Bad Boys of Red Hook [2] You're the One (30 page)

Skye’s head pounded harder. “There’s nothing I can do but wait and see. It’s not a fun position to be in, believe me. I feel as though I can’t control a damn thing.”

Patrice’s eyes widened and she tugged on Skye’s hand to get her attention. “That’s not true. Have you called him today?”

“No.” She’d wanted to. She must have reached for her phone a hundred times, but didn’t. “This is something Logan needs to deal with on his own. I don’t want to sound like I’m desperate.” God, and she felt desperate and scared, and, well, a little bit lost.

Patrice shook her head, her hair swinging back and forth like she was auditioning to be the new Breck Girl. “Logan needs you. He needs to know you’re there for him.”

Rocki nodded while taking a drink of her wine—it was a miracle she didn’t spill it.

“I’m here for him. Logan knows that.”

“He might know it here”—Rocki pointed to her head—“but he doesn’t trust it, not in his heart, where it counts, Skye.” Rocki blew out a breath, as if she was trying to collect herself. As if she were fighting her demons and Logan’s single-handedly. “You don’t understand what Pete’s boys
are like. They don’t fall in love easily—Logan especially. He’s lost everyone he’s ever loved except Pete and his brothers. He’s still that traumatized three-year-old inside—total abandonment affects a person for the rest of his life. Even big, strong, gorgeous guys like him. When they open themselves up to loving someone, it scares the crap out of them. Logan might logically know you’re here waiting for him, but the traumatized boy inside needs to hear it and hear it often.”

Patrice sat back and crossed her arms. “You see, Skye, this is why I put up with Rocki. She knows her shit and I can’t agree with her more. I’ve always known that he and the boys didn’t grow up with the support system some of us had. I’m going to let you in on a little secret—you are both sworn to secrecy. Okay?”

Skye and Rocki nodded.

“When we were kids, I had a bit of a crush on Logan. I was really shy back then—I know, it’s amazing but true—and I never said anything, but believe you me, I watched him. I spent more time studying that boy than anyone. Wanna know what I learned about Logan?” She paused dramatically for effect and raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Logan was always there for his brothers—he was always the one everyone turned to. He was the voice of reason and got Slater and Storm out of more scrapes than you could imagine. But he never once turned to anyone—it was as if he didn’t trust anyone to be there for him—not even Pete. It was one thing for him to love and care for his brothers and Pete, but he never seemed to believe anyone had his back. It was as if he was never willing to test it—he never asked for a damn thing, so he wouldn’t be disappointed. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never once asked anyone for help, advice, anything.
He still doesn’t. He’s never really needed anyone. No one but you. Skye, he’s trusting you—you can’t let him down now.”

“I’m not letting him down. I’m just not going to call him every five minutes like a desperate, jealous, crazy woman.”

She looked from Rocki to Patrice and took a sip of her drink.

Wendy saved her from having to say anything more when she delivered their food. She set down a basket of wings and a plate of cheesy nachos. “Ladies, this is supposed to be a happy get-together. You look like you’ve stopped in on your way to a funeral.” She didn’t wait for a response, which was good, because Skye didn’t trust herself not to fly off the handle.

Patrice grabbed a chip and shoved it into the pile of guacamole. “She’s right, you know. You do look as if something or someone just died.”

“I don’t know. I just have a really bad feeling about this whole thing. And unfortunately, my feelings are almost always right.”

Rocki ripped a piece of meat off a chicken wing and covered her mouth with her napkin. “So, tell Logan.”

“I did. I sounded pathetic, but I told him and he still left.”

Patrice smiled at Rocki. “It sounds as if Logan isn’t the only one with abandonment issues.”

“I don’t have issues.”

“Girlfriend, you’re a woman; you have more issues than
Good Housekeeping
. It’s just our makeup. We can’t help it. You’ll feel better once you call him. Now go on, run back to your office, or hell, go home if you need to, and call the man. You’re not going to get any more work done until you do.”

Skye felt herself smile—the first real smile since Logan left. Who knew all it would take was a get-out-of-girl-jail-free card. “Okay, I will. Thanks for coming over to try to cheer me up.”

