STONE (Daring the Kane Brothers) Page 4

  “Fuck if I know what he does.” Crash grimaces, cancelling out the dimple in the corner of his cheek.

  “What do you think, Jaggs?” Nix’s voice rises. “You saw him the last time he was here.”

  I glance up from the hood of the car, guilt-based acid burning a hole in my gut. “I wouldn’t know.” I lower my eyes back to the exposed engine. I hate lying to any Kane—any but Stone Kane.

  At the end of the day, I walk up to Crash. “Hey, I gotta talk to you…”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After I took an Uber to pick up my truck at the Lakeview Tavern, I headed out on my three-hour ride to Fresno. It gave me a lot of time to think about Jaggs and the shit that went down the night before.

  I knew there’d come a day when I’d have to burst her mistaken bubble with the truth but fuck. I didn’t think I’d have to do it after killing a little over a year of sobriety. The last time I relapsed was the day her sister died. In part, that shit was on me. Had I not been so fucked up, maybe I could’ve made it to her before the timer went off, but the hard truth is, I probably was too far away. But, hell, if I were sober, I could’ve given it a try. Not like it’d been the first time I didn’t beat the timer. And on those instances, innocent woman and little kids died. It’s those instances when I turned to drugs and alcohol after I came home. It blurred the images burned in my head and numbed the heavy guilt in my chest. I got away with it for about a year. Then my family found out the truth. I wasn’t the brave, strong man they thought had returned from Iraq. I was nothing more than a broken soldier self-medicating. They intervened ’cause that’s what my family does, and after an intervention down at Uncle Rowdy’s cabin with my four brothers, I came out clean again. At least I was dry for about a year and a half until I ran into Sammy Torres, an old Army buddy of mine.

  I was in Ohio when the band decided to start a tour in Buffalo and head back to Cali, hitting whatever bars we could along the way that year. Probably not a good place for an addict to be. Still, I was doing okay. I liked the challenge and was convinced it made me stronger.

  Walking to the corner gas station for a cup of coffee down the street from the motel we were staying in that morning, I recognized Sammy right away. It was hard to miss the tattoo on the top of his big bald head, and then there’s the wheelchair and missing limbs.

  The conversation started with the normal bullshit niceties. Then somehow, we ended up at the dive bar across the street from the gas station. Everything came back about our time together in Iraq—the bombs, the dead, and the body parts people like Sammy lost. I started drinking, and before I knew it, a few hours went by, and I was shit-faced.

  I remembered hearing the horrifying sound coming through on my cell. I glanced at the message. HME pipe bomb – Harriett Hotel Columbus, Ohio - 3 people - Timer 1:56:07.

  Glancing at my cell to check the time, I clicked it off and ordered another shot.

  I was an EOD specialist in the Army. It took me nearly a year of training to learn how to detect, disarm, detonate, and dispose of explosives. I was active duty for six years and returned home four years ago on an honorable discharge with some shrapnel in my back.

  I got a GPS app on my cell, so the government knows where I am in case they need my services. I’ve deactivated a few bombs in the past, but Columbus was at least two hours away, so I knew I’d never make it. Besides, I planned to close the bar with Sammy, go back to the motel, then catch an AA meeting in the morning to absolve the past few hours. A half hour or so later, I got another text from a friend, Warren Harris, who works for the ATF, Columbus, Ohio, 4 casualties, including EOC specialist Gerald Higgins.

  Instantly, I thought of Gerald Higgins’ wife, Lana. Something must’ve gone wrong. The bomb went off too early. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and headed for Columbus, and that’s when I met Amanda Downey aka Jaggs for the first time. Before that day, I was good. I stayed away from the drugs and hard liquor, and I even quit smoking. Now and then, I’d have a beer. Other than that, I was doing okay.

  I never told anyone about the slipup, not my family, the band, or my friends. I guess, when it came down to it, Jaggs had something on me as well. Maybe it’s one of the reasons I kept her secret a secret. My family thought I was on a three-year clean streak, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

  The truth is, when I looked at Jaggs, I felt her pain, and if hating me helped ease her pain, I was okay with it.

