Phoenix Burning (2 page)

Chris rolled his eyes and stabbed restless fingers through his hair. “Don’t you start, Emmy, he’s been on me all week about flying to Iowa to get married. I’m going to kill him if he doesn’t shut up.”

She shrugged. “You know how I feel about it.”

“Yes, your views on same-sex marriage are so encouraging.”

“I just think you guys have every right to be as miserable as traditional couples. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I already am miserable.” His cell phone began squealing like a pack of piglets in his pocket.

“Speak of the devil,” Emory muttered darkly.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like her brother’s longtime boyfriend. In fact, she’d affectionately dubbed the duo “The Chrises” not long after they’d moved in together, since the two men shared the same first name. The name, however, was where any similarity ended.

Her elder brother by two minutes and forty-five seconds, Chris was as mellow as the day was long. It was a personality trait he’d acquired at great cost thanks to their conservative upbringing. Almost nothing got a rise out of him. This trait had often contributed to past acquaintances thinking he was sort of slow on the uptake. What people often didn’t realize was that Chris used the waiting game to manipulate people into doing what he wanted. This was one of the things that made him a stellar divorce attorney. And Emory was utterly convinced it was the only reason her twin could stay in a relationship with her unofficial brother-in-law, Chris Fox.

The other Chris was just as flamboyant as her brother was sedate. A romance novelist with nearly forty titles on his resume and several successful best sellers, Chris Fox was the most high-maintenance individual on the planet. He whined almost constantly about anything not to his liking and shopped like a fiend. Emory would have never warmed up to him if it weren’t for his staunch, unwavering love and loyalty to her brother. Mess with his man, and Foxy grew claws and a set of brass balls.

“I am not answering that,” Chris muttered. “I refuse to listen to him go off on another rant about me not loving him enough to make him an honest man.”

She couldn’t help it—a laugh burst forth and continued until tears stung her eyes. Moments later her twin joined in, his chuckles underscoring her loud guffaws. That was pretty much the way it was with them. When one cried, so did the other. They’d done their fair share of sticking up for each other too. All the way through her brother’s decision to come out of the closet his senior year in high school and the disastrous family reaction that had left them on their own not long afterward.

She finally sighed and slumped onto a stool behind the counter to finish up the last of the wedding arrangements. “Thanks, big brother, I needed that.”

He opened the ancient fridge and pulled out a bottle of imported beer. “Bad day?”

“Not until just before you arrived on the scene.”

He lounged back against the opposite counter. “What happened?”

“Donovan MacIntyre put in an appearance.”

“What did he want?”

She paused in her work, remembering the multiple layers she’d sensed behind the petition. What had MacIntyre really wanted? He wanted her signature, obviously. And he probably wanted to get between her legs. But there were ulterior motives behind his drive to shut down Phoenix Rising.

“What did he want Emmy Lou?”

She shot her brother a dirty look. She hated that moniker with a passion, as he well knew. It was the one part of her backwoods upbringing that she’d not managed to leave behind. Emory Louise Banks, dubbed Emmy Lou as a toddler and reminded of it only occasionally, when her brother wanted to piss her off on purpose.

“Do you know anything about the Phoenix Rising?” she asked abruptly.

He set the beer on the countertop and crossed his arms, settling into one of his thinking expressions. She began to get the idea that he knew a lot more about Phoenix Rising than she’d originally thought.

“Christopher Jeremiah Banks, what have you been hiding from me?”

The ghost of a grin played at the corners of his mouth. “Tit for tat, Emmy Lou.”

“Screw that, I’ll call Foxy and tell him where you are right now if you don’t tell me what you know.”

“That’s playing dirty.” He frowned. “I’m getting to it.”

She sighed, drumming her fingers impatiently on the countertop, the arrangement on the counter before her forgotten. If he was taking this long to tell her what he knew, it put some credence to the rumors MacIntyre had heard. It would be just like Chris to keep something this interesting a secret.

“Can I ask what MacIntyre and the Phoenix could possibly have in common?”

“He wants to shut it down.”

“Does he now?”

