No Damaged Goods Read online

And he was a kid one time, with the big Paradise Hotel fire almost a decade ago.

  These days, everybody can’t shut up about the Heroes of Heart’s Edge.

  You wanna talk about a real hero long before we hooked up, though?

  Talk about Constance Bast.

  Justin’s ma.

  A lot of folks died the night that hotel burned, but she managed to get a hell of a lot of people out of there, people who would’ve been trapped if she hadn’t stepped up.

  She’d just been the receptionist.

  She was never meant to be a martyr.

  I still remember.

  I wasn’t too old back then either. Just a junior on the fire crew between tours serving Uncle Sam. And that woman in the debris, covered in soot, she’d shown bravery I didn’t see again till Afghanistan.

  She’d been okay, at first.

  Until she’d collapsed, hacking up a bloody, black mess.

  “Justin.” I nudge his shoulder gently. “Thinkin’ about your ma tonight, huh?”

  “Chief?”

  “Yeah, dude. It’s me.”

  “F-forty-three days,” he rasps, and my throat knots. It’s so wretched, so awful. “She held on for forty-three days.”

  “Yeah, bud,” I whisper. “I remember.”

  Forty-three days while the doctors in Spokane tried to fix the brutal smoke damage to her lungs.

  And failed.

  She left Heart’s Edge a hero.

  She came home to a coffin.

  Seems like that’s the story of a lot of good people around here who die too young.

  Warren’s sister, Jenna, for one. Killed in a devious setup overseas.

  Even more folks the past few years have had their own brush with the Reaper and lived to tell the tale.

  Warren himself, and Haley, and Leo, and Clarissa, Doc, Ember...fuck.

  I wonder sometimes if this place is cursed. Even if all those spooky legends about Nine aka Leo are just history now, there’s something eerie and unnatural about life in Heart’s Edge.

  Add one more body from my side.

  Abigail was no hero when she died. But nobody needed to die like her.

  I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, pushing the thoughts away.

  Instead, I keep my focus on Justin and slip my arm around his shoulders to coax him off the stool. “C’mon, bud. Let’s get you home.”

  “Forty-three days, Chief,” he repeats miserably, even as his body slides limply off the seat.

  “I know, man. I know.”

  It’s like moving a bag of dry cement, he’s so heavy and boneless. But I manage to get his legs under him and prop him against my side, mostly supporting his weight on my right leg so I can steer with my bum left leg. This ain’t the best way, but I just gotta get him to the Jeep.

  “Let’s go,” I say, while Justin makes a hurting, horrid sound against my shoulder.

  I wish I could give him more than useless words—but that’s all I’m good for.

  “Chief...”

  “Hush. Talkin’ takes a lot of energy right now. Let’s get you put away for the night.”

  * * *

  Dropping Justin at his apartment feels a little melancholy.

  It’s sparse, utilitarian, like he doesn’t really live there.

  Just sleeps and wakes up to go to work.

  I frown. He hasn’t bothered making it any kind of home, not even for a young guy. Nothing personal there except the rows of photo albums lined up on the wall shelves—well, at least he’s got himself a hobby. He’s good with a camera.

  Turning away from them, I tuck him into bed and lock up, then push the spare key back up in the hidden holder over the door.

  I should really make some kind of effort to break him out of his funk.

  He’s not my kid, nah, more my peer than anything, but I’m the chief of the volunteer fire crew and he’s one of my boys.

  He doesn’t have much. No other family in town or anywhere else in the area I know of.

  I can at least invite him to drink with us now and then.

  Might help keep him from getting so shitfaced.

  I’m still pondering that as I slip into my Jeep and head home, idly massaging my knuckles against my slightly sore thigh.

  Thankfully, any pain I’m in vanishes behind weary irritation as I pull into my driveway, cut the engine, and crawl into bed.

  For once, Andrea’s home on time.

  For once, my mind isn’t overflowing with worries over fire damage or work or whose evil ass I have to run out of town next.

  For once, I let my mind wander off to happier places, even if they’re also kind of sad.

