Chapter Three

Awet splash hit Kendrick Ashby's head where his hairline met his forehead and rolled down before he wiped it away. He stopped cleaning the bar top as he gazed up. Another drop of moisture hung from the ceiling, threatening to give over to gravity. When it fell onto Kendrick's cheek, he jerked in surprise, although he should have been expecting it.

"Shit." Leaving the towel where it lay, he turned around in a circle with his arms held high and his shoulders tense.

Think, Kendrick. Think.

God, what the hell did he do?

It wasn't until another droplet splashed onto his left cheek that he stopped panicking enough to think to grab the bucket they had stashed under the bar. They used the bucket for the sanitizing water solution. Since TJ's was closed for the next few hours, he would have time to grab a clean bucket from the stock room.

He stepped back, trying to place the bucket in the right spot. A drop of water plunked against the plastic, echoing in the quiet empty room. And then another. And another.

Kendrick stared at the small red bucket, trying to figure out what he did next. He grabbed the bar towel and held it in his hand as he searched for a solution to his problem, settling his gaze on the cash register as if it would give him the next step toward solving his problem.

Kendrick bit his bottom lip as he eyed the telephone. He stepped around the bucket and picked up the phone receiver, dialing the one person he always called when he needed someone.

His cousin Royce had his back on all things. A leaking whatever-the-hell-it-was also applied.

Royce answered on the second ring. "Are you okay, Kendrick?"

Kendrick sighed. How many times had he called Royce, scared out of his mind because everything was a threat? Sometimes, Kendrick couldn't leave the bar at the end of the night and had to call Royce to come get him and take him home, even if it was three o'clock in the morning.

"I'm fine. Fine. Really. It's just that water is dripping from my bar ceiling and no one lives upstairs in the apartment. I think something's broken." He hated how meek he sounded even when talking to Royce, who was just about the only person he trusted in the whole damn world. He hadn't always sounded as if confidence was something that floated above his head like a cloud he couldn't touch. "I don't know what to do."

"Oh." Was that relief in Royce's tone? "Did you check if someone left the faucets on or if a pipe broke?"

"Nothing was left on." He didn't know about the plumbing, but he knew nothing was running, not even the toilet because Kendrick had gone up and turned the water to the toilet off when Andrew, Pickleville's police chief, had moved out a few months ago. And Kendrick hadn't had a problem with water dripping before.

"Not sure about the plumbing?"

"No. Should I go check?" It was daylight and someone might be in the back lot. Sometimes people parked there when they were going to the hobby shop, and Kendrick didn't know if he could handle it.

"If you think you can find the problem." Royce shuffled something around. Papers, maybe. "You could call Brad Flynn. He's done a few things for me around my house. Handyperson type. He could tell what the problem is, plumbing or otherwise, and if he can't fix it, he'll know someone who can."

Oh yeah. That was the blond Adonis who'd fixed the lock on his back door. God, that man did it for Kendrick in ways no one else ever had. If Kendrick ever grew balls enough to ask someone out on a date—not that his relationship record was stellar—he would ask Brad. If Brad were even gay, that was.

He hadn't dated anyone in years. Not since Randall. Most of the time he was fine with it, but sometimes he felt lonelier than right after Randall had finished abusing him. The feeling made him a little sad, but he resolved to stay on his current independent path all at once.

Could one date hurt, though? If they were in public. Meeting at a restaurant would be good.

Kendrick opened the cabinet drawer underneath the register and shuffled stuff around until he found Brad's business card.

"Do you need his number, Kendrick?"

"No. I have it." The card was plain. White with black lettering. No frills. Not even a logo. And it had his cell phone number in the right-bottom corner.

"Are you going to call, or would you like me to do it?" Royce got that coddling tone he always got when he thought Kendrick would chicken out. Or freak out.

But Kendrick could get over his past long enough to make a phone call. And just because the sexiest man in Pickleville would answer meant nothing. He might panic, but he could work through it. Maybe. At some point he had to own the independence he had become so proud of by gaining more. "No, I'll try."

"Call me back if you need me to do it."

"Thanks, Royce." Kendrick hung up and then dialed the number on the card before he chickened out.

He ran a noisy bar, for the love of God. He'd worked through his issues enough to gain some level of success and even managed to handle some aggressive customers. He could damn well make one phone call.

As soon as he heard it ring, he hung up. His breath caught in his throat and his chest hurt.

And sometimes he felt as though he had never made progress. Instead, he put out little fires when they sprung in his mind. Extinguishing them tired him out enough to make him feel as if he had taken two steps back from healing.

Nope. He could do this.

He dialed the number again, and this time turned with his back against the counter where the register and phone base sat so he couldn't hang up again.

Brad's deep voice washed over Kendrick, making him shiver. "You've reached Brad Flynn. How can I help you?"

Maybe he knew it was a business call by the strange number, but a part of Kendrick wondered if he answered like that all the time.

"Hello?" The second time Brad spoke, it made Kendrick realize he had said nothing back.

"Oh, hi. Sorry. This is Kendrick Ashby." Kendrick's voice shook, and he sounded like a scared rabbit, even to his own ears. He looked at the ceiling, imagining his confidence cloud somewhere near the drop of water. Out of reach, like always.

"How can I help you, Kendrick?" Brad repeating that just made Kendrick feel like even more of a fool.

Since another droplet planked into the bucket, he decided to hold his freak-out until after the phone call ended. "Um…so I have water dripping from my ceiling. And I know you can do just about anything."

Brad's deep chuckle calmed some of Kendrick's fires and he relaxed a little. Look at him talking to a hot guy on the phone. "You should lower those expectations a bit."

Was that flirting? Was Brad Flynn flirting with him?

"I meant with construction and home improvement stuff."

"So did I." Amusement laced every word.

"Oh." Oh God, did that mean Brad thought Kendrick was flirting?

"I can come take a look. Just need your address."

"I'm at the bar. I mean, the water problem is in my bar. Where I am right now." Kendrick cringed as he fumbled through the words. He sighed and forced himself to say, "You can come anytime. I'll be here all day."

"I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Thank you."

"It's my pleasure, Kendrick." The warmth in Brad's voice heated Kendrick's blood, and for the first time in years his cock took interest.

Kendrick eyed it as if he had exposed himself to the empty bar, asking it questions. He reached down and covered it with his hand even as he thought about ways to keep Brad on the phone longer. Nothing came to mind and Brad ended the call with a see-you-soon, leaving Kendrick with his half-hard cock and the feeling that maybe Randall hadn't beaten the sanity out of him after all.