Back to You: Bad Boys of Red Hook (4 page)

Storm locked the apartment with the key he’d kept all these years and followed them to the street.

Nicki, full of energy, skipped along chattering as Bree walked with a graceful kind of determination. She held her back straight, something he didn’t remember her doing
before. When he’d known her, Bree had always seemed to make herself look smaller. She was taller than he remembered, probably five feet nine, most of which was leg. She had been skinny as a kid. He remembered how shocked he’d been at age eighteen to find out what kind of body she had hidden beneath the oversized clothes she always wore.

“Do you think Pop’s coming home today?” Nicki asked as she stepped on and off the curb, turning in circles as if doing an intricate dance beside a little blue Ford Fiesta.

“I know he wants to, but it’s not up to him. It’s up to his doctors. We’ll find out when we get there.”

“Do you think Pop’s using the heart pillow we made him?”

Bree clicked the remote to unlock the car. “He’d better be if he wants to come home.”

Storm folded himself—knees to nostrils—into the car and pushed the seat back as far as possible. It wasn’t far enough—he’d have to remove the front seat and sit in back to do that. “Why does he need to use a heart pillow?”

Nicki stopped the dance midstep and climbed in, pushing her skinny body between the front seats. “Duh, I thought you came from New Zealand, not New Dorkland.”

“Nicki.” Bree closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “You don’t say duh to adults.”

“Sorry.”

Storm looked out the window to hide his smile. The kid was anything but.

Bree gave him an apologetic shrug. “After open-heart surgery, patients need to cough, and it doesn’t hurt as much if they hug a pillow to their chests. We made Pete a big, fuzzy, heart-shaped pillow to use.”

Storm swallowed a boulder-sized lump in his throat. The whole idea of Pop being sick was surreal. Pop never got sick. Even when Storm and his brothers were down with the flu from hell and he was surrounded by three puking kids, Pop didn’t catch it.

“So, do you think he uses it?” Nicki bounced in the backseat as Bree started the car.

Bree looked in her rearview mirror. “If you want to find out, you’d better buckle your seat belt. You know the rules.”

There wasn’t enough room to shift his shoulders, so he opened the car door to reach his seat belt. “You might need a can opener to get me out of this car.”

Bree snorted. “I’ve got WD-40 and a crowbar in the trunk. No worries.” She waited for the telltale click from Nicki before she put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. Every time she shifted, her fist slid against his thigh. He was going to need a moment before she pried him out of his seat.

The day was a little overcast; it would be muggy as hell in an hour. In summer, it was so humid, residents developed iron lungs. Everyone else needed scuba gear. There was nothing worse than Red Hook in the summer. Hell, in his estimation, there was nothing worse than Red Hook any time of the year. What Pop ever saw in this place was a mystery.

Storm sat back and watched Red Hook fly by. The abandoned buildings he and his brothers had avoided as they walked home from school were all he saw. Bree drove by the empty lot where they had played baseball until they’d found it surrounded by crime-scene tape and a few of New York’s finest outlining the body of a murder victim on top of the hubcap that was second base. It
was one of the hookers who’d routinely worked Van Brunt Street.

He shook his head as the memories followed him past every street corner, toward the Red Hook Houses—the projects on the bad side of town where he’d spent his first twelve years. His grip on the sissy bar tightened until his knuckles turned white as he tried to clear away the memories. He’d survived his life in the projects before Pete, the badass ex-cop, had opened his home and his heart to three ragtag kids who’d never met before they were rescued.

Bree sped past the first place he’d ever gotten arrested. His graffiti art had long ago been covered over by some other kid with a spray can and a colorful vocabulary. “This place hasn’t changed much.”

Bree’s smile was strained. “It’s changed a lot. I’ve been on the Revitalization Committee for five years working on Red Hook’s regeneration. The committee’s been meeting for more than a decade, and the results are really beginning to show. They demolished the old sugar factory; Ikea opened and brought a lot of jobs and shoppers who take advantage of the free ferry from Manhattan; and the Fairway Market opened at the end of Van Brunt by Pier Thirty-nine. It’s been wonderful for the community.”

