No Damaged Goods Page 8

  I almost choke on a laugh. “Wolverines? I—”

  “Never mind. Point is, it wasn’t right of me. Not today or the night your ride went kaboom. I’m sorry for slinging so much crap your way.” His gaze sharpens.

  “Oh.” I can’t stop my smile. I probably look like a total dope since I can’t seem to look away from him. “It’s fine. I mean, I’m used to getting snarled at by big man-babies who can’t handle a little pain.”

  He lifts a brow.

  I raise my hands, flexing my purple-coated fingers. “I’m small, but I’m fierce. I’ve done a lot of massages. Over a thousand. I’ve even taken down bigger men than you with these hands.”

  He’d started to scowl when I said man-babies, but as he stares at my fingers, his lips twitch briefly—before he ducks his head with a sound suspiciously like a repressed laugh. “Okay, little fuckin’ Broccoli Girl.”

  Bad move. My hands drop, bunching up at my sides.

  “Don’t call me that,” I say, my voice flat.

  “Don’t call me a man-baby.”

  We trade scowls. Then he grins at me, and it’s a good thing I’ve got my feet planted firm to the ground, or my knees might just give out under me.

  Yep, I officially hate whatever insanity this weird, electric sparky thing between us is.

  Oh, but when Blake Silverton grins, you’d better believe it transforms his face.

  So much emotion, it might be the full spectrum.

  Wolfish. Feral. Rakish. Bright and full of secret laughter dancing in those midnight-blue eyes.

  And so dangerously compelling, this magnetism that just pulls like he could draw me against his body with just a glance.

  “Riiight,” I mumble faintly. “No man-baby. No Broccoli Girl. Deal.”

  Wowza. I’ve got to get over this and stop acting like a kid.

  His smile fades, but the warmth lingers in his features, softening their crags as he studies me. “So you really as good as you say with those paws?”

  “I’m usually not short on clients. And I don’t stay in the same places long,” I answer, forcing myself back to some semblance of focus. I can’t let him see how much he flusters me, though I don’t think I can hide how hot my face is. “And I get a lot of repeat customers, so I must be doing something right.”

  “Well, if you think you can do something with this...” He balls up his fist and thumps his thigh—then hisses, baring his clenched teeth. “Fuck.”

  “I can’t do much if you do that again,” I say, folding my arms. “Stop. You’re not helping. You’re just creating more bruised tissue around the trigger point, and believe it or not, bruises tear muscle fiber. They’re called micro-tears, and if you keep creating tears that have to heal around the pain source, you’re going to actually make the pain spread.”

  It all comes tumbling out of me, motor-mouth central, but hey.

  I know my job.

  Blake seems like the kind of man who doesn’t take advice unless it makes sense to him, so I might as well head him off at the pass and explain.

  He just blinks at me, tilting his head before arching a brow.

  “Yes ma’am,” he says sardonically, with a tired half-smirk. “Hell, I’ve been doing this for years, probably making it worse. Damn miracle it’s still more than a piece of gristle. Where you been all my life?”

  I bite back my answer.

  It sounds like a pickup line, but I’m smart enough to know it’s not.

  A man hurting like him isn’t thinking about me as anyone but somebody who might be able to ease his pain.

  So I smile and deflect. “Oahu, mostly, though I’m guessing for a part of it I wasn’t even born.”

  He narrows his eyes, but there’s a spark there, curious and assessing. “I’m only forty-two.”

  “And I’m twenty-five,” I say. “So. Guess that’s your answer.”

  I smile brightly. He’s looking at me like I just poleaxed him between the eyes.

  “Go on home and get some rest, Gramps. I want you at my cabin bright and early. Don’t worry,” I tease, turning away, unable to help a little toss of my hair, just a little flirt. “I’ll take good care of you.”

  6

  Sweet Refrain (Blake)

  I barely get half a second to stare after the switch of that firecracker’s hips before I’ve got a face full of Leo.

  Not the view I want right now, dammit.

  He’s got my full attention as he leans in close, though, dropping his voice so it only carries between us.

