Chapter Twelve

Cali

It was amazing how half a dozen different deep-fried, cheesy, bad-for-you foods and bottomless margaritas didn't dull the ache in my heart at being brushed off by Brooks.

All I got for the excursion was dehydration, a banging headache, and that super uncomfortable bloating feeling too much grease always gave me.

I was just glad it was a half day of work, because all I wanted to do was get home, chug some water, put a cold compress on my head, and relax.

It was the first night I didn't have something planned. And, honestly, I was anxious about it. About being home alone with my own mind.

Because every time my thoughts moved even an inch, they bumped into memories of him. It was better not to think at all.

But I couldn't find the motivation to get myself all dolled up and go out again.

A night alone in my house, eating something somewhat healthy, and binge watching some kind of mindless TV was what I had in mind as I parked on the street outside of my apartment.

Until I saw a motorcycle by the curb.

And a tall, stupidly handsome, figure leaning on the wall right beside my door.

"Brooks?" I asked, wincing at the croak my voice came out like.

"I gotta talk to you about some shit," he said, head cocked to the side as he looked at me with my massive dark sunglasses obscuring half my face. "I brought food, if you'll let me up."

It was a terrible idea.

Yet I didn't even hesitate.

"Okay," I said, finding my key, and unlocking the door, then leading him into the landing of the staircase that went up toward my apartment.

I was suddenly embarrassed about the pile of boxes scattered around that I hadn't gotten around to breaking down to put out for recycling.

"The fourth step up is a little weak in the center," I told him, starting up. "Walk to the side," I added, demonstrating the instructions as I made it to the top, then unlocked the door to my apartment.

It was a nice space, likely a little big for just me. But I got it on a song, rent-wise, and I liked the idea of being able to have a roommate if I ever wanted one.

The door opened up into a large living room with dark wood floors, a rosy pink crushed velvet sectional, coffee table, and a TV on the wall across from the seating area.

"I guess I'm supposed to give you a tour," I said, waving out at the living room. "Living room. The loft up there is my bedroom," I added, waving toward the railing up over the living room. "Then through here," I told him, going toward the hallway, "is the kitchen." It was a horseshoe shape with ancient cabinetry and dated appliances. But I didn't cook much anyway. "And this," I said, going across the hall, "is technically the bedroom. But I use it as storage and my closet."

I wasn't about to admit to him that I chose to sleep in the loft because it felt safer, even though I had to cram my bed against the wall, so I didn't go anywhere near the railing that looked over the living room.

"And then, finally, the bathroom. And the little washer and dryer space," I told him. "That's the grand tour."

"You sleep in the loft?" he asked, frowning as he looked at the staircase leading up.

"Far, far away from the railing," I told him, putting my purse and keys down. "What kind of food did you bring?"

"I got wraps," he said, bringing the bag into the kitchen to set it on the counter. "Hopefully, you still like chicken Caesar wraps."

"I do," I told him, pretending my heart didn't feel all gooey that he remembered that kind of thing.

I once dated a guy for an entire year who never remembered how I took my coffee.

"The plates are right above your head. I'm just going to get out of my work clothes," I told him, disappearing into the closet room to finally unbutton the slacks that had been pressing just a bit too tight all day, breathing a sigh of relief as the pressure let off.

I glanced around at my things, suddenly second-guessing what to put on. Nights at home usually meant horribly oversized sweats, fuzzy socks, comfy stuff.

But I wasn't spending my night alone.

I was spending it with Brooks.

And as much as I wanted to claim I didn't want things to get physical again between us, I knew that if he made a move, I'd be a puddle of need at his feet.

So, you know, I kind of wanted to look tempting. Without looking like I was trying to look tempting.

I settled on a pair of gray leggings that did wonders for my ass and a simple white tee that was fitted, but not tight.

I went ahead and put on cuter panties… and entirely left off my bra.

What can I say?

Maybe I wanted him to suffer a little for the whole dismissing me thing.

"Water?" Brooks asked from where he was peering in the fridge.

"Yes, please," I said, watching him as he moved around my kitchen like he belonged there.

He grabbed two bottles of water before closing the door and turning to look at me.

I was suddenly really thankful for the air conditioning cranking, because Brooks's gaze slipped right to my chest where my nipples were pressing against the thin white material of my t-shirt. But just for a beat before he caught himself.

"You have no table," he said, waving toward the plates.

"Oh, I don't usually have any company, aside from Sage. We eat on the couch," I told him, taking the waters from him, so he could grab the plates.

I moved ahead of him.

And if I put a bit more sashay in my step to draw his attention to my ass, so what?

Brooks put the plates down as I picked a show at random to have the silence between us feel less awkward.

"Thanks for dinner," I said, tucking my legs to the side, and placing my plate on my lap.

"Thanks for letting me up. Wasn't sure you would."

We were dangerously close to discussing the whole… incident. But I suddenly found myself not wanting to drudge it back up.

