I Run to You (17 page)

“Jace, I doubt very seriously anyone who
shows up is going to be someone you ain’t already bedded.”

“Hey. Dude. I’m employed. I’m single. How am
I supposed to find the woman of my dreams if I’m not looking?”

“You’re so full of shit.” Max laughed, but
got up. “All right. Sure. I’ll go with you, if only to amuse myself
by watching you crash and burn.”

“Ha, ha. Round noon?”

“Order them up, and come get me.”

“I will—and just to put it out there, I’m the
one on the prowl, not you.”

Chuckling at that, Max returned, “You’re
still sore over that Jamison girl. Hell. I didn’t sleep with her.
Didn’t even take her out—”

“Doesn’t matter. You ass. I was working her
all night and you just waltz up and get her number—”

“I offered it to you.”

“Like I need you, getting dates, for me.”

“Sounds like you do.”

Jason retorted, “Just give a brother break
and stick to your rich intellectuals. You’re still friends with all
of them. You can call Ivy League ass up over the phone. Me, I did
not endear myself to anyone when I went those schools. I plan to
live here all my life. I want a girl I can mud wrestle with.”

They were both laughing when Jason hung
up.

Max had plenty of time to finish his coffee
and then shower. He was planning all the ways he could get on
Jason’s nerves as he pulled on jeans, slapped on expensive cologne
and a nice white shirt. He dried his hair, letting it settle on its
own, since it was straight in front, the back cut shorter. Carrying
his socks and timberlands into the living room, he sat on a slat
bench he had plopped by the door, and pulled them on.

Max was standing on the front deck, when
Jason pulled up in blue pickup.

“You pick this one, cause it matched your
eyes?” Max teased as he got in and buckled up.

“No. Lee has the work truck today. And, you
smell like a whore,” was Jason’s dry reply as he turned and they
headed out.

Amused, Max looked over Jason’s stylish jeans
and black boots, the aqua shirt he wore. “Renee’s going to know
what you’re there for. Bringing pizza by—looking like you’re
dressed up for nothing—”

“I noticed you ain’t in everyday clothing.”
Jason glanced at him and then snorted.

“I knew you wouldn’t be. Just didn’t want you
look like an idiot all by yourself. See? Brotherly love.”

Laughing, they gave it a rest until after
they had picked up six pizzas and cold beer. When they pulled into
the farmhouse, both were checking out the cars, trying to match
them with a “type” of woman—the ones they didn’t recognize as
belonging to family that was.

Carrying the beer, Max stopped by the Harley,
frowning. He had seen it before, and he just could not place it at
the moment. A real badass bike. Custom…

He caught up with Jason, half way up the
steps, both of them turning to look across the way as someone
yelled over.

“Shit.” Jason snorted. “Dad’s standing on the
porch laughing. He’ll razz us to death over this.”

Max tapped him with the beer, “This, was your
idea. Move on.”

They did not quite make it across the porch
before the sexy reverberation of a slide guitar drifted out.

They looked at each other, stilling. A female
started singing She Daisy’s “This woman needs” in a smoke and
whiskey voice that made a man think of rolling on the sheets,
between warm silky thighs.

They almost knocked each other down getting
through the door.

Renee saw them first, as she was facing the
door and in the center of the living room at the keyboard. Deena,
having inherited all the original antique furnishings, Renee
managed to do a lot with mixed matched pieces. On the left, was a
long antique sofa, in front of an unlit fireplace for now. Brook
sat on it, Max thought, looking like hell warmed over. She had her
wrists over the bass, and had been watching the same player/singer
they had heard through the door. She was dressed in jeans and
purple T-shirt, soft boots, propped on a trunk.

In a swift visual scan, Max recognized Alley,
a five-foot tall Coburn cousin, long brown braid, cowgirl in style.
She showed walking horses, was sitting at drums, near Renee. To the
left was Donna Keats, rhythm guitar, and tattoo shop owner—
sporting much of the body art herself. She was 30; born a Coburn,
divorced, single mother, if Max recalled right—wearing shorts, flip
flops and a sport top. She had long curly brown hair clipped
up.

Two blonde-haired women he didn’t know—that
Jason was making a beeline for—were near the kitchen doorway.

