Dirty South (A Blue Collar Bad Boy Romance) (17 page)

Chapter Two

I hold my beat-up laptop and slowly spin it around my new
bedroom so that Carter can see it.

"Fuck," he swears as the screen captures images of
the palatial Mediterranean-inspired space. "I mean you told me the guy was
rich, but…"

"I know, right?" I say, putting the computer back
down on the mahogany wood desk and peering at my older brother. Whenever we
have the chance to talk via Skype, I can't help but scan him for signs of new
injuries or stress. He's in Afghanistan on another deployment with his SEAL
team. As always, he sits on a cot in front of a burlap backdrop, revealing
nothing of his location.

"What do you think of him, really?" he asks. I
pause, wanting to give him a truthful answer. Carter and I never bullshit each
other.

"I think he loves her…" I start. "He's hard
to read. It's like he's always got a poker face on, like he's always in a
business negotiation."

"Huh," Carter replies, ever a man of few words.

"But I didn't tell you the worst part. His son Jack is
living—" I stop as Carter's face jerks toward the right of the screen. His
jaw sets in a familiar way and I know he's being called away. "It's
OK," I say as he turns back toward the screen. "Talk to you
later."

"Talk to you later," he repeats, his expression
stony as he shuts his computer and my screen goes black. There is so much more
to say, but we both know not to say it. I can't ask him where he's going, or if
it's dangerous, or when he might be able to call again. He won't tell me
goodbye, in case it really is goodbye. So it's "talk later" every
time.

"Did I miss him?" my mom asks, not bothering to
knock as she hurries into my bedroom.

"Sorry, he just left," I tell her. She nods, a
look of grief passing quickly over her face before she swallows it. She clears
her throat. "Not bad, huh?" she says, indicating the room's sumptuous
furnishings.

"Yeah, I never knew there was so much money in
shipping," I admit, looking around.

"Well, Burke Shipping is one of the biggest, and
oldest, shipping companies in the United States. It was started by Clara's
great-grandfather."

"Who?"

"Clara. Ray's wife, who passed. Alexa and Jack's
mother."

"How come Alexa's not here?"

"Ray says she's 'gallivanting around Europe,' but I'm
not sure that's the whole story," she says with a smile. "Wouldn't it
be nice to have a…you know, sister?" she asks shyly, sitting on the bed
and holding onto one of the intricately carved posts.

"Sister?" I ask, my eyes bulging out of my head.

"Well, yeah. I thought you realized how serious Ray and
I are about each other."

"I…I mean, I did…. I guess my mind just hadn't gotten
that far," I stammer.

"And that would make you…happy?"

"Um, I don’t know," I reply honestly. "He's
better than Louie," I decide, naming one of her exes. "And definitely
better than Drew, or Max, for that matter—"

"OK, I get it!" she says, rolling her eyes.
"I'm glad I raised such an honest daughter. Most of the time," she
adds jokingly as she walks to the door. She turns in the doorway, her hand on
the knob. "And you'd have another brother, too."

"I already have one of those!" I call back as she
shuts the door. Ugh, my step-brother could be Jack Stratton. I haven't seen yet
since we moved in this morning, so I'm not sure how well his supposed break
from partying is working out.

I lift my head unconsciously as the breeze changes. The AC's
on in the rest of the house, but I have my windows wide open. What's the point of
having this mansion right on the water if you can't smell the sea?

I stand up and walk to the French doors leading out to the
balcony. Yup, that's right, a private balcony off my very own bedroom. I swing
the doors open and step out onto the tile, my eyes fixed on the twinkling
lights of south Tampa across Hillsborough Bay. A crack of thunder peals across
the water, sending a shiver of excitement running through me. I love the
thunderstorms during the summer here.

A woman's giggle drifts up from below me, and my attention
snaps down to the deck next to the pool. The only lights on are the ones
underneath the pool's surface, casting a ghoulish blue light into the dark
night, and barely illuminating the two figures intertwined in a lounge chair
next to it.

"Shit, that scared me!" the woman's voice
exclaims.

"Shh, I'm not supposed to be partying so much."
Even in a whisper, Jack's voice floats up to my second story bedroom in the
still air between thunderclaps.

"Let's go in, it's about to pour," she whines.

"Wait, the view of the lightning over the water is
amazing out here. I love watching it," he replies. A half-second later, a
white bolt splits the night sky in two, piercing from out of nowhere to the
dark expanse of the bay. Jack was right. It's spectacular.

"Jack," the woman protests. I hear him sigh, but
then she laughs. "Put me down!" I can't see them now, but I assume
he's carrying her off into the bowels of the house.

Another peal of thunder fills the air, followed more quickly
by a bolt of lightning. The storm's getting closer. I dart back inside to grab
my computer, then shut the doors as I hear the rain begin to pelt down. I draw
my desk chair up to the glass and watch the storm close in.

