Bulletproof Read online

Ash leaned down and rested her elbows on the bar in front of me. My eyes automatically dipped to her chest, and I let them linger for a moment, my lips curling into a half-smile before lifting them back up to meet her gaze.

  “See, they come in here at the same time every day, sit in the same place, drink the same beer. Always here together, always leave together. So, I came up with the acronym. Saves time.”

  I laughed. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

  She smirked, pushing off the bar to finish cleaning the empty glasses. “You passin’ through?” Her sweet southern accent, with a little help from the alcohol, warmed me from the inside.

  “Not exactly. I’ve got…business outside of town.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Business? What kind of business?”

  “The personal kind,” I evaded, draining the rest of my glass. The edge of her lips twitched, and she bit down on her bottom lip to hide her smile.

  I tracked her every move as she flitted around behind the bar, cleaning and drying each glass before stretching to set it on a shelf above the register. She had that delicate southern belle act down to a science, and it was an act. Based on the way she’d dealt with the mysterious Tommy on the phone earlier, she could handle herself just fine. Working alone in a roadside bar, no doubt, she’d probably seen her fair share of shit.

  She looked at me as if she could see right through me, and I sat there stripped bare, vulnerable, and completely under the temptress’ spell—much like every other poor schmuck who wandered in.

  “Since I’ll be around for a while, maybe I should invest in some flannel.”

  She laughed. “I hear it’s all the rage with the hipster crowd.”

  I leaned back on my barstool and held my arms open wide. “Do I strike you as the hipster type?”

  She gave me a shy smile and shook her head. “I guess not.”

  I dropped my elbows on the edge of the bar, my gaze following her as she finished shelving the glassware. “You into that kind of thing?”

  “What thing is that?”

  “Hipsters.”

  She glanced at me over her shoulder, and my lips curled upward at seeing the amusement dancing within her eyes. “Not my type.”

  “What is your type?” I asked absently, twirling my empty glass between my fingers.

  She pulled a bar towel from her shoulder and stretched the fabric between her hands, toying with it as she slowly made her way to me. “I don’t know. Charming, confident, good-looking—but not in an obvious kind of way.” Stopping in front of me, she draped herself across the bar. “Sweet, funny, dark hair, nice lips.” Her eyes dropped to my mouth, and I swallowed thickly, bracing my hands on the bar to keep myself from coming unglued.

  “Sounds like you got it pretty well figured out,” I choked.

  “I know what I want,” she said, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth.

  Fuck. I shifted closer, deciding to let this little flirtation play out. “I’m the same way, and when I see it, I can be pretty persistent in my pursuit.”

  She leaned in a little more, and I followed, closing the gap between us as far as the bar would allow. “And do you see something you want?”

  I nodded. A smile lit her face, and my lips turned up to match.

  “So, what’re you gonna do about it?” Her eyes sparked with heat, and it took everything I had to keep myself from leaping over the bar to find out if those luscious red lips tasted as sweet as they appeared.

  “How about we start with your number?”

  She paused for a moment, weighing her options. Pushing off the bar, she plucked a sharpie from an old soup can beside the cash register. “Come here,” she whispered.

  I extended my arm in anticipation. She stretched up on her tiptoes, invading my space with a sweet floral scent I recognized instantly: honeysuckle. I closed my eyes, breathing in deeply, dizzy and unsure if it was from the whiskey or her closeness. Her soft hand grazed the side of my face, sliding against the scruff on my chin, sending a current beneath my skin. The marker pressed gently into my forehead, but my attention was focused on the soft, creamy skin peeking out of her tank top. She leaned back with a grin and reached for something under the bar. A bright flash of light caught me off guard, and I blinked as purple spots spread across my vision.

  I blinked again, opening my eyes wide in an attempt to clear my vision. When she finally came into focus, she was smiling and waving a Polaroid picture back and forth.

  “There’s one born every day.” She giggled, bouncing to the end of the bar and pinned the picture to a corkboard I hadn’t noticed before.

