Midwest Fighter (Kendall Family Book 2) (6 page)

Finally, I seal my mouth over hers, hoping she’ll feel everything I want to say with a hard kiss. Reluctantly, her lips and tongue answer while she makes a little noise inside my mouth and digs her fingers into my neck. My hands glide up and down her body, appreciating the tightness of her ass and the way she seems ready to tackle me down to the sidewalk. She’s so much more than just a hot body, but having her wrapped around me is enough in itself that I want to drag her away and have her all to myself.

Suddenly, she pulls back. With the side of her temple resting against my cheek, her butterfly-like lashes brushing over my skin, she whispers, “You’re a good man, James Kendall. And you
will
survive this. Don’t let your anger consume you.”

When she leaves my arms, I’m struck with a chill and her absence creates a gaping hole in my chest. In losing her, I’m losing the only thing keeping me grounded.

I’m so busy wading through self-pity when she begins to walk away that the sight of my brother-in-law standing in the bar’s entrance hits me harder than taking a sucker punch in the gut. So much for keeping this a secret from Evelyn.

Calm and collected, Sharlo simply bobs her head at him in greeting. The fact that she’s so casual with him like he’s any other guy makes me respect her personality even more. She’s nothing like any other woman I’ve met. I doubt I could ever find another one like her if I tried.

“I trust you’ll allow
me
the privilege of bringing our girl up-to-date when the timing is right,” she says to him. “I’m fairly certain she doesn’t need any complication to what’s already been a shitty day.”

Charlie’s freakishly blue eyes flicker between the two of us before he slowly nods in understanding.

“Right, then,” Sharlo sings. “Go easy on the big guy. I assure you he’s giving himself more of a beating than any poor bloke who’s brave enough to take him on in the ring.” She pats him on the ass before disappearing through the bar’s doorway.

There hasn’t been much time for me to get to know Evelyn’s husband. He seems like an easy-going guy unless something has pissed him off or someone has done my sister wrong. Based on the way his eyes storm over and his stride is heavy when he starts my way, I brace myself for a serious ass-chewing before he says, “You and I need to talk.”

T
he moment
the private car pulls up in front of Dad’s gated mansion on a hill in Monte Sereno, I let out a breath I swear I’ve been holding since my plane landed over an hour ago. Not that the sight of his third house in five years sets off any fuzzy feelings of home, but I’ve been dying for something to take my mind off the fact that I merely left James without so much as giving him my number. The beautiful man was a mess and in dire need of more than a proper lay, yet like some sort of call girl working for charity, those were the only services I provided.

When Evelyn and Charlie escorted me to the airport early this morning, Charlie’s critical stare and the fact that I haven’t driven in a car in years were the only things keeping me from running back to James.

Dad appears beneath the arched pillar on the front stoop, donning a bright polo shirt with his hands in his khakis and a warm smile spread over his pale lips that creases the skin around his bright blue eyes. For someone about to turn sixty, he’s far more youthful in appearance than one would expect. Only a smidgen of white stands out against nut-brown hair as full and thick as that of a man in his prime, and he’s in the best shape of his life.

Having only recently left the corporate world, he’s transformed into a man of leisure, spending long days on golf courses as well as competing in triathlons. It seems whenever I ring, he’s in one kind of training or another. Since he failed to pass along whatever athletic gene it takes to understand putting your body through that level of torture, I merely celebrate the fact that he’s taking proper care of himself.

As I step out from the car, he’s accepting my suitcase from the driver and shaking the man’s hand, saying something brilliant that has them both laughing.

“My baby girl!” he calls out to me. “Welcome home!”

Despite wanting to roll my eyes at the absurdity of calling something I’ve only set foot in once my
home
, I hurry into his open arms. Caught off guard by the swell of emotions suddenly choking me with his familiar aftershave, I clutch the back of his coarse shirt in my fists. Though I may not be close with either of my parents and only see them on occasion, for the first time in ages I’m able to appreciate the fact that I’m not orphaned.

“I’ve missed you,” I say, sniffling.

His lips press against my hair. “I’ve missed you too, sweetheart. How was your flight?”

“It’s quite unnecessary to fly me first class whenever I come for a visit. I flew economy a few days ago and managed to get along quite well, even without the complimentary meal and entertainment. It’s not so scandalous how the other half lives.”

“Only the best for my girl,” he answers with a chuckle. “Let’s go out back by the pool and relax before you settle in your room. Victoria made a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies with chunks, just the way you like them.”

