Steele Ridge: The Beginning Page 2

  “You look like you’re in mourning,” Britt commented. “They’re just shoes.”

  “Italian leather.”

  “You ask me,” Reid said, “Italian sausage is a better deal.”

  “Pretty sure that’s why you’re known as meathead.”

  One side of Britt’s mouth quirked up, about as much of a grin as he ever wore. “But that streak on your shirt? Now, that’s something you should probably cry about.”

  Grif twisted, trying to see his own back while his brothers snorted like a bunch of wild hogs. “Dammit, I must have bumped something. And, hey, in my line of work, looks and clothes matter. I can’t walk into a hundred-million-dollar contract negotiation wearing board shorts and a Billabong shirt.” Reality was, he was damn lucky to be doing any negotiations after Madison Henry, heiress to the Henry hotel fortune, had fucked him over a few months ago.

  Reid shot a sly look Jonah’s way. “I think he’s so pretty because Mom really wanted her second kid to be a girl. We should probably just be happy he rarely wears lipstick.”

  Grif couldn’t even bring himself to raise a halfhearted fuck-off finger at the back of Reid’s head.

  When they pulled up at Barron’s Park, the place was already covered up with people, and they were running close to an hour late. “If Mom’s already cut the birthday cake, you know it’s all gone.”

  “Dammit, we deserve that cake,” Reid grumbled.

  “Carrot’s my favorite,” Jonah said like a six year old denied candy.

  “You’re a first-class pouter, you know that?”

  “That’s what happens when you have the kinda money he does,” Reid said. “You get used to having everything you want.”

  “And I damn well want carrot cake.”

  They got out of the truck, each with a different offering in hand. Wild-looking flowers of every color from Britt. Handmade chocolate truffles from Reid. A fancy e-reader loaded with e-books from Jonah. And Grif held a silver box with a silk Natori nightgown and robe inside. The crowd parted and Grif watched their mom, one of the most beloved people in Canyon Ridge, stroll toward them in a seemingly casual manner with their sister Evie at her side.

  “Oh, fuck,” Reid muttered.

  Yeah, Mom wasn’t happy. That strained smile on her face was the one they’d all seen a thousand times. When they broke curfew, when they brought home subpar grades, when she found Betsy Cochran hiding in Grif’s closet after a particularly educational game of Truth or Dare. When Grif Skyped with her right after ESPN broke the news about Madison’s accusations.

  “My darling boys,” she said. “Did you get lost between my house and the park? Or did you simply forget this was my birthday party?”

  Grif half turned toward Reid, who’d always been fast with a get-out-of-jail-free line, but before he could make eye contact, his mom grabbed the back of his shirt. “Griffin Fletcher Steele, what have you been into? You have a black streak all the way down your back.”

  Grif shot Britt a death stare and got an eyebrow waggle in return. So he hadn’t just been yanking his chain.

  Then she turned her face up and sniffed. “And why do you all smell like you’ve been roasting hotdogs?”

  “Might as well come clean,” Britt said. “It’s not like she won’t hear.”

  “What in the world have you four been up to this time?”

  Evie tossed her dark hair over one shoulder and raised her chin. “And why wasn’t I invited?”

  Jonah looped an arm around her neck and ran his knuckles over her hair. She tried to bat him away, but he just danced her in a very awkward circle. “Because you’re the baby.”

  When she was able to squirm away from him, she jammed her hands on her hips, which only showcased that their baby sister was stacked. A fact Grif damn well didn’t want to acknowledge.

  They were all still having trouble accepting that she was out of grade school, when she was twenty years old and a junior in college. If her older brothers had it their way, she’d never grow up. And definitely never have sex.

  Britt stepped forward. “There was a fire out at the sportsman’s complex.”

  “And you decided to all become firefighters?”

  “We were driving by,” Reid said, “and happened to see smoke.”

  “You wouldn’t have wanted us to ignore it and have the place burn down, would you?” Grif asked his mom, giving her his best charming smile.

  “Of course not.”

