Burn For You (Boys of the South) (2 page)

She blows out a breath, then tips up her chin, her eyes shiny with tears.  “Mia isn’t yours.”

My jaw drops, and so does my gaze. My vision blurs. “Not mine?”

“Or she could be.”

I blink a couple of times and swallow the boulder in my throat. “What kind of game are you playing?”

“The one that will see if you’re here for the long haul, or if you’re just like your daddy.”

Mia stirs. I feel something inside of me begin to break, like when I found my mother... “Listen. I knew you were seeing another guy, but you promised the two of you were over and that you used protection.” My head swims. I need to get checked out. I need to bleach my entire body.  I need to stop taking her word as gospel.

“Condom broke.”

Just like it had with us. “Oh.” I gaze at Mia again and then her mother, swallowing down another boulder or, as it used to be called—my pride. “I’ll still pay the bill.”

“I don’t need your money, Beau.” At twenty-four, Paisley is the only child and heir of Narron Sawyer, the man who invented a new way to inflate tires in an emergency. She’s a trust fund baby. Another reason I kept allowing her to come back. I knew she didn’t want to be with me for the money I made while racing or shooting a campaign for sunglasses or a soft drink or a car company.

“It’s the right thing.”

“God, if your friends could see you like this, weak and sniveling.”

“To take responsibility for the family you helped create isn’t weak. It’s the manliest damn thing on the planet.”

“Oh yeah... daddy issues.” She starts to cry, her hands coming to cover her face.

My anger flees my body, as if it were never there in the first place. I stride to her and sit on the edge of the bed, brushing back the sweat-dampened hair on her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here for you. I know you want to push me and everyone else away right now, but I’m here for you and Mia. I swear I’m not going anywhere.”

“Get out,” Paisley screams and Mia jumps.

The baby starts to cry and I stand up, trying in vain to rock her. “Calm down,” I murmur, and then try to console Mia. “It’s okay, baby girl. It’s okay.”

“I am calm. I’m also sick of you hovering around. Austin will be here in an hour, and I want you gone.” She presses a button while I stand there, flabbergasted.

“You invited him?” God, I hate that guy. Why she ever was with him is beyond me... well, not entirely.

“You can’t give me what he can.”

“I don’t give a damn, Paisley.” Gingerly, I turn her face, taking note of the bruise on her cheek. A morbid rainbow of blue, black, purple, and green. “He’s put his hands on you. Again.” I want to kill him. I want to wrap my bare hands around his neck and squeeze and squeeze.

“I asked him to. Again,” she reminds me.  “You wouldn’t. So I found someone who would.”

“He couldn’t be here earlier.”

Once again, I’m second string.  “When are you going to get it through your head that he’s using you?”

“We were using each other, and it’s really none of your business, Beau.”

“
Mia
is my business.”

Paisley smiles, beautifully evil, and it shreds the heart that only an hour earlier had mended, with the birth of Mia. “Only if she’s yours.”

Before I can answer, a couple of nurses rush in, take one look at us, and order me out. I kiss Mia on the forehead and carefully place her in the bassinet by Paisley’s bed, then I try one last time to reason with the woman I love.

“Don’t be this way. We can work it out. We always do.”

She ignores me, turning her head away and her nose up.

One of the nurses clears her throat.

I glance longingly back at Mia, at the baby who might or might not be mine. Then I look at the woman in the bed, one who’s uncaring Mia had gotten scared. Hell, Paisley hasn’t held her once since the birth

Not that she had to, because I read everything I could on pregnancy and hormones and how to be a good, supportive dad, and even learned about how post-partum depression can affect women. That some women wouldn’t want to hold their child, would have violent mood swings, and would need extra help and time. I have all that to give to her and Mia.

But it still bothers me. I’m terrified Paisley will make a decision without me.

“Son, you have to go,” nurse number two says.

“Can I come back tomorrow?” I meekly ask Paisley, like a child desperate for their parents’ approval. But honestly, who cares about pride or ego? I have a daughter.

Maybe.

“Only if you don’t tell your buddies or anyone else about her,” she says softly.

“Don’t you think they’ll notice her? How will I explain her?”