Rocki gave her another hug. “Not that it worked, but hey, we had to try.”

“And I appreciate it.”

Patrice got out of the booth and wrapped her arms around her. “You’ll call us and tell us how it goes, won’t you?”

“Yes. But don’t worry. I’m probably just overreacting.” She stepped out of Patrice’s grasp and hightailed it out of the bar. She didn’t even bother grabbing her coat, and headed home for a few minutes.

Logan had a sleepless night in a strange bed. The few times he did drift off, he’d woken up reaching for Skye. He stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee and staring at the only thing in the room that helped his state of mind—the picture Nicki had drawn for him. Even with that, it took him three cups before his brain began functioning.

Pushing himself away from the counter, he took his coffee and walked around the house looking for stuff to pack. Except for a few things in his office and his bedroom, he didn’t see much he wanted. “Less to move.”

“Did you say something?”

Shit. He spun around and found Payton eyeing him like a ripe peach on a hot summer day. He didn’t think she’d be up this early. “Just talking to myself.”

Payton still wore her ridiculous negligee—it lost something in the light of day, or maybe it was the expression on her face. The one she couldn’t quite replace with her model smile. The one that cracked a little at the edges. The one with a slight worry line between her brows that no amount of Botox could erase. She tried to
hide her tension, but it showed in her straight back and the way she bit her lower lip.

He needed to get the hell out of there. “What do you want, Payton?”

“I want you.” She moved toward him, rolling her hips, flashing thighs, allowing the robe to slip off her shoulder. Man, she was working it. “I know I’ve been…”

A bitch? He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying it.

“I was shocked, but I’ve reconsidered, and I’m ready to compromise.” The honeyed tone of her voice scratched his consciousness like the pen of a lie detector against cheap paper with too many highs and lows.

“What you said goes well beyond shocked. You expected me to abandon my daughter.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her face got that look, the one that would have every man reaching for a hankie—he’d seen it before. It was like clouds before the storm of tears. He really, really hated tears—at least the fake ones. One, two, three. Right on cue. Her face shattered like a windshield on the wrong side of a driving range.

“Not interested.” He picked up a box of tissues and passed it to her before continuing to pack. “I have a meeting with your father, and I want to finish packing my things beforehand. It won’t take long.”

He knew that when Payton didn’t get what she wanted, she behaved like a brat. It was a bad sign that she followed him. He was too tired to deal with her, but knew the relationship wouldn’t be truly over until it got ugly.

“While I finish in here, why don’t you shower?” With
any luck, he’d be out of the house before she spent her allotted hour and a half putting herself together.

She crossed her arms and spread her legs as if she was preparing for a fight. If she was going for intimidating, she missed the mark by a long New York block. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. He looked at his dive watch. “I guess if you want to spend the day in that getup, it’s your choice, but I have someone coming over to pick up my car and sign paperwork.”

Her face morphed from pissed to surprised. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m selling the Jag. I need something more practical. Maybe I’ll get an SUV.” The thought of piling Skye, Nicki, and the dogs into a big rig and taking a road trip brought a smile to his face. The classic two-seater had to go. Besides it was worth upwards of a hundred grand—a good chunk to add to the down payment for the warehouse he wanted.

“You? Practical?”

“I’m a family man now. I don’t need a ’fifty-six Jag Roadster where I’m going. I need something big enough for Nicki and D.O.G. Besides, the Jag wouldn’t last a day in Red Hook.” Red Hook was a lot safer than it used to be, but he wasn’t stupid—usually. Lately he’d wondered about his IQ—especially when it came to Payton.

“There’s no need to do that.”

“If you want to buy it, it’ll cost you a hundred and ten grand. I’ll need a check before I leave. If not, I’m going to sell it to the dealer. He has a few people interested.” He grabbed a couple of boxes from the garage and tossed one on the floor of his office—he’d been hoping to lose her. He’d never been that lucky. He packed up his desktop computer, the awards he’d won for his wine, his
framed diploma from Stanford, and all his tax and banking records—those he’d definitely need.

Payton stood just inside the door clutching the tissue box he’d given her and sniffling. “You’re really going to leave? What about your job? Your life here? Me?”

