Two Brutes, One Barista: An Alaskan Romantic Comedy (Alaskan Romance Book 3) Page 2
Zack wasn’t having any of it. He shoved me inside. Then, he must have figured he was now safe, because he looped an arm around my shoulders. “It’s good to have you back,” he said.
I punched him in the side. And again. And once more, at which point he reclaimed his arm.
That’s when I caught the gaze of a woman from across the bar. She had hair in a shade somewhere between brown and red and blonde, and the deepest, darkest eyes I’d ever seen. She was frowning at me, maybe disapproving of my method of sibling discipline. Maybe hearing the shouts and grunts as Ed opened the door to the downstairs.
“Are you letting women into the fights now?” I asked as we ducked into the ‘secret’ passage. Women weren’t supposed to be here, no matter how pretty they were. Not on a fight night.
Ed sighed. “Well, ever since Suzy learned about the fight club, she spread the word to all the women on the river. And she and Helly insisted women be allowed in. ‘Women participate, or we’ll make your lives hell’.”
I made a sympathetic noise.
“Eh, it’s not so bad,” Ed said. “The guys have really been enjoying the catfights. I’m making a ton of money offa the betting, and with the women here, there’re even more men, and more alcohol sold, and… well, the bar’s doing great.”
“And the women haven’t turned you in,” I said.
“Not yet,” he said grimly.
We reached the bottom of the stairs, and nostalgia hit me stronger than ever. The fluorescent lights, the chain link. The roar of the audience, and grunts of pain and effort from the combatants. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of sweat, beer, and rubber mat.
A shadow fell over me, and I looked up. It was Tim, who stood seven feet if he was an inch, the twin without the scar. “J.D.,” he said with a nod. His voice was like a glacier, low and slow and implacable. “You fighting tonight?”
I shook my head. “Still healing up.” What I didn’t say was that my last visit to the doctor had been to receive a slow headshake and a grim ‘I’m sorry’.
His gray eyes flicked to my shoulder, then back to mine. “Soon as you’re able,” he rumbled.
I beat him every summer I came up, albeit barely. He wanted his match, wanted to beat me this year. And with my injury, my lack of fitness, and the gigantic blow to my confidence the loss to the French Wrecker had been, this might just be the summer he finally won.
I nodded, because I’d never been one to back down from a fight.
“Well, duty calls,” Ed said, having caught the gaze of someone standing in the doorway to his office. “Enjoy,” he said, heading off.
Rory and Zack each took one of my arms and dragged me into the press. They stopped when we had a good view.
Two men were fighting, two fishing guides. No shirts, no shoes, no gloves; just man versus man. They were slicked with sweat, apparently several minutes into the match. I sighed, watching them beat on each other. With each thud of fist on flesh, each grunt, my mood blackened.
“The big one’s got a mean right hook,” Zack said.
I grunted. It didn’t look mean from where I was standing.
“And the other guy’s got some great footwork,” said Rory. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”
The guy might have been floating like a butterfly, but his sting was more like that of an anemic child.
“Oh-ho,” Zack chortled after a flurry of blows. “Damn. I think that guy knows Jiu-jitsu.”
Actually, he didn’t. What the smaller guy was doing was a lot closer to Judo, but it was sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. A blow that appeared more like an open-handed flail actually made me wince.
“I think the big one might be able to give you a run for your money,” Zack told me.
I turned narrowed eyes on him.
“Yeah. Damn. They must have been really training over the winter. This is some stiff competition,” Rory said.
I knew what they were doing. They were baiting me, trying to draw me out, get me all worked up and affronted and involved.
I refused to play their little game. “I’m getting a drink,” I said. I’d been circling the drain for the last week, yes, but hadn’t yet graduated to drunken depression—mostly because my bastard brothers didn’t have any alcohol in the house, for no good reason that I could see, and despite the fact that they’d remodeled two thirds of their kitchen into a bar. They always had alcohol… except when I needed it most, the shits.
