Headed for Trouble (The McKay Family #1) (9 page)

Brannon said softly, “You’re in trouble.”

Her heart lurched, then slammed hard against her ribs. In her lap, her hands twisted, then curled into fists. Licking her lips, she struggled to find words to explain. How had he figured out—

“I don’t know what’s going on, but you wouldn’t have come home like this unless you were in trouble,” he said after another moment, shaking his head. “I’d…”

He stopped, abruptly whipping the car into a parking slot, too sharp, too sudden, narrowly missing the curb. There, he shifted into park and just sat there, drumming a fist on the steering wheel. “Family is supposed to mean more than this … be better than this. I’d always hoped we could fix … whatever in the hell this is,” he said quietly. “I want to fix it. But that ain’t gonna happen unless you talk to us, Neve. Unless you decide you want us to be your family again.”

She closed her eyes, the pain stabbing at her heart. Then, because she had to keep it together, she opened the door. Before climbing out, she said softly, “I never wanted us to stop being a family, Brannon.”

She shut the door and started up the sidewalk.

The police station was just ahead.

She needed to talk to Gideon.

She also needed to make a call.

Pulling out her phone, she punched in a number. When a groggy voice answered, she said, “Hey … it’s me. I know I probably woke you up. But I’m here. I’m safe.”

CHAPTER FIVE

It had been a miserable night.

Ian had climbed out of his bed two hours before he needed to and had spent the first twenty minutes in the shower. It was his second cold shower in under eight hours and he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t need another one before the day was over.

When the cold rush of water didn’t do anything to help his situation, he’d taken his frustrations out with a hard run. It had been creeping up on ninety degrees by the time he was done, and this time when he’d crawled into the cool shower it had been because he’d thought he was going to die of bloody heatstroke.

It hadn’t happened.

Too fucking bad, because now he had to deal with a blithering idiot who likely couldn’t find his own prick without a torch and turn-by-turn directions.

“This isn’t my order,” he said again, putting the printout of his order down on the bar. Hands braced on the surface, he met the deliveryman’s eyes. He kept his voice low and tight, because yelling wouldn’t do him a bit of good—and it would do his growing headache quite a bit of harm. He eyed the kegs of rat piss some local brewery was trying to pass off as a craft beer and shook his head. “I’m not keeping that. Take it back and find out what happened to the rest of my order.”

The deliveryman scratched his head and leaned over, studied the invoice. He tapped the name of the craft beer that Ian
had
ordered. “We’re running low on this one, buddy. I’ll see what I can do, but…”

“You do that, mate.” Ian bared his teeth in a smile. “In the meantime, I’ll make some calls and see who else might be able to get that order filled. But don’t bring that shite into my pub again.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk to the manager?”

Ian crossed his arms over his chest. “I
am
the manager.”

“I thought it was that McKay dude.”

That McKay dude chose that minute to drop onto a bar stool a few feet down. Ian gave him a dark look.

Brannon raised his brows and looked over at the delivery guy before looking away. Then he did a double take, staring at the name of the rat piss—
correction,
beer. He shifted his gaze back to Ian and said slowly, “Tell me you didn’t order that.”

“I didn’t order that.”

“Scared me, man.” Then he came off the stool and ducked behind the bar, grabbing a glass and a bottle from the shelf. “What do you want with the McKay dude…” He looked at the name tag sewn onto the man’s shirt. “Sean?”

“There’s some confusion.” Sean frowned.

Ian rolled his eyes. “Aye, that’s some bloody confusion, alright,” he muttered.

Now Sean smiled. “Yeah. I just want to make sure we get it straightened out. Mr. McKay likes to support local businesses, I’m told.”

“I only support them when I like the product or I think I can sell it,” Brannon said. “Ian says he didn’t order that. I know I can’t sell it. Take it back.”

“Uh…”

Brannon splashed some scotch into a glass and returned the bottle back to the shelf before turning back to Sean. “You wanted to speak to the McKay dude. That’s me. Although all you really need to hear is what the manager said.” He jerked a thumb at Ian.

Ian smiled now. “Get that shite out of here and get the order straightened out.”

