Brazing (Forged in Fire #2) (5 page)

“I’m not rigid,” he argued.

I gave a pointed look at his strewn homework and then at the fists clenched at his sides. When I lifted my gaze back to his, I couldn’t help the triumphant glow that lit my face. “Right,” I drawled. “How about this, I promise that your homework will still be here in the morning. It’s not like it’s going to go out, get drunk and go home with a random.”

“Is that what you’re planning on doing?” His voice sounded so strained that I wondered if he was in physical pain.

“I don’t think so,” I shrugged. “I was thinking something much more trashy.”

“Like what?” he nearly shrieked. I waited for the five or six “Shh’s” that I knew were coming.

Once our angry library audience had settled, I revealed my big secret, “Like karaoke.”

His lips twitched in the corners and then suddenly there was the briefest grin as he relaxed. He ran another hand through that dark hair and met my eyes again. “I can’t sing for shit.”

A burst of laughter bubbled up out of me and I immediately clamped my hand over my mouth while I rode out another wave of hushes from the surrounding students. “Me either,” I whispered dramatically. “But we don’t have to sing. We could just make fun of all the other idiots that can’t sing either.”

His smile disappeared, but his eyes still burned. And I liked that burn. I wanted to watch it singe the air around him. I wanted to feel the heat of it on my skin and the embers sizzle in my blood.

Wait. No.

This was for him, not for me. I didn’t want anything for Bridger. I just wanted to see him not so sad. That was all.

“What time?” he asked with that frown firmly back in place.

“Eight,” I told him. “At Captain’s.” That was a local bar close to campus he should know and love. If not, I would seriously have him sent to a retirement center where he belonged.

Whew. He nodded. He knew what I was talking about. “Okay.” He drew out the word as long as he could. “I might stop by.”

My smile stretched from ear to ear and I threw my hands up in the air. My hair bounced around my shoulders and I tried to stop acting like a dork. I dropped my hands to my lap and winked at him. “I might be happy about that.”

His cheeks turned pink again and I tried not to sigh. I reached behind me and picked up his phone before he could stop me. I quickly slid my finger across the screen and shook my head when there was no password protection. Didn’t he know to guard his identity? Oh, this boy needed so much help.

Good thing he had me now.

“What are you doing?” He sounded a little panicked, so I swatted away his hand.

“Just…” I turned around and hunched over his phone. I quickly punched my number in and pressed call.

My phone buzzed in my pocket not two seconds later and I held up his so he could see what I did. “Now we have each other’s numbers. Do you want me to add my name? Or do you think you can remember it?”

He huffed, “Well, I don’t think there’s any forgetting it.”

That made me laugh. I didn’t remember him being this funny before. Okay, I knew he wasn’t trying to be funny… but he was still cracking me up.

I hopped off the table and created another flurry of paperwork and writing utensils. “Don’t stand me up, Bridger Wright, or I’ll send Granddaddy after you on Potluck Sunday and we both know you don’t want that.” He paled a little, but I didn’t really feel the message was received until I warned, “Plus, if you don’t show up, I’ll be forced to call you nonstop until you do. And I’m pretty sure you underestimate how determined I can be.”

He got that blank look again, the one where his brain clearly struggled to accept me as his new reality. Probably, I should go now.

I walked by him, patting his shoulder as I went. “See you soon, Bridge.”

He didn’t say anything back but that was okay. I hadn’t exactly helped him through a breakthrough, but he had smiled at me. And I hadn’t seen him smile once in the few weeks he’d popped back into my life.

A smile was a victory.

A smile was hope.

And for some reason, when it came to Bridger, that hope meant more to me than anything else had in a very, very long time.

Karaoke was destined to be a disaster. That was a given. But maybe there would be another smile in it for me.

At the very least, there would be more Bridger.

The stupid smile that I couldn’t wipe off my face said it all. I could barely tolerate childhood Bridger. But
manly
-man Bridger was someone I was
very
excited to tolerate. Even if he was the grumpiest man alive.

Chapter Five

Bridger

My brother’s laugh was that of a badger on bath salts.

“She called me Bridge,” I huffed at West who was getting way too big of a kick out of my library visit. “It makes my name go from completely manly and utterly rugged to some old, worn out, forgotten method of transporting goods over a river. It’s the place that houses trolls for the love of Pete.”

“Shut up,” he chucked a chip in my direction. “Your name wasn’t all that manly in the first place. It sounds like someone who followed Lewis and Clarke on the expedition. Don’t get your testicles in a knot. Isn’t that a girl thing, making up cutesy names to demasculate us? Take it as a compliment.”

West always frat-housed things up.

This school’s first case of fratricide was about to go down.

He needed a dictionary.

“Demasculate? That’s not even a word, college boy. It’s emasculate. And shit if I know. Jesse didn’t really call me by loving names while she was screwing me over.”

“You mean screwing other people over.”

That’s it. I’m gonna beat his ass.