She could see the lawyer wheels turning in his head and wondered why. “What’s the big deal? MacIntyre was going on about some unproven rumors that customers at the Phoenix can get a side of down-and-dirty sex on the floor with their draft beer.”

“That’s not exactly how it works, but he’s got the gist of it.”

Her mouth dropped wide open. “There’s a bar like that right around the corner and you didn’t
tell
me?”

“It’s not your kind of scene.”

Sometimes his big-brother instincts made him almost insufferable. “So do you think it should be shut down?”

“Of course not. Connor is strict as hell about who gets into the bar. Whatever goes on inside is consensual, and I believe everyone has a right to make their own choices.”

“Except me, is that it?”

“A place like that isn’t going to fix things for you, Em.”

Inhaling deeply, she counted to ten and then exhaled, trying to remember that Chris was her twin and therefore entitled to more than a little brotherly concern. Sometimes though, she wondered if he was convinced she’d be better off in a padded room somewhere. Emory placed the final touches on the arrangement and tied a pink bow around the neck of the vase. It was ready to be put in the cooler with the rest of the flowers for the weekend wedding.

Chris snagged her shoulder when she started to stand. “I’m not saying you can’t make your own decisions.”

“But you think I’m defenseless and easy to take advantage of, is that it?”

“You went through so much when we were kids. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I can’t be a victim forever, Chris. At some point I’ve got to get over it and move on. I need to move on. I’ve tried and tried, and I keep failing. A place like that might offer me some different options.”

Chris took a breath to answer back, but Emory ignored him. She flung open the cooler door. A cold wave of floral fragrance hit her in the face and raised goose bumps on her arms. She carefully placed the newest arrangement on the shelf with the others waiting for the upcoming nuptials.

It was ironic really. She spent most of her time on elaborate wedding arrangements. Emory specialized in bouquets to complement blushing brides, neutralize horrific bridesmaid dresses, and accessorize a church or reception hall. On the other end of the spectrum, her twin negotiated their divorces. Factor in her parents’ lopsided marriage and an abusive, holy-rolling father, and it was no wonder Emory Banks was confused about the nature of love, sex, and relationships.

Chapter Two

Emory had to take a step back and double-check the dim red sign illuminating the main entrance of the crumbling two-story brick structure. It was no wonder she’d walked past the place half a dozen times without ever noticing that it was a bar. It looked like a derelict building.

A few cracks of light seeped around the edges of the dark blinds on the second story. The first-floor windows were all painted black. The massive front doors were a double helping of ancient wood that looked as if they had survived flood, fire, and an invading army in their time. Taking a deep breath, Emory put her shoulder into a door and pushed her way inside.

She found herself in what amounted to an empty box. The soles of her chunky combat boots squeaked on the scuffed tile floor. Less than a dozen paces away the empty box gave way to what appeared to be a large, dimly lit room. A chain-link barrier stretched floor to ceiling between the box and the bar, blocking access. Standing between Emory and the barrier was a man playing the part of a troll guarding the bridge.

Emory supposed that most women would find him attractive, if they were drawn to the muscular type. The guy had a classic bouncer build: over six foot tall, somewhere under three hundred pounds of solid muscle mass, tousled short black hair, and blue eyes. He was good-looking enough, just not Emory’s type.

“You got ID?” His voice held the hint of an accent, but she couldn’t place it in three murmured words.

Emory slid the narrow wallet that held her ID and her cash for the evening from the hip pocket of her baggy black cargos. The waistband sat several inches below her navel, and the effect of her hand shoved into her pocket sent the pants skidding an inch or so lower. She flashed her driver’s license and tried not to look as young and inexperienced as she felt.

“Enjoy.”

The bridge troll swung open a door, and Emory stepped down into Phoenix Rising for the first time.

Her first impression was that of a real bar. This was not some upscale martini bar or one of MacIntyre’s generic sports bars. This was a place people came to drink, socialize, and get away from the everyday grind.

