Had to Be You: Bad Boys of Red Hook (6 page)

Slater had been in Red Hook for more than a week but it felt like a year. Being back home was as bad if not worse than he’d expected. In the last week he’d seen Skye quit, met her four brothers, and was forced to watch Rocki flirt with every last one of them. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t like it. Not one bit. If he’d been another man he’d swear he felt jealous. But Slater didn’t do jealous—not even with any of the girls he’d dated and slept with, and technically, he hadn’t done either with Rocki. Not for lack of trying on his part.

He tentatively touched his jaw, worked it from side to side, and winced. It hadn’t helped that he’d allowed his brother Logan to beat the crap out of him. Sure, he had it coming after accusing Skye, Logan’s girlfriend and chef extraordinaire, of doing the same thing Dominique had done to him—dumping him after finding out he was a stray mutt with no parents, no prospects, and no pedigree.

Deserving a beating was one thing, but Slater just wished Logan hadn’t gone for the face. Slater could have taken him without even working up a good sweat, and Lord knew Logan wasn’t much of a fighter—thank God—but he had a hell of a right cross. Slater’s left eye was still swollen, his jaw still ached, and his face was more colorful than a gay pride parade.

His face would heal—eventually, but he wasn’t sure about his ego. It had taken a hit after he’d said good-bye to Rocki after their nondate. She’d told him she wasn’t interested in being more than coworkers. He saw the lie in her eyes but had said he wouldn’t push, so he didn’t. He just wished he knew what she was hiding, and he couldn’t help but feel that her secrets were the reason she wouldn’t see him.

He ran his hands over his face. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but the maddening woman who either ignored him or treated him like a pesky kid brother. Rocki stirred him up more than anyone he’d ever met. She made him crazy, curious, and hard—not necessarily in that order. When it came to Rocki, he had a whole catalogue of feelings for and about her—the least of which was brotherly. No, lust was at the top of the list, followed closely by admiration and intense interest, but he could guaran-ass-tee he’d never look at her like a sibling.

No matter where he went, it seemed as if he couldn’t get away from her—not that he really wanted to. Rocki was in the bar playing something classical and he knew for a fact that she played it by heart. He’d checked her sheet music—it was nonexistent.

He sat behind his computer at his dad’s desk and eyed the drawer where Pop stashed his personal files, fingering a paperclip and wondering how hard it would be to pick the lock.

He hadn’t been able to find out a thing about Rocki. He thought about hacking into the DMV but decided against it. After all, he’d told her he wouldn’t and he never went back on his word. But he hadn’t told her he wouldn’t see what Pop had in his files.

Slater had googled, Facebooked, checked Twitter, and every other social networking site known to man. It brought him zilch. It was as if Rocki O’Sullivan didn’t exist. She was a ghost, an enigma, a puzzle.

When he couldn’t get anything off the Internet—and he specialized in Internet searches—he’d decided to do some more old-fashioned investigating. He’d talked to everyone he could about Rocki, hoping someone would know more about her than Patrice. With all the people he’d spoken to, he hadn’t found one person who hadn’t loved her. Hell, most of the employees at the bar considered her their best friend, but when it came right down to it, no one knew anything concrete. It was as if Rocki appeared three years ago and took over the joint.

The only person who would know would be Pop. Pop, the ex-cop that he was, made it his business to know everything about everyone who worked for him. He wouldn’t have taken Rocki under his wing, let her help take care of Nicki, and become part of the family, if he didn’t know all. Still, the fact that Pop knew didn’t mean he’d be willing to share the information. He’d probably hold back just for shits—after all, the old man hadn’t had a lot to laugh about recently, and since Slater had come home, he seemed to be Pop’s court jester of choice.

He opened Pop’s top desk drawer and found cigars. Now that Bree and Storm were home from their honeymoon, Pop had better hope Bree didn’t find his stash or she’d box his ears.

Slater didn’t know what Bree had done to make Pop fear her, but he’d heard that she’d taken a cast-iron frying pan to his brother Storm’s thick head before he’d fallen in line and in love.

The office door opened and—think of the devil—Pop walked in and gave him a once-over. “Damn, son, you’re looking rough. How’s the face feel?”