  Little Miss Broccoli gives me plenty to think on as I drift off. Maybe it’s just the booze or the wintry calm limbering me up, but I let myself linger on her memory.

  Those strawberry lips. That hot red-purple mane a man could do outrageous fuckin’ things with. Those hips that look like they could ride me to next Christmas.

  And how it must be the worst irony ever that she got stuck with a name like a Rabe of damn broccoli when it doesn’t fit her one bit.

  She’s a sweet, bright-eyed slice of cherry pie, a delicate morsel ready to be devoured by some lucky SOB. Even if he won’t be me tonight or any night, a man’s gotta have his dreams, his fantasies, his dirty little secrets.

  I fall asleep feeling thankful for one newcomer in Heart’s Edge who brings sweet dreams instead of more nightmares.

  * * *

  The next day, I put in my hours welding, hoping I’ll get lucky to come home to some peace and quiet for the second day in a row.

  Nope.

  There’s that damn Benz again, parked outside.

  Holt.

  I’d bet every penny Andrea’s home and let him in, since the car’s empty and dark. There’s no one on the porch, and the lights are on in the living room.

  Goddammit.

  I’m not in the mood for this today. Or the other day. Or any day.

  It’s a hell of a thing when I don’t even want to go into my own house, but I can’t just stand out here in the fucking snow. I feel the cold down the back of my neck like a collar against the heat of annoyance flushing my skin.

  Muttering, stomping snow off my boots on the front walk, I push the door open—the unlocked door, dammit, Andrea—and step inside the sweltering warmth.

  My brother sprawls in my easy chair—my favorite chair—like he owns the place.

  This time, I can’t help noticing how immaculately he’s dressed.

  Like a real slick-dick big city boy.

  Like he never tripped in ditches and came home covered in mud in this little mountain town just like I did once upon a time.

  You wouldn’t guess it. Not from his fine black suit, the wide lapels and cuffs of the white shirt under it, the perfect razor-sharp trim of his scruff, the blocky platinum ring on one finger.

  Holt steeples his fingers, watching me over them with a hint of a smirk making his hazel eyes glitter. Once again, I feel like I’m facing down Lucifer.

  The devil himself in my own living room, ready to offer me a bargain I want fuck all to do with.

  “What.” I snarl.

  “Poor Blake.” Holt lets out an exasperated sigh. “All these years and you still have zero manners.”

  “Like you do, asshat? You work construction. Why the fuck are you dressed like a lawyer and blabbin’ like New York City?”

  A smirk curls his lips. “I wasn’t aware ‘blabbing like New York City’ was a thing.”

  He knows damn well what I mean. His smirk only widens as I bare my teeth at him in a silent growl.

  “You’re having a grand old time spending Ma’s money, huh?”

  “It’s an investment,” he retorts smoothly, crossing his ankle over his knee and slouching with casual ease.

  “The hell you mean?” I hate how comfy he looks up in my space, while I’m vibrating, on fire, out of place.

  “I’m investing in Heart’s Edge. Invest
ing in my hometown.” His smile turns cunning, carnivorous, and fuck if I have any clue how we’re related. “Maybe a few of the local single ladies wouldn’t mind welcoming me home, since I hear you’ve rejected them all. They must be starved.”

  “I hate you,” I bite off.

  “Wish you didn’t, brother.”

  “And I wish you’d stop talking in circles.” I rip my jacket off just to give myself something to do. “What the hell are you talking about, investing in Heart’s Edge?”

  “I mean,” he says slowly, “that I used my inheritance wisely to graduate from lowly landscaper to starting my own construction company.” A pause, and I swear to God he’s doing it for dramatic effect, the shit. “And it just so happens I’ve just landed the contract to rebuild several portions of the town damaged in the big museum fire last year.”

  Fuck me six ways from Sunday.

  Blowing out sharply, I lean against the door, crossing my ankles and folding my arms, eyeing him warily. “So you’re saying you’re gonna be in town awhile? Great.”

  “Exactly.” Holt looks at me strangely.