"Well, you sounded kind of serious," I said. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Brooks sucked in a deep breath.

"I can't think of a delicate way to put this, so I'm just gonna give it to you straight, alright?"

"Alright," I agreed, setting back down my wrap, something in his tone telling me that maybe eating wasn't going to be a good idea yet. "What is it?"

"It's about Clay," he started, watching my face for a reaction.

"What about him?"

"I don't think he wrecked by accident."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been working on a… suspicion," he told me. "So today I went out to the junkyard to check out his car. Lucked out that they hadn't crushed it yet. I found his brake lines were cut."

"What? How? It was a new car."

"Deliberately cut, Cal. But since there was no way Clay wouldn't have known something was wrong with them, I suspect he was trying to get away from someone. There was even some red paint on the bumper."

"Who would be chasing Clay, though?" I asked, shaking my head.

"I don't know yet. But I suspect the answer is on this," he said, reaching into his pocket to produce a flash drive. "I found this hidden in the first aid kit in his trunk. But it's password-protected. And I can't get in yet."

"Are you saying Clay was involved in something, like, illegal?" I asked, dubious.

"I never would have thought it of him, honestly, if it weren't for you telling me about the ‘vette. There's no way, no matter how frugal he was, that he could afford that car. Not on a payment plan, let alone outright."

"Clay never did anything illegal. He once called the electric company to tell them they'd undercharged him on a bill."

"Yeah, that sounds like Clay," he agreed, nodding. "Look, I'm not saying Clay was some fucking kingpin or some shit like that. I'm saying… sometimes we make choices," he said, waving at himself.

Normally, I would insist that there was no way. That Clay was too straight-and-narrow to ever make that kind of choice.

But Brooks was right.

Years back, if you asked me who was least likely to become a criminal of any sort, I would have told you Brooks. Without hesitation. And not because I'd been in love with him. Just because, well, it was Brooks.

He had an extremely strict father who forced him into things like ROTC, even though Brooks hated it. He wanted him to be tough. Mind and body. So he also pushed him, even from a young age, to workout, to join sports, to get good grades, to always work harder, be better.

While my parents were hardly ever around thanks to crazy work schedules to ask us to do anything around the house, Brooks's dad was always on his back, giving him a list of chores every single day, keeping him busy from sunup to down in the summers. And when he came home from work, he would do a white-glove-type inspection to make sure it was done meticulously. If it wasn't, he was forced to redo it. But this time with his father breathing down his neck.

Brooks got good, even as just a kid, at having a meticulous eye for detail, a knack for anticipating needs, and handling them before someone even thought to ask for it to be done.

It was expected that Brooks would go to college and make something grand of himself. Or, in lieu of that, he would join the military, and have some illustrious career there.

Then he shocked everyone, it seemed, by becoming an outlaw biker.

So if perfect Brooks had gotten himself involved in something illegal, who the hell was I to say that Clay hadn't? Especially if Brooks had suspicions. Ones that seemed to be backed up based on things like the brake lines, the hidden flash drive, even his watch on the wrist of a guy who had ‘bad news' written all over him.

"I can write down a list of possible passwords," I offered. "In case there's something you haven't thought of."

"That would be good. I tried a few things I could think of. But no luck. Seems to have a twenty-four hour max out. So it might take a few days to get in even if we do have the right passcode on our list."

"Okay," I agreed, nodding. "Should we… talk to the police?"

To that, Brooks hesitated.

"That's gonna be up to you," he said after a moment. "But I think we should see what is on the flash first. And maybe… I know you might not feel ready for this, but maybe we should check out the safety deposit box. See if he saved anything in there with more clues."

"You sound reluctant."

"I'm… not sure. It just feels like Clay left a lot of clues that were directed at me. Like he was trying not to involve you in it at all. Which makes sense. But that's also why I'm here…"

"Why?" I asked, stomach tensing at the way a muscle was ticking in his jaw. That was never a good sign with him.

"Since we don't know what is going on, I just… I wanted you to be careful."

"Careful," I repeated.

"I don't think you're in danger, but I don't feel comfortable brushing that off completely either. I know you like your freedom and are going out and doing… new shit. But I just want you to start being a little more aware."

"In case someone wants to hurt me?" I asked. "But why? I don't know anything about this."

"No," Brooks agreed. "But if these guys were after whatever is on this flash drive, and they haven't found it… they might think that you have it, that you were the one who would have gone through Clay's things, and possibly brought it back to your place."

"Oh," I said, my gaze slipping over to my door. Normally, I felt reasonably safe. There was a lock and a deadbolt on the door to the living room. And there was another set of locks on the door at the street level.

I wasn't delusional enough, though, to believe two locks and two deadbolts would be enough to keep some group of violent criminals out if they thought I had information that, I don't know, might implicate them, or lead them to something that Clay was keeping from them.

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

"How are you going to stop it?" I heard myself speaking my thoughts aloud.

"By any means necessary," he said, voice so fierce that it felt impossible to second-guess him. "Whether that means you come to stay at the clubhouse, or I crash here, if shit is starting to look really fishy."

