“Grayson Malone.”
His groan is louder than the chatter of the patrons as I slide into the open spot at the bar beside his stool. “Quit stalking me.” He keeps his head straight ahead and doesn’t glance my way.
“I’m not stalking you at all.” I glance around and smile. The place is large, dimly lit, and has a good-size crowd. A line of taps sits to my right, and a shelf full of half-filled glass bottles sits to my left. Three bartenders are behind the wooden top, joking with customers as they fill one order after another.
“Doesn’t seem that way.”
“Bars are popular places on Friday nights. It’s a Friday night, and lucky for me, I was sitting right over there, minding my own business, when you walked in the door.” More like saw him striding across the street and then heading into the bar when I was driving home and thought it might be the perfect opportunity to hit him up again about the contest.
“Lucky you.” He lifts his beer and takes a long drink of it. There’s something about the visual that pulls on me. His profile. His lips against the rim of the bottle. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
And makes me clench my thighs.
“Mr. Talkative, huh?”
“Not when it comes to you.”
“C’mon, I’m not that bad.” He lifts an eyebrow in question but still keeps his focus straight ahead. Silence stretches between us as the chatter of the after-work crowd buzzes around us.
“Ha. I find that hard to believe.” He turns and stares at me for a beat, his eyes glancing to where my hands are clasped on the bar and then back to me. “What? Is it too blue collar in here for your white-collar hands to touch? You think it will rub off on you?”
His comment throws me for a loop and leaves me sputtering to respond. “No. I’m kind of a freak about germs. I don’t like—I’m not—it doesn’t matter,” I correct and shake my head. “I’m here to talk about—”
“The goddamn contest.”
“Yes. It’s real. I promise. We’ve had over seven hundred thousand votes come in for the first two rounds alone, and we’re hoping to double that for the next one.”
He snorts. “Great. Stellar. I don’t need your magazine or its attention. It seems you ran the contest so far without my knowledge or participation, and it’s done just fine. Keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll both be happy.”
“You’re going to win, but only if I can get your help. All I need are a few photos of you and a short bio—anything about yourself, really. The next round of voting starts at the end of next week, and I need your help to save the magazine.” I prattle on even though he doesn’t react. “Your son is adorable. He can be in the photos, too.”
“Absolutely not.”
There’s a bite in his tone that makes the bartender glance our way and leaves me staring at him. “Then your wife. We can include her in the photos, too, if you want.”
He winces. “No wife.” Those two words come out like a curse.
“I’m sorry for assuming—”
He stands abruptly and faces me so that our bodies are inches apart. His eyes bore into mine, a combination of confusion and defiance.
“What is it you want from me, Thorton?” There’s anger in his voice I hadn’t been expecting.
It takes me a minute to find my voice, to remember I’m here to convince him to participate, when all I can concentrate on is the scent of his cologne—clean—and the heat of his body as he stands so very close to me.
Speak, Sid.
“To put water under the bridge.”
Of course, I say nothing about the contest. The reason I’m here. There’s something about him and the unfiltered intensity in his eyes amid the dim bar light that makes this quiet man seem a little edgy and a whole lot dangerous.
I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat as I wait for his response.
“Fine. The hatchet is buried.” He leans closer so that his lips are by my ear, and the warmth of his breath sends chills down my spine. “Hope it doesn’t hurt your reputation to be seen with me like it did back then. That would be a travesty.” And with that, he waltzes away from me without saying another word.
I stand there for the briefest of moments, slack-jawed and surprised by his animosity when I shouldn’t be. What I should be doing is trying to make amends, maybe say I’m sorry, secure him for the contest—and I scramble toward the exit after him.
The cool night air is welcome as it washes over me after the stuffy heat of the bar. I take a few steps into the darkened alley and look for Grayson, but I don’t see anyone.
Hugging my arms around myself, I head toward the edge of the building. There’s nothing there but a few dumpsters against a chain link fence.
It’s when I turn to head back into the bar that I startle.
“Hey, there.” The man’s hair is disheveled, his belt buckle shines off what little light is back here, and his eyes are laced with a suggestion that makes my skin crawl.
My hands grab the strap of my purse where it rests against my chest, but I stare him squarely in the eyes and nod a greeting I’d rather not give.
He takes a stumbling step toward me. “You’re a sweet little thang, you know that? I bet you’d feel real good.”
My first thought is that his grammar sucks. My second is, why in the hell am I focusing on his grammar when I’m alone in an alley with a drunk man?
Because I’m nervous.
I shouldn’t be. The door to the bar is right there, and there is probably at least one other person somewhere close. Yet, even knowing that, fear slowly coats my skin.
When I take a step to my right to put more distance between us, he mirrors the movement and emits a soft chuckle.
