Brazing (Forged in Fire #2) (6 page)

I hadn’t regularly smiled since my mom was around.

Everyone thought the death of our parents was hardest on Stockton because he took the brunt of the responsibility after they died. He took in Willa, took over my parents’ work, the whole bit without one word of complaint.  And he’d done a fine job, no one would argue that for a second. Not even me.

And poor Willa, she was just a girl starting out when she lost them.

But I missed them just as much.

I think Stockton missed my father the most. I could’ve been very wrong about that, but he spent the most time with him. Dad taught Stockton everything he knew—even his little trips to town to help everyone out. He thought no one knew and I let him have it that way. All of us were close. I’d kill anyone who tried to mess with Stockton, West or Will. But it was a known fact that Willa and Stock were like mashed potatoes and gravy and West and I were the same. West made me angry enough to strangle him sometimes, but I’d pummel anyone who messed with him at the same time—the pecker head.

That was the kind of comment my mom would’ve popped me on the back of the head with a rolling pin for.

I missed my mom. I missed her every day. It struck me at odd times like that one, watching the girls cross the street with an anxiety-ridden pull in my stomach and not just about the singing or the crowded place. Tate scared me.

Maybe my mourning hit me when things happened in my life that I would usually call her up and tell her about.

I would’ve definitely called her and told her about Tate.

My mom knew about Jesse. She knew the whole thing. I made her swear not to tell anyone, even Dad. I didn’t want Jesse uncomfortable coming around the house to see Willa or anyone.

And though she deserved every bit of it, I didn’t want her reputation ruined—or smeared all over town.

Jesse did a good enough job of that all by herself.

My mom took my secret to the grave. When it happened a second time, Stockton and Cami were already involved and I couldn’t talk to Willa—it was her best friend. So I talked to West.

Shit, I was such a mama’s boy.

“You must be Bridge,” the brunette, suddenly in front of me, extended her hand. I’d been in my thoughts way too long.

“I am Bridger. And you are?” I extended the pronunciation of the R like a toaster in the middle of an electrical mishap.

See? Bridge
r
, it’s just an R. You can do it. All of you.

“Well Bridger, I’m Carter. And we know you know Tate. She’s been telling us all kinds of stories about you two having fun at the crick.”

She tried very hard to say creek like crick. It was a pitiful hillbilly accent if I’d ever heard one.

I wondered what kinds of stories Tate had been telling her.

Tate responded with a fierce blush that extended all the way down into her black top and probably far beyond that. At least that was a plus. I could still make her blush.

“Why don’t we go in where it’s very loud and not a good place for storytelling,” Tate offered in a blatant attempt to take the attention away from herself.

“After you,” I waved them inside.

God, I really don’t want to go in here.

I did the gentlemanly thing and paid the entrance fee for the three of us to get in. Carter stood aside like she expected the gesture while Tate loudly protested.

“I can pay for myself. This is not a date.”

“No one said it was a date, Ms. Self-Reliance. But I’m a Southern boy and my mama didn’t raise a scoundrel.”

“A scoundrel! This boy is priceless,” Carter cackled. “Tate, when you go home, find me one of these boys, pretty, pretty please. I need a piece of Southern ass. I wonder if he’d ask permission before he—never mind.”

She stopped her sentence as my eyes and Tate’s widened in sync at her friend’s—openness.

“You’re going back home?” I inquired as the character behind the window stamped our hands indicating we were old enough to drink.

Tate threw Carter a look that would kill small bunnies. Apparently, Carter got the drift and began to backtrack.

“Oh, um, Bridge.”
Sweet baby Jesus, I’m never going to outlive that name.
“Can you get us a table while I score some drinks? You’re a vodka rocks man, yeah?”

“That’ll do,” I said, stupefied at why Tate wouldn’t want me to know that she was going home. What was that girl hiding?