I hit a nerve cluster in Rory’s forearm when he tried to restrain me, and made my way back upstairs. I was not at all surprised when they followed. They couldn’t have been worried I’d take the boat and escape—I’d seen Zack pocket the keys—so they probably just wanted to harass me some more.
They crowded up behind me at the bar. “Beer,” I told the bartender. “Whatever’s on tap.”
“Nonono,” said Zack. “He’ll have the darkest, most German, most put-hair-on-your-chest brew you have.”
Ah, they’re still on that manly kick.
The bartender looked at me. I wondered if he was acquainted with my brothers.
“Actually,” I said, “I’ll have a lemon drop, sour. Wait, no. I’m on a diet.” I tapped my lower lip, ignoring my brothers’ sputtering. “Do you have a white wine? Or better yet, a blush?”
“You will NOT!” Zack roared, finally floundering out of his shocked stupor. His loud ejaculation cut through the noise, and silence descended as everyone turned to stare.
Again, I caught the gaze of the almost-redhead with gorgeous dark eyes. I wondered if it was coincidence, or if she was interested in me. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t approach a woman in my state. My stubble might actually be categorized as a beard at this point, and if you looked closely, my black shirt and pants were spotted with darker grease stains.
“He will not,” Zack said, in a slightly more moderate tone. “He’ll have beer. Whatever’s on tap,” he ground out.
The bartender looked at me.
I nodded.
Zack had turned his glare on me, and I refused to meet his gaze. Because if I did, I might actually smile. As it was, the corners of my mouth were twitching.
Maybe Zack saw it. He leaned into my range of vision, one elbow on the bar, expression deadly serious. “You think this is a joke? I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. The United States—hell, the world—is losing sight of what it means to be a man. Friggin’ turtlenecks and—and—”
“Crossovers,” Rory interjected.
“—and crossovers, and pink guns—”
“I think those ones are meant for women,” I said.
“And evolution is gonna remember that shit,” Zack said. “It’s all genetical. If men keep dropping in to have someone else change their oil, the next generation’ll be born without thumbs!”
The bartender snorted a laugh, and then covered it with a cough. He handed me my beer. I sipped it.
Rory took up the monologue, lamenting the downward spiral of American manhood—mine, in particular—from my other side. I tuned him out. It was either that or laugh, because I was pretty sure he was saying something about loss of testosterone and shrinking man-parts. His impassioned crazy-talk combined with his overgrown blond hair sticking out in every direction made for a pretty good impression of a madman. People on his other side—even the rough-looking ones—gave him a wide berth.
As I ignored him, I considered my options. I could stay here, and listen to his crap. I could go downstairs, watch other people beat people up, and listen to his crap. Or…
I turned around and let my gaze be drawn once more to the mysterious woman in the booth. I didn’t know her, or the woman who looked like she could be her sister, sitting next to her. They were sitting across from, and engaged in a lively conversation with Lane, one of the lodge owners in these parts.
Amber, I decided. The woman’s hair was a shade of amber. It was swept up in a careless knot, revealing dangly earrings that swung hypnotically, gently tapping her grac
eful neck. She was beautiful, and appeared to be without a date.
Usually, I’d be all over that. But tonight? I was scruffy, stained, and I stank.
As my brother droned on, I looked around. The décor hadn’t changed since last year. Still rough-hewn benches and scarred, carved tabletops. Crushed peanut shells on the floor, and the gleam of gold from the lacquered bar. Stuffed salmon on the walls, and the fishy smell to match, coming from dozens of pairs of hip waders and rubber boots.
On the other side of the space were the pool tables, green felt glowing in the overhead lights. One of them, the one just behind Amber’s booth, was free. I thought about it, thought about the fact that nothing would come of getting a closer look. I’d just be tormenting myself with what I couldn’t have, with women that would no longer have me.
I thought about it, for all of two seconds. Then, the knowledge that open pool tables didn’t last long in this joint drove me forward. “C’mon.” I didn’t wait for a response, just swept up my beer and went to claim it.
