On The Rocks (Love After Midnight Book 3) Read online

  So, I needed to go back to thinking about little penises and annoying men and not about the fact that my lady bits were all but shouting, “Hey, girl, hey!”

  Or not.

  Maybe it was, “Hey, fuckable man, hey—”

  Fingers drifting along my jaw. “What are you thinking?”

  I jumped again, and this time I did knock over the tiny Christmas tree, clattering tiny gold balls in all directions.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, crouching to grab them.

  Balls. Grabbing.

  Cool.

  I sensed him before I heard him this time. His soft “sorry” sliding over my skin like velvet. But I didn’t get a chance to reply, to formulate the biting comeback I knew was necessary to create distance between this stranger and my suddenly awakened libido. Instead, I heard Brooke, her voice as jagged as Hayden’s had been soft.

  “Why?” she said. “Why—” A shake of her head. “How are you—”

  A tear trailed down her cheek, and I didn’t begrudge him one bit for immediately standing, for going over to his sister.

  If anything, I begrudged him for waiting outside when I’d ordered him to, for delaying in the hall. He’d done so much already, caused so much pain, that the last thing he should have done was continue to stay away, just because I’d told him so.

  He should have barreled through, held Brooke tight, and explained every fucking thing.

  Or maybe that was my hang up.

  Maybe that was what I’d wanted my dad and my brother to do. To show up. To own up. To treat me as an equal, or at least with kindness rather than a fury that made me feel beyond guilty. I wanted them to be the people I’d needed them to be. Except . . . maybe they were incapable. Maybe, it was simply an impossible ask.

  Perhaps it was an impossible ask for Hayden as well.

  I grabbed the last glass ball and shoved it along with the handful of others I’d retrieved back into the basket Iris had originally arranged them in, albeit with significantly less finesse. The next instant, I found my own feet, started to slide toward the door.

  “Is that your doing?” Iris whispered, making me jump—and for fuck’s sake, I was never this jumpy. I needed to get a grip . . . or to at least get my gaze off the man standing a foot away from Brooke.

  Shoring myself with a breath, I glanced over at Iris.

  Up. No lies. I glanced up. Because even though she was short, I was shorter. Yay, genetics.

  “Is what my doing?”

  A delicately arched blond brow lifted. “The apple pie? The groin shot? Don’t tell me that’s not Anabelle Kim to a T.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told her, taking another sly step toward the door. “I would never waste your apple pie.”

  “Filling,” Iris muttered. “Just the filling since somebody”—read: Brent—“decided it was a good idea to ruin all of my hard work by turning off my freaking timer. Who does that?” She sighed. “And so not the point, I know. But Brent—I mean, Hayden. Well, no Brent. He just held on to so much guilt for so long and Hayden just shows up—” She bit her lip, and I found myself slipping an arm around her waist, hugging her gently, even though being touchy-feely had definitely not been in my vocabulary before meeting this crew.

  But I was growing up.

  Becoming an adult.

  Learning feelings.

  Or at least more feelings aside from fury, disappointment, and my ever-present favorite, sarcasm.

  Because sarcasm wouldn’t work in this moment.

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation,” I said carefully. No, I wasn’t sure, not in the least, but I also knew that comfort was needed in this moment more than anything else. Fury, disappointment, and sarcasm would come in spades later.

  Iris narrowed her eyes. “It better be a damned good one.”

  I gave her one more squeeze before slipping into the kitchen and retrieving a towel. Not that the apple pie soaking into Hayden’s pants bothered me any, but I didn’t want the sticky filling dripping onto Iris’s rug. It was a bright, cheerful pattern of red, green, and gold, and I didn’t think she’d appreciate picking apple chunks out of the fibers.

  “Here,” I said, shoving it into his hand and going to stand by Brooke. I crossed my arms and glared, knowing I was interrupting, but also not caring. Yes, Kace was on her other side, his arm around her waist, gaze equally as icy. But Brooke was hurting. She needed me.