  I met my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and frowned. Squinting, I attempted to read the large black letters printed backward across my forehead. REKCUS? When the message finally registered, I whipped my head back to her, and she grinned.

  “Welcome to Merrittville, Jake.”

  Twenty minutes of rubbing slow circles into the wood bar top, and I’d nearly worn a hole clear through it as I peered at the mural on the wall. It wasn’t my best piece, not by a long shot, but the way that guy, Jake, stared at it earlier had me searching for what captivated him about it.

  Maybe he’d been lost in his thoughts. God knows I’d been caught staring off into space a time or ten, but his eyes were focused rather than having that glazed effect you get when you’ve checked out for the moment.

  I’d been a bartender long enough to realize when somebody had something on their mind, and that guy had trouble seeping out of his pores. Still, as he stared at that painting, it was as if he’d been holding his breath all this time and finally had the chance to exhale. I could almost see the tension leave his body, coiling like smoke toward the ceiling.

  I watched him take it all in, allowing the colors to breathe some life back into his cheeks. After all, he had a nice face with a strong angular jaw and a well-defined chin with the slightest dimple. His nose was a little crooked, perhaps he’d broken it once or twice before, and he had a tiny scar that cut through his top lip. A little color could only improve upon such a distinctive canvas.

  My fingers twitched as colors ran through my head. So many different shades, some vibrant and full of life, some darker and more intense. The dark strands of his hair were fluid and electric, a dangerous combination and a warning to stay far, far away. His smooth, tanned skin reminded me of how I took my morning coffee, sweet with lots of cream.

  The artist in me took over as I studied the geometry of him, breaking him down to basic shapes in my head. Broad shoulders lead to a narrow waist, forming a triangle. The overlapping oval shapes of his muscles shifted and moved beneath his long sleeves as he’d lifted his glass to his full heart-shaped lips.

  But his eyes. Dear God, those eyes—a complicated, chaotic hazel. Cool blues, deep greens, and warm browns splashed across the iris in a riot of color. Weighed down by regret and pain, passion, chaos, and adventure laid dormant, waiting for something to bring them bubbling to the surface.

  The back door slammed shut, and I snapped to attention, glancing at the clock above the door. Two thirty-five. I grumbled to myself, tossing the rag into the sink, and pushed through the saloon doors, which swung wildly behind me.

  Footsteps thundered up the back stairs as I made my way through the small galley kitchen. I stopped at the foot of the stairs, staring up at Sara’s retreating figure.

  “Where have you been?” I planted my hands firmly on my hips and pressed my lips into a tight line, trying to reign in my anger.

  She stopped, both feet planted firmly on a step about halfway up and spun around with murder in her deep brown eyes. “Out,” she snapped.

  “Out where? It’s two A.M.”

  “None of your fucking business,” she snarled.

  “You’re seventeen, and it’s a school night, that makes it my business.”

  Her sweet angelic face hardened to stone as she stomped down two steps, closing the distance between us. “It’s summer school, and besides, you don’t own me,” she spat.

  My lips curled into an evil grin as I took a step up, forcing her to crane her neck to meet my eyes. “I have news for you, little sister, you live under my roof, eat my food...your ass is mine until that changes, and you will follow my rules.”

  She folded her arms across her chest in defiance. “It’s Dad’s roof, Dad’s food, and Dad’s rules, and he doesn’t give a shit what I do. So, why should you?” She whirled around and started up the stairs again, her long blonde hair lashing me in the face like a whip.

  I reached out and caught her arm. She tugged and struggled to break free, but I tightened my grip. “Because someone has to.” My face softened. “I’m trying to help you,” I pleaded, trying to get her to listen to me for once in her life.

  “Did I ask for it?” She ripped her arm free from my grip and barreled up the stairs, jerking the door open to the apartment upstairs and slamming it shut behind her, the walls shaking from the force.