I've been drawing a blank when I try to think of what I want
to write. But all of a sudden, an image just popped into my head: a young girl,
running toward a thundercloud. I begin to type. She's pursued by a man…maybe
her father. Behind them lies a revival tent where the man is the preacher. A
bolt of lightning hits a tree, throwing up sparks, but she keeps running.

There was no creative writing class at my high school, so
anything I've learned how to do has been from books. During school, I wrote
mostly on weekends, but now my goal is to write a novel. My concentration is
broken by a laugh from somewhere inside the house – my mom or Jack's mystery
woman? Too far away to tell. I tap my pencil on the pad. Everyone else is
paired off but me. Loneliness wraps itself me for a moment, but I resolutely
shrug it off.

Maybe I could make an effort to be less of a loner, but most
of the time I'm happy by myself. It's only every now and then that it
overwhelms me, and I start to imagine what Miles is doing…what it would be like
to lie curled in bed next to him, talking about our next projects together
while soft music plays in the background.

I drift off to sleep with my laptop sitting on my legs. At
some point in the night, I stir and manage to make my way over to the bed,
flopping down into its soft sheets.

The morning sun wakes me, shining without a hint of the
thunderstorm the night before. I yawn and stretch, pushing my mess of hair back
off my forehead. I look down at my stained t-shirt and consider changing it,
but most of my shirts look like this one anyway.

The massive foyer of the mansion has two staircases that
wrap around either side of it, leading to the north and south wings. I take the
one closest to my door and yawn as I traipse down. Through bleary eyes, I
manage to remember the location of the kitchen toward the rear. Coffee. Must
have coffee.

I stop in shock at the scene in front of me as I turn the
corner to the kitchen. Jack's standing shirtless over the sizzling stove, sweat
dripping down his bare chest, clearly post-workout. He's wearing only red
athletic shorts and headphones over his ears, attached to his iPhone on a band
around his thick bicep. His head bops to a beat I can't hear, and I cover my
mouth to keep from laughing as he begins to mouth the words.

The movement catches his eye, and he glances up, yanking the
headphones off his ears as he sees me. From their spot dangling on his neck I
can now hear the music.

"Is that Taylor Swift?" I ask gleefully. His hand
flies to his iPhone and the tune cuts out.

"What? No, I—" he clears his throat, looking caught.
"There's coffee," he finally says.

"Oh, thank god," I say, heading over to the fresh
pot sitting under the complicated-looking chrome coffee maker on the counter
behind him.

"Late night?" he asks, and I can see him glancing
over my rat's nest of hair, my baggy, stain-covered t-shirt, and my cotton
pajama pants. I realize I'm not wearing a bra…not that I've got enough going on
for him to notice. I hope.

"Not as late as yours," I retort, grabbing the
half and half from the fridge.

"Meaning?"

"You'd be surprised how much I can hear from my
balcony."

"Oh, so you were eavesdropping," he says, flipping
a giant omelet over in the pan in front of him.

"No, I…" I shake my head, tossing off the very
idea. "Do I get to meet her?" I ask, glancing toward the deck,
wondering if she's taking some early morning sun.

"I don't like for them to stay the night," he
replies with a smirk, and my jaw drops.

"Wow. Wow. There's so much to unpack there," I
gasp. "You make the women sound like a harem or something."

"Hey, there's as happy to be there as I am, and they
know not to expect anything from me."

"Yeah, they're just honored to be able to spend a
couple hours in the company of
the
Jack Stratton."

"Well, it's
how
we're spending the time that's
important. Believe me, they leave satisfied," he says, looking up at me
and holding my gaze, a promise inside his eyes that makes me shiver.

"Ugh, gross," I say, pulling myself away.
"Besides, I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy on that stuff.
Your coaches would be pretty upset if they found out, huh?"

He pauses. "You won't say anything. Will you?"

"Probably not.
Probably
," I say with a
careless shrug as I head outside with my coffee.

"Bree!" I hear him call after me as I shut the
patio door behind me.

He sounds worried. Good. I like having something to hold
over his head.

Chapter 3

After breakfast, I wash out my bowl and put it in the
dishwasher. My mom said that there's a housekeeper, but I feel strange leaving
out my dishes for someone else to clean up. I glance toward the backyard, and
down at the ocean beyond. The only thing breaking up the view is Ray's huge
boat, which is tethered to the private dock.

My mom's at the diner, and I assume Ray's at work, so I'm
left to my own devices today. I wander out toward the foyer, figuring I'll give
myself a tour since I focused on unpacking my stuff in my bedroom yesterday. I
start on the first floor, wandering through the high-ceilinged spaces. When I
come to the third sitting room, I begin to wonder what Ray needs this many
rooms for. With Jack usually in his penthouse or on the road, and Alexa away,
I'd find the space lonely all to myself.

