Back to You: Bad Boys of Red Hook (13 page)

“Breezy? Look at me.”

“Do I have to?”

The bed dipped beside her as she sank down on her heels.

“What’s the matter? Changed your mind, have ya?”

His Brooklyn Kiwi accent was almost comical. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “No, I’m just…you know, nervous.”

Storm’s arm came around her, and he kissed her neck, “She’ll be right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a Godzone saying. It means don’t worry. Everything will work out.”

“Would you mind speaking English—the Brooklyn kind, please? What’s a Godzone?”

“New Zealand. It’s like a perfect place; people call it the Godzone. Sorry.”

“Oh.” Great, Storm would take off for the Godzone, and she’d stay in Red Hook. Granted, all the work she’d done had made it a better place to live, but it was still a far cry from the Godzone Storm had run to. She slid off the bed. “You know, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I—”

He kissed her, cutting off whatever it was she had planned to say. The words left her brain as quickly as his tongue slipped between her lips. This wasn’t an it’s-okay-I-understand kiss. This was more of an I’ll-die-if-I-don’t-take-you-now kiss, the kind she’d read about in all those romances. Damn, it was as good as the up-against-the-door, I’ll-kiss-you-to-keep-from-strangling-you kiss he’d planted on her earlier, but different. There was no anger now. There was frustration, sure, but this frustration was of a purely sexual nature. A hand slipped around the back of her neck, sealing her mouth to his, and his arm banded around her waist. He held her against him as if she were made of fine china he was deathly afraid he’d drop and break.

Bree had waited a decade for this one moment, this one night, this one finite space in time. Storm was hers, and she was his until he left. This was what she’d been missing all these years.

“Breezy.” The roughness in his voice slid across her skin like sandpaper, scraping her every nerve.

She slid his jeans down until he could step out of them. His taste and scent were nothing short of amazing—the same as she remembered. Fingers skated
down her spine, and Storm slid his leg between hers before he tumbled them back onto the bed.

He kissed her chin and nipped it before moving along her neck. His hand skittered down her side to her hip, pulling her closer as his mouth blazed a wet trail to her breast, sucking it deep into his mouth as if wanting to drink her in.

He was doing it again—overwhelming her. Everywhere he touched drove her higher. All she could do was grab his head and pray he never stopped. With his every touch, need formed like a fireball within her. She didn’t know what to do to reciprocate. God, she felt like such a loser.

“Storm?”

“Hmm?”

He didn’t stop—well, only long enough to switch breasts. Not that she really wanted him to, but some direction would be helpful.

His hand slid over her stomach and lower; his mouth followed, coming dangerously close to—“Oh, God.”

She tried to pull away, but he held her hips and pulled her closer. She could only imagine that the shocked look on her face caused the smile he shot her before he dipped his head.

The first touch of his mouth knocked the wind out of her. Her heart, already pounding against her ribs, shot into overdrive, and when he found that one spot, she saw stars, and if she hadn’t been imagining things, she might have screamed.

Bree had read
Cosmo
; she’d heard all about oral sex from Rocki; but no matter how incredible it sounded, it could not be compared to the real thing. Bree grabbed the sheets and held on as if anchoring herself against the
tidal wave of feelings bombarding her. She writhed beneath the assault of his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, filling her and making her feel empty at the same time. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take, but damned if she didn’t want more. And Storm gave it to her—she was on a roller coaster, and they hadn’t even hit the first drop. She saw stars, and fireworks that would rival those on the Fourth of July over the Hudson River.

 * * *

Storm held Breezy as she lay boneless in his arms. Her words ricocheted through his mind:
I don’t like you, I don’t want you here, and I don’t trust you….
There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to please her, except sell his soul. As he lay there looking at her, he realized suddenly that was what she’d asked. She turned to him with a smile on her lips, and when she looked into his eyes, it faltered.

“Bree…I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to let her go and slid off the bed. Grabbing his jeans, he tugged them on, thankful he didn’t have a zipper to deal with. In his condition, that could have been painful.

“Again?” Breezy bolted to a sitting position and stared at him. “You’re doing it again? You’re running away?”