However, Max, after their entrance caused all
music to cease a split second, answered Renee’s knowing grin at
them, with; “We brought beer and Pizza…”

She looked at Jason, and said dryly,
“Thanks.” She had his number. Most of the family was used any
single ones showing up when “available ladies” were around.

Max shoved the case of beer at Jason as soon
he had returned from placing the pizza on the kitchen table.

Max’s eyes were on the sapphire haired
Jordan—holding that slide guitar. He now recalled where he saw the
bike. He was ass thrown that she played slide—or sang like that.
Although—she stopped, and was doing a great job at ignoring them,
scribbling something on a notebook on her knee.

Jason, his palm braced on the thick doorway
facing, leaned above the blonde and was making time.

Max made his way over to sit the opposite end
from Brook, trying to not intrude but having no intention of not
satisfying his curiosity. “You okay?” He leaned over and asked
Brook.

She nodded, holding his eyes a moment. “Yeah,
sure.”

He knew her. That meant she could not—did not
want, to talk about it here.

He looked at Renee. “Mind if I hang around
for a bit?”

“Sure.” She looked around at everyone. They
shrugged, and nodded, preoccupied with whatever they had been doing
before he got there. All except Jordan, who hadn’t stopped
scribbling.

Max had seen her often, at Rafael’s. She was
not his type, physically. So. He did not flirt with her as he did
Sissy and Betina. Not—that he dated everyone he flirted with.
Rarely, in fact. Jason was right. Most of the women he dated were
professionals, intellectuals, a few models. However, when you were
not courting long term, or offering commitment—flirting was a
hobby.

“You blew me away,” Renee was saying to
Jordan.

Max recognized the guitar she played as
Jude’s. He gave his Uncle cred, but what he had heard coming in was
impressive. She had changed up the song, made it hers. He wanted to
hear more.

Lucky for him, Renee also said, “We need some
back up harmony’s on that. Brook can do it.”

Brook intoned, “So can you. We blend okay.
Let’s run through it, before we take a break. Afterwards, I think
we should mix it up with some pop. To get the keyboards and drums
in there.”

“I’m not a lead singer,” Jordan declared
watching her fingers as she plucked a few strings. “I was just
giving you the changes….”

“Are you kidding me? You’ve got a hell of a
sexy set of pipes there.” Renee gaped at her. “I’ve rarely heard a
woman who could mix sexy blues, and whatever that smoky tone you
have, is. It’s unique. I felt my toes curl.”

“Where’d you learn to sing and play like
that?” Donna asked.

Max had been watching the sapphire haired
Jordan. He could almost see her quills come out as she glanced over
at Brook, then down at her hands again. “It’s a long story. I’ll
tell you sometime.”

Max sensed his sister knew something of why
Jordan joked that off, because Brook said, “Some people are just
gifted.”

“Well,” said Renee. “You have to sing with
us. You damn sure should be singing on stage.”

They were talking. Max amused himself while
they did—discussing riffs, chords, passing around tablature sheets
and lyrics—by looking over Jordan’s faded and knee torn jeans. She
wore motorcycle boots and a black aerobic tank.

At Rafael’s, all the waiters wore green
shirts and tan slacks uniformly.

He was being rude, staring. After all, the
two blonde-haired women Jason was scoring with, though not his type
either, were closer to it. The one, he heard Donna introduce as
Shannon, had long blond hair, wore a short white skirt and backless
top, sandals. Nice tan, nice eyes. The other had choppy short hair,
more buttery. She had on micro shorts and a little top that showed
off her breasts.

He mentally shrugged while the women tuned
and talked, ready for either Jordan to play or to roll into
something else. A split second before beginning to play, to sing
that song again, Jordan’s eyes flashed his way—obviously sensing
his stare. She did it under the guise of adjusting the guitar
strap.

If looks could kill.

Max did not know whether to be amused or
confused.

Then she bent her head slightly, began to
play, and he forgot everything else. When her smoky voice started,
“This… woman…who melts to your touch…” Max felt chills wash over
his body. The way it happens when you look, hear, feel, or witness,
something extraordinarily rare. The artist side of him was amazed.
The man side looked at her, the face, the hair, the whole image,
and floored that this tough ass, Harley riding, blue hair pierced
and tattooed waitress from Rafael’s—sang like that. Played, like
that.