She glanced up at me as I passed, and she didn’t smile, or give me any sort of invitation. But our gazes held.
Time seemed to slow. The music curled around us like vapor, sealing us, for just a moment as I drifted past, in our own little world. Her expression was open, honest. Her dark eyes were eloquent. Curious. And the effect they had on me… It was like someone’d walked over my grave.
She was important.
Things shifted, tilting and realigning in a way that left me breathless. As I passed her, I tried to blame the odd sensation on the beer in my hand.
I picked up a pool cue, fiddling with it as I regrouped. My brothers were right behind me, chalking their sticks. We lagged to see who would go first. Zack broke.
“You seem distracted,” Rory observed as he moved to take his shot.
Probably because I was staring at the curl lying against Amber’s neck, and the graceful line of her shoulders beneath her shirt.
“Isn’t that the girl who’s running the coffee stand?” he asked, following my gaze.
I opened my mouth to tell him I had no freaking clue and to keep his damn voice down.
“Uhhh—yes,” said Zack, peering over my shoulder. “Thea, I think her name is.”
“Coffee stand?”
“Yeah, we just finished building one next door to our place, at the Birch Chalets,” Rory said. “Thea’ll be there, slinging coffee, right next door, all summer long.” When I turned to look at him, he winked.
“We can introduce you, if you like,” Zack said.
“No, I’m fine.” I was in a sorry state, and even if she somehow didn’t notice, what would I do with her? Take her back to my couch?
Rory took his next shot, then started toward the ladies’ table.
I snagged his earlobe, and dragged him back. “I said no,” I hissed.
But while I was dealing with Rory, Zack—like a toddler who’d slipped his leash—had gotten away from me. He was halfway there.
I flew at him, and collapsed his leg with a swift kick. He went down, and as luck would have it, his knees hit the floor just after a song ended. The resulting crack was like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
I was bent over him when Thea turned around. I paused, looking into her eyes. Our faces were on a level, just feet apart. I was close enough to see that her lashes were reddish-brown, ridiculously long, and she had a spray of freckles over her nose.
“Thea,” Zack said. “This is—”
I yanked his arm up behind him—if he’d been built any less like a brick shithouse, I’d’ve snapped it for sure—and slid my free hand into his pocket. I palmed his keys, shoved him to the side, nodded to Thea, and strode on past.
“He’s got the keys,” Zack wheezed.
“Not the boat!” Rory’s cry chased me out the door.
They caught up with me at the shore, jumping in just before I managed to leave without them.
Zack thumped back to me, and stuck a finger in my face. “No,” he said.
“No, what?” I slapped his hand away.
“No, you may not drive our boat. Not this one.”
I stared up at him, nonplussed. “What?”
“Only real men can drive this boat. Not metrosexuals. Not cowards that don’t even try.”
Ouch. I stared up at him, wondering if he was talking about what happened just now, or my fight, the one that’d changed everything. I had the sneaking suspicion, from the hard look in his eye, that he knew.
I gave up the helm without argument. He wanted to drive, wanted a sore arm from holding the tiller, wanted grit in his eyes, he could have it.
The boat ride passed in contemplative silence. Zack looked like he was contemplating my manhood. I was contemplating punching him. And I hoped Rory was contemplating a haircut.
“So,” Zack said as we climbed from their precious boat, “we still got a couple hours left of the day. You ready to work on that Brute?”
I shook my head, walking away from them. I stepped into the cabin, intent upon reclaiming my spot and continuing my game. And froze.
My couch was missing. So was my TV. And my PlayStation, which was the only one of those three items that was actually, truly mine. It was also the one I cared the most about.
“We thought your recalcitrance might continue,” Rory said. “So, we moved your stuff, effective till you change your mind.”
“How did you… You were with me the whole time!”
Rory shrugged. “We called a friend.”
They had friends? I walked past the couch-shaped area that was free of snack-related debris, and opened my bedroom door, thinking they’d just moved me in there.
