Had to Be You: Bad Boys of Red Hook (3 page)

Rocki blew out a breath and decided there were a hell of a lot of things she’d like to do with him, the least of which was having a drink between sets. “Maybe. You know where I work . . . some of the time at least.”

•   •   •

S
later watched Rocki O’Sullivan saunter back to the bar with a host of hungry eyes following her. The woman collected attention like a magnet collects shards of metal. He knew all about the laws of attraction, but had never experienced attraction this strong.

Damn, he wished Rocki wasn’t his father’s employee. Sleeping with the help was bad business.

Rocki hadn’t blinked when he’d told her he was here only temporarily. She hadn’t gone running off because he wasn’t going to be here long enough to get attached, and after Dominique, the last thing he was looking for was attachment.

Attraction was one thing; attachment was another. All he wanted was a way to let off some steam, someone to have fun with, and if he was lucky enough to see Rocki wearing nothing but those funky shoes of hers, all the better.

She rounded the bar and shot him a teasing smile before slipping under the pass-through. After refilling her water, she moseyed toward the stage, stopping to say hello to a few people who looked like regulars and to hug a big guy Slater recognized immediately. The tendons in his neck and shoulders tightened as if someone had taken a ratchet to them. “Shit. Frankie DeBruscio.”

Frankie had spent his entire high school career beating the crap out of Slater and his brothers.

Slater had always heard that when someone returned to their childhood home, everything looked smaller than they remembered. Unfortunately this wasn’t true of badass bullies like Frankie.

Their eyes locked and a smile cut Frankie’s face in half—either he was happy to see Slater back in the ’hood, or he was looking forward to another fight.

Slater grabbed the back of his neck and tried to loosen his spasming muscles. It was way too late to pretend he hadn’t recognized Frankie. All Slater could do was thank God he was a lot bigger now than he’d been at eighteen—the last time he’d tangled with Frankie. Luckily, he’d hit a few growth spurts. He’d grown four or five inches and packed on seventy-five pounds of muscle. He was no longer the scrawny kid Frankie used as a punching bag.

He cursed under his breath. The last thing he’d expected on his first full day home was to see Frankie. Slater figured Frankie would be in prison by now. But then a few people probably thought the same of Slater.

Frankie grabbed the hand of the woman beside him and made a beeline for Slater. Shit. He recognized the woman too—Patrice Taylor. She was just as beautiful as he’d remembered. Her mocha-colored skin shimmered and her long dyed blond hair fell in perfect order around her shoulders, as if she were starring in a shampoo commercial. When she spotted Slater, her smile widened, and her bright eyes locked on him. He groaned, praying it wouldn’t be a painful reunion—he was not in the mood for a barroom brawl.

“Slater Shaw! Well aren’t you a sight?” Patrice threw her arms around him, going in for a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. “My, my, look at you. I always thought you’d fill out. I just had no idea how well.”

He cringed, waiting for Frankie to pound him into dust—or at least try.

“When did you get back home, and how long are you staying?”

“I flew in yesterday. As for how long I’m staying? Maybe until the first of the year. How are you, Patrice? You’re as beautiful as ever.” He spoke to her but watched Frankie over her shoulder.

“You remember my husband, Francis, right?”

Husband? The school bully married the prom queen? “Francis?” Frankie had always beaten the crap out of anyone who dared to call him Francis—even the teachers. “Married. Wow. Congratulations.”

Frankie slid beside his wife and took Slater’s hand in a crushing grip, pulled him into a guy-hug, and pounded his back, almost knocking the wind out of him. “Good to see you back here, man.”

“Really?”

“Pete must be thrilled to have you home.”

Slater wasn’t sure if Pop was thrilled, but whatever—he didn’t even want to contemplate the reason for the less than thrilled reaction he’d received from the old man.

Patrice waved to Rocki, who had just started singing.

Slater couldn’t help but notice that Rocki’s eyes almost bugged out when she saw the three of them together. He wasn’t sure why, but Patrice grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the booth he’d just vacated. “Now sit down and tell us all about what you’ve been up to. Pete said you left the navy and went to grad school in Seattle. And you worked for Microsoft?”

Frankie pulled Patrice into the booth beside him. She snuggled up and rested against his big broad chest. “Give the man a minute, woman, and for God’s sake, take a breath.”

“I am breathing, you big galoot.” Patrice elbowed Frankie—make that Francis. “I’m excited that Pete’s last little rooster has returned to the nest.”

Slater had never been referred to as a rooster, a cock maybe, a rooster no. He looked from Patrice to Frankie—it was just too surreal. “I didn’t know you and Pop were close.”

