as you are.”

“Doubtful. I’m sure there are plenty of rich women after him, who are more than happy to help him take his mind off me.”

Rocki shook her head. “Oh no. Storm only has eyes for you. You’re not the only one who never got over her first love. You don’t give yourself enough credit.” Rocki clapped her hands. “You know what you need?”

“A bottle of sleeping pills?”

Rocki shot her a disgusted look. “No, retail therapy. What do you say we make a run to the city and hit Macy’s and Nordstrom Rack? We can shop for the perfect dream vacation. If things work out with Storm, you won’t need clothes, but if not, you’ll have to wear something fabulous to pick up that cabana boy we talked about.”

“I have plenty of clothes.”

“None that I’d be caught wearing. Really, Bree, you’re supposed to dress to attract men, not scare them away.”

Rocki pulled Bree’s purse out of her bottom desk drawer. “Logan’s manning the bar, so that’s covered, and Nicki’s not going to be back from school for hours.”

“Okay.” Bree threw her hands in the air. “I give up. I’m not strong enough to fight you.” She accepted her purse from Rocki, shooed the dog up the back stairs, and called up to Pete; then she took one more look around her office to be sure there was nothing left to catch up on. “Maybe retail therapy will help. It’s worth a try anyway.”

“Lucky for you my fee is only a mani-pedi and a new pair of shoes.”

 * * *

Storm awoke with his assistant standing over him. The look on her face made him move to protect his genitals. In the six years Sandy had worked for him, he’d never seen her pissed, but he’d heard her husband describe the phenomenon. Brad didn’t do her justice—she looked like the Tasmanian Devil on a bender.

“You look like you’re going bush. I could smell you as soon as I entered the office even though your door was closed.”

“You couldn’t knock?”

“I thought something that smelled as bad as you carked it.”

“As you can see, I’m alive and well.”

“I’ll give you alive; well is another story all together. What the hell are you doing sleeping in your office?”

“What does it matter?” Storm had gone to his condo, and the place seemed as empty as his life. He didn’t bother unpacking; he just picked up his bag and brought
it to the office. He’d been at the boatyard pulling eighteen-hour days for almost two weeks, trying to figure out where the extra bulb weight was. He’d gone back and forth over his plans, and they’d all checked out. He’d spent the rest of the time crawling around the yacht. In the last few days he’d contorted himself into positions that would make the author of the Kama Sutra blush. He hurt everywhere.

Sandy held her hand over her nose and mouth. “Listen, mate, this has got to stop. I can’t take it anymore. You’ve been narking at me ever since you returned, and when you’re not narking, you look like you’re off with the fairies.”

“Off with the fairies? What the—”

“Daydreaming, woolgathering, whatever else you Yanks call it. You smell like you belong in a zoo.”

“I didn’t get a chance to shower last night. I was so knackered, I just passed out.”

“Did you find the problem?”

“The extra weight? Of course I did.”

“Was it the builder’s fault?”

“Was there ever any doubt?”

Sandy laughed. “The only doubts were yours. Half the reason you smell as bad as you do is because you were so worried about it, you forgot to bathe. So what did they do this time?”

“I came up with a clever structural matrix that allowed minimal frames and bulkheads and maximized strength with a very light structure. The builder had never seen anything like it, so he added a few extra frames on his own. It’s a good thing the bulb weight was off. If I hadn’t caught them, the extra frames would have taken the majority of the load and would have failed.”

“Problem solved, then?”

“If only all my problems were so easy to solve.”

With a face to match her mood, she swept his legs off the couch. “Now do you want to tell me why you came back looking like a dingo with the mange and madder than a croc after a root canal?”

He let out a low groan. “God, my head didn’t hurt this bad when Bree walloped me with the frying pan.”

“What?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time—after you shower. I’ll make coffee.”

Storm stood and stretched, rubbing his chest. Oh man, he definitely needed a shower.

“Don’t forget to shave—again.”

Fifteen minutes and half a bar of soap later, Storm sat across from Taz, wolfing down Marmite and toast.