“What about it? Think about our time together, Payton. Were you happy? Did I make you happy?”

“We were good together.”

“I’ll take that as a no. We didn’t make each other happy; we just didn’t make each other miserable—until lately. Marriage would have been a mistake. I think we’ve both wasted enough time trying to make something unworkable work. We were roommates with benefits. Nothing more. I want more. Hell, I even want more for you. I’m just as much at fault for perpetuating this relationship. I thought this was all I was capable of. I was wrong. Wrong about a lot of things. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of us, and it wouldn’t have lasted.”

Payton’s shoulders fell, and she pulled the see-through robe around her—as if trying to hide behind a clear window. It didn’t work; spidering cracks appeared and grew, marring her usually flawless veneer.

He looked away, not interested in watching her dissolve. She’d shake it off eventually, plaster herself back together, and move on. Instead, he searched his office for anything else that was his. Everything left—most of the contents—was just things. Things Payton had put on the shelves. Things he didn’t even like. Things that reminded him of living a lie. Even the books were ones he’d never read. He was into horror, legal thrillers, and suspense, not highbrow literary fiction. He wondered if Payton read—but not enough to ask her—which he supposed was a sad commentary on their relationship. Sure, they
lived together, they had shared a bed, but that was about all they’d ever shared. He’d wasted years with the woman, and would have wasted a lifetime if he hadn’t run into Skye.

He pictured Skye curled up with a dog-eared romance and warmth filled him, making him aware of the coldness of his surroundings. When Skye wasn’t talking to herself or driving him crazy, she had her nose buried either in a romance or in her chef’s bible. He doubted she’d ever fill his office with books neither of them would read just to impress someone with her literary taste. No, she’d have piles of romances lying all over the house.

He taped the boxes he’d filled and set them by the front door before heading to the bedroom—Payton followed him like a hacking cough after a bad cold.

He tossed a box on the unmade bed and opened his top dresser drawer. A collection of watches on black velvet sparkled in the morning light. He wore a nice dive watch he’d bought himself. He’d never worn the others unless Payton insisted. He didn’t like them. They were too flashy, too expensive, too ostentatious. None of the watches looked like something a guy like him would wear. One would think Payton would know that. Hell, maybe she did and just didn’t give a shit.

He was just about to close the drawer when something dull and black caught his eye. “What’s this?” He slid his hand into the back and touched the worn leather of his old biker wallet—still sporting its heavy chain. Memories long relegated to his mental lockbox containing the past leaked out and slid over him like the first gulp of morning coffee—hot, strong, and satisfying. “Damn, I’d forgotten I saved this.”

He looked up and found Payton’s face screwed up
into a disgusted twist. Obviously she’d never been told not to make horrible faces for fear they’d stay that way.

“My father bought it for me before I left for Stanford.” He wasn’t sure why he was talking to her at all, but what the hell, she was there. Maybe she’d finally take the hint that they weren’t right for each other.

The worn leather was smooth and curved as if it had molded to his ass. He flipped it open to find a picture of his family at Louis Valentino Jr. Park. They’d climbed out on the painted toylike alphabet blocks spelling out “Red Hook” at the water’s edge. He sat on the “E” between Storm and Slater. Pop stood behind embracing them. He laughed. Man, they looked like a bunch of juvenile delinquents. No wonder Pop was always bugging them to get their hair cut.

He’d looked like the troublemaker he was, but he’d looked happy. He saw something in the eyes of the kid he’d been that he hadn’t seen in any of the pictures of him and Payton. He looked at himself in the mirror and was relieved to see that spark of life, of happiness, of belonging, he’d lost for so long.

Pop had told him to never forget where he came from, and for years he’d tried to do just the opposite. Hell, he’d hidden it the same way someone would hide a criminal record. He’d done exactly what Pop had told him not to do. He’d forgotten who he was. He’d been as big a fake as Payton. He tossed the wallet in the box and left the watches—slamming the drawer. From now on, he’d be himself, whoever the hell that was.

He looked up and was surprised to see Payton still staring at him. “I’ll leave the watches you bought me as gifts.”