Token (Daring the Kane Brothers)

TOKEN

Daring the Kane Brothers

Published by Kelly Gendron

Copyright © 2017 Kelly Gendron

All rights reserved

Edited by J Sims - Editing4Indies

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews.

No! I lunge and catch her forearm. My body jerks forward, and I grab the wet steel rail with my other hand to stop myself from going over the bridge with her. Her cool skin slips beneath my grip. Hang on! I squeeze her thin arm tighter, and her fingers loosen from mine. Yeah, she’s got me too, but as her body sways back and forth over the water, her fingers slip down my arm. I can’t see her face. Her eyes, they’re as dark as the deep water below.

Still, I sense it.

She’s ready. She’s determined. She crawled up onto the ledge of this bridge with one intention. She wants to die.

Oh, no. I shake my head. This is not happening! No! I grunt, fingers strangling her flesh. No way. Not tonight, lady! I wedge a foot between the guardrail for more leverage, trying to secure my lower body so I can let go of the rail and pull her up.

Fuck! Why’d I take the bridge tonight? I never take this route.

The rain belts against my back, races through my hair, and drips down my nose. Her arm slips a little more from my grasp. I got you. I exhale with a harsh, unsure breath, gritting for more strength. I can’t get a good grip. It’s too wet, and the weight of her body is too much. I try to fight for it, but my arms tremble, my tendons stretch, and my tired muscles burn. 

It’s okay. Her head tilts back, body flaccid and heavier than before.

No!

Yes, she tenderly says as if she’s not dangling over a fucking river. Smiles as if everything is going to be all right. This isn’t your fault. A slender finger lifts from my arm then another and another, and as each of her fingers leave my skin, in the pit of my tight stomach, I know that once they are all free, I won’t be able to hold her.

Don’t. I blink back the tears swelling in my eyes. Please, lady. Please don’t do it!

Remember, this isn’t your fault, she says again with a warm, serene smile.

It didn’t happen like I thought it would.

I didn’t watch her gradually slip from my grip and slowly fall.

It was quick and fast.

I heard a splash, and then she disappeared into the water . . .

CHAPTER ONE

Hey. I kick Crash’s jean-clad leg with my steel toe boot, giving a few hard taps on the hood of the car.

What the fuck! He rolls out on his back from beneath the GTO with motor dust and oil all over his face. Fuck, asshole. You know what happens when you do that shit while I’m under the damn engine. He wipes a scabbed, grimy hand across his forehead and glares up at me.

I called ya. I laugh. Obviously, you couldn’t hear me; music’s too loud. I glance at his cell on the ground beside him. That Stone’s band?

Yeah. He reaches over and flips it off. His new shit.

Thought so. Recognized it the minute the guitar solo kicked in. He’s good. At least, it’s keeping him clean. I grimace, recalling the two-week detox intervention my brothers and I had to endure down at Uncle Rowdy’s cabin. Stone’s been dry ever since, but like his second job, the dude’s a ticking time bomb. Almost lost everything, including his second job. No one wants someone under the influence deactivating bombs.

What’s up, Crash says, not one to discuss the personal flaws of another. Probably ‘cause he’s got so many of his own. Hell, all of us Kanes do.

I give the mechanic shop a quick once-over. Cricket around?

Nah, that dickhead doesn’t usually stroll in until three o’clock.

I need him to look at the clutch on my Harley.

Leave it. Crash waves the wrench in his hand. I’ll have him check it out when he gets here.

Okay, but I’ll need a ride.

Can’t. He shakes his head. Gotta have this GTO done by tonight. Check the office. Steele might be in there. Said he had some calls to make. Dad dropped him off ten minutes ago to pick up Mom’s car. I had to do her brakes.

Yeah, all right, I say, watching as my little bro dismisses me. He picks up his cell, and Stone’s music blasts through the room again before he lays back down on the cart and disappears under the car.