“Okay, mate, get on with your story.”

“There’s not much to tell. Whatever I thought I had with Bree was an illusion.”

Sandy sat back, crossed her arms, and thrummed her fingers on her surprisingly toned biceps. “Not that part; I already heard the whole thing from your friends Rocki and Patrice.”

“You talked to the two stooges?”

“Three, Pete was on the line too.”

“Oh God.”

“It was like a long-distance intervention. You have a fascinating group of friends, and your family sounds lovely.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“What I want to know is the story about the frying pan. They left that out, little else, but they never mentioned an attack using an unconventional weapon.”

“I got home in the middle of the night and let myself into the apartment. I didn’t even think. I just headed to my old room, and Bree walloped me over the head with a cast-iron frying pan. She wasn’t expecting me and thought I was a burglar.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t in retaliation for running out on her?”

“I think if she’d known who it was, she would have finished me off.”

“She might still. After all, you ran away from her again.”

“I did not run. I had to leave. They’d stopped work on the boat. They were charging us eight thousand dollars a day.”

Sandy laughed in his face. “Oh right, so you were forced to take the six forty-five flight. You couldn’t have talked your problems out and caught the nine fifty? I’m sure the three hours and five minutes made all the difference in the world. Face it, mate; you ran. You got your feelings hurt and you ran.”

Storm dropped his head. Shame flooded his face, radiating to his hands that blocked Sandy’s view. He’d run all right, but not because he was scared. He’d run because he was hurt—hurt because Bree hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about Nicki, hurt by Pete for thinking he could run out on his own child, and hurt by life because he’d never realized before how much he wanted to be Nicki’s dad. “Fuck. Bree’s gonna kill me.”

“Possibly. Still, if you stay here, I’m definitely going to quit, and that’s only if I don’t kill you first. I think you’ll have better luck going back to Bree; at least she claims to love you. So, what are you doing here talking to me instead of getting your arse on the first plane to the States?”

 * * *

It’s here
. Bree ripped open the envelope, pulled out her new passport, and ran her fingers across the embossed gold lettering before flipping it open. Yep, that was a picture of her. The thought of using it sent her heart pounding like a steel drum.

Could she really do it? Could she get on a plane and cross the Pacific, land in a foreign country, and take a chance on Storm? She closed the cover and stuffed the passport in her top desk drawer. The answer at that moment at least, was no. Besides, it was a Monday. She had shopping to do, and her liquor salesmen were slated for that afternoon. She rose, grabbed her purse, and slid the top desk drawer shut. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Bree drove to the Fairway Market with her collection of lists—hers, Pete and Logan’s, and her mother’s. She didn’t know why she bothered wasting paper on a list for her mother, because every week she bought the same damn thing. The only variation was when her mother ran out of laundry and dishwashing detergent.

Bree roamed the aisles, and everywhere she looked brought back memories of Storm. She walked by the bakery and remembered the piece of cannoli cake they’d shared. She passed the flowers and pictured him grabbing a bunch and tossing them in the cart just because. She thought about the day he’d run to the market because he thought they actually needed chocolate syrup with their ice cream and then snuck it into the bedroom later that night.

God, she missed him.

By rote, Bree pulled up to her mother’s house and grabbed her mother’s green reusable bags. An early-fall
wind had her pulling her sweatshirt around her more tightly before slinging two bags over her shoulder, grabbing two more, and shouldering her mother’s side door open. “Mom, it’s me.”

“Breanna, did you remember to check the list?”

As if she needed to. “Yes, and they had a special on tomatoes, so I picked up a few extras.”

Her mother stepped into the kitchen wearing the same clothes, the same sour look, and making the same annoying tsk, tsk, tsk she’d heard all her life. “I wish you’d follow the list I gave you. The tomatoes will probably go to waste.”

“Fine, if you don’t want them, I’ll take them home with me.” She left the damn tomatoes in the bag and put away the rice.

“Coretta told me that Storm Decker left again.”

Bree really needed to ask Patrice not to feed information to her mother—it always got back to Bree’s mom in the end.