I back away with a laugh. “You
do
realize I’ve grown into a fully functioning adult and I’m no longer a four-year-old, yeah? I outgrew milk and cookies around the time I stopped lip syncing to Britney Spears in my knickers.”

“That’s blasphemy!
No one
is too old for milk and cookies! It beats that crumpets and tea nonsense your mom was always forcing down your throat when you were little.” The kind of charming smile that helped him become a CEO numerous times tilts his mouth when he reaches for the handle of my suitcase and drapes his other arm across my shoulders. “Speaking of nonsense, have you heard from your mother lately?”

“She hasn’t rang me in some time, but Aunt Camila said there were pictures of her latest rendezvous on Facebook. She mentioned something about the Dominican and a forty-year old Frenchman.”

“At least I know my money is going to good use,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

We haven’t even stepped foot inside the stark monstrosity of a house when I feel the vibration of his phone between us. Flashing an apologetic smile, he releases me to remove the smart phone from his pocket. “The lawyers are still pounding out some details on the sale of the company,” he explains. “Go on ahead and wait for me on the patio, sweetheart. I’ll be there in a minute or two.”

“Of course.”

It comes as no surprise whatsoever that I’ve barely spoken to the man before he’s pulled away by business. It’s what I’ve come to expect every bit as much as Mum’s inability to act like a fully functioning adult.

I hurry across the stone floor through the living room with my head down, unable to stomach the sight of my massive sweet sixteen portrait on display above the mantel like it’s the bloody Mona Lisa. Once I’ve reached the safety of the patio, I let out a long breath as my eyes roll to the top of my head. Although quite lovely, the new Mediterranean-style house is far too grand for one person living on their own who breaks out in hives with the thought of entertaining. The sprawling backyard provides the kind of utopia I can fully appreciate, reminiscent of a Jane Austen novel with lush greenery and old-world charm. Even though the flowers have yet to blossom and the grass isn’t as brilliant as in the summertime, the sun reflecting down on the Olympic-sized pool is a welcome sight.

Ascending down the grand stairway toward the lower level of the backyard where the pool house sits, the silly thought that I’m a princess entering a ball comes to mind the way make-believe often did when I was young. Mum would never allow me to invite my less fortunate schoolmates over to play because she didn’t want them to know she spent life high off her tits and Dad was always gone on business trips, leaving me with nothing more than an overactive imagination to bide my time.

Though Dad would prefer I sleep in a dreadful room clad with pink ruffles and a 4-poster bed that he declared as “mine,” I fancy the smart guest house complete with a state-of-the-art sound system and a well-stocked refrigerator. It reminds me of the similar pool house behind the mansion we lived in a few kilometers down the road when I was a rebellious teenager and threw brilliant parties to bribe others into becoming my mates.

After I’ve retrieved a bottle of imported water from inside, I settle into one of the white loungers beside the pool and release a sigh. Were it not for the fact that I’ll be in LA soon with Evelyn, it would be a complete waste of my time to travel all this way to visit a man who has never really been there from the start. Still, it seemed necessary to at least attempt a connection with him after watching James and his family struggle over the past few days.

It would seem I’m incapable of going mere
minutes
without thinking about my tortured lover. Getting his number from Evelyn and checking in to see if he’s doing alright would be easy enough if I didn’t worry the sound of his voice would evoke memories of his lips on my skin and force me to hop on an airplane back to the Midwest. The way he clung to me when we said our goodbyes broke my heart. Yet here I sit on a multi-million dollar estate, sipping on an over-priced water while he struggles to make sense of his loss.

Made restless by the self-deprecating thoughts spinning through my noggin, I head back toward the house in search of those damn cookies Dad spoke of. Chocolate always has a way of comforting me even if it wrecks havoc on my already full waistline. It reminds me of being a little girl bouncing on Dad’s knee as I devoured the gooey treats. The memory evokes thoughts of the butterflies and suddenly I’m fantasizing about the sweet little nickname James had bestowed on me. Bloody hell, every single thought leads to a game of Six Degrees of James Kendall.

Inside the house, Dad’s voice echoes through the high ceilings, as angry as I’ve ever heard. I find him among the aroma of baked goods inside the cottage-style kitchen, rubbing at his forehead while shouting, “Everything
that happened to you was
your own
goddamned fault! You can’t blame me for all your problems!”

That certainly doesn’t sound good. Even in the throws of an unexpected separation with Mum, I never heard him raise his voice to that degree. Besides, she was usually too high on Oxy to understand that she was a part of any conversation.