And I get it. The kid’s not much for talking, not since the whole NASCAR thing. Can’t blame the lad. Prior to the scandal, he had it all. He was a big shot, even made it to Daytona 500. He’s smart, though, and bought this auto shop with the money he made from the sponsors after NASCAR suspended him. But now, he just locks himself up in it. Sometimes, Steele can talk him into filling in for some stunt car driving shit, but usually, it’s the gigs no one else is crazy enough to take. Think he’s got a death wish. Then again, Jaden White mentioned he saw Crash back at Trevor’s doing laps around the track. That’s good. But the fun, happy-go-lucky, sociable guy who made it to the top? That little lad is gone.

I stroll into the office to find my eldest brother lounging in the beat-up leather office chair, the sleeves from his white button down dress shirt rolled up over his tatted arms. He’s the only guy I know who can pull off badass in a suit and tie.

Yeah. He nods at me as he talks into his cell. Yeah, yeah. Kurt, I gotta let you go. He strums his fingers on the table. Sure, yeah. He nods his head again. I’ll call you later. He swipes the cell screen and looks up at me. Hey. He stands from the chair and thrusts out a hand.

I hate when he does that shit, started doing it shortly after he hit the Hollywood scene. Don’t give me that crap. I slap his palm. 

Fuck. He runs the stranded handshake through his movie-star messy dark hair. Sorry, bro. He drops his hand with a lopsided grin. Whatcha doing?

Dropping off my Harley. Clutch is fucked up, and I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. Gonna have Cricket take a gander. I need a ride. You heading my way?

No. Steele rolls down his sleeves, picks up his suit coat, and starts to pull it on. But—he pushes his arm through the jacket—I’ll give ya a lift. He walks around the desk, fastening the middle button of his slim suit coat. You just get back in town?

Yeah, was in Bayou Vista, Texas.

Mom said you saw Lurlene there. How’s our little sis doing, he asks as I follow him out of the office.

Good. I shrug. Rayna’s sister has a place in the Bayou. Lulu, Emmie, and Rayna are staying there for the summer.

Oh-ho, now that sounds like trouble. He chuckles, pushing the door open.

The warm night air hits me. Yeah. Well, our straight-laced little sis could use some trouble. I can’t see how she’s cut from the same cloth. I shake my head. She’s a teacher. She’s level-headed. She follows the rules. She’s nothing like her five reckless older brothers. She met a guy, though, and get this—I slap Steele in the chest with the back of my hand—he’s an MMA fighter.

He stops. No shit?

Yeah. I start for Mom’s SUV. Quick little fucker too. He kicked my ass.

Wh-at? He cracks out between his broken cackle. You … you tried to beat up Lulu’s boyfriend?

Nah. I yank open the passenger side door of the SUV. He and his brothers own a bar with an MMA cage in the back; there’s nightly fights and shit. I get into the vehicle.

Still laughing, Steele crawls into the driver’s seat, puts the key in the ignition to start the engine, and turns to me. So—his voice sobers as his dark eyes roll over my face—you fought Lurlene’s boyfriend in the ring?

I nod. And I won’t be doing that again. I’m a boxer, not a fucking MMA fighter.

You’re a damn good boxer. Steele puts the car in drive and looks straight ahead. Glad to hear you got in the ring again, though, he says as his foot hits the pedal and we rev off.

Yeah, it’s been a couple of years since I’ve boxed, but like Crash and NASCAR, me and boxing ain’t something us Kane boys talk about. Seems like a good lad.

Who? Steele glances at me. Lulu’s guy?

Yeah.

That’s cool. Steele makes the left turn onto my street. If he wasn’t, we’d kinda be fucked, seeing as you couldn’t kick his ass. He laughs. Well, I guess if we had to, we could sic Stone on him. He could blow his car up with him in it.

Fuck that. The guy was like a jackrabbit, all over the fucking place in that cage, but with some real boxing gloves, I could take him. One good hit to the face, and I’d put that rascally little rabbit down. I chuckle.

Good to know. He sniggers as he pulls into my stone driveway. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

Right. I reach for the car door handle.

You still working for Bronx?

Yeah. I open the door.

What the fuck do you do for that guy anyway?