Get a grip, Sid. You’re fine.
“You’re looking mighty sexy. Love them heels with that skirt.” A deep, guttural groan suggests what he’s thinking about wanting to do to me.
He takes a step toward me.
I take one back.
My pulse thunders in my ears when it shouldn’t. I’ve dealt with plenty of assholes like this in San Francisco. Drunk guys who’ve had a few too many beers and let their buzz exacerbate their machismo. Only, we aren’t in San Francisco where people are constantly milling around. We’re in Sunnyville in the back alleyway of a bar where the music is so loud inside that even if I scream, I don’t think anyone would be able to hear me.
Another step.
Another one in retreat.
“My friend just ran to his car. He’ll be right back.” The lie comes out effortlessly, but the lopsided smile he gives me and the way his eyes run up and down every inch of my body tells me he doesn’t believe a word of it.
“C’mon, sweetheart, just a little dance in the moonlight with me won’t do you any harm.”
“No thanks. I have other plans,” I say. The only way out of here is to pass him, but I won’t be able to do that without him grabbing me.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
With my head up, I keep my eyes on his, hoping my direct eye contact might deter him from escalating this situation.
My palms are sweaty.
“Can you please step out of my way?”
My throat is dry.
“Now why would I shy away from a pretty little thang like you?” He slurs a few words, and his gait is unsteady as he sways side to side.
I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or worried that he’s drunk. It’s when I try to skirt past him—just when I think I’m free and clear—that he lunges and has a hold of my bicep.
A laugh falls from his mouth at the same time a shriek escapes mine.
“I don’t mean no harm . . . just want a little kiss.” He fumbles over the words as the stench of alcohol on his breath assaults me.
I yank my arm away, but he holds tight. “Get off me.” I grit out between clenched teeth.
He only pulls me closer. The undertone of cologne. The scrape of his denim against my bare legs. The sting of his fingernails digging into my skin.
Panic. Fear. Anger. All three riot around inside me.
“I just wanna dance. Let’s dance.” He tries to sway to some kind of rhythm as he hums.
My stomach roils, and I freeze when every part of me screams to fight him. Kick him in the nuts. Gouge his eyes out.
Seconds pass. My synapses fire.
“Get away from me!” I shout and shove him off me as hard as I can at the same time I hear, “Get your hands off her.”
Grayson?
Grayson.
It’s a split second between the man letting go of my arm and Grayson pinning him to the wall, using his forearm to crush the guy’s windpipe.
“Sorry, man, I was just trying to have a little fun,” the drunk guy slurs.
“Yeah, and she didn’t want any.” Grayson fists his hand in the guy’s shirt and yanks him off the wall.
“I didn’t—I wasn’t . . .” The guy stumbles, almost falling before he rights himself. “God, I’m fucking drunk.”
“Get the hell out of here, before I call the cops so they can help you sober up.” Grayson shoves the man toward the other side of the alleyway. The man looks back, almost as if he’s been shocked sober and isn’t sure what’s going on. “Keep walking.”
I stare at Grayson’s back, my adrenaline fading. My panic shifting to shame. My fear morphing into embarrassment that I couldn’t handle myself.
I was handling myself.
I think.
Then why do my knees feel like rubber and my eyes burn with tears?
Right when I feel like I’m going to give in to my moment of weakness, Grayson turns around and faces me.
For one short moment, I allow myself to feel relief, to feel safe. Then the shock of what just happened—of Grayson being the one to render help—has me straightening my spine.
There’s a look in his eye—controlled rage warring with complete concern—that pins me motionless, allowing me to feel every thump of my heartbeat as the adrenaline races through my body. A small part of me wonders if it’s because of the man who just ran away or because of the man who’s standing before me, looking just as dangerous to me but in a completely different way.
Vulnerability is not something that suits me, and yet I feel exposed when the threat is no longer near.
Or is it?
“Christ, Sidney.” His eyes flicker over every part of me. Checking for bruises. Looking for tears. Waiting for a meltdown. “I forgot to pay my tab. I was coming back to—how stupid can you be?”
“Excuse me?” If he wanted to give my emotions whiplash, then he just accomplished it.
“What woman walks into a dark alley behind a bar by herself?”
“You’re blaming this on me?”
“Damn straight, I am. Are you too coddled to have common sense?”
Asshole. “I was looking for you,” I say between clenched teeth as I glare at him.
Our eyes hold for the briefest of moments before he turns and paces from one side of the alley to the other. His hands are on the back of his head when he blows out an exaggerated breath as if he’s trying to rein in his temper. When he stops in front of me and holds his hands out to his sides, it’s obvious his attempt is unsuccessful.