I watched her and Carter at the bar. Her hips, rounded and curved, swayed back and forth causing that sexy little skirt to do the same. Carter whispered something in her ear and Tate threw her head back laughing so loud that even the singer on stage paused to listen. I loved that she had no care about who saw her and whose attention she caught.

The guy next to her inched closer, I could see his game from across the room. He had the gall to rear back and take a real long gander at her ass.

Have some couth, man. She’s not bacon hung up for inspection.

I gripped the tiny circle table in front of me. This wasn’t happening. Tate was just a childhood crush—a fantasy never to be realized. I’d sworn off women for good. I couldn’t go through another Jesse.

Before I knew it, I found myself behind Tate, slipping between Google Eyes and her, making it clear that it wasn’t okay—what he was doing wasn’t okay with me—or Tate.

She was a friend, an old friend. And I was saving her from a creeper. That was it. Nothing less and certainly nothing more.

“Darlin,’ you ever gonna bring me that drink?”

Chapter Six

Tate

Bridger’s deep southern lilt didn’t just float down my spine; it latched on with velvet and silk and caressed it, inch by so-slow inch. The shiver that rocked me to my core hit me in the same way; a sultry tingle that began at my nape and rolled over me until my toes curled and my breathing hitched.

Where had that come from?

Just hours ago, I had to blackmail him in order to get him here and now he was working on getting me to spontaneously orgasm in the middle of the stickiest, filthiest bar in Nashville.

Good lord.

I picked up his requested libation and turned equally as slowly around so that our bodies were nearly pressed chest-to-chest. God, I could feel the heat of his body wrap around me and the pure masculine strength that he pulsed with.

For the record, this was not me. I did not swoon over boys, especially boys like Bridger Wright. I wanted my men to love fun as much as I did and to smile more than they could sulk. I wanted a man that embraced life and hunted down adventure. I wanted the life of the party and the optimist in every situation.

Because, the Lord knew, I needed optimism in my life.

I did not want Bridger’s constant frowns and gloomy forecast of thunderstorms. He was blotting out my perfect view of the sun and I didn’t like that I felt a sudden urge to buy rain boots and turn my face to the wind.

I didn’t like any of that.

That’s exactly why I lifted his short tumbler of straight vodka and took a generous sip. That’s exactly why I held his burning green eyes the entire time. And that’s exactly why I let my hip bump into his when Carter “accidentally” brushed by me.

I couldn’t help it. I could admit that on occasion, I turned into a shameless flirt. But the night was young; hell, I was
young
. My twenties were made from nights like this and Bridger had the opportune advantage of being a childhood point of immature obsession.

Why not make him suffer just a little bit?

Just as soon as these butterflies quieted down.

When my hip touched his, it met his fingers instead of the perfectly shaped bone that would be corded with muscle beneath his worn jeans. They immediately flexed inside his pocket and his eyes popped with the electrifying sensation. The touch had been simple, short and so very innocent.

So then, why did my skin feel as if he’d lit me on fire and the flames had sucked all the oxygen from the room?

“I have it right here,” I finally answered him.

With stilted movements, he pulled that same hand from his pocket and took the water-beaded glass from my hand. Our fingers brushed, but I had a feeling the touch had been purely accidental. Bridger’s attention focused directly on my face, but instead of the interested expression that had heated my belly and touched me in a very physical way, he now looked at me like he was a detective and I was a homicidal murderer caught with a knife plunged deeply in my latest victim.

So… not in a good way.

Grumpy Bridger had joined us this evening.

Time for a distraction.

I leaned in so that he could hear me over the raucous of the bar and the terrible bellowing from the karaoke machine. I took up my whisky and lemonade from the bartender and held it out to him. He took it, looking down at my deceptively girly drink with mild disgust.

I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

I didn’t want to find his bad attitude so compelling, but there was something about that little-boy pout that reminded me of the little-girl crush I’d once had on him.

“Better get that table now so you can enjoy the show!” I shouted over the music.

“What show?” His thick brows dipped over those electric eyes and the corners of his lips turned down.