I get out of the car, lean back down, and smile. Oh, ya know, little bit of this, little bit of that. Odds and ends shit.

Better be legit, he says in his big-bro tone, raising one eyebrow.

It is. I grin.

Yeah. He glares up at me. Then tell me. What kind of odds and ends are ya doin’ for him now?

Well, this week, I gotta got to Phoenix, Arizona.

Phoenix?

Yeah, to pick up a Harley.

A Harley?

Yes, a Harley. I give him a wink just before I slam the door shut.

Not like it’s a lie. This week, I’m going to make ten grand off Bronx Mosely just for picking up a Harley . . . Harley Redbourne.

CHAPTER TWO

Hon, I hear the bartender say, ya sure you want another?

Head bent low, eyes closed, and nearly kissing the bar, I lift a finger and give it a lazy swirl.

All right, but I’m closing up tonight. I won’t be able to help you back to your motel room for a few more hours.

I raise my heavy head and try to focus in on Becky . . . Kimmy . . . Whatever her name is . . . Maggie. Yeah, that’s it. I find Maggie’s shiny pink lip-gloss. I like the color; not that gaudy wannabe pink but the paler color like the one you see at a baby shower.

I vaguely recall Maggie standing over my bed last night. At least, a guy didn’t walk me back to my room. Not that it’d be the first time I had a one-night stand with some stranger while drunk off my ass. There was that guy in Mesa. Damn. I wish I could remember that night. He was a baseball player, minor leagues or something.

Maggie winks at me. Shit! Please tell me that I didn’t! I drop my forehead onto my hand. My eyelids lower as I inwardly groan. I didn’t sleep with this girl last night, did I?

Okaaaay. I hear the whiskey pouring into my shot glass. But I’m cutting you off early. Maggie lightly chuckles.

I glimpse up at her with a small smile and wrap my fingers around the tiny glass, needing the liquor inside me. Men. I like men. That’s what I like. I’ve never had sex with a woman before, but then again, around this time of year, anything goes.

It’s as though for an entire week my reality switch flicks off. Something wets my good-girl wick. My feelings, my reason, my conscience, and my heart—it all shuts down this time of the year. Who I am. What I am. The sum of me completely turns off. I live in a dark hovel of nothingness, and until you’ve felt it, you can’t understand what I mean. The people I love, gone. Time stretches on, and all I’m left with are fading memories. The tug on my lips from a tender smile, the warm flush of my skin from a caring hug, and that euphoric feeling of hope. God, I miss that the most. Hope, like all my dreams, is gone too.

I sleep, but I’ve forgotten how to dream.

Hey, did you hear me?

What? I lift my weighted lids, trying to zero in on Maggie’s lip-gloss. Once I focus, I shift upward. Her bright blue eyes glow down at me. Heck, if I ever were going to sleep with a woman, she’d be perfect. She’s beautiful.

I said, she says a little louder, tilting her head, sorry I couldn’t stay with you longer last night. My mom was at my place watchin’ the kid. She starts to wipe down the counter, and the bleach smell stings my nostrils. But I figured you’d sleep it off. The second you hit the bed, you were out cold.

I pick up my shot glass in a silent cheer. Okay, still a virgin when it comes to having sex with the same sex. I down the whiskey. Hell, if I ever did decide to do something like that, I’d want to remember it.

Oh, it’s alll riiight. I wave a loose hand, slowly sliding my shot glass back her way. Maggie shakes her big blond curls but tops me off. She’s a nice person. I instantly liked her on day one.

I glance around the bar. I’ve been here for three days. I already know most of the regular’s names, or at least, they know mine. Things start to get a little hazy after the fifth or sixth shot, and that’s about when I stop counting.

This time of year, on the anniversary of when I lost everything, I get in my car and drive. No destination. I just drive until I find a motel with a nearby bar. It needs to be within walking distance, preferably across the street or right next door. The bar becomes my personal dumpster—a place to unload all the darkness—and usually by day seven, I see the light, pack up my shit, and head back home. But this year, I don’t have a home, or a job for that matter, to return