Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
23
Dallas
I’m grateful I didn’t need to explain to Macon this morning why we were hosting the sister of the guy trying to take our home. I have no doubt he had a good gripe about it when Krisjen helped get her settled last night—and probably another pout or two when I stayed in St. Carmen and when he heard what I talked Trace into doing—but as soon as I walked in the door this morning, it was laughter and smiles around the breakfast table. It’s impossible to not like Anna-Katherine. She reminds you of everything you miss about yourself before the world got to you.
Drifting past the kitchen window, I loosen my tie and pull it off over my head, watching Iron straddle a deck chair outside with a laptop in front of him. Three women play in the pool, none of them straddling him.
I shake my head and unbutton my shirt before grabbing the Buffalo Trace bottle out of the cabinet and two glasses. Carrying them outside, I squint against the waning sunlight as the early evening wind sweeps through my hair.
No rain today.
No storm, no hurricane. The weather couldn’t be more perfect.
Fuckin’ awesome.
Stopping between the two chaises, I set the glasses down on the round table.
Iron doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s me. “I’m surprised you don’t run out of there as soon as the students leave,” he says.
I unfasten the cap. “Always more work to do.”
“You like it.” His little smile peeks out as he stares at the screen. “Macon knows best, after all.”
Yes, he does. I like my work. I’m in charge in that room, and no one in this family knows more than me in that one place. I may not have a clue about most other things, but my oldest brother knew all too well that if you can’t give people peace, then just give them something to do.
At least it’s not still mowing lawns and cleaning assholes’ pools.
I pour two drinks, not telling Iron that I stayed late today only because I hoped to run into Callum.
To fight. To taunt.
Even just to look at him.
He never showed, though. Anna-Katherine was with my sister all day, so he didn’t have to pick her up.
“Yeah, Macon knows a thing or two,” I tease. “I guess we’ll really see when it’s your turn.”
Iron chuckles. “Fuck off.”
I hand him a glass.
“Nah, I’m good,” he says.
“Please.” I jiggle the glass at him.
What the hell is his problem? Macon rarely drinks anymore, and neither does Trace, and he owns a bar! The only one I can count on is Army, and given his bitching lately, I don’t think we should be drunk around each other right now.
“I was in a prison without you,” I point out. “And it still feels like you’re not home.”
It’s slight, but I see how he reacts. The miniscule slump to his shoulders just before he turns his eyes up at me. And immediately, I realize I’m an asshole. Again.
He takes the glass, and I plop down onto the chair, legs bent and feet planted on the ground on both sides.
When I take a sip, the weight of his presence next to me grows heavier. Why did I say that? As if he owes me something.
As if I have a right to make demands on him after what he’s been through. He owes me nothing, even if it’s his own fault he was in prison.
He’s changed so much, though.
And we’ve yet to see if it’s for better or worse. He wanted to be a pilot—even started studying for it while he was in jail—but nothing is the same anymore.
He’s calm now, and I don’t know why that scares me.
I drain my glass and tip my head back, closing my eyes. It’s almost five. Getting on to dinnertime.
My stomach tightens, and I shake my head clear. Fuck it.
Opening my eyes, I lower my chin, eyeing the girls in the pool. A blonde, a brunette, and one with light brown hair. She’s the shortest. I like short girls. Easy to carry.
An image of Golden Boy enters my head, and I blink long and hard.
“What’s wrong?” Iron asks.
I snatch the bottle off the table and pour in three fingers. “I’m fine.”
I drink, but he doesn’t return to his work. Just stares at me.
I swallow, clearing my throat against the burn. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Are you screwing him again?”
I scowl at my brother. “What did I just say?”
How the hell did he figure that out, dammit?
I don’t need advice or a scolding. I just need to go to the bar with my favorite brother and get drunk and laid.
Or better yet, the field trip with Serena Oliver this weekend would be a great opportunity to stick it to that little shit. Going at it in a nice hotel room on the boosters’ dime? Hell yes.