Red-Hot Texas Nights (17 page)

“You were out all night with the man. That doesn't exactly put off a get-the-hell-away-from-me vibe.”

“I tried to bail out earlier, but he was so nice and sweet. He made dinner.”

“So you figured you would sleep with him one more time.”

“I was lost in the heat of the moment, but then he woke me up with pancakes and I realized my mistake. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I pretended to have a reaction to a chocolate-covered strawberry and made him bring me home.”

“I'm surprised he didn't take you straight to the hospital.”

“He suggested it, but I swore I had my EpiPen at home and since the house was closer, he went with it.”

“He just left you in the midst of a fake reaction?”

“Actually he's parked out front, watching through a pair of binoculars, which is why I'm standing in front of the window, jabbing my leg with a Pixy Stix. That should give the right silhouette against the shade, don't you think?”

“That or you could try one of those beef treats that you give Jez. It's got the right shape.”

“You're right. Let me grab one—”

“Jenna, I'm just joking. The Pixy Stix is fine. Just finish up, wave to him from the window, and turn off the light.”

“You think that'll get him to leave?”

“No, I think a direct ‘I'm not as into you as you are me and I think we should call it quits' would get him to leave, but since I know you aren't going to say that, just stick with the allergic reaction for now.”

“I
will
tell him. It's just that he's so excited when we're together and I do like him. Just not
that
much.”

They talked for a few more seconds before Brandy managed to hang up. She hit the light on the nightstand and a warm yellow glow pushed back the shadows. Outside, dawn was just creeping past the shades, indicating that morning was soon to follow.

Morning.

The realization rushed through her, reminding her that she'd not only slept with Tyler, but she'd
slept
with him.

There'd been no creeping out before dawn. No
Thanks, but gotta go.
Or
I really appreciate it, but have a nice life.
No, she'd snuggled right up next to him and closed her eyes and now the sun was about to rise and she was past due at the bakery.

At least one of them had kept things in proper perspective.

Her gaze Ping-Ponged around the room, looking for boots or clothes or
something
before stalling on the open bathroom door. She strained her ears for some sound, but there was no water running. No footsteps. Just the distant sound of the animals below.

She ignored the disappointment that niggled at her, pushed the blankets to the side, and scrambled from the bed. She grabbed her undies, which lay on the floor a few feet away.

She spent the next five minutes plucking her clothes up off the floor and damning herself for forgetting the all-important fact that she'd agreed to sex only. Fast and furious, and then a quick
Bye, bye
. She'd had every intention of being the first one to hit the road after the deed had been done, the first one to pick up and walk out.

Like always.

She certainly hadn't meant to close her eyes. To get too comfortable. To forget for even a split second that Tyler was not the morning-after type and, even more, that neither was she.

Luckily that all-important fact hadn't slipped
his
mind.

She spared a quick glance around the room. A black duffel bag sat in the far corner, but otherwise there was nothing there. No clothes hanging in the closet. No personal items spilled out across the dresser.

Because this place was just temporary for Tyler. He was leaving soon and so there was no need to get comfortable.

And the problem is?

No problem. Sure, she preferred being the one out the door first, but at least he'd had the good sense not to linger and make things that much more awkward.

Anxiety pushed her that much faster, and she pulled on her clothes at the speed of light. She was getting out of here now, and she wasn't going to think that maybe, just maybe, it might have been nice if he'd at least waited for her to wake up. Grabbing her phone, she called the only cab company in Rebel and arranged for a ride to her car.

Slipping out of the small apartment, she rushed down the stairs that ran outside the building. While she could hear the occasional
Hell, yeah!
that echoed from inside the arena and the stomp of hooves, the outside parking lot was all but empty with the exception of the few trucks parked here and there.

The cab pulled up a few minutes later and she climbed inside. She headed back to the bakery for the spare change of clothes she kept in the storage room for emergency spills and the ever-popular red velvet volcano that always erupted when she was forced to use her ancient mixer for backup when her one and only commercial model was occupied.

Not that she'd been that busy since the doughnut shop had opened up. Her sales were down, her orders smaller and less frequent.

For now.

But once she snagged herself more equipment and handed out samples at the upcoming Travis County Bridal Fair being held next month, she was sure to pick up more cake orders.

But neither was going to be possible if she didn't sell her moonshine recipe. And in order to sell it, she needed to run this latest mash and make sure she was on to something.

And that meant she needed to talk to Ryder Jax.

When she reached the bakery, she let herself in the back door, thankful that she was the first one there.

She was always first.

Except this time she was late, too.

Two hours to be exact. Ellie would be walking in the door in less than half an hour and Brandy had yet to do any of her usual prep work.

She changed her clothes and stopped at the fridge to grab a bottled water. Her gaze snagged on an Orange Crush and she could practically taste the sugary sweetness on her tongue. She'd always loved the stuff. To the point that she'd perfected an Orange Crush cupcake topped with whipped orange marshmallow creme.

But while she used the stuff in her baking, she couldn't actually pinpoint when she'd last chugged one down. Since her occupation required a lot of on-the-job tasting, she'd sworn off sugary drinks on her own time and tried to eat a fairly healthy diet when she wasn't in the bakery.

She never just enjoyed herself for the sake of it.

She'd never wanted to. Her work had always been enough to satisfy her sweet tooth. To keep her busy. To fill the emptiness.

Until now.

She popped the top and took a long draw on the icy soda. Unfortunately, it did little to ease the thirst that clawed at her. The need.

Because as great as last night had been, it hadn't been enough. Brandy Tucker wanted more, and damned if that realization didn't bother her even more than the fact that she'd violated her precious schedule and was late getting her coffee cakes in the oven that morning.

Late
.