  I reach my destination and get out of the truck with five minutes to spare.

  A seventy-something-year-old white-haired man walks out of the house. “Mr. Kane?”

  “Yeah.” I nudge. “Mr. Williams?”

  “Eddy,” the old guy says, thrusting out his hand for a shake. “You said it’s you and three other people staying until the twentieth?”

  “Four.” I pull my hand from the firm shake. “There’ll be a total of five. Is that okay?”

  “Well…” His eyes roll over my black clothing, tattoos, leather wrist band, long hair, and beard. I’m used to it. “This is a quiet neighborhood, and there are a lot of kids in the area.”

  “I understand, Mr. Williams. You don’t need to worry about anything. We will respect the neighbors and your home.”

  He examines me like my older brother, Steele, does through skeptical eyes, but I must have passed his scrutiny. “Here.” He hands me the keys to the house.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say with a curt nod.

  The old man must’ve liked my response. “Just leave the keys under the yellow flowerpot on the back patio.”

  “No problem.” I watch him get into a Buick and leave.

  Yeah, ever since the fiasco back in Ohio, no more motels for this guy. It’s nothing but privately owned Airbnbs, and as we’re all a little more mature than when we started the band back in the ninth grade, the members have climbed on board. I usually come a few days before the others because I like the quiet before the craziness starts.

  I get my shit from the truck and check out the place.

  The first night was quiet minus the usual house noises; some heaters hiss and some sing, some doors creak and some rattle, and some windows echo the wind while others reflect the elements.

  The next night, not so quiet. The clock hits eight, and instantly, I feel it creeping from every corner. With each second, my heartbeat quickens. My palms sweat. Three doors down, the dog’s bark gets louder, and Eddy’s generator sounds like it’s on the front porch with me.

  Where the fuck is she?

  I get up from the rocking chair to get a better look down the street. There’s not a vehicle in sight. “Dammit.” I glance at my cell, 8:04. I walk down the six stairs—I counted—and stop. Again, looking in both directions. I shake the numbness from my fingertips, turn around, and go back to the rocking chair on the porch. I rest my head, close my eyes, and hum the melody of a song I’ve been working on while slapping my hands on the chair arms.

  It doesn’t stop the insistence in my head.

  She’s late.

  What if she’s hurt?

  What if she got into an accident?

  What if she’s stranded somewhere? It’ll be dark soon.

  I hear a car. My eyes pop open, and I lean forward. It’s the kid next door’s Ford Mustang. Shit! I get up this time, making it down the stairs and to the front sidewalk.

  I rub the back of my neck.

  What if she’s hurt somewhere on the side of the road?

  What if she needs me?

  I glance at my cell, 8:12.

  What the fuck! Where is she?

  I scrub a sweaty hand over my face.

  What if she’s hurt, alone somewhere in pain?

  I rub my neck again.

  What if I can’t get to her on time?

  Clutching my chest, I try to calm the erratic beat of my heart. She’s not coming because she doesn’t want to see you. She’s pissed at you. She hates you. I t
ry to convince myself why she’s not on time. Why she’s not here. Fuck. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her. If she was on her way to me and she got hurt.

  I look at my cell, 8:13. Dammit, time goes slow when I’m like this.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Driving down the street, I spot the out-of-place man dressed in head-to-toe black on the suburban sidewalk. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Good, fifteen minutes late. Screw him and his timer issues. I purposely came late. Hey, he’s lucky I showed up at all after he threatened to tell Crash on me. I could’ve been my own little tattletale, but I learned a long time ago in foster care that nothing good comes from snitching on someone.

  His eyes lock with mine and stay fixed as I park the car. He opens the passenger side, spots my duffel bag, grabs it, and slams the door shut. No hi or even a smile. He walks my stuff inside the house, and seeing as it took three hours to get here and he has all my shit, I follow him.