“That’s not my problem. It’s yours,” she snaps, then glares at me. “You’re a big boy, Beau. You’ll figure it out.”

After Paisley broke the news to me about the pregnancy, she banned me from saying anything or really doing anything different, because she didn’t want anyone finding out. She wanted peace and quiet, and I had totally agreed.

I became so good at hiding the facts, that not even my buddies suspected I’d given up women, racing, and partying—except when I had to satisfy suspicious minds, like Remington’s. Or at least look like I was doing all that. Though giving up racing was easy, because I constantly rebelled against my dad’s wishes for a family racing legacy. Why race when I had an older brother and a younger one to do it any time Remington snapped his fingers?

As for women, if anyone knew the truth, or believed the truth in Paisley’s case, they would laugh their asses off. Don’t get me wrong, I love women. I love how they smell, how their hips sway as they walk, and how they look in high heels, but that’s all I am—a lover, not a serial fucker.

“Fine,” I say. “But you have to promise not to make any decisions about Mia without talking to me first.”

Her jaw works, but when it comes to what she wants and I wants, we are at a stale-mate. We both hold the cards the other one needs.  “
Fine
. Now get out.”

With a heavy heart, I grab my baseball cap and sunglasses, then leave the room. When I get to my truck, I pull out my phone and stare at my new background—Mia Sawyer
Montgomery
, all of one day old. My vision blurs again, hot and watery.

Rubbing a finger over the wet spot on the screen, I mentally get myself together and try to harden my heart against the baby in the picture, but it’s no use.

God, I love her.

F
ive Months Later

“Student loans
suck donkey balls,” I groan.

Meagan makes a little noise. “Bless your heart, Landry Basnight.”

I roll my eyes and then make a face, because that little dig is directly related to the debt that waits for my best friend once she’s done with medical school. “Fine,
Meagan Thomas
. You win.” I lob a french fry at her, but she grabs it mid-flight and scarfs it down. “But that doesn’t negate the fact that I need a job. A real one, with benefits and regular hours.”

“And one kid screaming in your ear while another one eats glue.”

“It’s not
that
bad.” Though it could be. My practicum was spent in a pre-kindergarten classroom. There were a few days when I wanted to walk out and never return. But Meagan always talked me down from that if you-don’t-go back-you-won’t-graduate cliff. “It’s not like I have to cut people open.”

“Jealous.” Meagan swirls a fry around in ketchup, and I shudder. Reason number five hundred billion why I am not a pre-med student.

I nod. “Totally.”

Meagan grins, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Okay, we’ve gotten off track. Let’s take a look at the problem and then think up some answers.”

“That doesn’t involve donating my eggs, an organ, or stripping,” I remind her.

“I don’t see why not—you got the body for it,” she says, tapping on her phone. “You talk, and I’ll list.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “I could ask for more hours at the daycare, or at King’s. I could get a third job and hope against hope I get a teaching job right after graduation.” Early childhood education jobs were hard to come by and paid little to nothing, unless you were the lead teacher. Only to be a lead teacher, you had to have a Master’s Degree or be actively pursuing one. But I can’t justify the cost or the time to pay for graduate school for a job that’s not a sure thing. Nor can I justify that the cost would be more than what I could potentially make in the next year.

Guess, I should’ve taken my parents’ advice and pursued a nursing degree instead. Although, my penchant for throwing up at the sight of blood would have been a major hurdle to overcome.

Meagan glances up from her note-taking to shake her head.  “A third job? When would you find the time to solve world hunger or why the Kardashians still have airtime?”

“Oh shut up.” I love Meagan. I really do, but her reality and my reality are two very different things.  If we hadn’t been roommates for all four years of college, then I doubt we would have ever hung out. She’s uber rich (though she chooses to pay for school herself with student loans), uber smart (though her choice to pay for school makes me question that a little), uber gorgeous, and uber athletic. She’s on the university’s tennis team.

I’m middle class, pretty intelligent, not hideous, and my version of athletic is a mean game of tennis on my little brother’s Wii game, or a family night of bowling.

