Scream My Name (6 page)

“G
od, what a night!” Leila said, and plopped down on one of the bar stools surrounding the counter.

It was nearly ten o’clock, and the café was nearly deserted. With only a smattering of diners left, she was finally able to sit down for the first time in hours.

“Business is booming. We keep this up, and we’ll have to buy both of our neighbors’ shops.”

Leila glanced over at her best friend, lawyer, and accountant, and sometimes busboy when she needed him, with a tired smile.

“Always the optimist, that’s what I love about you, Hawk,” she said and eased off her heels. She accepted the cup of tea he placed in front of her with a murmur of thanks.

“It’s a start,” he said casually.

Leila looked at him, and although the remark was offhand, she bit her bottom lip, something she did whenever she was uncomfortable. Something she rarely did in Hawk’s company.

She was uncertain if he meant it was a start regarding the business, or their relationship going to the next level. And of late, that was the cause of her discomfort around him. And it saddened her that she couldn’t return his feelings.

She and Hawk had been friends for most of her life. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t around.

Her great-aunt had taken him in when Leila was a child and he was a teenager. He’d moved to Texas from a Cherokee Indian reservation in Phoenix, having followed a woman there who was five years his senior. When the woman abandoned him, he’d been on his own.

She’d learned of the nature of his relationship with the woman when she’d once peeked into her great-aunt’s office at the back of the diner, and seen her aunt’s large arms wrapped around the boy as he cried and told her about his life.

She’d only been able to pick up bits and pieces, and she’d been far too young at the time to understand the significance of what he was telling her great-aunt, but she’d overheard enough and understood enough that tears of sadness had run down her cheeks.

Quietly, though they hadn’t known she was there, she backed away, giving him his privacy as he poured out the rest of his story to Aunt Sadie.

He’d begun working at the restaurant, and Sadie had turned one of the storage rooms into a bedroom for him. She’d invited him to stay with her and Leila, but the young man had a sense of pride even then that wouldn’t allow him to do that. With his first check from Sadie, he started giving her money for rent.

Leila remembered seeing her aunt trying to refuse accepting the money, but soon gave up as she realized it made the young man feel better to do so.

When her aunt had died, they all realized why the normally dominating woman had given in so easily. She’d taken the money he’d given her and put it into an account for him, and over the years it had earned quite a bit of interest. Both Leila and Hawk had been stunned, though they knew she was a generous woman.

“Leila, you’re like a sister to me.” His words brought her attention back to him.

“I know,” she grinned at him. “And I don’t know what I’d do without you, Hawk.”

She leaned over and hugged him tight. They didn’t say anything else, just hugged each other, but Leila felt content. His simple statement and the meaning behind it rid her of the discomfort she’d felt, thinking he had feelings for her.

Around the time her great-aunt had died, Leila had been devasted, and seeking to find comfort had gone to Hawk. He’d held her, but wouldn’t allow things to progress further than mild kisses and caresses, telling her that when she was no longer in grief, if she still desired him…to come to him. The look in his dark, mysterious eyes had sent hot awareness coursing through her body, an awareness she was no longer a child with a mild crush on an older boy, but a grown woman.

However, when her grief had abated, she’d realized that her feelings for Hawk were not those of a lover’s. She didn’t want to chance changing the dynamics of their relationship by sleeping with him. She loved him too much. He meant far too much to her to do that.

When she pulled away, she felt a familiar sensation—the same one she’d had last night, as though someone was burning holes straight into her back.

She turned around, her arms still linked around Hawk’s lean shoulders, to glance toward the door to see what—or who—was causing the tingling sensation.

Though she already knew good and well who was responsible.

The café doors opened, and Brandan Walters’s overly tall, overly muscled, overly…dominating body stood in the doorway.

Her heart thumped against her chest so harshly, she feared it would leap out and fall on the floor. Even from a distance, she noticed his eyes were narrowed, and a frown settled across his craggy features. As though he was displeased with her hugging Hawk.