“Never better.” Right. He cleared the screen on his laptop—the last thing he needed was for Pop to catch him trying to get information on Rocki.

Pop sat in the chair opposite the desk. “What are you working on?”

Slater realized he still toyed with the paperclip he’d considered using to pick the lock and dropped it, hoping it would go unnoticed. “Just programming stuff. Nothing important.”

Rocki started to play another one of her classical pieces.

“Pop, what the hell is Rocki doing here?”

“Sounds to me like she’s playing Tchaikovsky. Why do you ask?” Pop tried to rock back in the chair and it didn’t work. He looked like a parent sitting in a kindergarten-sized seat during a parent-teacher conference. Slater didn’t imagine Pop had ever been in that position, since he and his brothers were almost teenagers by the time Pop took them in. If he’d done the whole parent-teacher thing for preschoolers, Slater figured that’s how Pop would have looked.

Slater tried to hide the smile that he knew would do nothing but cause him pain, not to mention get him a smack on the back of the head. Shit, he couldn’t win for trying. The man was an ex-cop and a master interrogator. It didn’t take a genius, which Slater was, to figure out that his father was as good at deflecting interrogation tactics as he was at getting information. He might as well give it up. “Just curious.”

Pop raised an eyebrow.

“Fine. Rocki doesn’t belong here. What’s a woman who knows classical music like she does doing working at the Crow’s Nest? She should be performing at Carnegie Hall for fuck’s sake not playing at a bar in Red Hook. She’s got a shit-load of talent. and she’s wasting it here with that band of hers.”

Pop held out his hand.

Slater eyed the open palm, wondering when it would turn and smack him upside the head. “What?”

“Pay up. Bree charges everyone five bucks for cursing. That’s another ten spot for Nicki’s college fund.”

“Bill me. Besides, Nicki’s not even here. I should be able to curse as much as I want.”

“Don’t matter.” Pop shook his head and Slater almost groaned when he saw the
you’re-gonna-get-a-lecture
look crossing his father’s face. Slater might be pushing thirty, but he knew he’d never get too old to receive a talking-to from Pop. He just wanted to know what the hell he did to deserve it this time. He’d been home a week and he felt like he was back in high school.

“You gotta clean up your language if you’re going to be spending time with Nicki.”

Slater had been walking Nicki to school and home every day, taking her damn dog out, and even helping her with her homework. In other words, he’d been dealing with everything he hadn’t wanted to deal with. “Nothing against Nicki—she’s a great kid—but the last thing I want to do is spend more time with her.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Pop sat forward in his chair, and if the damn thing wasn’t too small, Slater was sure Pop would be flying over the desk. The man still had one hell of a temper when he thought someone was dissing one of his kids.

Slater held up his hands to calm his old man, but still stood his ground. “I meant what I said.” He ran his hands through his unruly hair. “It’s nothing personal—Nicki’s a great kid but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m taking off in a month. Nicki doesn’t need to get attached to me when we know I’m only here temporarily. Hasn’t the kid had enough loss in her life without me adding to it?”

“Nicki has seen more than her fair share of loss, but you’re her family. Just because you’re going to the Middle East doesn’t mean she shouldn’t get to know you. It’s not as if either of you are going to leave the fold—not for long at least, and Nicki needs to feel as if she’s part of us. All of us.”

Pop looked around and pushed himself out of the too-small chair. He might have lost a ton of weight since his heart attack, but he was still a big man. “Get out of my chair, son. I can’t think on this side of the desk.”

Slater waited half a second before standing. He didn’t want to be on the other side either. That was the lecture side and he’d spent more than enough time there as a teen to ever be comfortable.

Pop took his seat behind the desk and Slater leaned against the wall, stalling. He shoved his hands in his pockets and forced himself not to slouch.

“Sit down, son. I don’t have the patience to crane my neck up at you.”

Pop had that determined frown that meant business—serious business. Like the time he’d found out Slater had hacked into the NYPD database and deleted his and his brother’s arrest records. Pop had been mad as hell. He hadn’t turned him in but made sure that he’d never do it again. That was the one and only time Slater had wondered if three hots and a cot wasn’t such a bad idea.