  “We have a problem,” he growls, brushing his hand against mine like he’s just offering a brotherly bit of comfort over my throbbing, fire-burning thigh.

  Except a crumpled bit of paper falls against my knuckles. I instinctively turn my hand to catch it in my palm and hide it in the curl of my fingers.

  I look over my shoulder real quick. Nobody looking our way.

  Justin, Rich, and the guys are on cleanup duty. Leo’s watching me urgently, violet eyes shadowed with the sun at his back. I look down at the crumpled note on a little scrap of blue paper, smoothing it out with my thumb.

  You and your merry band of assholes aren’t as smart as you think, you scarred freak.

  What the fuck?

  The instant surge of anger hits my guts like bad whiskey, wondering how anyone would dare call my friend a scarred freak. It’s eclipsed fast when I realize what it means.

  Shit.

  I thought this fire felt weird.

  The scorch patterns say it broke out explosively, force thrusting flames out from inside till they seared the surrounding buildings.

  Fires that start off as accidents, usually retail or industrial, kick off in cluttered corners. Frayed electrical cords, a candle, old machinery, something flammable close by.

  One spark jumps, catches the right material, and then there’s no stopping it.

  Disaster.

  Still, without some kind of incendiary, the blast wouldn’t race outward with that kind of punch.

  I sigh, murmuring under my breath. I don’t want anyone to get freaked out; this is between me and Leo right now. “You think it was set? Arson?”

  “Had to be,” Leo snarls. “This is practically a confession. Found it on the ground. Just waiting to be picked up, right there in the line of sight.”

  “Dammit, yeah.” I twist my lips, frowning. “But who? If this is about you...do you think they’re back?”

  “Galentron?” Leo shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Not really their style. Fuchsia Delaney doesn’t have a good reason to fuck with us anymore, seeing how she ran off after the last dustup and hasn’t been seen since. Hell, the rest of the company’s in ruins, caught up in legal battles. I don’t think anyone’s even left with enough incentive to take revenge, considering how many people wound up in jail. Even Durham, the CEO. Plus, with the Feds in and out of here all the time...who’d risk it?”

  “That’s a good point.” And a bad prospect, meaning we’ve got no obvious motive. “But can we really rule ’em out just like that? Seems like those evil pricks live to fuck with this town.”

  “It’s just not their M.O., Blake,” Leo says ruefully. “They’re more likely to send a strike team or some kind of cloak and dagger subterfuge. Not...this.” He gestures at the note. “It’s too personal.”

  “Okay.” I twist my lips, scanning the sharp dashes of handwriting. “So, who the hell hates you enough to try to kill a bunch of people?”

  He narrows his eyes. “...how much time do you have?”

  “Real funny.” I sigh, glancing toward the open door of the shop.

  Rich comes out with several half-burnt piles of clothing, sniffing them, and I’d bet you anything he’s smelling some kind of accelerant. I sigh my lungs out.

  “So we’ve got ourselves a problem. Again.” The words taste numb rolling off my tongue. I’m so sick of this shit, always some new fire to put out every so many months in Heart’s Edge. Figurative and literal.

  “Do we ever no
t?” Leo echoes.

  “I wouldn’t mind a few months off, Tiger.” I give him a wink, hoping his old childhood nickname tames the huge beast of a man.

  I hardly feel the pain in my thigh right now, at least. My mind’s on too many other things.

  Like how I need Peace Rabe more than ever, if we’ve got trouble blowing into town. Just to keep me in top fighting shape. I can’t have my leg crapping out if we’re gonna have another run at the same kind of drama we’ve dealt with before.

  “No worries, man. We’ll handle it,” I say. “Like we always do.”

  Like we always will.

  Maybe I’ve never been comfortable with the Heroes of Heart’s Edge thing, but I damn sure feel the camaraderie with my friends. They’re better brothers to me than Holt will ever be.

  Slowly, Leo nods, and I mirror his movement.

  We’re up.

  Before whoever’s gunning for Leo gets a chance to try to handle us.

  * * *

  Gramps.

  I can’t believe that little hippie brat called me Gramps.