  Entering the large house, I check out the foyer. Stone drops my bag on the floor, turns around, and pushes me against the wall. Hand on my shoulder, eyes flat and unreadable, he gazes down at me. I’m not sure what it is—a cat, his grip, or the dangerous gleam in his glare—but something’s got my tongue.

  His mouth crashes against mine, and we’re back to where we were yesterday in a heated tongue war that leaves me stupefied and wet between the legs. Damn, the man’s mouth is like a workout, leaving me feeling hot and sweaty. If I knew his kisses were going to rock my world and mess with my internal thermostat, I would’ve never let him come anywhere near me.

  Telling myself to stop, I work my lips against his, licking, nipping, and challenging his every touch. “Stone,” I breathe out his name between brushes. “St-Stop…Oh…God!” I slip my hand up the back of his head and grab his long hair, desperately trying to pull him away, but my hungry, uncooperative mouth stays mounted on his.

  I pull him toward me.

  He pushes back.

  His lips break from me and linger a few inches from mine, his glossy eyes snagging all my good senses.

  “You’re late,” he says in his whispery rugged let me sing you to sleep voice.

  I swallow my anticipation, glad the wall is holding me up. “Am I?”

  “Yes.” The soft-looking hairs of his beard shift as if his jaw clenched. Good. Serves him right for ordering me around.

  “Sorry.” I smirk, making every effort to ignore his enticing smell or acknowledge the heat generated from the proximity of his body.

  His lids lower, smoldering his brandy-colored eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  I smile, dropping my assessment to his mouth. I need to start looking at the thing like it’s a weapon. “Why do you keep kissing me?”

  “It’s called taking a time-out. I learned it in AA.”

  “What do you need a time-out from?”

  “Doing what I really want to do.”

  “And that is?”

  “Bend you over my knee and beat your ass for fucking with me.”

  The image of what it might look like pauses me for second. “So…” I blink until the image clears my mind. “I take it you’re angry with me for being late?”

  “Fuck you, Jaggs.” His eyes race across my face as if he doesn’t know what part of me to focus on. “You know what that shit does to me.”

  “I didn’t really but thought I’d test it, though. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known it was gonna cost me you assaulting my mouth again.”

  “Assaulting? Really?” A chuckle rumbles from him, and the sound along with the twinkle it puts in his eyes makes him much more appealing. Never could I imagine Stone Kane as appealing. Yet here I am in Fresno craving the broken jukebox hero.

  “Ambushing, attacking, whatever, you stole another kiss from me!” I defend myself. If I’m going to spend the next two weeks with him, I must lay down the law. We will not be kissing, or touching, or doing anything else that might cure the persistent ache I have for him right now. Shit! How did this happen? What am I doing here?

  God. I wish he’d kiss me again.

  “So we’ve gone from assaulting to stealing. Well, why don’t you let me know which you prefer, and next time, I’ll be sure not to do it that way when you piss me off.”

  “Oh-ho, there won’t be a next time!”

  “I know all about you, Jaggs, and I can assure you, there will be a next time. Without a doubt. You can’t help yourself. At every turn, you will try to piss me off. It’s why you were late.”

  “For your information, I was late because there was a huge accident on I-5. Otherwise, I would’ve been here on time.”

  “Lying to me?” He rests a forearm against the wall and leans in closer to me. “Do you know what that does?”

  “Pisses you off.” A leap of chance fills me. Please kiss me again. I swear, it’ll be the last one I let him take from me.

  “Yes.” His mouth inches closer to mine. “So, what’ll it be?”

  “Attack.” I bite my bottom lip. “Please attack me,” I barely whisper as I bend forward to greet his mouth.

  Shit! I promise I’m coming out of these next two weeks with my heart intact. I will not fall for the enemy. I refuse to surrender to the wannabe rock star. He might be able to steal a kiss, but the asshole is still not getting my heart! No way!

  With a smug smile on his face, he pulls away from the mind-blowing kiss like he's already got a couple of fingers around the vital organ in my chest that no one else has attempted to grab at. “Now, are we done here?”