Once Sean was on his confused way, Ian looked at Brannon and studied his scotch. “Hitting the bottle already?”

“Fuck off.”

Ian raised his brow. Then he grabbed the order printout and made a mental note of the number. He’d straighten the mess out himself. Somehow, he suspected the rat-piss brewery had been behind the confusion. Another delivery came in and he dealt with that, and then shrieks from the kitchen caught his attention and he found one of the servers swaying and green. He swore and guided her over to a chair before trying to figure out the problem—her falling and taking a hit to her skull wasn’t going to help.

The problem was Ernesto, one of the employees who helped with the prep in the kitchen. He stood at the sink, trying to staunch the blood flow.

“Bad one,” Ian said, grabbing a hand towel and closing his hand around Ernesto’s wrist. He applied pressure there and covered the hand with a towel. “We need to get you to the hospital. You need stitches—”

“Mr. Campbell, sir, it’s no necessary,” Ernesto said, his English coming out halting. “
Yo no
—I don’t want to—”

“I don’t give a bloody fuck what you want. You’re gushing blood all over my kitchen. You—”

“Ian.”

At the sound of Brannon’s voice, he rolled his eyes.

Brannon moved in, grimacing at the sight of the blood that had already soaked through the towel. “Ernesto, your job won’t go anywhere, okay?” the other man said, keeping his voice low. “You got hurt at work—the pub will cover the bills and you’ll still have a job waiting for you.”

Ian shifted his gaze from Ernesto to Brannon, then back, watched as something that might have been fear slowly bled out of Ernesto’s eyes, replaced by relief. He didn’t say anything, though, just gave a nod.

“Okay,” Brannon said. “Let’s get as much pressure on this as we can, and then we’ll get you out of here.”

*   *   *

“Forty stitches.”

Ian put a bag in front of a harried-looking police officer and accepted the cash before looking at Brannon.

“Forty?”

Brannon grimaced. “Can’t believe the idiot was going to try to get by
not
going to the hospital. The one on his middle finger almost down to the bone.”

“Where the hell was his head?”

Brannon shrugged. “He told the doctor he got distracted, doesn’t remember by what. The knife slipped and … there ya go. He needs a few days because the hand will hurt like a bitch, but next week we can probably bring him in and have him help seat people or something. He’s pretty adamant about not taking more than a few days off.”

Ian shook his head. “Sometimes this country of yours…” He stopped and sighed. “The man would have stood there bleeding half to death before he went to the hospital, scared you’d fire him if he missed a few days.”

“
I
wouldn’t.” Brannon scraped his nails down his cheek, over the light stubble already darkening his face. “But it happens. People are assholes. Plenty of corporations are assholes.”

“Corporations aren’t people,” Ian pointed out.

Brannon flashed him a smile. “Well, some try to act like they are.” Then he shrugged. “But he’s got a job. He’ll have a job unless he does something stupid to
not
have one.”

“That’s because the McKay family wants to get nominated for sainthood,” Ian said soberly.

Brannon picked up a wadded straw wrapper and threw it at him. “Suck my dick.”

“I know you get lonely, Brannon, but you’ll have to find somebody else to help you with that.” Ian grinned at him and moved away to take a couple of drink orders. That turned into food orders, and he spent the next five minutes explaining the menu to a couple of college coeds.

As he was just repeating what was already on the menu, he suspected he was just doing it because they wanted to hear him talk. He was used to it. He had no desire to hear himself talk, but he’d always loved Yank accents himself, so while he didn’t find his own voice appealing, he understood why there was an appeal.

Another woman came in, a businesswoman he saw once or twice a month—she was a slick piece of work in her sharp little suits and her horn-rimmed glasses and a practiced, perfect smile. “Evening, Miss Collette. What can I get for you?”

She let her eyes wander over him, as she tended to do, and then she held out a hand for a menu. “I’ll see what catches my eye. I’ll take a glass of Chardonnay for now.”

He gave her a menu, got her the wine. As he put it down, she reached up and trailed a finger across his hand.

“How have you been, Ian?” she asked, her voice softer now, lower.

“Well enough. You?”

She stared into his eyes, a slow, familiar smile curling her lips upward. “Lonely. Thought maybe you were the same.”