The truth followed her for the next few minutes as she frantically tried to catch up, her own conscience telling her what a fool she'd been. She'd wasted an entire night—

The truth stalled as she walked into the small room that sat behind the oven. Her gaze snagged on the lifeless blanket that sat on the floor. The one she'd wrapped around the five-gallon bucket that held her precious mash to keep it warm and buzzing.

Except the blanket was lifeless now.

She glanced around, anxiety ripping up and down her spine. Her heart stopped. An invisible hand hit her chest like a whopping punch and the oxygen stalled.

Yep, the blanket was lifeless, but even worse, the mash was gone.

 

CHAPTER 22

Kenny Roy might deny having anything to do with the missing mash—which he'd done repeatedly when she'd questioned him not a half hour ago—but Brandy wasn't buying it. He might not be the one responsible, but he knew something and Brandy meant to find out exactly what it was.

She eyed the rusted-out silver pickup truck parked in front of the crumbling bar that sat just off the interstate. A few motorcycles leaned near the entrance. A couple of pickup trucks sat off to the side. A few more beaten-up cars sat here and there, along with Kenny Roy's black Ford Explorer. Smoke drifted from the open doorway, along with an old George Jones song. The Possum had been one of her grandpa's favorites. Not
the
favorite, mind you, but close, and so she'd heard every song a thousand times over. The familiar lyrics echoed in her head and the beat thrummed down her spine as she climbed out of Bertha and headed for the entrance. The clack of pool balls, followed by the
crackkkk
as a bottle hit the floor, brought her up short and she stalled.

Her nerves trembled for a few seconds before she swallowed against the fear and drop-kicked the notion that she should have told someone where she was going. Tyler maybe.

But he would have wanted to come and she wasn't ready to face him just yet. Last night had thrown her for a loop. Add the missing mash on top of that, and she didn't trust herself to talk to him without totally freaking out.

She was a nervous wreck and her only hope was to recover the mash. Since Kenny Roy was the only one who knew about the mash besides Ellie—who had been totally oblivious when Brandy had questioned her earlier—Brandy was placing her bets that he'd either had something to do with it or mentioned it to his connection, who'd decided to cut her out of the loop completely.

Not happening.

She eyed the bar again. Still, she wasn't about to get herself killed. She debated heading back to her car to send a quick text. But reception way out here was poor at best and she didn't want to waste any time worrying over a signal. Kenny Roy could be in and out in a moment and she would lose her chance to see him in his element.

No, she might not get another opportunity like this.

She drew a deep breath and walked inside the neon-lit interior.

The place was just a shell of an old tin building with a concrete floor littered with cigarette butts and scuff marks. A bar lined the far wall, the backdrop lit with a string of old Christmas lights. Similar lights crisscrossed the ceiling, helping out the bare bulbs that flickered here and there. A jukebox lit up one corner. An old cigarette machine from years gone by sat next to it, the display still advertising smokes for twenty-five cents.

“If you're wanting to light up, you'll have to fork over twenty times that much, sugar.”

Brandy turned to see the young woman carrying a small tray, a black apron tied around her waist.

“The machine still works,” the woman went on, “but Bubba, there”—she pointed to the hefty man tending bar behind the counter—“has it rigged to take tokens. You can buy a token for five bucks over at the bar.”

“I don't smoke.”

“Neither do I, sugar. At least not until quitting time. Then it's the only thing that helps calm my nerves after dealing with the jerks in here. Nothing like a good drag every now and then.”

“That ain't no way to talk about your favorite customer, Meg.” A man glanced up from a nearby table. He wore biker boots, a black leather vest, and a
Duck Dynasty
beard. Gray streaks hinted that he wasn't anywhere close in age to the young woman serving his beer, but that didn't stop him from going for a quick pinch on her butt cheek as she leaned in.

“You're right, Cecil. Calling you a jerk is putting it mildly.” She swatted his hand away and slammed the beer down on the table in front of him. “You're more like a dirty old man.”

Suds flew and he chuckled. “A dirty old man who knows how to tip.”

“That's the only reason you're not wearing that bottle as a hat, sugar.” Meg winked and turned back to Brandy. “What can I get you, girlfriend?”

“Diet Coke,” Brandy said, sliding onto a nearby bar stool and glancing around, her gaze scanning the interior for Kenny.

She spotted him in a matter of seconds standing near the pool table. Her gaze went to the now familiar man who leaned over the table to line up his next shot. He wore a pair of worn jeans and a black button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair was long, framing his face and falling a few inches below his chin. Stubble shadowed his jaw, lending him an air of danger that said Ryder Jax was a force to be reckoned with.

The man playing opposite him was no different. He was a few inches taller, his shoulders a bit thicker. He had dark hair as well, only his was longer, brushing the tops of his shoulders. He wore a button-down white shirt, the tails hanging free. His jeans were worn in all the right places, his boots scuffed as if he'd put in the same hard day's work as every other man in the bar.

But he was different. There was something commanding about him. Tough.

The ball flew into a nearby pocket and the man turned to face the two-bit dealer. Kenny pulled out a wad of cash, followed by a hasty spiel that looked more like pleading. As if he'd come up short somehow and he feared telling the man.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous didn't react. No displeasure. No anger. No nothing. He just stared at Kenny for a long moment before taking the cash and sliding it into his pocket. He turned away then, leaving the man still talking, and went back to his pool game with Ryder.

Kenny's mouth snapped shut as he watched the next shot. He started to talk again, but Ryder waved a stick at him and that was that. Kenny headed for the door.

Brandy turned back to her drink before Kenny caught sight of her and counted to fifty to give him time to leave before she turned around again, her attention going to the pool game in the corner and the man lining up his eight-ball to Ryder's dismay.

Downing a long sip of the icy drink, she slid off the bar stool and crossed the room.