“Looking for me? Why? To save your magazine? Save it your goddamn self.” There must be something in my expression—call it blanket confusion—that has a smirk coming to his lips. “Ah . . . you didn’t realize you said that, did you? A little slip of the tongue while you were fumbling through your sales pitch inside?”
Did I really say that? Crap. Crap. Crap.
“You know, a real gentleman would ask if I’m okay.”
“No,” he says and takes a step closer. “A real gentleman would step in to save you like I did, and a real lady would say thank you for doing so . . . but it’s you, right? You want something from everyone but refuse to give anything to anyone, so a thank you is off the table.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Save it, Princess; life’s not fair.” There’s a bite to his tone as he takes in my trembling hands and shivering body, but he never utters the words his eyes say—are you okay?—before they turn cold again. The brief glimpse of compassion is gone. “And it seems to me you’re just fine, so playing the damsel-in-distress thing doesn’t work for me, and it sure as hell isn’t going to get me to sign on as the poster boy for your stupid contest.”
“The last thing I need is a man to swoop in and save the day.”
“Huh. And I thought all princesses were helpless and liked to be saved.”
“I am not a princess.”
“You just stomped your foot like you were.” He shakes his head before looking to the edge of the alley and then back at me. “Are we done here? Because if so, I’ll just take off, and you can stay here and find someone to take my place in your contest.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
His chuckle reverberates off the brick walls of the bar’s exterior and back to me, causing every part of me to bristle. “You’re not the first to call me that, and you sure as hell won’t be the last.”
His words grate on my nerves and have my thoughts misfiring so I can’t actually form words. All I manage to get out is, “Grayson.” My mouth opens and closes several times but nothing else comes out.
“What’s that?” he asks as he holds a hand up to his ear. “It seems that you’re having a hard time thinking of what to say, so I’ll help. The words you’re looking for are ‘thank you.’ Then again, I shouldn’t expect it from you now since you never knew how to say them before. I’m old enough to know that people don’t change.”
“That’s not—”
“Fair. I know,” he says nonchalantly. “Are we going to stand here and wait for Mick to come back or what?”
“Mick?”
“Harmless drunk guy. Oh . . . wait. Is this all a set-up to see who would take the bait? Should I go so Mick can come back and you can wrangle some other sap from inside to rush out and save you, so you can put him in your contest?”
“This wasn’t a setup. I’m not that conniving or desperate to pull a stunt like that.”
“You sure about that?”
“Screw you.”
“No thanks, I haven’t had enough to drink yet.”
I grit my teeth and fist my hands as every part of me rejects him. At the same time, I hate myself for watching the flex of his bicep as he runs his hand through his hair in frustration, as I remember the heat and feel of his body against mine earlier.
“Such an ass,” I mutter as I stalk past him with fury in my veins.
“So that means no thank you then?” he asks above the click of my heels on the uneven pavement only serving to make me step a little harder.
And then falter.
Fuck.
I stop and hang my head. What in the hell am I doing? I’m standing in a dank alley with the neon from the sign at the front of the bar projecting an eerie glow around me and letting my temper get the better of me.
Is he being a prick? Yes. Is he baiting me so that I hate him and will leave him alone? Hell, yes.
And I walked right into it.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“Look, I’m sorry.” My words are quiet, but I know he hears every word because his steps slow and then stop. “Thank you for your help.”
When I lift my head, he’s staring at me, head angled, eyes unrelenting, bottom lip worrying between his teeth. “No thanks needed. A gentleman doesn’t step in for those . . . but it’s amazing what sincerity and humility can do to a person’s appeal. You should try it more often.”
Don’t take the bait.
“What’s your problem, Malone?”
“You.” He’s so matter-of-fact it startles me.
“Me?”
“Yep.” This time with a definitive nod.
“Hold grudges long?”
“Nope. Just smart enough to know that people don’t change and too busy to give a rat’s ass if they do.”
We stand there and stare at each other across the dim light as our wills battle.
“You’re infuriating.”
“Good. Then maybe you’ll drop this contest nonsense and stop stalking me to try to win me over.” He lifts his eyebrows as he waits for a response.
“That’s what this is all about?” I laugh in disbelief. “You’re pissed off because you entered a contest and now you don’t want to be a part of it?”
“First, I didn’t enter any contest—my brothers entered me. And second, my opinion of you has nothing to do with my saying no to the contest. It’s your holier-than-thou attitude that has me saying no.” He retreats a step, the parking lot of cars at his back now, and then takes a look at my hands and smiles smugly. “Make sure to wash that blue-collar off you. It doesn’t suit you too well.”
With that, he walks over to a truck parked across the street, climbs in, sends one final glare my way, and then pulls a U-turn and drives off.
For some reason, I walk to the corner of the street and stare at his taillights as they glow at the stoplight, willing him good riddance while at the same time fighting the urge to chase him down so I can get the last word in.