Francis shrugged. “I’ve been working for Pete since shortly before Logan left. I caused Logan to need a few stitches, and Pete told me I could work for him to pay off the hospital bill or he’d call the cops. Your old man helped me, believed in me. I became a paramedic and I still help out here on my off time.”

Leave it to Pop to take on another troubled teen. And Frankie had been as troubled as they came. “You’ve worked for Pop for the last ten years?”

“On and off . . . whenever he needed a hand. We’re close to Bree too. When Pete had his heart attack, we did all we could to help her out. The woman had her hands full with Nicki and the bar, and Pete in the hospital.”

Patrice waved a hand in front of her husband. “Francis, enough about us. I want to find out about Slater. So?”

“So what?”

“Tell us everything. And don’t you dare leave anything out. We haven’t seen you in forever. Of course, Pete’s mentioned what you’ve been up to, but it’s always better to get the story right from the horse’s mouth.”

Slater didn’t even know where to start or why they were so interested. “I’d much rather hear about you two. How long have you been married?”

Patrice spun her wedding ring around her long finger. “Almost seven years. We got married right after I graduated nursing school. We had our daughter Cassidy a year and a half later—she’s five and a half—and our second, Callie, is three. I work three days a week at Methodist and run roughshod over the family
the rest of the time. Now, what about you?”

“What about me?”

Patrice gave him a
don’t-even-try-to-mess-with-me
look. “What have you been up to?”

“I was in the navy for eight years. When I got out, I went to Digipen Institute of Technology and got my master’s in computer security.”

“You work at Microsoft?”

“I had a paid internship; now I’m waiting on a contract with OPEC. They want to buy a program I developed and hire me to implement it.”

“OPEC? As in oil?” Frankie asked.

“Yep, that would be them.”

Patrice leaned forward. “Where will you work?”

“Bahrain to begin with—if all goes well.” If not, he’d be looking for a job but couldn’t imagine going back to Seattle. No. He’d find a job someplace else. Someplace that was Dominique-free.

Drinks were delivered and both Frankie—make that Francis, damn that was going to take some getting used to—and Patrice thanked the server by name.

Patrice took a sip of her margarita and licked the salt off her top lip. “Bahrain.” She looked as if she were searching her internal database. He saw the spark the moment she retrieved the data. “Isn’t that an island in the Middle East?”

Slater took a drink and peeled the edge of the label off the cold bottle, not meeting Patrice’s penetrating golden brown eyes. “That’s correct.”

“What’s a guy like you going to do in an Islamic country?”

“A guy like me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Dude, Patrice meant a single guy like you.” Frankie took a swig of his beer.

Patrice interrupted. “No, I meant the girl-in-every-port kind of guy. I’ve heard all the stories.”

“You have? From who?”

“Storm and Logan.”

Francis looked a little sheepish. “Patti has a way of dragging information out of anyone with a pulse. Still, isn’t it gonna be a bitch trying to get a date there?”

“I don’t know. I really hadn’t thought about it.” All he thought about was getting away from Dominique, Seattle, and Red Hook. Oh, and making a shit-ton of money. So much money that after five years, he would make Dominique and her new fiancé look like paupers. “It doesn’t matter. The last thing I need is a woman to complicate my life.”

Patrice pushed her long hair behind her shoulders and nailed him with her golden brown stare. “Complicate your life? Sounds to me as if you don’t have much of a life to complicate. You’ve been gone almost ten years, and all you’ve talked about is your job. Granted, it sounds as if you’ve been plenty busy and very successful, but do you have a life? A life outside work? It doesn’t sound as if you’ve taken much time to smell the roses.”

“Patrice, there aren’t many roses in the middle of the Arabian Sea, and since I left the navy, I’ve been working my ass off to get through school. I’ve been busy. Smelling the roses hasn’t been an option.”

A smile spread across Patrice’s pretty face, the kind of smile that made him wonder if she knew something he didn’t, and made the hair on his arms prepare to evacuate his skin. “Well, you have a month or so to just sit back and smell all the roses you want. And don’t think I didn’t notice how you watched my girl Rocki walk away. She was sitting here with you for her entire break, wasn’t she?”

Shit. “Rocki seems very nice.”

“Of course she’s nice. She’s one of my best friends and she’s single.”

Yes, they’d established that. “She’s also Pop’s employee, and since I’ll be helping out here at the Crow’s Nest and plan to be out of here come the first of the year, it’s probably best not to complicate matters.”

“Oh that’s right. You don’t need a woman to complicate your so-called life.”