But, the couch wasn’t in my bedroom. In fact, none of my things were, at all. The drawers had been emptied, and my duffel no longer occupied the bottom of the closet. The bed was stripped, the room cleared out.
I turned. “Where did you move my stuff?”
“To the guest cabin.”
“You have a guest cabin?”
“Yeah, out back.”
“I thought the only thing out there was a shed.”
“Turned it into a guest cabin,” Zack grunted.
“But… why?”
“For guests.”
I glared at them.
“You see, J.D., as we explained, we’re worried about the state of your masculinity,” Rory said. “And we thought—”
“Knew,” Zack interjected.
“—that roughing it a bit would help toughen you up. So, we moved you to the guest cab—”
“Shed,” I insisted.
Rory shrugged, sublimely unconcerned. “Whatever. Anyway, you’re out there, at least till you decide you wanna help with the Jeep, and possibly until you graduate the program.”
My fists clenched. I didn’t understand why they were doing this to me. My masculinity, despite what they said, was just fine.
And it’s not like they didn’t have the room. This ‘cabin’ of theirs was three bedroom, two bath. Running water, full kitchen. They even had internet.
But, I’d had it up to my eyeballs with them tonight. If they wanted to move me to the shed, then fine, I’d go.
Without so much as a glance their way, I slammed out the back door. All the better to play video games uninterrupted, I thought as I strode toward the tiny, one-window shack standing in the shadows beneath a large cottonwood.
Creeeeaaaak, went the door as I shoved my way inside. I groped around for a light switch, and found a nail and several splinters on the rough-hewn wall. As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I could see there was no overhead light. There was a Coleman lantern sitting on a tiny table to my right, and on my left, two narrow bunks, the mattresses two-inch foam. My duffel occupied the bottom.
I walked farther into the interior, taking in my new surroundings with a sort of numb acceptance. Rough-cut plank floor. A tiny closet. And around the corner in the back, a toilet. It wasn’t a flush toilet, though. Composting, maybe.
Nothing. This was it.
Meaning, my couch and TV and PlayStation had been moved somewhere else. I’d been duped.
I didn’t even have electricity.
I sat next to my duffel, and stared into the cool, silent darkness. It seemed fitting, somehow.
Chapter Two
J.D.
My life could be divided into two eras: Pre-injury, and post-injury.
Pre-injury, I’d been an upbeat kinda guy. I trained, I fought. I went out with friends, laughed and danced, and generally had a great time.
Post-injury just… sucked. I couldn’t do the stuff I used to do, and usually I didn’t want to drag my sorry ass out of bed.
This particular morning, I woke up, and the first thing that popped to mind was Thea’s face. As I lay there, expecting my usual melancholy, she was there instead.
As I sat up, I wasn’t seeing rough-cut boards and cobwebs. I was remembering the exact shape of her cheek as she smiled. The creamy smoothness of her skin, the pink tint of her lips. Those dark and shining eyes.
Rory had said she was running a coffee shop next door. Which meant Thea was probably smiling at a customer right now, just a short hike away.
I sat for a few minutes, thinking about things. As they always did lately, my thoughts devolved, until I was ruminating about what I wasn’t worth, what I didn’t deserve.
This morning, I was able to recognize it as the shitty self-talk it was, and shake myself out of it. Live for today. Focus on the present. I don’t know if I’d gotten that from a doctor, or a song, or a Hallmark card, but today, I was going to try.
I wanted to see Thea again. And so, that’s what I’d do.
I stood up, decision made. I was going over there.
Rubbing my chin, I realized again how scruffy I was. If I was gonna do this, I’d need to shave. And take a bath, I thought, smelling myself.
I found my razor in my bag, and despite the hassle my brothers’d given me yesterday, my Old Spice hadn’t been molested. It was lying amongst my other toiletries, just waiting for an occasion. Smiling, imagining myself jiggling my pecs for Thea—maybe while riding a horse—I scooped it up.