  My eyes flicked to Brent, saw that while my friend still looked a bit shell-shocked, he’d sidled close to Iris, and she’d wrapped her arms around his middle.

  Satisfied he was taken care of, I returned my attention to Hayden, felt my temper fray. His eyes were on me, the blue darkened with heavy emotion, his face serious though I could have sworn I detected a note of amusement directed my way.

  I sighed.

  Everyone was just standing in the hallway, staring at each other, but no one was actually talking or doing anything.

  “So, you’re not dead,” I said, feeling Brooke jump next to me.

  Blue eyes, laughter visible in their depths stayed on mine. “No.”

  I made a hurry-up motion with my hands. “Okay, great. What gives? Why pretend that you were?”

  Every trace of humor faded from his face, and I felt even my stone-cold heart twitch at the regret and pain that took its place. Hayden’s gaze flicked to the floor then back up. This time it didn’t come to me. It lasered to Brooke, holding for a long moment as he said, “It was the last thing I wanted to do, but believe me when I say that I had no other choice and that I came back as soon as I possibly could.”

  “From where?” Brent asked.

  Hayden turned to look at him. “You know where.”

  An explosion of movement.

  One second Brent was being held by Iris, and the next he was in Hayden’s face, his hand around the other man’s neck as he shoved Brooke’s brother against the wall. Christmas-themed pictures rattled, Iris gasped, and Kace cursed.

  “Tell me you didn’t,” Brent growled. “Tell me you didn’t fucking do it.”

  “Do what?” Brooke asked when Hayden didn’t answer, didn’t move. “Hayden didn’t do what, Brent?”

  Furious brown eyes flicked from Hayden to Brooke. “Work for those people.”

  Brooke opened her mouth, probably to ask exactly the question I was thinking—which was, What people?—but she didn’t get a chance to form words.

  “I had to, B,” Hayden said. “They needed me. We came home. I worked for them here for a bit—small, local stuff. Then something bigger came up and they arranged for me to disappear.”

  “That’s why you went off active duty?” Brent asked. “You said you were struggling with—” He cut himself off.

  Hayden was quiet for a few seconds. “I was,” he said. “They helped. The stuff I was doing helped.”

  Brooke spoke up then. “So that whole time you were back. The whole time you pushed me away after the explosion.” A sharp shake of her head. “You’re my twin and you would barely let me see you, but you were fine and working for who exactly?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Hayden said.

  Brent dropped his hand, stepped back. “Fuck, man. You’re a fucking idiot. You should have come to me.”

  “I couldn’t.” Hayden shrugged. “Keeping the secret made it easier on everyone because it was unlikely that I was coming home anyway.”

  “Easier for who?” Brent asked. “It’s been ten years since you died.”

  That wasn’t the question I thought most pertinent in this scenario, not when I wanted to know why Hayden had thought it was unlikely he would make it home alive from wherever he’d been the last years. Still, I didn’t say that or ask my own query. Instead, I watched, almost riveted at the flurry of emotions that passed through his expression.

  Regret. Guilt. Pain. Misery. Loss. Searching.

  Hope.

  All gone in a flash. All locked down behind a blank mask.

  Except for
hope. I could still see a sliver of it creeping into those baby blues. He might have teased me, might have affected a light, almost carefree appearance on the porch, but this man wasn’t what he portrayed. He might be good at burying those feelings, at hiding them in an instant, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  I could sense the hurricane of sentiments spiraling just beneath the surface.

  “Easier for me,” he said quietly. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to do what they needed me to do unless Brooke was taken care of.”

  Brooke’s voice was fierce, only the barest wobble at the end. “And by taken care of, you mean heartbroken?”

  “Brookie—” Hayden began.