“Right.” Not unless Rocki was into some very uncomplicated, hot, explosive, mind-numbing sex and could keep it on the down-low. Still, the gleam in Patrice’s eye told him she already saw too much.

“Hey, you’re both adults, and as far as I know, Rocki doesn’t like complications either. She dates, but she’s never had a long-term relationship in the three years that I’ve known her.”

Francis wrapped his arm around his wife. “Now, Patrice, keep your nose out of his business.”

Patrice waved away her husband’s warning. “What? So I want my friends to enjoy themselves. They’re both single adults and they’re both not looking for”—she held her fingers up to make air quotes—“complications. I think they’d be perfect for each other. Temporarily, that is, and from the sparks shooting between them while they were tucked into this booth earlier, they’re not going to be able to stay out of each other’s pants for long anyway.”

Patrice slid out of the booth pulling Frankie along with her. “You know what I always say, if you can’t beat them, you might as well just cheer them on. It’s like rooting for the Cubs—you know it’s not going to end well, but it’s always fun to watch.”

Rocki loved her friend Patrice like a sister. She’d never had one, but she knew from having a brother that sometimes you could love your sibling and want to throttle him or her at the same time. On her way to the stage, she’d given Francis and Patrice a hug, refilled her water, and then started her next forty-minute set. She sang, played the piano, and watched Patrice make a beeline for the hot biker dude whose table Rocki had just left.

To her amazement, Patrice proceeded to hug and kiss him like they were lifelong friends. Shit. To say that Patrice was known for sticking her nose in everyone’s business was like saying that Congressman Weiner was known for sexting—it was the God’s honest truth. Patrice would know the poor man’s life story before she let him leave the booth.

Thinking back, Rocki realized she hadn’t even gotten the guy’s name. She’d been too busy mentally divesting him of all clothing to ask pertinent questions. Sometimes she wondered about herself. Was she so sex starved she’d jump the first man who floated her boat? Unfortunately the boat was a naval vessel. Great. She had no problem imagining him in dress whites or out of them apparently. Of course, when it came to men, her one weakness was a man in uniform and if they were sailors, all the better. That was why she always made it a point, during Fleet Week, to stroll through South Street Seaport daily and check out the scenery.

The trio retired to the same booth she and hot biker guy had shared. The poor man looked as if Patrice had just read him his Miranda rights. What the hell was she up to? And how did she and Francis know him? Sure, the guy said he was from Red Hook, but he’d also said he’d been away for ten years.

Rocki made it through her set without messing up the words, which was a true miracle, because the entire time, she found her gaze landing on the booth and the man.

Francis’s discomfort came out strong and clear in the chagrined expression covering his face more often than not. When she caught the flash of Patrice’s satisfied,
I’ve-done-my-duty
smirk, Rocki knew she was in trouble.

Having Patrice as an ally was always a good thing since the woman’s machinations were ingenious, but Rocki didn’t like being the object of Patrice’s latest intrigue. She needed to put a stop to it and the only way to do that was to avoid the three objects of her interest at all costs.

Rocki finished her set, gave her taking-a-break spiel, grabbed her water, and hightailed it to the bar without even looking in the direction of Patrice’s latest inquisition.

“Hey, Simon, do you have time to pour me a drink, or should I come back there and take care of it myself?”

It was always so much fun to see any of the Crow’s Nest bartenders’ reactions to her offer of help. Simon didn’t disappoint—the man looked like an albino who’d just seen a ghost.

Rocki knew where her talents lay, and behind the bar was not one of those places. She hated covering for the bartenders, so, in order to avoid that, she might have played up her ineptitude just a bit. It worked—maybe too well. For God’s sake, she didn’t want to give the poor man a stroke.

“Another Orange Crush, Rocki? Or is there something else you want?”

She wanted to find out what Patrice was up to, but she refused to ask. She knew Patrice was waiting for her to do just that. “Orange Crush is fine, Simon, and would you refill my water, please?”

The look of relief was almost laughable. She took a seat at the end of the bar next to Simon’s girlfriend, Elyse. “So, what do you know?”

Elyse grinned so broadly, you’d think she was starring in a toothpaste commercial. Rocki wished she wore shades. “I know you’re off your game tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you forget the words before.”

“You forgot the words?” Pete’s deep voice boomed from behind her. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” Rocki ruffled her hair until it matched her mood. “So, I’ve been a bit distracted—sue me.”

Elyse looked over her shoulder to stare at the hot guy.

Pete’s hold on Rocki tightened and followed Elyse’s gaze. “The guy in the leather jacket is your distraction?”

Elyse nodded. “But what a distraction. Rocki sure knows how to pick ’em.” She made a slurping sound.