Storm couldn’t meet her eyes; he didn’t want to have to come up with an excuse. Instead, he picked up her robe and handed it to her. “I’m not running.”

“Could have fooled me.” She speared her arm through the sleeve and scrambled to the other side of the bed. “Get out.” Her voice rose and quavered. Bree belted the robe so tightly, it looked as if she’d cut off her circulation, and her gaze skittered around the room as if searching for something. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll leave.”
She tossed a big handbag over her shoulder before skirting the bed.

“Breezy.” Storm held up his hands and stepped in front of the door. “Can’t we talk about this?”

She tried to get past him, but he blocked her so she got in his face, well, as much as she could, considering she was barefoot. “You want to talk?” she yelled. She stepped back, cocked her hip, and crossed her arms. “Well, by all means, let’s talk about why I’m such a sexual pariah that you ran out on me twice.”

“Bree, you’re not a pariah. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. I’m not running. I just can’t—”

“What can’t you do, Storm? Close the deal? Stay the course? Finish the job? Fuck me?”

“I can’t use you.”

“I gave you permission. Hell, I wanted to use you too.”

“Yeah, I know. You made that very clear. The thing is, I don’t want to use you, and I don’t want to be used either. I’m not your boy toy, your one last fling. Don’t you get it? This isn’t just sex to me. It never has been, and it never will be. If sex is what you want…If that’s
all
you want…I can’t do it. I want…” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I need more.”

“More? More of what? According to you, this is a two-week thing, and then you’re leaving to go back to New Zealand.”

“That was before I saw Pop. Before I knew about you and Nicki. Everything has changed. I’m staying for as long as it takes.”

“You’ll stay until Pete can take care of himself and Nicki—I know. But then as soon as that happens, you’ll be out of here so fast, you’ll leave skid marks.” Bree
laughed, and not a funny laugh either. “You know, Storm, I thought between the two of us, I was the coward. I’ve stayed here where I felt safe and cared for when I could have gone anywhere, and I’ve waited for a boring prince charming, but at least I never lied to myself.”

“Breezy, I ran away once, and I’ve spent the last eleven years regretting it. I’m not the same man I was then.”

She scoffed. “The only differences I see are about thirty pounds of muscle, that scar bisecting your left eyebrow, and a different haircut.”

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

“Maybe not, but I know me. This is the end. I’m going home tonight. I don’t need you breathing down my neck, so when Pete comes home, you can stay
alone
at my place across the hall until you turn and run again.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You can stay here, or you can stay at your own place. Your choice. Where I stay is mine, and I’m not leaving—not even to sleep across the hall. Deal with it.”

Breezy looked about ready to rip him a new one. She stood shaking, furious. He squashed the urge to kiss her as he had earlier, and he wondered what it said about him that seeing her all fired up and mad was almost as much of a turn-on as seeing her naked.

“From now on, Storm Decker, you stay the hell away from me. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” Bree was back to hating him. Maybe he deserved it. He should have said no when she climbed on his lap. He’d thought he could take what she offered but then realized he couldn’t. Okay, well, he could have; all the parts were working and then some, but then his conscience got in the way. She might say she wanted a relationship
with no emotional attachments, but he didn’t believe it. It would hurt her. He wouldn’t allow that to happen again. It might kill him, but he would wait until Bree was ready for a serious relationship with him. “I’ll work at the bar, I’ll take care of my family, and I’ll prove you wrong. I won’t touch you until you want more than just a fuck. If you want to make love to me, Breezy, you let me know.”

He was through with regrets. Before this was over, he’d prove to Breezy and himself that he was worthy of her respect, her trust, and, although he had no idea how he’d manage it, her love.

Storm took the last sip of his quad-shot Americano and checked the address he’d scrawled on a piece of paper. Francis and Patrice’s house was a rehabbed row home in a gentrified neighborhood about a block from Coffey Park. There were still signs of the ramshackle neighborhood he’d pictured while taking down the address, but the neighborhood had changed and Francis’s home was one of the nicest in the area.