I winked at him and blindly grabbed at Carter’s hand behind me. I yanked her with me as she tripped in her four-inch heels and sloshed her drink on some unsuspecting patrons. Not missing a beat, she righted herself and dropped her drink off on an empty table as I hurried her toward the stage.

“I thought we weren’t singing tonight!” she hollered at me.

I tossed a smirk over my shoulder and shouted back, “I’m feeling inspired!”

“God, I love it when you get all spunky and spontaneous!”

We giggled and linked elbows. Walking straight up to the pair of guys standing near the stage pretending like they could care less they were next in line. I decided to use their too-cool-for-school attitude to my advantage. The girl on stage started the last chords of her upbeat pop song and the DJ pulled out two mics to pass off on the ballers with their gold chains and exposed boxers.

Bleh, did guys really think girls still went for the slobbish-gangster look?

Not this girl.

Give me a boy in well-worn jeans and a snugly fit t-shirt every day of the week. Add in some super-sexy cowboy boots and tussled, bed-head hair and I was a goner.

Oh, shit. I’d just described Bridger!

What was wrong with me?!?

Focus, Tate.

“Hey, guys,” Carter started with the guys holding the mics. They looked a little green with stage fright. That was the thing about most people and karaoke. Everyone that thought they held any degree of talent wanted to go on stage and show it to the world, but only in theory. In reality, standing in front of a room full of people, baring your soul and singing your guts out was the worst kind of torture known to man. That was a fact. A tried and true fact.

Don’t argue with me.

It was at this point, just mere feet from the stage, with the hot lights melting your face and the mic a live explosive in your hands, that people started to form serious second-thoughts.

Luckily, neither Carter nor I were bound by silly things like insecurity or fear.

At least with a little liquid courage and each other to hold onto, anyway.

“Hey,” they answered her in unison.

“So, see our friend over there?” I asked. “He has to leave in a few minutes and we promised to serenade him for his birthday. Do you care if we cut in line and take your song? We know it’s a rude thing to ask but-”

The mics were shoved into our hands. “Take it,” one of them demanded.

And then they disappeared into the crowd without a backward glance.

“Well, that was easier than I thought.”

“You’re going to hell for all those lies. You know that, right?” Carter laughed.

I shook my head and let my ridiculous curls fly. “Mmm-mmm, no way. Jesus’ favorite people were sinners. It was all those religious guys he couldn’t stand.” I grinned at her and waited for her next smart-ass remark.

Before she could come up with something snarky, the stage cleared and our turn was up. I looked at the monitor that revealed our song and burst into laughter. Carter joined me when she saw the title of our song.

Oh, gosh, no wonder these guys had chickened out.

I grinned at my partner in crime and then turned my attention to Bridger as he sat alone at a small table in the middle of the room. His arms were crossed against his chest and his drink had been drained. He looked obnoxiously uncomfortable. Part of me loved that he got so easily unsettled- especially if I was the one doing the unsettling. But the other part of me hated that he seemed so itchy in his own skin.

There was something seriously going on with this boy and I decided karaoke was just step numero uno in my new crusade to save Bridger Wright from himself.

Maybe I needed a little cloud cover in my life to save me from skin cancer- or, er, all the cancers. And maybe Bridger needed some sunshine in his world.

“All right, stop,” I rapped as the familiar music popped to life in the speakers all around me. “Collaborate and listen. Ice is back with my brand new invention…”

Thankfully, as Carter and I rapped our little hearts out to
Ice, Ice Baby
by Vanilla Ice, the music drowned out our own voices. Sure, the room would be able to hear them no problem with the amplifiers and mics, but our own ears were blissfully lost in the soundtrack.

Carter and I laughed throughout the song but hit most of the lyrics. I couldn’t sing any better than a stray dog howling at the moon, but my rapping skills were surprisingly skilled.

Plus, Carter and I loved to dance, so there was plenty of that on stage. By the time I shouted out, “Word to your mother!” the entire place was on their feet shouting and clapping for us.