  A familiar knot formed in the back of my throat. I was at the fraying end of a very short rope. If she kept this shit up, she’d end up a small-town cliché: barefoot, pregnant, and living in a trailer at the edge of town with no money, no education, and no hope of escape.

  Sara was only two when our mom took off. At seven, I had to step up. I fed her, dressed her, put her to bed, and held her as she cried out for a mother who would never come back. She deserved more out of this life than living above some run-down bar, and I would make damn sure she got a better break than I had.

  By the time I finished cleaning the bar and had locked up, it was after three. I dragged my tired, aching body up the stairs, hoping I could at least make it through a shower before face planting into my mattress.

  My foot had barely crossed the threshold before he b
ellowed, “Ashlynn! Get me a beer.” I trudged down the hall toward the sound of that gravelly voice. Smoke clung to the air, stinging my nostrils and making my eyes water. The old window unit a/c did little more than cough and sputter thick plumes of smoke as if it had a two-pack a day habit itself.

  The TV flickered over the old recliner which sat in the center of the dark living room. A ratty thing that had lived in that same spot for nearly my entire life. Threadbare and littered with burn holes from when he’d fallen asleep with a cigarette still clutched between his thick fingers. It had been a damn miracle the thing hadn’t gone up in flames and taken all of us with it.

  “Hey, Daddy.” I leaned down to kiss his sweaty forehead, brushing the few strands of wiry gray hair he had left to the side. He didn’t even flinch. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, never moving from the screen. With a lit cigarette in one hand and a near-empty beer can in the other, he wheezed, absently taking a long drink from his beer, his body basically running on muscle memory. His thick fingers clung to the can as if it was life itself, the aluminum caving beneath the pressure. He took a long drag from the cigarette. The cherry flashed a bright orange for a moment before dissolving into ash and dropping onto his soiled tank top.

  “Where’s my beer?” he demanded, draining the last dregs from the can in his hand. I flinched at the sound of crunching aluminum. He tossed the empty can at the coffee table and missed. The can crashed onto the worn carpet, taking a few of its friends down with it. I’d given up counting beer cans years ago. No amount would ever be enough to give him the strength he needed to battle his demons.

  I collected the cans within reach and carried them to the kitchen, dropping them into the already overflowing recycling bin and made a mental note to make run a down to the dump in Murphy. It was worth making the twenty-five-mile drive to turn them in for a little extra cash.

  Pulling open the fridge, I grabbed his beer and a bottle of water for me, stopping for a minute to press my forehead against the cool surface of the refrigerator and took a deep breath.

  “Ashlynn! Bring me my goddamn beer!” he bellowed, triggering a coughing fit accompanied by the high-pitched squeak of the recliner, barely holding itself together beneath his weight.

  I made my way back to the living room with his beer. I didn’t know why, but I stood there a moment, waiting for at least a grunt of acknowledgment that would never come; it never did.

  Staggering down the hall, I picked up a few discarded pieces of Sara’s clothes as well as my father’s cigarette butts that trailed a path, like breadcrumbs, from the recliner to the bathroom. I opened the door to Sara’s room and dropped her clothes inside the door. The lamp beside her bed cast a dim light across her face where she lay sprawled across her bed. Asleep, she still resembled a little girl. Her baby-fine hair fell loosely across her sweet, heart-shaped face—so peaceful. Hell, the only peace I ever got from that kid was when she slept.

  Quietly, I backed out of the room, closing the door behind me. I exhaled and headed for the bathroom to wash away the stench of fried food and cheap beer.

  As the lukewarm water eased some of the tension from my sore muscles, my mind wandered back to the painting and the man who’d been so captivated by it. Running a dive bar in the middle of nowhere, I had to be able to spot the trouble before it started. Jake was definitely trouble, just not the kind I’d been used to.

  Those playboy types passed through town every once in a while, heading to one place or another, thinking the small-town bartender was an easy lay, but I always sent them packing with nothing except a wicked case of blue balls and a sharpie tattoo on their forehead to remember me by.