“For God’s sake, Elyse, wipe your face.” Rocki wished Simon would hurry up with her drink. She checked her watch. Shit, she still had fifteen minutes left on their break. She looked from hot biker dude to Pete.

His eyes held a brightness she hadn’t seen in way too long with a twist of something she didn’t understand and wasn’t sure she even wanted to—undisguised humor. It looked like he fought off a chuckle.

“I’m sorry about the brain fart. It won’t happen again.”

“No need to apologize, it’s nice to see someone has the power to ruffle those pretty feathers of yours. I don’t believe it’s ever happened before. Your armor might be made of fabric, but until now, I’ve wondered if it was impenetrable.”

“Pete—there will be no penetration with hot biker dude. You know me. Flirtation is one thing—the man is definitely a temptation—but that’s as far as it goes.”

He looked over at hot biker dude and those bright eyes flashed again. “I guess we’ll see. He doesn’t look the type to give up easily.”

Simon delivered Rocki’s drinks.

Pete grabbed a handful of pretzels. “Simon, give me a scotch.”

“I’m sorry, Pete. I can’t do that. How about a soda water with lime?”

“Boy, if I wanted a soda water with lime, I’d have asked for it.”

“You know I’d be the first one to pour for you, but damn, between Rocki, Skye, and Patrice, the women will have my head, and Elyse over there will chop off a few other important parts. Sorry. Fire me if you must, but I’m more afraid of them than I am of you.”

Simon took off for the other side of the bar and left Pete giving her his
I’m-disappointed-in-you
look.

“I can’t believe I can’t get a drink in my own bar. I thought you were on my side.”

Rocki put her hand on his and gave it a squeeze. “I am on your side, and I want to make sure you’re here for a long time, so do us all a favor, listen to your doctors. I don’t want to lose you too.” Rocki’s eyes filled and, to her embarrassment, the water level increased with every blink. First she forgot the words to a song she knew as well as her own name—her real name—and now she was about to cry. “I don’t think I could take it, Pete.”

“Sheesh, leave it to you to pull out the heavy artillery.” Pete kissed her cheek, and shook his head.

Elyse signaled Simon and he grabbed another beer for her and a soda water for Pete. Simon delivered them both and leaned over the bar and kissed Elyse. “Did you tell her yet?”

“Tell me what?” Rocki wondered if someone spiked the tap water with Love Potion Number Nine. First Simon fell hard for Elyse, and then Storm and Bree got back together and ended up married, and up until today, it looked as if Logan and Skye were on the fast track to the altar. Evidently they seemed to have hit an oil slick—not that anyone would give her a clue as to what the hell happened. It was all she could do to go into the kitchen to deliver Logan’s message to Skye without coming out sporting a meat cleaver. It was bad. Where they’d end up was anyone’s guess.

Elyse shot Simon an annoyed glare with a twist of a
just-wait-till-I-get-my-hands-on-you-later, sexy
promise. “What is it with men feeling the need to rush everything?”

Pete just stood there wearing his knowing grin and trying to look like he enjoyed drinking soda.

Rocki’s gaze shot from Pete to Elyse. Then she tried to sneak a peek at the third finger of Elyse’s left hand but couldn’t—she was sitting on her hand. “Let me see it.”

“See what?” Elyse was one of those sweet girls who blushed all the time. She was about Rocki’s age, maybe even older, but compared to Elyse emotionally, Rocki felt ancient.

“The rock Simon gave you. You know, the engagement ring?”

Elyse shook her head, but the bright red blush covering her face told the story better than any words could. “Come on, let me see. I promise I won’t say anything.”

Elyse pulled the hand from beneath her leg and ran it nervously through her thick dark hair and then held it out for Rocki’s inspection. “Nice.” She’d seen some beautiful, expensive rings in her day, but this was over-the-top gorgeous in a totally artsy, Simon way. “This is Simon’s work no doubt.”

“He said he sketched it out and asked the jeweler to make it.”

“It’s so beautiful, he should consider designing jewelry full-time. It’s gorgeous, girlfriend. Congratulations. I’m thrilled for you.” And she was. She was just wondering what her life would be like once everyone else got hitched. Patrice was married and couldn’t get away often because of the kids and Francis, but it had never bothered her because she always had Bree. Now Bree and Storm were off on their honeymoon and it was anyone’s guess how much girl time they’d have now that Bree had taken the plunge. Elyse had joined them for their girls-night-out dates since she and Simon became an item, so now Rocki and Skye were the only single girls left.

“You don’t look thrilled.” Disappointment draped Elyse’s face.