I find a door to the basement in the hall between the formal
dining room and a coat check room and head down. The main area is a filled with
games…a ping pong table, billiards, and vintage-looking arcade games. I see a
few doors leading out and head for the nearest one and poke my head into the
dark room. As my eyes adjust, I realize I'm in a small movie theatre, though
the seats are each individual recliners. I shake my head and cross to the other
door, which is heavier than the others. The air in the room feels different,
and I see bottles of wine covering the walls.

I head back into the game room and toward the third door. It
leads down a short hallway into a brightly lit home gym, though it looks just
as well-equipped as the one my mom used to belong to when she was on a health
kick. I spy a white towel draped over a weight machine, and catch the faint
whiff of sweat in the air – Jack's sweat. I shiver involuntarily and head for a
door on the opposite side of the room. It leads up a small stairwell and into
the side of the backyard.

There's a bunch of football equipment spread across the
grass, and a wire basket filled the balls to my left. I feel my stomach clench
and circle around toward the back of the house. I know it's not fair, but I
feel a surge of annoyance at my mom. We've both spent so much time distancing
ourselves from football, and now she's dating the father of one of the biggest
stars in the NFL and forcing me to live in a house with him.

I know that's not fair. I know that her falling for Ray had
nothing to do with Jack, but I can't help but think that Freud would have a
field day with the situation. I take a deep breath and will the anger out of my
body. It's toxic, and it won't help anything.

I open the door nearest to me on the ground floor and walk
inside. I stop short, realizing I'm in a room that I must have missed on my
first tour of the ground floor. There's a huge oak desk to my right, and a
seating area to my left. This must be Ray's home office. I walk around the desk
and look over the photos he has displayed. There are only two, and they're the
only personal items in the room.

One shows a photo of Jack with his
helmet raised over his head, his face covered in sweat, and the other is a
photo of Ray with Jack and a young woman. By her age, she must be Alexa, Jack's
sister. I lean closer to study her face. She's strikingly beautiful. Tall, like
Jack and Ray, but with dark brown hair that flows over her shoulders. The phone
on the desk trills a harsh ring, and I jump back, startled. I reach toward it,
unsure if I should answer.

"He doesn't like anyone in
here," says a voice from the doorway to the backyard. I squint as Jack
strides out of the sunlight to the desk and picks up the handset. "It's
OK," he says immediately, as though he knows who's calling, and what
they're calling about. "It's just Bree, she wandered in. Yup," he
says, and hangs up. "My dad doesn't like anyone to come in here," he
says and gestures toward the door. I walk out, feeling indignantly like I'm
being chastised.

"I was just taking a tour of
the house," I explain. "And how did he even know I was in there,
anyway?"

Jack nods toward a black box on the
doorframe as just before he shuts the door. "Those are motion detectors.
They're all over the house, but he has them set up here so that he knows
personally if anyone goes into his office."

"Yikes," I murmur.
Talk
about a control freak.

"He deals with large amounts
of money," Jack says with an easy shrug as we walk back across the patio
to the kitchen doors.

"What did your mom look
like?"

"Why?" he asks, stopping
to frown at me.

"Oh, well, I just noticed that
your dad doesn't have any pictures of her, and I was wondering if she had brown
hair like Alexa."

"Alexa takes after my dad. His
hair was brown before he went gray," he explains shortly.

"I didn't mean to pry."

"I guess we both have parents
we don't like to talk about," he says with a wry smile. "Is that why
you go by Driscoll?"

I nod. "It's my mom's maiden
name. It wouldn’t confuse someone who was really determined to look up Steven
Riley's wife and kids, but it helps."

"I used to have his
card," Jack confesses with a smile.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was so excited when I
found it in the pack. He was great, in his day."

"Not that that's what anyone
remembers," I reply. "Nor should they," I add. "Where's
your bedroom?" I ask, wanting to change the subject.

"Why do you want to know?"
he asks, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"Just asking," I stress.
"Like I said, I was looking around."

"Third floor," he says,
pointing to the top of the house. "Right in the middle. You swim?"

"Sure."

"Been in the pool yet?"

I look up at him and notice an evil
glint in his eyes. "Jack…" I say warningly.

But it's too late. He reaches out
quick as lightning and grabs me around the waist, then flips me into the pool.
I close my mouth just before I hit the surface of the water and sink under. I
kick back up to the surface and slap my palms on the water angrily.

"Ugh, how old are you?" I
snap, pushing my hair out of my face.

"Hey, at least it's heated.
That's for your little blackmail threat earlier," he adds with a smile.

I grumble to myself and swim to the
side of the pool and extend my arm out demandingly. He takes it and begins to
pull me out, but I swing my legs up against the side and extend them out
suddenly. He's huge, but I've taken him by surprise. He tumbles over my head
and into the water with a splash.

I grab hold of the edge and watch
as he surfaces, spluttering. "Oldest trick in the book, Jack. You better
up your game."