  “But they have come up with this amazing new service,” Evie drawled. “You just use your cell phone—you know what that is, right?—to punch in three numbers.” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “I think they’re nine, one, and one.”

  Reid, ever the hero, puffed out his chest. “We actually put it out before Mags and the rest of the emergency services crew arrived.”

  Their mom sighed, the sigh of a woman who’d given birth to six kids who’d nearly driven her batshit. She waved them toward the pavilion. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Rescuing Evie from Jonah the evil tormentor, Grif put his arm around her and strolled in the direction of the covered area packed with people, presents, and enough helium balloons to give James Earl Jones a squeaky voice for eternity. “How’s it going, kid?”

  “School, you mean?”

  “What else would I be talking about?”

  “Maybe my love life?”

  Grif winced. “Lower your voice. If Britt gets wind of the fact that you’re an adult, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “God, don’t I know it.”

  As people shifted, Grif caught a glimpse of golden red hair. Long and lush.

  Interest flared low in his belly.

  He knew that hair. Knew it? Hell, he’d had his hands tangled in it years ago.

  While he slid inside the woman. Even fifteen years later, the memory of the night he’d spent with Carlie Beth Parrish made his blood hum. Sure, it wasn’t as if he thought of her often, but when he did?

  Well, it was a damn good memory.

  His old Ford Taurus, a couple of cheap beers, and a prime parking spot at Deadman’s Creek. He smiled, remembering what he’d done to her on his hood.

  “What are you grinning about?” Evie asked him.

  Oh, he might recognize his baby sister was, in fact, of age, but he wasn’t about to share those details with her. “Just feeling a little nostalgic about home.”

  “You missing Canyon Ridge?” She went on tiptoes and laid her hand across his forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

  “I’m allowed to have good memories of this place.” And he did. But it just didn’t fit him anymore, even if he longed for the comfort of it from time to time. It was like shrugging on an off-the-rack jacket after years of wearing custom suits. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to say hello to Carlie Beth.

  Hell, this was the South. They wouldn’t do the shake-hands-and-air-kiss-on-the-cheek thing. Here, people hugged. Good ol’ breasts-to-chest kinds of hugs. And having his chest against Carlie Beth’s breasts would not hurt his feelings one damn bit. “Hey,” he said to Evie, “I think I see an old friend. Mind if I…”

  “Be my guest.”

  He walked away from his sister, his stride a little faster than he’d feel comfortable ever admitting, and homed in on that beautiful hair. That spun gold had clung to their sweaty naked bodies when he’d laid her back on his car and made her scream. More than once.

  Grif shoved away that little tidbit. Sporting a boner at his mom’s birthday bash wasn’t exactly good party etiquette.

  When he was within a few feet of her, he called out, “Carlie Beth, it’s great to see you.”

  She whirled around, her pretty brown eyes like those of a deer that couldn’t get off the center line fast enough to avoid the semi bearing down. Her mouth also formed a little O. And that sure as hell didn’t make him think of any type of wildlife. It made him think of—

  And just that quick, she gave him a little I-don’t-think-I-know-you wave, t
urned around, and fled. God, this must be Grif’s year of shitty luck with women.

  * * *

  Micki stood next to her father, Eddy Steele, under the heavy shade of a hundred-year-old oak at the edge of the park. He was holding his portable police scanner, listening to some nonsense about a fire at the old Tupelo Farm.

  Had to love Canyon Ridge, where a small fire drew all kinds of speculation.

  Every town should have this level of problems.

  In Vegas—land of sin and debauchery—a tiny fire would be a dream come true for first responders.

  Her brothers, Dad's pride and joys even if he hated to admit it, stood around, messing with each other like they’d been doing since they were kids. Britt laughed and shoved Reid back a step while Grif looked down at the front of a white shirt that had probably cost him a thousand dollars. He picked something off of it and stared down at whatever piece of lint dared to litter his clothing. He always did have a hankering for the finer things.