Casually strolling over towards him, pretending to reach for a chip, I grabbed the binder sitting behind him and proceeded to plunder him over the head with it.

“Ow! Okay. Bridger is so sexy and Jesse is a whore. Okay?” He made the statement with a Mariah Carey high pitched voice and a little flick of the wrist to match. My brother was a diva.

Not okay.

“She was just young. She made a mistake—a few of them. Don’t call women names—even if they’re not here.”

West sobered. He hated “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

Cocky little sap sucker.

Plopping down on my bed, the cheap, worn out springs of a dorm room bed protested the weight of me. She’d called me on ignoring her all the time. I hadn’t expected that. Truth was, I didn’t know what to expect. Her physical appearance was in stark opposition to what she looked like when she was younger—but that flame inside was just the same. I knew it as soon as she spoke. And when she hopped up on that table, planting her firm ass on my books like it belonged there.

It made me want to—well, it made me not want to continue studying anything but her.

Wild—that’s what her name should be.

I kicked one of my ten pound textbooks inch by inch until it fell from the edge of the bed onto the floor. I was quitting after this semester was over with, right? I studied my ass off all the time, never taking breaks for anything, but family events and church—because West made me go to church—because Cami made Stockton force West to make me go to church.

Cami ruled our roost now—which was completely fine by the rest of us.

“Don’t overthink it
Bridge
. Go over there, make fun of the people who can’t sing, buy the girl a beer. She’s just asking to catch up—she’s not asking for a ring or a cup full of your baby juice.”

There was something very wrong with Weston Wright. I think my mom dropped him in a pile of sheep shit when he was little. He always said the most inappropriate things at the most inopportune times. Like right now—while I was in arm’s length.

“Maybe I’ll come with you,” he shrugged. As if I would invite him. The boy had real issues.

“No you won’t. Hell, I’m not even going to go. A girl like that? I couldn’t even keep Jesse entertained. Anyway, you’d do something stupid.”

“No one can keep Jesse entertained, Bridger. That girl gets around more than the flu.”

I laid back on the bed and threw my arm over my eyes pretending to get some shut eye so West would shut up. Why karaoke? What was wrong with coffee? I knew the girl drank coffee. Every damned time I went to get coffee there she was taking up all the coffee and sugar and tables.

It’s not that small of a school.

Despite my efforts to pretend to be asleep, West cranked up his heavy metal. I had two choices. Either I could lay there and listen to all the killing and stabbing or I could go to the gym. I hadn’t gotten any studying done at the library. Every time I touched a book or a pencil, I was reminded that Tate’s ass had been on it. She completely made and ruined the library for me—forever.

Not to mention, that skirt.

Skirts like that would make her preacher grandfather mortified.

Sounded like excellent blackmail to me.

I jolted up, ignoring the headbanging of West, grabbed my bag and a pair of shoes, and headed to the student gym. Before Stockton came into all his money, I used the student gym because it was free for all full-time students. It was a perk. Now I used it to avoid all the pseudo-athletes and their never-been-washed, brand new workout gear. I never understood why grown men and women got dressed up to work out. Yes, the women looked good in their little outfits. But it was flat out weird when the men came in with shoes that looked like they’d never hit the pavement much less the gym.

It embarrassed me for them.

Scuff the bastards in the parking lot and throw some sand on them. Make it look like they’ve been used once.

A few blocks later, I walked into the sweat-smelling place and grabbed the first weight machine not being used. Lifting always made me think clearly. It took the edge off of the thinking part of me. I did that. I thought about things too much. I analyze and play things over and over in my head until I don’t know where to turn or what to do. Usually I just let Stockton tell me what to do.

I know, it’s horrible and immature. But Stockton always has his head on straight. And I can’t figure people out in general. I must’ve read into every single word Jesse uttered the second time we were together. I thought that if I paid more attention—if I showered her with affection that maybe she wouldn’t have a reason to cheat again. The only blame to be placed was on me. There was something I wasn’t doing—something I’d fallen short on.

It wasn’t going to happen again—that much I knew.

But if it was—Tate could really break me. There was something so carefree about her—I’d never be able to contain that or even be a part of that whirlwind. I had a feeling it was either be free with her or be left behind.

I couldn’t get over the change in Tate. My mind kept coming back to it over and over again. But even though most of the changes were drastic, some things remained the same. Her eyes were that same brilliant gray. They reminded me of smoke emerging from a chimney.

And where there was smoke, there was fire.

The creek was one place we went on a regular basis as children. When you lived in the country, the deep country like we did, life was what you made of it. We woke up with the sun, completed our chores, and then we were free. There were creeks to discover and frogs to catch. The creek was where I’d first seen her. She didn’t have a pink frilly suit like the rest of the girls so she just stood in the water, enjoying as much of the cool liquid as she could through her toes. I went home and told Mama about Tate and her lack of swimming attire.

My dear mom bought Tate a suit the next day at a thrift store and left it on the porch while we all were at school. She swore me to secrecy. That was one of many lessons I learned from her about the honor in helping people without telling everyone in town what you’d done.