  It’s weird seeing him trying to be honest, but damn...I remember when we were kids. Sometimes, he’d look at me that way too, before he turned into this slick skirt-chasing snake.

  I give him a look that makes it feel like July in January.

  “Listen, we’re going to be around each other a lot, Blake. I’d like it if we could bury the hatchet and start over.”

  “You don’t fucking start over when your own brother tries to seduce your wife.” My fists whiten my knuckles, so ready to meet his smart-ass face.

  “You were already practically separated,” he points out coolly. “And you don’t know the entire situation.”

  “Bullshit. I know that separated or not, she was still Andrea’s ma, and I didn’t need my daughter trying to process her mother fucking her uncle.”

  He blinks and actually looks hurt for a moment before he turns his face away.

  When he’s not smirking, he actually looks more angel than devil, almost pensive like he’s bitten into a lemon so sour it gives him a soul.

  But then, I’m sure Old Scratch had his pondering moments before he fell from grace, too.

  Holt sighs and mutters quietly, “There is that. But it’s also a moot point, isn’t it?”

  That? Right.

  There’s that creepy stillness between us. That silence. That reminder of death and bad blood.

  I don’t even know what to say.

  It’s like if I acknowledge it, I’m inviting more in.

  After a little while, Holt says, “Andrea’s growing up to be an amazing young woman, Blake. She showed me some of her art before she ran off to her room.” His smile actually seems genuine—and I hate it more. “You’re doing a good job with her.”

  Go fuck yourself, I want to say.

  Because the best way to get under my skin is to say my girl’s exactly as wonderful as she is.

  I grumble, looking away, scrubbing a hand through my hair. “Yeah, well, I’m trying. Hope I’m not doing too bad on my lonesome.”

  “Hey,” Holt says, an odd catch in his voice.

  I glance at him warily. He’s watching me intently, and for a split second...

  Yeah.

  There’s my brother.

  Just the two of us huddling in the same bunk, listening to the creak of our ma’s footsteps, hoping if we didn’t make too much noise, she’d walk past and not peer in and find us awake and make us suffer.

  Ma had ways to torture kids that didn’t mean laying a finger on us.

  She never hit us. That’d be too easy.

  But she knew how to make us scared.

  And I remember the echo of that fear, having to clamp my hand over Holt’s mouth to silence his sniffles while her shadow passed under the door.

  “Hey,” he says again. “You’re...you’re not Mom.”

  “You’re damn right I’m not,” I spit back. “And I know I’m raising Andrea better than Ma or Abby ever could.”

  Holt cocks his head, studying me thoughtfully.

  “I think...I envy you, Blake,” he says. “You got out earlier. Left me alone with her. You broke free, while I got sucked in deeper.”

  I don’t want the rush of guilt that hits, but there it is.

  It’s an anvil, crushing down on my chest, heading straight for the heart.

  Fuck.

  “Whatever.” I duck my head, swallowing, feeling something gritty. “I’m sorry for that. The second I saw the chance to run...”

  “Oh, I don’t blame you. It’s just how things turned out.” There’s a whisper of fine wool against the ratty plaid of my easy chair as he shrugs. “But maybe I want to start over, too. Find out what it’s like to have a good family.”

  I inhale slowly, and exhale just the same.

  I know what he’s asking.

  He wants me to forget that fucked up night I walked in on him with Abby in his arms, and he’ll forget that I left him alone in our ma’s clutches and abandoned him to deal with her shit, her demands, and then her care in old age till the bitter end.

  Yeah.

  Then it came, she died, and he was free too.

  In the worst way possible.

  Don’t rightly know if I can forgive that. Or if he can forgive me.

  But I’m thinking about Little Violet right now, how upset she was that she had a grandma she never knew.

  She might never forgive me if I refuse to let her know her uncle, too.

  “Okay,” I say grudgingly. “Look, you can do dinner tomorrow. That’s it. No more promises. But we don’t talk about Ma, understood? We don’t talk about the past at all. You play nice, you keep it light, and you fucking behave yourself in front of your niece.”