They passed a teen wearing pants so big he had to take giant steps to keep them from ending up below his knees. An unbuttoned black shirt hung from his skinny frame over a wife beater. The kid looked too much like Storm had when he’d been a trouble magnet. “It takes a lot more than a few coats of paint, a couple of shops, and a shiny new condo here and there to change a community.”

Bree looked in the rearview mirror at Nicki and then back at him as if planning his demise. Well, shit, what the hell did she expect? It had been years since he’d had to face his past—something he never wanted to do. Now they were headed straight to the one place on earth he’d sworn he’d never return to. He was sure she was doing this to get back at him for their one-night fiasco. If she was, she couldn’t have picked a better way to unman him.

 * * *

Bree walked into the hospital, signed for guest badges for her and Nicki, and slid the clipboard toward Storm.

She didn’t know what his problem was, but throughout the drive, Storm had looked like he was reliving a nightmare. His breathing had grown choppy, and even with the air-conditioning turned down to arctic, he’d been sweating.

She still fumed over his comment about it taking a lot more than a few coats of paint and a couple new condos to change a community.

As if she didn’t know that. She’d dealt with a lot of naysayers over the years and bested most of them. The only way to win a point when people threw out thoughtless, unsubstantiated comments was to inundate them with facts—show proof positive of the results of the plan. But not this time. No, she’d just shut her mouth, not willing to get into it with Nicki sitting in the backseat.

Nicki took Bree’s hand and pulled her toward the elevator, hitting the
UP
button as she bounced on the balls of her feet. Bree kept her eyes locked on the elevator doors. If she didn’t look at Storm, maybe he’d go away—again.

The
UP
arrow blinked, and a bell dinged. Nicki pulled
Bree in, pushing the number of Pete’s floor. Storm stepped in beside Bree, and she moved away.

He leaned toward her, invading her personal space. “Do I make you nervous, Breezy?” he whispered. His breath was warm against her ear.

She stayed still, refusing to step back, refusing to show any reaction. “No. Is that what you’re going for?” The scent of the sea, laundry detergent, Irish Spring soap, and something she couldn’t put her finger on surrounded him. She remembered it, both from last night and that night so long ago.

The elevator dinged again and the doors slid open; before Storm answered the question, Nicki and Bree stepped out. He glanced up and down the hallway. “Hey, Nicki.” Taking his billfold from his pocket he asked, “Why don’t you run down the hall and grab us three waters out of the vending machine? I don’t know about you, but all that lox made me thirsty.” He handed Nicki a few bills, took Bree’s elbow, and pulled her away from the elevator, crowding her against the wall. “Now, Breezy, why don’t you tell me what’s got you so pissed off?”

“Nothing special, just you.” It was something she was sure he didn’t hear often, especially from women. His brows drew together, and she had the urge to smooth them with her fingers. “You’ve been here less than twelve hours, and you think your mere presence will make everything okay.”

“Give me a break, Breezy. I never said that.”

“Don’t call me Breezy. I don’t like it. My name is Breanna, or Bree.”

“You didn’t mind when I called you Breezy before.”

 * * *

Storm watched Bree’s cheeks flame.

“That’s ancient history.”

“Obviously not, since you’re still thinking about it.”

Her bright green eyes glittered with anger and darkened with what looked like arousal. “Don’t even go there.”

Her eyes alone proved his point. Shit, he’d been going there for the last eleven years. It was nice to know he hadn’t been going there alone.

“Here you go, Storm.” Nicki ran up and handed him a water, which had the same effect as shooting him with a fire hose.

“Thanks.” He cracked the cap and did his best to put out the flames.

Nicki danced around Breezy, who was having a difficult time opening hers.

Storm took the bottle from her, and unscrewed the top.

She mumbled her thanks and snatched it away as if she were afraid to touch him.

Nicki didn’t seem to notice Bree’s shaking hands, her flushed face, the awkward silence. She galloped down the hall, her oversized sneakers slapping against the linoleum floor, before rounding the corner and racing out of view. Bree hurried after her.

Storm hated hospitals. His pace slowed as memories resurfaced of the times that, thanks to his father’s beatings, he and his mom had ended up a few floors below in the emergency room. The very memories he’d run from and never wanted to revisit were popping up faster than stars in the night sky in the middle of the South Pacific. Yet here he was, back in Red Hook with no escape.