“I am happy for you. Really. It’s just I’m the last one in the group who’s single. Well, depending on what happens between Skye and Logan anyway.”

Pete grumbled something about Logan getting his head out of his ass.

Elyse’s eyes widened. “So it’s Logan’s fault? I heard Skye took off all upset. It sounds pretty serious.” Her
I’ve-got-my-happily-ever-after
gaze landed on Rocki and she patted her hand. “Don’t worry. You’ll find someone.”

Rocki wanted to run. Oh God, not again—why did couples feel the need to set up everyone who was happily single? She needed to stop this nonsense right now. “Oh no. I’m not looking to settle down. I feel as if I just got my independence—”

“You were in a relationship?”

Pete’s bushy eyebrows rose.

Shit, shit, shit. Rocki took a deep breath. “No, not exactly. But there was always someone else controlling me—telling me how to live my life, where to go to school, what to study—”

“Parents can be such a drag. I know.”

Rocki wished she had her parents to blame, but then her parents would never have imposed their will on her or sent her away so she wouldn’t be a bother. Her uncles were nothing like her parents. She’d often wished she could do a DNA test to prove her theory that her father had been adopted. “I like my life now and I’m in no rush to change it. The last thing I want to do is give another man control over me.”

“Hey.” Elyse sat up straighter. “I might be getting married but that doesn’t mean Simon controls me. I’m my own person; I just choose to share my life with Simon.”

“Of course, and that’s great. It’s just not for me.” Rocki searched for a way to escape this conversation and she still had another ten minutes before her next set started. She looked around, trying to find someone else she had to talk to. Unfortunately, when she did, she spotted Patrice heading her way. Damn. “If you want to keep your news a secret you’d better sit on your hand. Patrice is on her way over. Pete, not a word, you hear?”

He let out a laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’m getting out of Patrice’s way. Be good, ladies.”

Rocki gave Pete a kiss on the cheek before turning back to Elyse. “Just be cool and don’t look Patrice in the eye.”

“Like you’re not going to tell her.”

“Hey, you have no idea how good I am at keeping secrets.” Hell, she could hardly believe how good she was. She spent more time with Patrice than anyone else besides Bree, and the woman didn’t have a clue. Maybe the secret to keeping secrets was never to let anyone know you have one.

“Rocki?” Patrice took the seat beside her. “Are you avoiding me?”

Rocki couldn’t help but laugh. “Avoid you? As if it would ever work. What would be the point in trying?”

“Girlfriend, if I didn’t know you adore me, I’d wonder.”

Rocki let her smile unfurl like a flag in a soft wind and did her best not to wince when Elyse kicked her ankle. Damn, that was going to leave a bruise. She kept her eyes on Patrice. “So? Go ahead. Bring it on. I know you want to.”

Patrice looked around her to Elyse. “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

No one could pull off the innocent look as well as Elyse, probably because it wasn’t much of a stretch. She was the most innocent person Rocki had ever known—at least until she’d hooked up with Simon.

“Maybe she’s referring to the man you and Francis were just questioning. The one who distracted Rocki so much she actually forgot the words to a song I’ve heard her sing at least a hundred times.”

Patrice’s brows rose to the height of the Empire State Building. Simon’s little innocent Elyse was turning into a first-class traitor. If she hadn’t been snitching on her, Rocki would be almost proud. Oh yeah, Elyse was getting more than just her groove on lately.

Patrice did her seventies Cher hair flip; the woman had the move down. “So, I saw you and Slater cozyin’ up in the booth.”

“His name is Slater?” Oh God. “Slater, as in Pete’s son Slater?” Shit, the first guy she’d been interested in longer than she could remember and he was off-limits. “He’s practically family. Not family, exactly—it’s not as if we’d have two-headed children or anything—but there is no way in hell I’d ever get involved with one of Pete Calahan’s kids.”

Patrice’s face lit up like a Times Square billboard. “So you already thought about taking him to bed? My, my, my, you do move fast. I’m impressed, girlfriend. If I wasn’t happily married, I’d take him for a spin too.”

“But he’s Pete’s son.” Rocki groaned and thought about ordering a shot. Pete knew. God, no wonder he was so damn happy.

“Is that a problem?” Patrice looked dangerous and way too proud of herself.

“Hell, yeah, it’s a problem. Pete’s worse than a Jewish grandmother having a coffee klatch with the village yenta . . . or you. Pete already knows everybody’s business before they do. I’ve managed to stay out of his peripheral vision for three years and I’m not about to have him homing in on me like a vulture circling fresh roadkill.” Shit, shit, shit, he was probably already working on his flight pattern.