  Forty-something ain’t that much like having one foot in the grave.

  Hell if I know.

  Maybe it is to her?

  And maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about why it bothers me, thinking that sweet-faced girl with her wild shock of ruby-violet hair thinks I’m past my prime.

  Thinks I’m old.

  Maybe that’s why I almost don’t show come morning.

  Or maybe it’s ’cause I don’t want Haley or Warren noticing me creeping up in my Jeep out here, asking questions and flinging shit bound to turn my face beet red.

  Hell, maybe it’s that my mind’s already where they’re gonna lead it, and I don’t want it to be.

  I. Can’t. Do. This.

  I got a daughter to think about, and Peace is far too—

  Yeah. Okay. Fuck.

  I’m old.

  Funny thing is, she doesn’t look at me like I’m ancient.

  She stares at me like she wants to kiss away every hard knot of pain in my body. Just like she thinks I haven’t been with a woman in so long I don’t know what it means when she’s watching real intently from under her long eyelashes with her skin all flushed and pale and pretty, and no, it’s not the cold air.

  And the way she’d said my name yesterday...

  Christ.

  No.

  Nope.

  I’m here for therapy. Trying to do something about this fucking bum leg of mine, and nothing else.

  Leo had to practically carry me home last night. Andrea tried her best to help me get into a hot soaking bath to loosen my thigh up enough so I could get around without a crutch.

  My rabid leg fought back every time I tried bending it. The pull from my hip to my knee sent searing pain ripping through me, just as bad as one hot, unlucky Afghan day too many years ago.

  So I frog-marched myself around till I could toss a double dose of Vicodin and fall into bed.

  The Vicodin at least held through morning. I’m worried about getting hooked on that shit the longer this goes on. Another reason I need Little Miss Broccoli to work on my meat—innuendo be damned.

  Right now, my leg feels like dead weight as I let myself out of the parked Jeep and drag myself through the gate to Peace’s cabin. I can already see her inside, through the glass, this whirlwind of vibrant color.

  I’m starting to think the girl’s color-blind. She always looks like she just stepped out of an explosion at a paint factory.

  Today’s no different.

  She’s got on big old bell-bottom jeans like the seventies never ended, only they’re the modern throwback style, the denim covered in Magic Marker graffiti. Even loose, they’re so far down her rocket hips they might fall off.

  Oh, and of course she’s got a navel piercing, nestled in the rounded, sweet-pale slope of her toned belly.

  Just a wicked little glimmer of diamond, drawing my eye in and up over the dip of a waist that’s almost too tiny for the swell of her hips, the arch of her rib cage. Smooth pale skin vanishes into the tie-dyed button-down shirt she’s wearing completely unbuttoned and knotted between her tits. They spill down against the open V of cloth in the front and fuck my life am I really standing on this woman’s porch, staring at her knockout melons and the tick of her pulse against her throat?

  Blake, get your shit together, man.

  I groan, dragging a hand over my face, then lift a hand and knock. I brace my other hand against the porch railing so I don’t have to be obvious about taking my weight off my leg.

  Guess she must’ve been preoccupied.

  Don’t know how she didn’t see me coming when the cabins are more glass than wood—but she jumps, hands fumbling on the bottles of oil in her hands. She blinks at me, her green eyes so wide. With a flustered sound I see in the movements of her lips but don’t hear, she grips the bottles tighter and bends to set them on the coffee table.

  Then she scurries around the coffee table and the long padded...cot? massage table?

  Whatever it is, it’s in the middle of the living room. Her hips switch enticingly, the broad flares of her jeans moving in counterpoint rhythm, making me focus on just how tight those bell-bottoms fit against her curvalicious thighs.

  Goddammit.

  I yank my eyes up from her thighs to her face just as she opens the door with a sunny smile.

  I’m so boned.

  Worse, she’s got the kind of mouth that’s naturally red like a ripe strawberry, and when she’s not smiling, it looks small and round. When she grins, it spreads nice and wide and lights up her whole face, putting plenty of dangerous ideas in my head of what to do with that mouth.