“This woman needs…a soft place to land, the
strength of your hand…”

Everyone in the room was motionless watching,
hushed. Even Jason. Max knew this without being able to look away
himself.

To the one playing and singing it though, he
sensed no one else exited. By the second verse, Brook and Renee
came in as backup.

“What this woman needs is somewhere to cry…so
lay by my side… and I’ll tell you…. I’ll tell you…what this woman
needs.”

As the last notes trailed off, Max turned his
head to meet Jason’s wide-eyed stare.

Jason, who was at Rafe's as often as he, was
obviously stunned too. After some whistles and (hot damns,) from
the ladies, they were on to talking; deciding on a pop tune from
Brook’s notebook. Max allowed his mind to drift, all the while
observing her a bit more subtly. He relaxed, stretching out his
legs, arm along the back of the sofa.

They played a damn good— if totally
un-serious rendition, of “I kissed a girl.” with Renee singing
lead.

Max grinned as Donna and Brook echoed, “I
liked it.” All of them doing exaggerated motions and lots of hair
flinging and tongue wiggling. It was hard not to laugh watching
them cut up together. Jordan of course, had her head turned so he
at least couldn’t see her smile.

After that, they were ready to break and
eat.

While they moved around instruments, laughed
and talked, he got his feet and got his own beer. When he came
back, Brook passed him, hugged him, and the others entered the
kitchen.

Jordan was leaning over, by the loveseat she
had sat on, laying the guitar in the case. He eyed the phoenix on
her surprisingly feminine and dimpled spine before she
straightened. She put the two slides, one metal, and one glass in
her front pocket. When she turned to head to the kitchen, their
eyes met. Hers slid away—cool and distant.

He went out on the porch; half sitting on the
banister, hearing louder laughter, foolishness going on, with
Jason’s chuckles blended in.

Jordan came out, carrying a beer.

He declared, “You’re good. Amazingly
good.”

She glanced at him, up and down, in a not
flattering, manner—then away.

Max frowned, straightened, and leaned against
the porch brace, eyeing her jeans, the shirt hem inches above them.
Her sapphire hair—the whole tough look.

“Do you always ignore people who compliment
you?”

“You didn’t compliment me. You commented on
my playing.

“It’s the same thing.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

His mouth parted—almost. He was taken
aback.

“Hey, did I piss you off and not know it or
something?” He tried humor.

“Rich boys like you, piss off the world.” She
grunted and opened her beer. “But me personally? No. I’m just not
in the mood to indulge you.”

“Indulge me—”

“Look,” She stood by the edge of the steps,
held the beer in mid motion to taking a drink. “I’m here to
practice, and at the moment, to have a beer and cigarette. Just
because you’re some kin to these people, doesn’t mean I’d care if
you didn’t say shit to me.”

Max stopped short of blinking. His ego took a
thousand blows too. He could charm women 6 to 60 on a bad day.

Softly, he grate, “That’s some chip you got
on your shoulder.”

It didn’t affect her, apparently. “My
business.”

“I’m—”

She paused mid drink again and stared at him.
“Everyone knows who you are. Even chicks like me watch sports and
see your by lines in papers and magazines. Your face was all over
the place when you won those awards.”

“I wasn’t assuming—”

“Wasn’t you?” she drawled. Her snort came
before she took a drink of beer and then went past him and walked
over to sit in a rocker.

She propped her boot on the porch rail. “It’s
nothing to me if you build your little retreat here and amuse
yourself with the locals, giving Sissy, Betina and Gia a thrill
when you come into Rafael’s—but I’m not one of them.”

Max stared her— honestly too thrown by her
attitude to say anything for a moment.

What he finally uttered was, “It’s a good
thing you do have skill and a kick ass voice. Because you’re
personality—is shit.”

She lit a cigarette and glanced over him.
“I’m not at work, serving your meals, Mr. Griffin. I realize you
are used to being fawned over. I have been around enough to know
what kind of women your sort are seen with. On a public street, you
wouldn’t give me the time of day. So let’s save it. All right?”