“Poor Pete must be beside himself. I told you Storm would leave. Men like him always do. I suppose you’re upset.”

“I—”

“I don’t know why. I told you before and I’ll tell you again, dangerous men always leave. You’re better off without him.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Mom.”

“I understand. You’re hurt.”

“Yes, I’m hurt, and you’re not helping matters. I love Storm and he’s gone. Leave it alone, all right?” She turned her back to her mother and did her best to stop the tears welling in her burning eyes. God, leave it to her mother to put a healthy dose of salt on the wounds.

“I don’t know why you don’t date that nice man Daniel Knickerbocker. He’s rich, he has a good, safe job, and he’ll take care of us.”

“Us?” Was she mad? “I guess you didn’t hear the news, Mom. Daniel tried to scam the city and is under investigation.”

“Oh? Well, that is a shame.” She wore the same pinched look she’d worn since Bree’s father died. “You just need to find another safe, stable man who will be there for you.”

“Mom, I love Storm. The last thing I want is another man.”

“What’s love got to do with anything? Forget about those romantic notions. Love should never be on your short list. It will do nothing but leave you hurt and broken.”

She was hurt and broken, all right, but how much of that was her own fault? How much of it was because she was paralyzed by fear? How much of it was because she was as trapped as her own mother, only in a larger cage? God, she had to get out. The walls closed in on her and she could hear every door and window slamming shut, trapping her and making it hard to breathe.

“I’m going to leave the bags for you to empty. I’ll pick them up later.”

“But you always unload my groceries.”

“Not today, Mom. Today I’m shaking things up. Bye.” She ran out of the house so fast, she wasn’t sure the door had even closed behind her, and she didn’t care. Her mother could close the damn door by herself. Bree was finished being suffocated by her mother. She was finished with a lot of things.

 * * *

Bree rushed into the bar like a diver kicking to the surface, gulping air as she broke through the door. She walked in on what looked like a private powwow over beer. She didn’t bother asking what everyone was doing there on a Monday. She had too much to do to care.

Pete, Logan, Rocki, Patrice, and Francis wore matching stunned expressions. What the hell was going on? She didn’t bother to ask for fear she’d lose her nerve.

Bree pushed her hands into her pants pockets to keep them from shaking, took a deep breath, and jumped off her virtual cliff. “I have an announcement to make. I’ve decided to take a vacation, starting immediately. Logan, you have the bar. The liquor orders are all ready to go; just give them to the salesmen. Next week Pete can help you with the orders if you have questions. Francis, did you get that time off? Can you cover me?”

“No problem, Bree.”

Patrice elbowed him, and Francis gave her the please-don’t-make-me-sleep-on-the-couch-again look, which made no sense. Patrice and Rocki had both pushed her to get her passport, they’d pushed her to take time off, and they’d pushed her to chase after Storm. Bree shook the questions from her thoughts. She couldn’t afford to slow down; if she lost momentum, she’d be sunk. “Good, then it’s all taken care of. I’m going upstairs to pack.”

Bree power-walked to her office with the click, click, click of Rocki’s high heels trailing behind her. Bree pulled out her brand-spanking-new passport and shoved it into her back pocket. She was really going to do this even if it killed her. She was going to escape her cage and find Storm. She wasn’t going to die without ever going more than a hundred miles from home. She wasn’t her mother.

Rocki blocked the door. “What the hell is going on with you?”

“If you want to talk, you’d better do it while I pack. I don’t have time to screw around. I’ve got to get the next plane out.”

“What’s the rush?” Patrice took up whatever space Rocki left in the doorway.

“Move or I’ll knock the both of you on your asses.”

They moved, but they followed her into her apartment.

Bree needed to pack but realized she didn’t even own a freakin’ suitcase. How sick was that? “Pete,” she hollered, “I’m borrowing your luggage.” Not waiting for a reply, she stepped into the storage closet and took the largest piece of luggage she could find. It looked like something she’d seen tied to the back of the Beverly Hillbillies’ truck. Fabulous. At least it would be easy to spot.