  He grins then, and the devil’s back as he claps his hands together. “Perfect. Have I ever not behaved?”

  “Holt.”

  He laughs—but it’s not that oily laugh he turns on when he wants to seduce women with his wild purr and those too-sly whiskey eyes.

  It’s a real, hearty chuckle. This goofy kind of awkward small-town thing I recognize in my brother.

  “Okay, okay,” he says, standing, raising his hands in surrender. “I promise. I’ll be good. You want me to bring wine, though?”

  “This is a beer house,” I growl. “And we don’t do business formal.”

  He smooths the lapels of his shirt. “I’ll make sure to adhere to the dress co—”

  He’s cut off by a sound I’d know anywhere and dread.

  The shrill of a ringing line from across the room.

  It’s tinny, a weird, vibrating sound, because the phone’s old as hell. Bright red, a little scratched and dinged up.

  I found it in a thrift shop and bought it for the novelty, but when that landline rings, there’s only one thing it ever means.

  There’s a fire somewhere in Heart’s Edge.

  5

  Move to the Beat (Peace)

  Heart’s Edge is totally not what I expected.

  Especially when I’m sitting on a bench across from a pretty candy store, talking to a man big enough to pull off the I am the Brute Squad quote with a straight face.

  He’s covered in burn scars, fused with tattoos in freaky artistic patterns that turn a sad disfigurement into a portrait of something strange and beautiful.

  One look would tell anybody he should be a brute.

  But he’s got this gentle smile and warm eyes that look nearly black at first, until he brushes his hair back from his face. Then they catch the light, turning this unique amethyst-violet hue.

  “Not gonna lie,” he says a bit sheepishly. “I thought you were another reporter looking to crawl up my ass.”

  “Nah.” I grin. “Just a goofy massage therapist who writes songs sometimes. I feel like there’s a good country-rock ballad in Heart’s Edge somewhere.”

  “Country-rock? Oh, hell.” He lets out a bark of laughter. His voice has a slight bur
ned, raspy edge.

  “You know, like Garth Brooks style. Telling the story of a band of four desperadoes moving across the plains, rolling thunder, lightning strikes, that sort of thing.”

  That gets another laugh from him, incredulous. “Where you gonna find a horse big enough for me, then?”

  “Ahhh, that’s why we’re lucky it’s fiction.” I hold a finger up. “Just a little pinch of truth. Just enough to make it feel real.”

  “So no names,” he says, a touch warily.

  I get the feeling he’s heard his name said too many times, in all the wrong ways.

  “Well, since I don’t even know yours...” I tease.

  “You know.” He gives me a dry look. “Or you wouldn’t be talking to me about your song. I’m probably the easiest person to ID in town.”

  I incline my head. “Fair. I hope you’re not mad.”

  “Nah.” He chuckles. “I don’t mind. Just no more of that tabloid shit.”

  “Nothing of the kind.” I cock my head, hugging my arms to myself.

  It’s bright out, the sun reflecting warmly off a thin new layer of snow that settled in overnight, but even with the sky bright and blue and soaring overhead, I’m numb through my coat.

  At least I remembered gloves this time.

  “So should I call you Nine or Mr. Regis?” I ask.

  “Leo’s fine.” His smile is wry, self-deprecating. “Don’t think I’ve ever been Mr. Regis except on national TV. And ‘Nine’ is full of some memories.”

  “Yeah? What kind?”

  “Prison,” he says. It’s honest, but grim and a touch regretful. “I did the wrong thing for the right reasons, wound up in jail. My prisoner number started with nine. And when I escaped, living like a wild man around these hills...it just stuck.”

  I glance at the candy store across the street, visible past the hood of my little purple nugget of the compact rental car I’ve left on the sidewalk. The shop is called Sweeter Things, and a tall, beautiful woman with rich mahogany hair moves around inside busily, an adorable little chestnut-haired boy trailing in her wake.

  “Anything to do with her?”

  “My wife?” Leo chuckles. “Yeah. Everything to do with Rissa.”

  “Sounds like one hell of a love story.”