  Jake had flirted, and I shot him down, which was nothing new. However, before that, as he lost himself in my painting, a terrifying feeling had flooded through me—hope. And let’s face it, I had to be realistic, girls like me didn’t get a happily ever after. Our prayers were rarely answered, and our wishes didn’t come true.

  Freshly showered, I dressed in an old oversized t-shirt splattered with paint and settled into bed. I closed my eyes yet couldn’t shut off my mind. The urge to sketch hit me like a flash flood; and I sat up, flipping on the bedside lamp, and reached for the sketchbook and my pencil case that had been tucked into the nightstand drawer.

  Dumping the case out on the bed, I flipped to a clean page and reached for a color at random. It had been a while, so the lines were a little sloppy. Too light in some spots and too dark in others, but I didn’t care. It felt good to be sketching again. I craved the creative release like a good orgasm—it had been a while in both respects.

  My fingers ached, but I kept going without any real direction, allowing my subconscious to take hold and losing myself in the process.

  When my eyes were heavy and my hand began to cramp, I peered down at the page, finally registering what I had drawn. A pair of hazel eyes stared back at me, bright with mischief, the hypnotizing colors spilling across the page.

  With a gasp, I tossed the sketch pad to the floor and backed away. Shit!

  When I opened my eyes, it took me a few minutes to adjust to my new surroundings. I’d taken one of the guest bedrooms because sleeping in the master didn’t feel right. Legally, the house was mine, but to me, it would always be Gran’s. She lived in the faded blue hand towels in the bathroom and the yellowing rosebud wallpaper. The halls were filled with the sweet scent of gardenia. It had soaked into the floors and the drapes; the smell still so strong, it was as if she’d just walked by.

  Crawling out of bed, I headed to the bathroom to wash my face. My reflection caught my eye in the mirror, and I noticed the faded black letters still visible across my forehead. That girl last night had been something else. A dangerous temptation with bright red lips, daring me to proceed at my own peril.

  No amount of scrubbing could erase the thick black lines, branding me a sucker. I dropped the washcloth into the sink and reached for my toothbrush. My cell phone vibrated loudly against the nightstand in the other room, and I leaned back as it danced across the wood. I spit the excess toothpaste into the sink and rinsed my mouth, sparing one last glance in the mirror before going to answer.

  I dropped down heavily to the bed and reached for the phone, groaning when my brother’s name appeared, and I swiped my finger across the screen to answer. “Elias.”

  “You sure know how to make one hell of a dramatic exit.” He chuckled, not bothering to hide his amusement.

  I ran a hand over my weary face. “What can I say? I aim to please.”

  “Yeah, Candace was thrilled.” His deep chuckle sounded through the phone. “Where are you? I went by your place last night, but the doorman said you’d left.”

  “I had to get the fuck out of the city,” I grumbled.

  Elias remained quiet. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and dropped my head, beyond exhausted and not in the mood to listen to another lecture about living up to my obligations. I already had a voicemail full of that shit from my mother.

  “Look, I know this isn’t what you signed up for,” he agreed, his voice flat and unfeeling.

  “Understatement of the century.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “I tried it his way. I put on the suit and sat on the goddamned board, listening to one cookie-cutter pitch after another, but I’m done, man. I can’t take it anymore. It’s not me.”

  “So, what are you going to do now?”

  I pushed to my feet, pacing the floor, trying to release the pressure that had been building in my chest since they’d read Dad’s will. “Fuck if I know.” I’d been teetering on the edge of insanity for two years now. “I could use some time to clear my head.”

  “Couldn’t you do that balls deep in some nameless blonde?”

  A humorless laugh rumbled deep in my chest, and my mind instantly conjured images of bright red lips and full curves. It would be oh so easy to lose myself in a woman like that, but I didn’t need a distraction. I needed a fucking solution. A permanent one that would miraculously appease both my mother and Elias while keeping me from selling my soul to the shareholders of The Maxwell Group.

  “What’s going on with you, man?” he asked.

  “I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Do what?”