Did that slutty little part of me start conjuring up all sorts of steamy ways him playing my bodyguard might play out? Yes. But I tried to tamp that down.

"Okay," I agreed, nodding. "So, when do you want to go check out the box?" I asked, picking up my wrap, and finally taking a tentative bite.

"Whenever you're free next. Your schedule is more full than mine is."

"Tomorrow?" I asked. Not because I wanted to keep seeing Brooks at every opportunity. Nope. Definitely not that.

"Probably better to do it as soon as possible," he agreed, taking a bite of his food as well. "Then we will have as many of the pieces to this puzzle as possible. Do you know where it is?" he asked.

"I haven't looked at the folder," I admitted, putting my plate on the coffee table, then going to get it from the TV cabinet where I'd stashed it, unable to bring myself to deal with anything else about Clay's passing.

But it was time to stop running.

Especially if his death wasn't just some tragic accident.

If someone had killed him, I wanted to know.

And then I wanted justice.

But one step at a time.

I set the folder up, flipping through the pages until I found the document about the box, along with a key taped to the top of the paper.

"What is it?" Brooks asked, making me realize I was growling at the page.

"This isn't his usual bank," I told him. "This isn't even in Navesink Bank," I added, showing him the document.

"All the more reason to check it out," he decided.

"Was there anything else strange about Clay's apartment?" I asked.

"His desk," Brooks said.

"What about his desk?" I asked, brows knitting.

"It was piled a mile high with crap. Old bills he'd clearly already paid. Junk mail. Just a ton of garbage."

"What?" I asked, shaking my head. "No. I was over not that long before he passed. His desk was as neat as ever. Could… could these bad guys have made a mess of the desk? If they were looking for something?"

"No. It felt really deliberately messy. Especially once I took a closer look at it, some bills going back half a year. Shit Clay would have normally shredded and gotten rid of."

"You think he made a mess to, what, signal to us that something was off?"

"And to hide information inside of. I just haven't figured out his… methodology yet."

"Maybe I could help?" I suggested. "Fresh set of eyes. After the safety deposit box."

"Yeah, that might be a good idea," he agreed, nodding. "The faster we can figure this out, the better."

We ate in silence for a couple more minutes, lost in our own thoughts.

"Do you really think they might come for me?" I asked finally, setting my plate down.

Brooks took his last bite, chewing, thinking it over.

"Maybe," he said finally, gaze cutting to me.

There was a bit of Caesar dressing at the corner of his lips. Before I could talk myself out of it, my arm was lifting, and I swiped at it with the pad of my thumb.

Then, with even more, you know, not thinking, I slipped my thumb into my mouth.

Brooks's gaze followed the motion, his lids getting heavy. Like his mind was going in all the steamy, sweaty directions mine was.

"Cali…" his voice was a warning, a rumbling sound that had no right to pulse through me like it did, to settle in such a way that I was pressing my thighs together to ease the ache between.

"Why not?" I asked, shifting closer, knowing what I was flirting with here. Rejection. But, just this one last time, I was willing to take that risk.

I got a head shake, like he couldn't find the words to lie to me. Because we both knew he wanted this as much as I did.

"I wasn't alone in that bed this morning, Brooks," I reminded him. "You wanted it too."

That muscle was ticking in his jaw again, and his gaze was staying stubbornly away. Like he knew his eyes would betray him. Would tell me everything I already knew.

"Or was that someone else?" I asked, fighting back a wave of insecurity at being so bold. "Someone else under me… and on top of me?" I asked, watching his hand ball up on his thigh, almost as if he had to do so to keep from reaching out for me.

That only made me bolder.

"Was it someone else with their face between my thighs…with their fingers inside of me?" I asked as I ran my hand up his arm, then over his shoulder, but pausing at his neck. "Or maybe you just didn't enjoy it," I said, letting out the vulnerability I'd been feeling ever since he'd walked away from me in that room.

"Don't," he said, gaze finally cutting to me, light brown eyes fierce.

"Don't what?"

"Don't make it about you. It's not about you. You're…" he drifted off, shaking his head.

"I'm what?" I asked, not willing to let it go. But he was every bit as stubborn as I was. "If you don't want me, Brooks, just say it."

He sucked in a breath so deep it expanded his whole chest.

"Of course I want you," he said, making my heart flip-flop. "You're fucking… perfect, Cal. It's not about you."

It was about Clay.

And Brooks's misguided idea that Clay's final wishes to look after me meant that he couldn't be with me if we both wanted that.

"Don't you think that he'd want us to be happy?" I asked.

"It's… different," Brooks insisted.

"Is it?" I asked, finally moving up onto my knees, then sliding over to straddle him.

His hands went instantly to my hips, his gaze slipping up to mine, as needy as my entire body felt right then.

"Tell me to stop, and I will," I said as my lips pressed into the column of his neck.

I waited.

But the words never came.