As if he had anything to do with
who
the heck she hugged.

The two locked gazes, and Leila forgot all about Hawk—though her arms were still loped around his neck—until he nudged her, forcing her attention away from Brandan.

In Hawk’s dark, nearly black eyes, a look of concern shone brightly. “Someone you know?” he asked.

“No…I mean, yes…but he’s not important.” She dismissed Brandan, telling her best friend the bald-faced lie without batting an eyelash.

“Are you sure he’s no one of importance?” Leila felt her face heat when she followed her friend’s gaze down to her breasts.

She always wore an apron when she worked, many she’d inherited from her grandmother, and others she’d found on her own. Some were sexy half aprons, and others were full. The one she was wearing she’d pulled out of the back of her closet that morning, was new and one she hadn’t worn before.

It was red and sheer, more sheer than she thought it would be. So sheer that the small lace demi-bra, and the silk long-sleeved blouse she wore as well weren’t able to hide her body’s reaction when Brandan entered the café.

She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest to hide the way her nipples stood erect, poking past the flimsy material.

She simply gave Hawk a
look
and turned away from him, unconsciously pulling the bottom rim of her lip into her mouth. Flutters tore through her stomach as she watched Brandan lazily stroll inside and take a seat at one of the booths.

When Tricia, one of the only waitresses still working, picked up a menu and headed his way, Leila waited until the woman handed him the plastic-backed menu, took his drink order, and returned to the front counter, her hand massaging the center of her back.

“Hey, Trish, it’s almost closing time. I can handle the last customers. Why don’t you head on home and get off your feet,” she said, and the tired waitress smiled and moved her hand from her back to rub her large, rounded belly.

“Oh, girl, thanks. I am
bushed,
” she said tiredly. “If you’re sure…?”

“I’m sure. Go on home. Hawk and I will lock up.”

With a grateful smile, the waitress handed Leila her order pad and pencil. She walked toward the back to collect her things, in what Leila called the pregnancy waddle. Her legs were spread slightly apart, aiding her balance while housing something the size of a football—she adjusted her thinking in Trish’s case—a watermelon—within her body.

It wouldn’t be long, maybe a week at the most, before Tricia wouldn’t be able to work, and Leila would be forced to find a replacement until she returned from maternity leave. She put that, along with the other nine million things she needed to do, to the back of her mind, and walked toward Brandan, whose head was buried deep in the menu.

“Find anything appealing, Mr. Walters?”

Brandan’s eyes flew from the menu up to the woman who asked the question, her voice low, slightly husky, and so sexy it made his dick jump in his pants.

From her voice alone.

Fuck.

“There’s plenty I see that’s appealing. What do you suggest?”

Her light brown eyes widened at his words’ obvious double meaning, her lips tightening and the ends of her nose flaring.

She placed one long-fingered delicate hand on her hip, tilted her head to the side, and looked at him, a bored expression on her face.

She must be one hell of a poker player, he thought. She had the disinterested perfected to a T.

But he’d been playing poker since he was a kid, beating grown men and making the money he needed for the various football camps his mother couldn’t afford to send him to. He recognized a good game face when he saw one. And besides, she either needed to invest in a better bra to hide her body’s response, or take the damn thing off all together for all the good it was doing.

He felt his humor restored for the first time today.

His glance slid over her. Her long dreads were in a topknot, and several locs had escaped the haphazard bun to frame her face, falling down the length of her back. The ones that were not in the bun were multicolored—some were a copper color, others a light brown, almost blond—while the rest were a dark brown. His fingers itched to dive into them, deeply, and loosen the long locs of hair.

She wore a plain white silk blouse with small silver buttons, the top buttons undone to the top of her small breasts to reveal the deep slit of her cleavage, where, between the small mounds, the end of a silver charm nestled.

She also wore a small red, sheer, ridiculously frilly apron that tied at the back in a big bow. But hell if he didn’t want to unwrap the bow to get at the gift inside the pretty package.