  She glanced at her long-sleeved T-shirt. A black one with a skull and crossbones splashed across the front. Combined with her black jeans and boots, she wasn’t exactly the belle of the ball her mama always wanted. On the contrary, she’d been the disappointment, and watching the boys make their way into the party, Micki felt…lost.

  Alone.

  Because she no longer had the kinship her brothers did. That sibling affection that meant cutting up on each other and hurling insults they all knew were only meant in jest.

  Except when they weren’t and someone got bloody. Still, they loved each other.

  Unconditionally.

  Just then, Jonah stopped walking, his instincts clearly alerting him to something. He glanced left, away from her, and she made a move to duck behind the tree, but…too late. Her twin swung back, his gaze, even from the distance, connecting with hers.

  Jonah.

  She’d missed him. Fiercely. And seeing him now, joking around with the other boys, the fissure inside her grew. Just a slow, torturous expansion that left a giant crevice inside her.

  He took a step toward her. No. She couldn’t face him. Not yet anyway.

  She shook her head and inched closer to the tree and Jonah hesitated.

  Please, don’t come over here.

  Dad held up the police scanner. “Fire’s out.”

  “That’s good,” she said, distracted by Jonah’s stare.

  “Yeah. We’ll get the update from the boys. I heard Maggie say they put it out.”

  “Who?”

  “The boys.”

  Figures.

  The can-do-no-wrong boys.

  One of whom stood staring at her. Three long seconds passed before Grif grabbed hold of him and pulled him away. That fissure in her chest turned into the Grand Canyon.

  Micki tapped one booted foot. Tucked her hair behind her ears and licked her lips. No lipstick, only lip balm. Her mother would have an effing fit. A good Southern girl always had lipstick.

  But Micki hadn’t been a good Southern girl for going on ten years now.

  Sorry, Mom.

  Dad gestured to his carousing boys with the handheld radio. “I’m gonna head over there. See what happened. You coming?”

  Again, Micki glanced down at her black jeans, her tank top, her unpainted and chewed fingernails. I so don’t belong here.

  Vegas. That’s where she should be. Where she fit. In Vegas, no one judged her. In Vegas, she was a rock star, a master in front of her beloved laptop. Tomorrow, she’d head back home. To Vegas. Not here. She’d simply come today to celebrate her mother, a woman she barely knew anymore.

  Still, Mom had requested it and for all the mistakes Micki had made, all the stupid decisions that had caused her family hardship, this one seemed like a fairly simple—and grantable—request.

  Even if she did stay hidden beneath a giant leafy oak tree.

  * * *

  “You know…” Britt said.

  Oh, crap. Reid hated when Britt said “you know.” “You know” was always followed by some kind of do-good lecture that would half turn him to stone.

  Britt style.

  And coming off their father peppering them with questions about the fire, Reid wasn't in the mood for a lecture. Thankfully, Dad had gotten distracted by one of the locals asking about the pros and cons of a rifle he'd been looking at.

  “Huddle up, boys,” Grif said, joining the group. “Big brother has something on his mind.”

  Britt waved a hand. “Everyone who is anyone in our town is at this party.”

  “So?”

  This from Jonah, who probably didn’t get his requisite twelve hours of sleep last night.

  “So,” Britt said. “We should walk around, listen. See if the gossips know anything about that fire. Maybe someone heard something.”

  “Great,” Grif said. “Now we’re investigators?”

  “I didn’t say we’re investigators.”

  But, hey, Britt had a point. With all the folks here, it couldn’t hurt to ask around. Maybe dig up some dirt. Something Reid had always enjoyed.

  “He’s right.” Reid waved two fingers. “Forget listening. Fan out. Talk to people. Keep it casual. Just shoot the shit.”

  His brothers, after some grumbling that Britt stifled with a single raised brow, moved off and headed into the crowd.

  Scanning the packed picnic area, Reid broke it into quadrants. He’d start at quadrant two. See how far that got him.

  I got this.

  He sucked at a lot of things. He didn’t have a problem admitting it. Mainly because for every one thing he sucked at, there were two more he excelled at.