Slater felt a lump settle in his gut that had nothing to do with lunch and everything to do with impending doom. He wasn’t superstitious or anything, but Pop’s whole demeanor was off. It was as if whatever he was about to say was not something Slater wanted to hear. Was his dad’s health worse than he’d been told?

Slater fell into the chair, crossed his arms, and waited for the inevitable mind-fuck. The lump in Slater’s stomach expanded exponentially.

•   •   •

P
ete opened his drawer, fingered a cigar, and checked the clock, wondering if he could put this conversation on hold and suck on a stogie before he blew Slater’s world apart. He mentally adjusted his balls, leaned forward, and looked Slater right in the eye. “I don’t know how to tell you this, son, so I’m just gonna say it—”

Strains of Tchaikovsky splunked into a teeth-jarring mess.

The scrape of the piano bench.

The
clickity click
of Rocki’s heels racing across the wood floor.

The muscles in Pete’s neck seized like the first time he broke in his barrel as a rookie cop—all twitchy fingers and adrenaline overload.

The door crashed open, missing Slater by half an inch and Rocki stumbled in. One look at the pasty complexion of a person who had just received the worst news imaginable had Pete up and around the desk, pulling Rocki into his arms. Whatever was wrong was bad. Really bad.

Rocki clung to him. Her unintelligible mumbling between gasps, heaves, and sobs made him wish for an interpreter. He caught about every fourth word. Brother. Accident. Coma. New Hampshire.

“Slater, get the Macallan and three glasses.” This was going to be a high-dollar session. Not the time for Jack, Jim, Ron, or Jose. He thought about calling for backup, but the only other set of good-looking legs with a decent head on her shoulders would dump his scotch.

Slater was out the door like he was chasing a highball.

Pete sat Rocki down and handed her a box of tissues. He’d never needed Kleenex with the boys—even when they’d had colds. They had plenty of sleeves and there was something to be said for toilet paper. But ever since Bree moved into his office, Pete had to embrace his sensitivity. That meant investing in Kimberly-Clark paper products. He was turning into a regular Oprah.

Slater skidded in and set the glasses on the desk. He filled two, and downed a shot before handing Rocki hers.

“You could have poured me one, son.”

Slater shook his head. “Oh no. I’m not dumb enough to contribute to your delinquency. Pour at your own risk and don’t even think about lighting up.”

Rocki downed her shot and held the glass for a refill. For a girl who rarely drank anything without an umbrella, this didn’t bode well.

Pete poured his own and sipped it. Someone had to appreciate a fine scotch. “Take a deep breath, and tell me what you need.”

“I just did.” Her eyes filled all over again, her face was pale and blotchy, and she was shaking.

“Once more, without the sound effects.”

By the time she garbled her way through the story, Pete knew three things. One: Her brother had been hurt in a skiing accident. Two: He would never, ever give Rocki two shots of Macallan. Three: She needed a designated driver—destination, somewhere in New Hampshire. And he knew just who to send. “Slater, you up for a road trip?”

“Me?”

“Storm and Bree can cover the bar. Take Rocki where she needs to go and take care of her while she’s there.” Pete put his hand on Rocki’s shoulder. “This girl’s family and she needs us. Go pack your bags.”

“I never unpacked. I’ll be back in thirty seconds.”

“Good. Grab the extra box of tissues in the linen closet. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.”

Pete pulled his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Slater. “Take my car. I’ll pay the speeding tickets.”

•   •   •

Slater had almost made his escape by the time he heard Nicki’s feet stomping up the steps, announcing she’d come home from school.

He’d checked his watch. He’d completely forgotten that someone had to pick her up. Logan must have and, knowing Logan, he’d probably sent Nicki to the kitchen for a snack and promptly returned to pouting in his personal booth in the bar.

Slater didn’t understand Logan’s behavior. Logan had never been one to pout like a girl. Hell, the man could never stand still long enough to get attached to much of anything—not even women. They were similar in that respect. Slater didn’t expect it to take more than a few days for Logan to shake off the ego bruise Skye had laid on him when she dumped his ass. Slater had been sure that by now, Logan would have taken one of the women who’d been trolling by his table up on the offer of a good time. Okay, it sucked being dumped—Slater should know—but shit, it had been almost a week and Logan was still walking around like a zombie.