  “Don’t, Hay.” Brooke shook her head. “I can’t do this right now. I thought I’d failed you, that I wasn’t there for you a-and I blamed—” She sniffed, shoulders lifting and falling on a long inhale and exhale. “I-I don’t know what to think. Are you back for good?” she asked. “Or are you going to disappear and make me think you’re dead again?”

  “I’m out,” he said, “and I’m not going back.”

  Iris crossed over to him, rested her hand on the small of Brent’s back. He sighed. “Why did you do it, Hay? I told you they were bad news.”

  “Who’s they?” I said, finally bursting back into the conversation.

  A heavy gaze to mine.

  “And,” I went on, “why the fuck did you think you were going to end up dead doing whatever it was that you were doing with them?”

  Silence, then, “I don’t think I owe you any explanations.”

  I didn’t back down. My mom had given me lots of spine, and I wasn’t afraid to use that spine for good. Not when this man had hurt my family. “Maybe not,” I said. “But you owe them”—I nodded at Brooke and Brent—“and I think you’d better stop dancing around the issue and level with them.”

  He moved. Like Brent had moved.

  I blinked, and in one moment he was in front of me, staring down, eyes cold and full of fury. “I don’t know you, little girl,” he said, each word carefully enunciated and filled with frost. “You have no right to give me orders.”

  “First, I’m a woman,” I gritted. “Second, I may be little, but I’m not afraid of you.”

  A flash of darkness on his face. “You should be.”

  “Enough, Hayden,” Brooke murmured. “Just . . . enough. It’s late. We all have questions, but you’re here now.” A long, slow sigh. “We can talk in the morning.”

  Hayden nodded.

  “Will you come stay at my and Kace’s place?” she asked.

  “My car is already there,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes because more questions. How did he know where Brooke lived? And for that matter, how did he know to find Brooke here?

  My friend didn’t seem particularly bothered. She just nodded, said, “Ours is, too.” And then she slipped her arms around Hayden and hugged him. He turned his hips, avoided plastering her with apple pie filling, and I had to give him props for that small gesture.

  Considerate.

  Except when faking his own death.

  Cool.

  They broke apart, and Kace reached out, taking Brooke’s hand, tugging her back against him. Normally, I would have rolled my eyes at the gesture. Tonight, I was glad that he was there and would have her back.

  Hayden turned to Brent, and I allowed my gaze to follow, to see that Iris had moved into a similar position, holding his hand, except she’d also tucked herself into Brent’s side, had taken her free arm and wrapped it tightly around her newfound—as in only a few hours old—fiancé.

  Brooke was covered.

  Brent was covered.

  I should slip out now.

  And because I was just as good at protecting as I was at leaving before the people around me realized I’d overstayed my welcome, I quietly moved to the hall table, letting the soft murmur of Brooke’s voice, her assertion that they would most definitely be talking in the morning and that Hayden had better be prepared to explain everything trailing my movements.

  I picked up my leftovers—because I wasn’t about to let any more of them go to waste—then made my way to the front door.

  This time, I set the containers down on the porch to shut the door behind me.

  Then I bent, snagged them, and was in my car less than thirty seconds later.

  A silent drive home. A silent walk through the yard to the guesthouse I’d rented, located behind my landlord’s house.

  So much silence.

  But then again, aside from my makeshift family, silence had pretty much been my whole life for the last few years.

  My mom gone. My dad living with my sister on the East Coast. My brother busy with his career as an honest-to-God rocket scientist.

  And me.

  Bartender extraordinaire. College drop-out. Youngest and least successful of the Kim trio. I should be pursuing my PhD at Stanford, should be climbing that corporate ladder and giving the CEO a high five as I overtook him in the boardroom and then snagged his job.

  But . . . college had seemed much less important after I’d lost my mom.

  Eighteen. Accepted to Stanford. Both parents so damned proud of me.

  And then within a few weeks, one of my best friends had been gone from the planet. Ovarian cancer. Metastasized to the liver, the kidneys, the lymph nodes. Stage Four. Nothing the doctors could do about it.