  And the thing he could ace the shit out of, hands down, was talking.

  His entire life his mama had been trying to get him to shut up. He might not have been slick à-la-Grif, but he had other ways of getting information. And it usually worked.

  He tromped across the park toward Mr. Greene, a man who’d been ancient fifteen years ago when Reid was a freshman in high school and got caught trying to slip his hand under Mr. Greene’s granddaughter’s shirt.

  Lucky for Reid, he’d seen the old man coming and snatched his hand back before he’d lost the sucker in the absurd amount of cleavage between Christy’s extremely ample tits.

  Jesus, that rack. He still dreamed about it.

  Reid cleared his throat, rid his mind of tits, and marched the last fifteen feet to Mr. Greene.

  The old man swapped his cane to his other hand, leaned in heavily, and held his right hand out. “Reid, how’re you, son? Heard you were back home.”

  Thanks for the reminder. “Yes, sir.” He shook the man’s hand and pointed to his knee. “Blew out my knee so I didn’t re-up.”

  Not altogether a lie. Yes, it had been time for him to reenlist and yes, he had blown out his knee. What he hadn’t said was that the bum knee had earned him a spot at the spectators’ table. The big, bad Green Beret, after years of training and gut-shredding missions that would send a weaker man to a fetal position, couldn’t pass the fucking physical fitness test that qualified him for service. At least not the kind of service he wanted to provide. A desk job, for a guy like him, a boots-on-the-ground guy, would shred him.

  And now he had to figure out what the hell to do with his life.

  Mr. Greene lifted his cane, pointed it at Jonah, wobbling enough that Reid itched to hold on to him, but didn’t dare. Sometimes a man would rather fall over than receive help standing.

  At least that’s how Reid saw it.

  “I heard you fellas saw the fire over at that eyesore sports complex.”

  “Yes, sir. We were driving by. News travels fast around here.”

  The man snorted. “Not much has changed.”

  Wasn’t that the truth?

  “Yeah, we saw a car hauling ass outta there.”

  “You see the driver?”

  “Nah. But I’m wondering if whoever was driving set that fire.” He looked down at the old man with his gnarly, arthritis-rid
den fingers. “It wasn’t you breaking speed records outta there, was it?”

  The man howled and it kicked off a harsh coughing fit that had him smacking his chest and clearing the phlegm.

  “Boy, even if I could still drive, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to try that. I’ll tell you what though, I don’t blame the idiot who did. That goddamn thing cost us taxpayers. I almost had to move out of this town because of the tax hike. And now it don’t even bring us any tourism. Yeah, half this town is mad enough to set that fire.”

  A brunette sauntered by, wearing snug jeans over her curvy hips, a clingy turtleneck and high-heeled boots that sank into the grass, forcing her to work her feet free as she walked. Who the hell wore those heels to a party in a park?

  He didn’t know her, but—holy titties, Batman—she made Mr. Greene’s granddaughter’s rack look like amateur hour. And the ass? He wanted to bite it. Yep, just sink his teeth right into that juicy bottom.

  “Well,” Mr. Greene said, “would you look at them titties?”

  Reid swallowed hard, fought a wave of nausea as he glimpsed his future in Mr. Greene. If he didn’t figure out something to do with his life, that’d be him. Old, decrepit, horny, and blurting out inappropriate comments about tits.

  One of his brothers would have to save him from the nightmare. Where was Jonah? He’d be the one who’d actually enjoy putting a bullet in Reid’s head.

  Horny old bastard or not, Mr. Greene had a point. “No kidding,” Reid said. “Who is she?”

  “That’s Brynne Whitfield.” He paused, pursed his lips. “Whitfield? Yeah, I think that’s it.” The man shook his head. “Hell, I don’t know. She owns that fancy shop in town. The one next to the Triple B.”

  Brynne. Nice name. Nice everything.

  Reid cocked his head, watched her move across the grass to a picnic table filled with Canyon Ridge residents all coming out to wish his mama a happy birthday on an unseasonably warm January day.