  I hope not. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He pulls his arm from the wall, remaining in front of me. “Thanks for coming.” He flicks the few strands of hair from his face. “I didn’t think you would.” His eyes beam into the wall behind me.

  The honesty in his tone shakes the erotic feverish shit running through me. Mouth partly open, I take a harder look at him. Maybe he isn’t fucking with me. As hard as it is to imagine, perhaps he wants me here to help. “No problem,” I mumble beneath my confusion.

  His exceptionally long eyelashes lift, and he goes back to searching my face for a safe place to land. My mouth tingles when he decides to settle there. “I can show you to your room.”

  “Okay.” I stare up at him, waiting for the opportunity to look into his eyes. It’d be nice not only to hear his honesty, but I’d like to see it as well. Not offering me the chance, he reaches down and picks up my bag. I follow him up the stairs. He opens a door to a room with a queen-size bed and a dresser. “Will this work?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I nod.

  “Okay, well, it’s yours until Friday.” He sets my bag on the bed. “When the guys show up, we’ll need to share it. Don’t worry.” He turns around, his eyes finding mine. “I won’t steal the bed from you. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, heat flushing all through me. Is he nuts? I can’t share a room with him.

  “Seeing as I’m the first one here, I get to pick my room.” He points at a door. “There’s a bathroom in here, so it’ll give you some privacy. You can change in there and shit when I join you on Friday.”

  “You’ve thought of everything.” I grin, not trying to hide my displeasure.

  His eyes remain locked with mine. “I really am glad you decided to come, Jaggs. It must seem fucked up, but after the other night, when I—”

  “Relapsed,” I finish for him. Well, come on, let’s call it what it was. He’s an addict, and he fell off the wagon.

  He rushes a hand through his dark hair and starts for the door. “Yeah, anyway, thanks.”

  Oh, hell no. I will not feel bad. “It’s not like you gave me a choice.”

  He stops with his back to me. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then I hear him say, “I was afraid you wouldn’t come if I did.” His head lifts. “Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll make you something to eat,” he s
ays louder this time before clearing the room.

  He’s wrong. I would’ve come. Now that the hatred has dried up, I find myself curious about Stone Kane. Like why he’d let me think he was a killer for over a year and why he asked me to come here. His excuses seem reasonable. Still, a few fangirls and the urge to use again can’t be new to him. He must’ve developed some coping skills by now. I can’t be it.

  I gotta admit it wasn’t easy lying to Crash. I told him I was going home to see an aunt in Rochester. There’s no aunt, and I feel like shit for telling him there was. Crash has been cool with me. We hit it off from the start, and while everyone else has a hard time understanding him, I have no problem. I guess he’s been like that ever since his best friend died. Maggie’s brought some smiles to my friend’s face, so I couldn’t be happier for them both.

  It kills me to imagine what Crash would think if he knew where I was right now. My betrayal weighs heavy in my heart. I’m not sure how I’d explain myself. The best thing I can do is get through the next two weeks, try to help Stone get through it, and then go back home to Culver City and the Kanes, where I so want to belong. First, I gotta settle things with Stone. I need to make things right between us. He needs to forgive me. I can’t get back to the Kanes without it. Maybe, if I accomplish that, he’ll forget about all this shit, he’ll give me a pass, and I can go back home with a clear conscience. Maybe no one will ever have to know anything about my hatred for one of their own.

  I sit on the bed, knowing in the pit of my stomach that there’s a good chance it’s not going to happen. The truth will come out, and I’ll have to find somewhere else to go. I’ll have to find another place to call home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jaggs comes into the kitchen dressed in the usual form-fitting tee and ripped jeans. Her spiky black hair as vibrant as her eccentric violet-blue eyes. She’s got a goth look about her, but there’s a sort of softness fighting to get through all her hardness. She’s short with a fit and shapely body. She’s normally equipped with a smart-ass remark about everything, but she’s got a heart. And every once in a while, she lets it show. It’s that heart I was hoping would bring her to me today.