The next time we were at the creek Tate was able to swim and from a distance, I was able to watch her bright smile and, for once, fitting in with the rest.

Tate had been the focus of all my childhood crushes. I’d beat her in races just to see her cheeks flame red in anger. I’d put salamanders in her grandma dress’ pockets just knowing that later on she would discover the slimy reptiles and scream. I wrote her a note once and then buried it in an old homemade wine bottle near her farm. To what end, I didn’t know.

I would’ve been the first to admit, I had no idea how to flirt with a girl like that. Hell, I had no clue how to flirt in general. But then Jesse happened.

I didn’t have to flirt with Jesse.

And in all those childhood crushes, Jesse hadn’t starred in any of them. I hadn’t planned on her. She barreled in, guns blazing, when I was a punk kid, ruled by my hormones instead of my brain. She wasn’t my first kiss, but she was my first date, my first make-out session.

My first heartbreak.

The first time I’d purposefully sought out alcohol as salve for my wound.

She was also the second of all those things.

But there would never ever be a third. I may have been naïve and under experienced then, but that was a long time ago.

I supposed one day I would have to put myself out there again.

But in my mind it would be with someone humble, loyal and maybe a bit overly pious.

Yes, pious girls didn’t go cheat on your with your best friend—twice.

Images of coppery curls invaded those thoughts.

I worked through three sets on each machine I could get on before deciding I’d had enough. The showers in the gym weren’t the best, but they were more private and cleaner than the ones in the dorm, so I made quick use of them and headed back to the dorms.

West was gone when I returned. Glancing at my watch, I cringed. It was almost seven. The decision whether or not to go knocked at my door.

Karaoke to me was akin to bending over in a worn pair of jeans and having them rip open in a packed room of silent people. It ripped, it was uncomfortable and it would make me feel all—exposed.

The real question was, was it worth it?

Was it worth all the discomfort and sheer embarrassment to get another taste of the new Tate?

There was another level to karaoke, other than the singing that I just couldn’t tolerate. It was on television. Willa and Cami loved those damned shows. All action, speech and breathing had to cease in the Wright household when those shows came on. There was just something about them that embarrassed me to no end.

I just couldn’t take it.

The same cringing sensation flowed through me when I saw someone sing in public whether they were talented or not made no difference—the whole thing was too much to handle.

I avoided concerts, solos at church, singing and dancing on television, and all music award shows—even signing on late night shows crawled up my last nerve.

But I would get to see Tate again.

A beer or fourteen would help me be able to tolerate the singing.

I could always sit in a chair with my back to the stage.

Shit.

Deciding that Tate was more interesting than avoiding my pet peeve, I changed into a pair of jeans and a V-necked, teal t-shirt that Cami had bought for me. The girl was quite a shopper. She still couldn’t cook for shit, but she could buy dinner like nobody’s business.

I slipped into my best pair of snakeskin cowboy boots hoping the cowboy vibe would draw away any notion she had about getting me to sing on stage.

Captain’s was a bar that all the students knew about. I’d heard tons of people talk about it now and again, but a regular bar was just fine for me.  I walked the couple of blocks to the place simmering with all things I hated. The front sign boasted a Captain Morgan type character with a much creepier moustache and looked more like one of the three musketeers with a zoot suit obsession than pirate. People my age filed in and out as I stood there, giving myself one last chance to step away from the disaster inside.

A high-pitched squeal mixed with laughter caught my attention across the road and instantly my decision was made as my eyes caught up with the sound.  It was Tate. There was no missing that untamed mass of hair, catching everyone’s attention like a mass of unorderly flames. She was with another girl, a little taller than her sporting long brown hair. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I missed that laugh of hers. If her hair didn’t already have the world on their toes, then her laugh alone would do it for sure.

There was nothing like it.

I couldn’t help my eye roaming to the rest of her. The skirt was another one that would easily warrant a slew of sermons on everything from humility to modesty to the sins of the eyes. My eyes were committing a laundry list of sins at that very second. I chuckled as my gaze found her shoes, expecting to find those high shoes that make the guys take bets on how fast she’s going to bust her ass wide open.

Instead, she wore purple cowboy boots.

Apparently that little detail wasn’t going to save me from anything.

Damn, she looked hot in a pair of boots.

I raised my phone and took several pictures of her. It was stalkerish, sure. But it would also make excellent blackmail material later. Preacher would just about shit his pants if he saw his prissy little granddaughter wearing a skirt fit for street business—and we weren’t talking about selling corn dogs either. If a good wind caught her, the Lord himself would shy away from that sight.

Preacher wife would fall out with an aneurism.

One time she sent Cami home, after she was married to Stockton, for showing too much leg in church.

Tate was showing enough leg for three women.

I didn’t mind one damned bit.

They waited for the traffic to slow, several cars honking as they passed, and then crossed together, holding hands and giggling the entire way. I found myself smiling again in her presence, something I wasn’t used to.