Meagan’s eyes light up, and she playfully smacks her own forehead. “I almost forgot. My Aunt Kimmie has a nanny employment agency. She caters to the wealthy, some of the Carolina Panthers, and a few of the politicians that live in Charlotte. One time, she even placed a temporary nanny with Chris Hemsworth when he was filming an
Avengers’
sequel.”

We both let out dream sighs. “Oh, Thor.”

“Loki’s not bad either.”

I give her a conspiratorial grin. “A Loki and Thor sandwich is the best.”

Meagan places a hand on her heart. “I’d never go hungry or be sexually frustrated
evah
again.”

I snicker. “Amen, sister.”

Meagan grabs my phone and types in a number. “Anyway, here’s her name and number. Call her. She could have something full time or part time.”

“With Chris Hemsworth?”

“Anything could happen,” she says with a shrug.

“But not to me.
If
she has a job available, it will probably be for some middle-aged doctor. Or someone else very staid.” I check the time and grab my purse, searching through it for a twenty. I snag it and stand up.  “I have to go. My shift starts in an hour.”

Waving me on, she says, “My treat.”

I narrow my gaze. “It can’t always be your treat.”

She sighs. “Landry—”

Leaning down, I hug her and manage to slip the twenty on the table at the same time. “Don’t you
Landry
me. I can’t be in a one-sided relationship.”

“No wonder you suck as a girlfriend,” she teases.

“A boyfriend is required to be one of those,” I grumble, straightening. “I’m exceptionally bad at keeping one of those.”

“Because you don’t suck?”

I gasp in mock outrage. Although, my lack of boyfriend is due to my former four years of a heavy class load due to not wanting to pay for an extra year, and a work schedule that made me look like
The Walking Dead
most days. Something that might be hot for Darryl, but not for attracting the guys at UNC-Charlotte. “Remind me why we’re friends again?”

“Because you know all my secrets and love me anyway.” This time, the teasing note in her voice is gone. I do know her secrets. All of them.  The choice she was forced to make our freshman year, and the consequences that continue to haunt her. My heart still aches for her and what she lost.

“Always, Meagan.” I blow her a kiss. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Later, babe.”

I catch the bus and ride it to King’s. The nightclub is very popular, and the tips are amazing in the VIP sections. I work there instead of the main floor, because the manager knows she can count on me for two very important things: One—I never sleep with the patrons. Two—I always show up on time.

“Landry, you’re in Room Four tonight,” John calls out as I walk through the back entrance, flashing a tight-lipped smile.  He’s one of six bouncers always on staff.

I blink. Room Four aka The Royal Room is reserved for the most exclusive guests of King’s, like if the new owner and his wife want to have a night out on the town, or if Beyonce and Jay-Z wants to chill, without worrying about inciting a riot.

Despite my stellar reputation, usually other girls are sent up there. I think I’m the only person working at King’s who has never actually met a celebrity. By the time I get there, they’ve just left or if my shift is over, they arrive a minute later.

“Owner or celebrity?” I ask, my heart racing as I stop in front of John.

“Owner’s brother,” John says with a grimace.

“And he wants me?”

“Mr. Montgomery requested you.”

I raise my brows to my hairline. “Requested me?”

John winces. “Girl, if your voice gets any higher, you’ll be shattering mirrors, and then how will all those narcissistic assholes know if their swagger is just right?”

I giggle, thinking of some of the class acts we get in here. For the most part, they’re nice, but some are exactly what John is describing. “Will you be on call?”

“I requested it.”

Lightly punching him in the shoulder, I say, “Knew you loved me best.”

“Shouldn’t that be the other way around, baby girl?”

“Chelsea would kill me if I told you,” I point out, and he laughs. He and Chelsea, one of the bartenders, had gotten married last year. She was as tough as him, could handle any guy acting the fool at the bar, and I was not-so-secretly afraid of her.

“You’re on in thirty. Best be getting all dolled up now.”

Saluting John, I start for the dressing room so I can change into my uniform of fishnet stockings, tall boots, black hot pants, and a snakeskin print bustier. If I even attempt to run, my boobs will pop out and give me a black eye.

I sigh thickly as I apply another coat of mascara. Is it any wonder I want a job where none of this would be required? Although, I have to admit I actually love the bustier, and I would love even more to have someone to wear it for.