It’s probably best he left when he did. I chuckle, clearly hearing the lunacy edging its sound as I wonder how in the hell I’m going to undo all of that. How am I going to step this back so that I can accomplish the one thing Rissa tasked me with?
“Sidney Thorton? Is that you?”
I startle at the high-pitched shriek of someone who obviously recognizes me, and there is only one person who has that kind of voice—chatty Cathy Clementine.
“Cathy? Oh my God, hi,” I say the minute I turn and see that I’m right. “It’s been forever.”
“Over ten years.” She laughs as she moves in for a quick hug. It’s so unexpected that it leaves me momentarily stunned before I reciprocate it so I don’t look like I’m being a bitch. “And you look no worse for the wear.”
“And neither do you!”
“Oh, honey, no need to lie. I’ve gotten rounder and softer, and you’ve gotten skinnier and hotter.”
I blush, feeling neither of those things after everything that just happened.
“Was that Grayson Malone you were just chatting with? Or should I say having a lover’s spat with? Things looked a little tense.”
She hasn’t changed one bit. Always wanting to know everything about everyone.
“No. We’re not—he isn’t . . .” I pause to collect my thoughts, which are on the far side of chaotic. “He just helped me with something.”
“Whew. Thank goodness, or there would be hearts breaking all over Sunnyville tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a hard one to compete for, and you’re a hard one to compete against.”
“Oh, stop. You’re too nice to my ego,” I say and put my hand on her arm.
“What brings you back to good ol’ Sunnyville anyway?”
“I’m just in town to help revive a magazine. Nothing permanent. How are you doing?”
“I’m good. Teaching second grade over at the elementary school. Nothing too exciting compared to the glamorous life I’m sure you’re living,” she says and laughs in a self-deprecating way that makes me sad. “But enough about me. Tell me more about you.”
“There’s, uh, nothing really to . . .” For some reason, I glance in the direction Grayson’s truck went, and when I look back at her, she has her head angled to the side, studying me with a knowing smile on her lips.
“Those Malone boys really know how to make you squeeze your Kegels, don’t they?”
“Jesus.” I all but laugh.
“Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?” A lift of her eyebrows. A playful punch to my shoulder. “They are one hot trifecta.”
“Since Grayson’s the only brother I’ve seen since I’ve been back in town, I can’t agree or disagree.” I figure I’ll play it safe with that response because if Cathy is still the same as she was in high school, anything I say can and will be used against me in the court of local gossip.
“Agree. Just flat-out agree because, let me tell you, those men were not created equal.”
“Fine, I’ll agree, but I have a feeling their wives might take offense to your strengthening your Kegels while thinking about them.”
She purses her lips before they spread into a wide grin. “Emerson and Dylan are cool. I’m sure they’d be okay with it for the greater good of man.”
“Who? What are you talking about?” I ask, more than aware that chatty Cathy Clementine has not changed a bit—talking in nonstop circles that are sometimes hard to decipher.
“Their wives. Grant, who’s a cop now, is married to Emerson Reeves. And Grady is married to Dylan McCoy, who you’ve probably heard on the radio,” she says, and I nod because I do, in fact, know who Dylan McCoy is.
“And then there’s Grayson,” I murmur, thinking about the colander on his head and the way his body just felt against mine.
“Single as a Pringle.” She laughs at her own joke. “And a man who knows how to reel the women in but kick them out of bed before the sheets get too warm if you know what I mean.”
“Really?”
“’Player’ isn’t exactly fair. How about . . . discreet? He has a line of women a mile long who are all willing to be his plaything, but he keeps any relationship—if you can call it that—on the down low because of his son . . . or so they say.”
“Who are they?”
“The women in line waiting before and after me for a chance at him, who may or may not have friends with firsthand knowledge if you catch my drift.” She winks and then startles when her phone texts an alert.
She pulls it from her purse and looks down at it before meeting my eyes again. “I’m so sorry, but that’s my friend I’m meeting, and she’s wondering where I am. I’ve gotta run and catch her . . . but we should go for drinks sometime and catch up. I could fill you in on all the town gossip—heavy on the Malone part if you’re thinking of stepping in line with the rest of us.”
That’s ten years’ worth of gossip that no doubt Cathy has memorized and is ready to repeat.
“Catching up would be great. I’d like that.” My smile is genuine despite her offer being a blatant reminder of why I steered clear of her in high school—her knack for gossip. The fact that everyone knew everyone else’s business was one of the main things I couldn’t stand growing up here. So why is it now that I’m kind of looking forward to meeting up with her again?
Maybe it’s because she doesn’t seem to judge me by my past like so many others in town have.
Either way, I have to take friends where I can get them these days.