He climbed out of Pete’s ancient Jeep Cherokee and locked it before rubbing his tired eyes. He hadn’t slept for shit. He spent most of the night roaming the empty apartment and kicking his own ass before he gave up and went on a punishing sunrise run. Nothing helped.

Francis opened the door, holding on his hip a beautiful toddler, who, thank God, looked just like her mama. Francis’s smile fell. “You look like crap.”

“Thanks.” Storm looked past him into the formal living room to find high ceilings, crown molding, and beautiful hardwood floors with surprisingly formal couches. A flat-screen TV hung from the wall, and a big plastic dollhouse
sat in a corner littered with half-naked Barbie dolls, plastic furniture, cars, and doll clothes.

“Nicki,” Patrice called as she walked out of the eat-in kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and stopped at the bottom of the steps, “your big brother is here.”

Brother? Shit. Storm rubbed his aching head. He’d never thought about it, but he guessed he and Nicki were related—the same way he was related to Logan and Slater. He had never thought of Nicki as anything more than a kid he had to deal with. What kind of big brother did that make him? Damn.

Nicki ran down the hardwood stairs in socks and slid to a stop in front of him. One of her pigtails was tied higher than the other, making her look crooked. “Where’s Bree?”

Storm couldn’t very well say she was at home wishing him dead, so he just shrugged and handed Nicki a bag of clothes he’d scavenged from her drawers. He didn’t know what little girls wore, but he tossed a few things together after Patrice reminded him to. “Why don’t you go change so we can go pick up Pop? He’s coming home today.”

“Sure. Is Bree meeting us there?”

“No need, kid. I’m here now.”

She gave him a worried look. “Bree always picks me up. How come she’s not here?”

“Because I am.”

Nicki took the bag from him, looked inside, and glared at him. “Bree knows I hate these shorts.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t. You can change later if you don’t like what I brought.”

She let out a groan and headed back upstairs, but not before shooting him that universal pissed-off-female glare.

Francis, Patrice, and their squirming daughter watched
him. He was batting a thousand today. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rolled his neck. “What do they do, Patrice? Pull girls aside in preschool and teach them how to shoot daggers at unsuspecting males?”

“No, I think it’s a genetic trait.”

“Good to know.”

“So,” Patrice said, stepping toward him, “I take it things didn’t go well last night.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s probably better this way.”

Francis laughed. “Could have fooled me. You look like you’ve crawled through the nine circles of hell since you got back.”

“I have. I’ve been back less than forty-eight hours, and people wonder why I rarely come home.”

Francis handed the ankle biter off to Patrice and punched Storm in the arm. “It has nothing to do with coming home; it has to do with the way you left. You need to make up for sins of the past.”

“Frankie, if I wanted to talk to a priest, I’d go to confession.”

“If only it were only that simple.” Francis picked up a stray Barbie shoe. “It’s going to take a lot more than a few Hail Marys and a couple trips around the ol’ rosary to solve all your problems. But it will be a hell of a long visit unless you and Bree get your shit worked out.”

Patrice put the little girl down and gave her a pat on the tush. “Little ears, Francis. Little ears and big mouths.”

Francis put his arm around Patrice and kissed her temple. “Sorry, babe.”

Storm blinked his gritty eyes, wondering if he was seeing things. Frankie, Patrice, kids…It was too weird. “How long is Nicki going to take? I’ve got to get Pop home.”

“You can leave Nicki here with me, and I can drop her off later.”

“Thanks, Patrice, but I’ll take care of Nicki and Pop.”

“Oh, you will, huh?” She threw the towel over her shoulder. “Did you think to go grocery shopping?”

“No.”

“When were you planning to do that?”

Shit. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t so much as looked in the refrigerator. “Pop owns a restaurant; I’m sure I can order something up.”

“He’s on a special diet.”

“He is?”

Patrice rolled her eyes. “A heart-healthy diet. Lean meats, low cholesterol, no processed food, fruits, and vegetables.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I guess you’ll have to arrange a visiting nurse.”

“I will?”

“Didn’t you talk to Bree about any of this?”

“No.”

“I see. Does she even know you’re here?”