It was still early for a Friday evening, but the main room was well over half full. Men and women lounged at tables and chairs scattered haphazardly throughout the room. An old-fashioned, mahogany bar dominated the center of the back wall. Its mirrored back reflected shelves holding hundreds of bottles of liquor of every variety imaginable. The area between Emory and the bar was open. Fans twirled in lazy circles, stirring the smoky air hovering near the ceiling. On either side of the main room, the wings sat like the sides of an H. Intimately arranged tables occupied by bar patrons were wreathed in shadow. Emory strained her eyes to try and see what hid beyond the light, to see if what she’d heard was true.

So intent on finding out if Donovan MacIntyre had been telling the truth about Phoenix Rising, Emory paid not one whit of attention to where she was going. Seconds later she collided with someone.

The impact knocked both off their feet. Emory landed square on her backside, her arms catching against a couple of nearby chairs and keeping her from smacking her head against the stone floor. In fact, she thought she’d gotten off pretty good until two overturned pints drenched her midsection in pale ale.

She gasped, the ice-cold beer on her front making her nipples bead into hard points and raising goose bumps on her skin. Of all the rotten luck, she’d knocked over a waitress.

“I’m sorry!”

Dazed, Emory blinked a few times while taking a mental inventory of her body. When her brain was satisfied that all systems were present and functioning, her ears registered the husky feminine voice.

“Here, let me help you up.”

A slender hand reached out. Looking up, Emory gazed into the warm hazel eyes of a gorgeous woman in a red-and-black plaid miniskirt that barely reached the middle of her thighs. Her long legs were bare, and she wore combat boots not unlike Emory’s own. A tight black cotton top showcased a set of full, perfect breasts, and her long brown hair was pulled back into a haphazard knot.

“I am so sorry.” The woman apologized again. “I didn’t see you.”

The ruckus had brought another bouncer away from the wall. If the guy at the door had been intimidating, this one was about as approachable as a demon. He was taller, broader, and more heavily muscled, with a clean-shaven head and eyes so dark they looked black in the dim light.

“Are you all right, Jessa?” His voice was rough.

Jessa the waitress bobbed her head and offered the bouncer a smile. “I’m just fine, but I drenched this poor thing in beer.”

“I told you I’m going to have to fire you if you can’t keep your mind on your work.”

Emory sucked in a breath to protest, alarmed that the poor woman might actually lose her job over something as silly as spilled ale. But her words died a quiet death when Jessa’s mouth stretched into a knowing grin.

“Connor, Connor, Connor. How can I think about work when you’re standing half a dozen feet away looking like sex-waiting-to-happen?”

It was as if Emory was no longer standing there beside them, her front covered in pale ale. It didn’t take her long to understand what was going on. She’d known that feeling before, the invisible feeling that happened to a third wheel. It was common enough when hanging around the Chrises. In fact, it was the story of Emory’s life. When the world kept turning out perfect pairs, a forgotten and somewhat damaged single was bound to feel adrift.

Alex grabbed the terry cloth bar towel tucked into his apron and slung it over his shoulder. It was readily apparent that Connor and Jessa had completely forgotten about the poor soul standing in a puddle of beer only scant feet away from their happy love bubble.

It was starting to happen a lot lately. Not the beer puddle, but the love bubble. While Alex was ecstatic to see Connor’s rigid discipline come crashing down at Jessa’s whim, it was also annoying as hell.

Now there was a drenched pixie standing in the middle of the bar. If Alex hadn’t known Gabriel was checking IDs at the door, he’d have pegged her as a kid. A scant inch or two over five feet, her slight build was almost completely obscured by a pair of baggy black cargo pants. They were cut off below the knee, resting near the tops of her chunky combat boots. A dark blue hoodie made it impossible to tell whether or not she’d even managed to develop breasts yet.

The pixie gazed around, her eyes settling on the bar before she headed in his direction. Sighing, Alex wondered if he could somehow convince her to just go home. She didn’t look like the type of woman who belonged in a bar like Phoenix Rising.

“You look like you could use a towel, love.” Alex deftly deposited the one on his shoulder to the slick bar top before her.

“Thanks.” She picked up the towel and pressed it against her belly, soaking up the ale. “I’m not sure who blindsided who, but it’s obvious that the accident only made an impression on one of us.”