  My mom had died, and the only positive was that it had been quick.

  Not painless.

  But thankfully, not long either.

  We’d buried her. We’d done the wake, the funeral, the mass, the celebration of life on a rugged California beach that had been her favorite. We’d done right by her.

  Except, we hadn’t been able to save her, to protect her from the disease that was slowly killing her from the inside out. And though I’d tried to go to college, though I’d managed to make it through one year, knowing that my mom had been beyond excited for me to go to Stanford. Exclusive, top-notch, worked my ass to get into.

  But . . . I just couldn’t do it.

  How could I prioritize statistics class when my mom wasn’t here? How could I focus on calculus or microbiology when neither of those two things had saved my mom?

  I wasn’t noble. I didn’t want to devote my life to research, to go on a life-long quest to cure cancer.

  I just wanted my mom back.

  And since that wasn’t going to happen . . . I’d disappeared for a while.

  Like Hayden, my mental voice that sounded like my mother said. The memories were bad. The physical punch of actually hearing her—manifestation of my brain or not—was a thousand times worse.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, stowing the leftovers in the fridge and heading for my bedroom.

  Not liking the truth, but knowing it was truth anyway.

  Yes, I had been like Hayden.

  Disappearing, though I had kept in contact with my family, hadn’t given them cause to worry.

  Not true, Ana Girl.

  Yes, to that as well. I’d given them plenty to worry about, had permanently broken the ties between us when I’d left for a year. Even now, I couldn’t go visit and not see the pain I’d caused. The dreams I’d crushed. I knew they loved me, just as I loved them. But I couldn’t find that closeness again, couldn’t reconcile their inability to respect my need to search for and find myself with the pressure they’d put on me to keep my head down and keep moving forward after Mom had died.

  It was just as well that my brother and sister were living in New York.

  A country separating them from their disappointing sister.

  “Enough,” I said, quickly stripping and pulling on pajamas, setting my alarm for what would now be a godawful early time in the morning.

  But while I might not be putting my head down walking through the corridors of Stanford or a fancy lab or a Fortune 500 company, I was making a living. I had a place to live, a job. I had friends who knew me better than my own flesh an
d blood, who’d become my second family.

  Maybe I hadn’t found that missing piece yet, but I’d found a slice of happy.

  And as far as I was concerned, that was good enough.

  My cell buzzed and I looked down to see a text message from my sister. It was a picture of a big dining room table with all of the foods from my childhood Christmases, each perfectly laid out on a platter, gorgeous cutlery surrounding pristine plates, and elegant flower arrangements. Each of the napkins was even intricately folded.

  Perfect. Precise. Exceeded expectations.

  And . . . me.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, knowing that for all my talk of a second family, I still missed my biological one . . . or at least, what we’d once been to each other.

  My phone buzzed again.

  You should have been here.

  Maybe, I should have been. My dad wasn’t getting any younger, and who knew how many holidays he had left.

  But . . . our relationship was strained, as it had been for years. I’d known when I decided to go to Iris’s tonight that I couldn’t look into his eyes, into my brother’s, even into my sister’s—who was pushy and a perfectionist, but who was really driven by a need to care for everyone around her—and cope with seeing the disappointment. Not this year. I loved my family, even as I accepted they couldn’t be what I needed, but I couldn’t go through that again.

  I needed Brooke and Kace, Iris and Brent. I needed a judgment-free zone and teasing and paper napkins with Christmas penguins tossed haphazardly onto a table we served ourselves from.

  I needed laughter and friends.

  I needed a burned cherry pie and a hidden engagement ring.

  So, I’d stayed, and now I typed out a generic response.

  I’ll visit soon. Merry Christmas, Kelly.

  Good. You need a haircut. I’ll take you to my lady and she’ll fix you up.

  Sighing, I plugged in my phone, lay back on my bed, and forced myself to go to sleep.

  I was happy. I was content.

  That was enough.

  Four

  Hayden