On her feet she again wore high heels, but this pair was backless, the type women could slip their feet into. He didn’t know what they were called, but they were sexy as hell, especially on her as she stood before him, semi-balanced on one foot, her other foot easing in and out, in and out, in a hot see-sawing glide that had him hypnotized.

He silently thanked whoever had created the style.

“I meant on the
menu
, Mr. Walters…is there anything on the
menu
that you find appealing,” she said, snapping his attention back to food and away from sliding feet and sweet beaded nipples.

“Sugar, I know what you meant,” he replied, and when she simply arched a brow in response, he smiled and handed her the menu. “I’ll have whatever you suggest,” he replied.

“How about a nice bowl of Aunt Sadie’s signature Texas chili? It’s the house specialty. That is, if you can take the heat.”

“Hmmm, don’t know how much…heat…I can take this time of night.” He leaned back and grinned at her, enjoying the exchange.

“You’re a big strappin’ Texan. I’m sure you can handle a little spice, can’t you, big boy?” she mocked and grinned an angelic smile.

He trusted that smile as much as he would a coiling rattlesnake.

For all her faults, his mama didn’t raise a fool.

He opened his mouth, ready to order something else when he caught the look of triumph dancing in her eyes and decided what the hell. No way in hell was he going to let her think he couldn’t handle anything she could dish out.

In or out of the kitchen.

“I think I’m man enough to handle it.”

With a nod and a completely devilish grin on her face, she accepted the menu from him. In the exchange the tips of their fingers touched and a spark of electricity arced from his hand to hers.

You would have thought she’d been bitten by the same snake he compared her smile to, the way she snatched her hand away so abruptly.

If they continued on like this, pussyfooting around each other, sparking and igniting, they were liable to set the whole damn place on fire.

She turned away and walked back to the counter toward the tall, lean man she’d been wrapped around when he’d walked into the café, and spoke something in his ear.

Brandan saw the man laugh and look toward him and from the distance he could have sworn he saw sympathy in the man’s eyes. Brandan shrugged. Nothing she could dish out could he not handle.

However, the sympathy from the man leaning against the counter did nothing to alleviate the need to punch him into the kitchen wall after he’d witnessed the hug they’d shared.

Damn, what did the woman want, a harem, Brandan thought moodily, and sipped the sweet tea the pregnant waitress had supplied him with before scurrying out the door.

He’d drilled Mateo without mercy, to no avail, when he’d called him that morning.

Normally Mateo was more than happy to fill him in on his nighttime games, but as they’d spoken on the phone, he’d not told him one damn thing that had happened. Instead, he’d had the nerve to laugh at him, telling Brandan that if he was so curious, why didn’t he go to the café and ask Leila herself. Then he hung up the phone.

He’d told himself it didn’t matter. She didn’t mean anything to him, and if his damn Casanova wannabe partner had more than a simple dinner with the woman, more power to him.

Afterwards, he had joined Damian to go to the youth center and coach, just as he normally did on Saturdays, but midway through their practice he admitted to himself that he did care what happened.

A hell of a lot.

Too much.

He’d finished practice and spent the remainder of the day acting like a schoolboy with a crush, trying to shove thoughts of her out of his mind. But in the end he admitted it was useless.

He glanced around the diner.

It was the first time he’d actually seen it. Neither he nor his partners had ever actually been inside the shops they were buying. It had never been necessary before, their only interest was in the land.

The décor of the café was offbeat, but had its own charm.

Most of the tables were intimate, holding no more than four chairs, and the spattering of booths with benches where the old wood gleamed, polished to a high glossy finish, added more charm to the old café.

There was a smattering of prints that were by no means high art which adorned the walls, yet the pictures blended perfectly with the café’s eclectic décor.

In the center of each table was a small glass vase with fresh flowers. Surrounding the vase were small red see-through glass candleholders. His waitress had lit his as he sat down, and he thought it a small bit of charm, adding to the overall cozy feel of the café.