I threw my head back and laughed at their easy praise. Talented we were not, but our entertainment value could not be beat.

We passed our mics off to the DJ and jumped off stage. Two guys headed straight for us as soon as our feet touched the ground. They were both attractive and easily eye-catching with their pretty boy looks and clean cut style. By the familiarity they eyed Carter with, I had no doubt this was Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. So I ducked under one of their arms and darted off for Bridger.

I would be courteous later, but right now I had to see Bridger’s reaction to my impromptu rapping. I’d lost sight of him when everyone stood up, plus I’d been a little wrapped up in the music.

When I finally pushed through to the table I’d spotted him at earlier, he sat there with his arms still crossed and his legs stretched out. A bored expression twisted his lips downward and even though I knew he could see my red curls and vibrantly cherry-red mini skirt, not to mention my favorite pair of purple cowboy boots, out of the corner of his eye, he refused to turn to look at me.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I let out a weary sigh and plopped myself right down in Bridger’s lap. When his head snapped my way out of shock and not a little bit of horror, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him on the forehead.

“You’re next,” I told him. “I signed you up for Celine Dion. You’ve got about five minutes to get ready.” He sputtered and his mouth made these fish-out-of-water movements that made me laugh hysterically. “I’m completely kidding! Do not have a heart attack on me! My Granddaddy would for sure condemn me to hell if I killed you!”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but the only thing I got out of him was a mumble that sounded suspiciously like, “It’s not the heart attack that’s going to kill me, it’s this damn skirt.”

That made me exceedingly happy.

“Not a fan of bad-nineties-rap? Or were you just disappointed that you’ll never rap as well as me?” I pulled back my arms because he’d started to look a little panicky and I wasn’t kidding before, I really didn’t want him to die on me. That would be so bad for my afterlife.

“Who are you, Tatum Halloway? And what did you do with the girl I used to know?” He looked at me with a mixture of awe and confusion and something deeper, something that looked like fear and hurt and despair. I wanted to smooth all those rough lines on his handsome face and promise him that she was still in me somewhere, that I hadn’t completely lost the once-innocent-and-naïve-tomboy I used to be.

But that wasn’t entirely true. I’d done everything in my power to erase that little girl’s virtue from my soul and I’d replaced her with a free spirit that knew exactly who she was and what she wanted. There had been nothing wrong with that good little girl, but there had been a hell of a lot of bad in the girl in between that one and this one. And after that, there had been a hell of a lot of growing up before I’d become the girl I am today.

It wasn’t that I mourned my lost innocence, but I wasn’t ignorant enough to believe I could go back. Life had happened in between then and now. A lot of life. A lot of scary, eye-opening life that had forced me to mature and demanded I dig down deep and figure out exactly who I am. So I embraced this “me.” I stepped into this skin and decided I never wanted to leave. Maybe I would mature, maybe I would become wiser and more experienced, but I would never give up who I was or who I wanted to be. Not ever again.

So to Bridger, I said, “Obviously, I killed her and then fed her body to the pigs.” He blanched at my morbid reply and I started giggling all over again. For being such a downer, he made me laugh constantly. I swatted his chest for letting my candidness bother him. “She grew up, Bridger Wright. Same with the obnoxious little boy you used to be. Life happened and we stopped being those silly kids and started being us, who we are today.”

“And you’re just happy with who you are today, aren’t you?” He seemed mildly amused by that fact.

And cocky because he knew he was right.

So, I decided it was time to throw him off balance again. “I’m pretty happy with who you are today, too.”

He all but dumped me on the floor as he tried to jump from his seat.

“Ah!” I screamed as his body moved into standing and mine slid off his lap, which had disappeared into muscular thighs bent akimbo. I flailed and headed gracelessly toward the ground.

He caught me under the armpits right before my ass landed on probably three decades of congealed cheap beer.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he helped me to stand.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I told him as soon as we were as eye-to-eye as we could ever be. He was so tall that I had to crane my neck up to look at him.