There were times when he was just that, and times when both he and Collette had used each other to scratch that itch. Off and on throughout the day, he’d found himself thinking of the past night and a vicious hunger would grab him, by the throat and the balls. He could spend the night with Collette in his bed—or he could make the drive to her place nearly an hour away. Collette was a pharmaceutical rep, which was how she ended up in Treasure every few weeks. He knew for a fact a night with her would leave him tired and satisfied in the morning—at least on the physical level.

But instead of finding the idea appealing, it left a hollow ache in his chest and he found himself thinking of a slim, pretty redhead. Insanity. That’s what it was. How long had they talked? They hadn’t, not really.

Ian gave Collette an easy smile. “As I said, I’m well enough right now. Let me know when you’re ready to order, Collette.”

He moved down the bar back to Brannon and felt the intensity of her glare cutting into him with every step.

“The she-lion looks like she wants to rip your heart out,” Brannon said, a half-empty glass of sweet tea in front of him. He’d unearthed a set of blueprints from the bag he carried everywhere with him and Ian craned his head, tried to see if he could make heads or tails of it.

No.

He still couldn’t make sense of it.

Then he flicked a look at Brannon. “She doesn’t want my heart, never did.”

“She wants your dick.” Brannon shrugged. “Usually you don’t complain.”

Ian slid him a glance. “Who said I complained?”

“She only comes in here when she plans on spending the night or dragging you back to her lair. If you were taking her up on it, man, she wouldn’t look at you like she wanted to cut your dick off and feed it to you.”

Ian had little doubt of his words, even though he hadn’t spared Collette a second look.

He grimaced at the imagery and then braced his hands on the bar. “Is it my heart she wants or my dick?”

“She collects both.” Brannon grinned. “Or tries. I was one of her notches until you came along. You saved me from that look you’re now getting, I expect.”

Ian frowned. He hadn’t known that—wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that he’d been sleeping with the woman his best friend had been sleeping with. Brannon just looked amused. Shaking his head, Ian shrugged. “Well, she says she’s lonely. You’re welcome to see if she wants company.”

“Please. I escaped with my life. I’m not going down that road again.” Brannon looked up from his plans. “Her Chardonnay needs a refill.”

“You’re an arse.”

He braced himself for an unpleasant scene, but when he moved back to Collette, she was icily polite, placing an order for grilled tilapia with sautéed vegetables—
light
oil, please—and no rice. She ordered her second glass of Chardonnay and dismissed him.

Ouch
. Amused at the circumstances, he spent another twenty minutes working the bar, building Guinnesses for a small group of students from a nearby college town.

He made a mental bet with himself that at least one of them would spit it out, and not one of them would finish it.

“The redhead.”

“What?” he asked distractedly. He was already looking around—for a
particular
redhead. His hands started to itch. He wanted to smooth his hands down that slim back, grab the taut curve of her ass, and pull her up against him. Taste her—

“She’ll be the one to spit it out.” Brannon grinned at him.

The two of them had been friends too long.

“Reading my mind again, are you?” Ian asked, before glancing back at the clutch of college kids. The redhead was a small wisp of a girl, probably didn’t even stand five feet. She stared at the Guinness with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. Still, something about her made him think she was the stubborn sort. He looked at the rest of the group and his eyes lingered on the biggest, loudest of the lot. “No. It’s going to be him,” he said, nodding. “Bragging like a peacock. He’s going to toss it back like a shot of whiskey and nearly choke on it.”

“Ten bucks says you’re wrong.”

Ian almost said no. He’d never been one for throwing money away, but then he looked back at the braggart, gave him another study. “I’ll take that bet.”

He waited until after he’d passed a handful of napkins to the group before he collected his money. “If you’d watched them for more than a minute, you wouldn’t have thrown your money away, Bran.” He tucked the bill away, grinning at the way the kids laughed at their friend.

Brannon snorted. Abruptly he looked up. “Did Neve have a backpack with her?”

Just the sound of her name was enough to cause his brain to malfunction, the synapses misfiring while he conjured up images of her. No, more like hallucinations. Hallucinations realistic enough that he could feel her hands on him, taste her under his mouth.