  Her hair’s been pinned back messy in chopsticks, the red parts sweeping at her face, the purple tips spraying out in a colorful fan behind her head.

  I don’t know how I never realized how short she was. Not till the moment she looks up at me and has to tilt her head back, her eyes glittering in the shadow I cast over her.

  She hardly comes up to my shoulders.

  But somehow, she’s larger than life.

  All that bright energy bursting out of her takes up a lot of real estate.

  Not in an invasive way.

  More like she’s warm water, flowing in to fill the cold and empty corners around her till everything is soft and comfortable.

  The fuck am I thinking?

  I clear my throat, straightening, taking my hand off the railing.

  “Hi.”

  Her smile brightens. “You came!”

  Oh, hell. Here we go.

  “What made you think I wouldn’t?” I huff.

  Her smile turns teasing, her body swaying back and forth a little. “I don’t know, Papa Bear. Maybe all the snarling you do.”

  “God.” I rake a hand through my hair. “You gonna let me in or not? It’s freezing out here. And I thought we had a truce? Stop with the old man nicknames.”

  She laughs.

  I feel damn old—old and lecherous for almost craving the way she moves, the way she flits, the way she’s the fluttering moth and the dancing flame hounding my dick to Hades and back as she slips inside and holds the door open.

  My pride gets the better of me as I follow her inside.

  I can’t even fucking bring myself to limp. Even though every attempt at a natural step makes my whole leg lit with white-hot pain.

  Fuck.

  I don’t want this gorgeous girl seeing how broken I am.

  But I guess I can’t hide anything from her.

  I barely make it a step inside before she reaches out and catches my hand in both of hers, stopping me in my tracks.

  Her fingers are soft and delicate against mine, so warm. My mouth goes dry as I look down at her. Her mouth has gone full and sweet with worry, her eyes dark and liquid.

  “Don’t,” she says softly. “Don’t hurt yourself even more. You don’t have to hide it. I’m here to work with your pain, Blake. Not judge it.”


  Everything in me wants to rebel with pride.

  I fucking can’t.

  Not when she’s looking at me like it’d break her heart if I refused her after I came out all this way.

  So I just nod, shifting my weight to my right leg, lifting the pressure on my left.

  Even that makes pain crunch up in an awful fiery knot. The muscle contracts with the movement, and I can’t stop my hiss, the growl in the back of my throat.

  A thunder roll that eases away as she squeezes my hand in hers.

  No, it doesn’t stop the pain.

  But it makes a dude feel a little better, my chest warming. She turns to lead me toward her massage table, moving slow with her hand in mine and waiting without rushing for me to limp forward one step at a time.

  It’s a relief to hoist myself up on the table, wincing as I settle down on the edge.

  I promptly choke on my next breath.

  Peace smiles at me merrily, twirling her finger.

  “Okay, then,” she says. “Clothes off.”

  I splutter. There’s a tightness in my gut that has nothing to do with pain or apprehension. “What? Why?”

  Her laughter trills, and for a moment, wicked eyes dart over me before she turns her back. “You haven’t ever had a massage before? I can’t do it through your jeans for this kind of deep work. Don’t worry. I won’t look.”

  “You’re gonna have to look to work,” I growl.

  “Towel.” She points over her shoulder without turning back, before bending over the coffee table and giving me a sweet view of the curves of her ass and the dip of her silky spine. “You can cover yourself up pretty well.”

  Good thing I ain’t naked right now.

  My jeans are the only thing holding me in.

  Fuck.

  I tear my gaze away from her and look at the towels folded at the foot of the table.

  Fine. Okay. Hell.

  “Shirt too?” I ask, and she laughs again.

  “Shirt too.”

  “...you ain’t working on anything but my leg,” I mutter, shooting her a look.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised where we hold tension in the body, and how it affects pain in other areas far from the source,” she says softly, her voice countered by the soft clink of glass vials moving together as she picks them up, reads their labels, and sets them down again. “So if I really want to work with your pain, I’ll need to find your tension centers and trigger points. Trust me, Blake. I know what I’m doing. This is the only thing I actually stayed in school for.”