When Dad spies me watching from the entryway, he flinches and turns away. “I have to go, Peter. My daughter is in town for a few days. I don’t have time for this.”

He spins back around, setting his phone on the island. “Sorry about that, sweetheart.”

I tilt my head. “Everything alright?”

“It’s fine, sweetie,” he insists with a wave of his hand. “That was just one of many disgruntled employees who got the shaft when I sold the company. They don’t seem to understand that what happened after the buy-out was out of my hands.” Despite a line of sweat forming over his dark brow, he flashes one of his easy-going smiles. “What do you say we sit down with a plate of those cookies? I don’t think I’ve indulged in them since your last visit!”

I don’t bother to dwell on the subject any longer, knowing from the sudden change of tone that he won’t allow any more talk of business even if I tried. That’s how he’s been programmed all my life. Business and family don’t mix in the complex mind of my father.

The familiar exchange makes me feel more at home than I could’ve expected.

* * *

T
hree painstakingly long
days later in which I see very little of Dad and more of his cleaning staff, I arrive in LA. From the moment I find Evelyn in the private room backstage at the events center, pacing like a nutter with eyes wide, she already seems to be at her wit’s end. At least she
appears
the way one would expect the wife of a rockstar to be in the crocheted bodice and faux leather pants we designed together when the concept of the Rocker Chique collection first came into existence.

When I first told Dad that we were launching the business he was rather impressed, but even more so the night before when I mentioned our line was being considered by a few major retailers. His praise meant more than he could imagine. It’s a boost to my confidence knowing I’ve got his support as I plan to put my heart and soul into this business until it’s a success.

“Shar!” Evelyn squeaks, running to me for an embrace. “God, I’m so happy to see you! The stage manager already took Charlie to prepare for the opening song and you would not
believe
all the women Dante has turned away! How the hell do they get in, anyway? They didn’t even sell backstage passes for this tour!”

Eyes rolling toward the ceiling, I back away. “Groupies have a knack for that sort of thing, finding a way in when there’s none to be found. But you have
nothing
to worry about. Anyone who knows Charlie Walker is well aware he’s smitten with
one
woman. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. I hear she’s a fit little number. He calls her ‘pickles’ or some odd thing. Rumor has it he tattooed her nickname on his intimate bits to make his intentions perfectly clear to any slag who manages to get her hands down his pants.”

“Very funny.” Her arms cross over her bare midriff as she giggles. “This is why I needed you here with me. You make me realize how much I’m sweating the small stuff.” Her eyes take in my fringed mini-dress and oodles of jewelry. “You look great, by the way!”

“As do you.” Looping my arm through hers, I plant a kiss on her temple. “Right, then. How do fabulous women such as ourselves get their hands on a drink in a place like this? We need to loosen you up before you’re exposed to the thousands of screaming women waiting for your husband.”

A few minutes later when Dante delivers a bottle of whiskey, I belatedly remember that I could very well be with child and nearly toss my cookies as Evelyn tosses back a swig of the dark liquid. When she hands me the bottle, I point to the doorway. “Hold on. Was that Gavin Rossdale? You never mentioned he’d be here, naughty girl. Were you hoping to keep him all to yourself?”

Knowing Evelyn would lose her shit if the lead singer of Bush were really in attendance, I’m not surprised when she darts to the hallway, searching back and forth like a woman gone mad. When she re-enters the room, frowning, I wipe my mouth like I’ve just taken a pull of the whiskey.

“I didn’t see anyone, Shar.”

“Perhaps I’m suffering from a bit of jet lag.” I set the bottle down on a table and wrap my arm with hers. “Any word from home on your dad’s case?” I ask, hoping to distract her and get an update on James in the process.

“Oh shit, I forgot to tell you!” Eyes wide, she grabs onto my other arm. “Hunter said the FBI has become involved. I don’t completely understand the reason why—something to do with
racketeering
. I guess Dad and Uncle Orin’s paperwork for one of the government farm programs is being investigated. Hunter’s worried Dad was involved in something shady, but I don’t believe it for a second.”

My stomach surges on her behalf. I can’t image anything having to do with their dad and racketeering in the same sentence could be a good thing. “How are the others taking the news?”

The way she releases me and her eyebrows lower, I worry Charlie has told her of my involvement with James and she’s about to give me a piece of her mind. “Hunter’s the only one who didn’t split after the funeral. He said it’s a total madhouse on the farm. Even though he doesn’t know when they’ll let him move back in, he seems to be taking it all in stride.”