He turned the corner just in time to see Bree stroll into a room. Nicki’s delighted squeal was met by a deeper, quieter tone—Pop.

Storm pasted a smile on his face and walked through the doorway, taking in the picture of Nicki, holding an obnoxious, red, fur-covered pillow, and climbing onto Pop’s bed. But the man he’d expected to see wasn’t there. Sure, it looked a little like Pop, but the man who had saved Storm wasn’t the same man folding Nicki into his bony arms. Swallowing back the breakfast threatening to make an unwelcome appearance, Storm gulped for air, stepped back feeling as if he’d been gut shot, and plowed blindly through the door.

He leaned hard against the wall. It felt cold against his clammy skin. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and locked his knees, trying to stay on his feet, trying to breathe, trying to come to terms with his new reality. “Fuck.”

Bree followed him out and quietly closed the door. “I tried to warn you.”

He took a sip of water, washing away the bitter taste of bile. “God, what happened to him?”

Bree rounded on him as if ready to bare fangs and strike. “Years of working too hard, a major heart attack, and a quadruple bypass.”

“I…Pop’s never been sick a day in his life.” If he kept repeating it, maybe it would be true.

She gave him a shove. If his back hadn’t already been against the wall, it would be now. “Pete’s been slowing down for the last year and a half.”

He grasped her wrist. Her pulse raced beneath his fingers. “No one told me.”

“You never asked.” She pulled away and gestured wildly. “You’ve been too busy gallivanting around the other side of the world to notice. So pull yourself together.” She pointed down the hall. “There’s a restroom down there. Go splash water on your face or something, and don’t come back until you’ve gotten a grip. I won’t let you upset Pete. And don’t you dare say anything about leaving either. Not until I can figure out what I’m going to do.” She turned her back to him, and the realization of what she’d been faced with hit him like a boom coming about in a typhoon.

He cleared his throat. “Breezy…I mean Bree.”

She spun around as if expecting a fight. “What?”

He reached out and took her hand, gave her a tug, and she tumbled against him. He pulled her close, not wanting to see the warning he knew was on her face. “I’m sorry.”

She relaxed in his arms, as if she needed a hug just as badly as he did.

“Do you need a minute, or are you good?”

A smile threatened, but he tamped it down. He was real good, or so he’d been told, but that wasn’t what she was asking about. She was asking if he could walk into that room, see a shadow of the man he considered a father, and not lose it or make a complete fool of himself. He nodded, his chin rubbing the top of her head.

She leaned back, watching him, thigh-to-thigh, pelvis-to-pelvis, his hand holding hers, his arm looped around her waist. When she really looked at him, her face held a mixture of pity, concern, and awareness that caused a pretty blush to cover her cheeks.

“I’m okay now. I just wasn’t expecting—”

She patted his chest with her free hand. “I know. Pete
will get through this. We all will.” Bree looked over her shoulder at the door. “I can’t leave Nicki in there alone with him much longer. She’s probably already told him you’re here. We’d better go in.”

Storm pulled her close and held on for just a second longer, thankful she let him. He took a deep breath; the scent of citrus and spice, the scent of Breezy, replaced the antiseptic odor of hospital, and he wished he didn’t have to let her go. He’d sailed through gales, survived more than one close shave during a yacht race, but he’d never been more scared.

He released her and held her gaze.

Bree looked as if she were deciding whether to allow him in. “Okay.” She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’ll get used to it.”

He doubted he’d ever get used to seeing Pop looking weak and sick. He nodded and didn’t let go of her hand until she pushed open the door.

Pete raised the head of the bed to sit as he listened to Nicki chatter on about whatever ten-year-old girls chattered about: her favorite show on Disney, the joke that led to her belly laugh, the meaning of which got lost in translation, though he followed it with a chuckle, if for nothing more than the pleasure of hearing her laughter.

He was tired—more tired than he could ever remember. His eyes felt heavy as the comforting warmth of Nicki’s body seeped into his side.

“And then Bree was like Wonder Woman and hit him on the head with her frying pan of truth. He was knocked out, lying on the floor. All that was missing were those cartoon birds flying around his head, tweeting.”