Stepbrother Backstage (The Hawthorne Brothers Book 3) (22 page)

The aged, blue-haired motel receptionist looks at me skeptically
as I do battle with my gigantic suitcase, trying to get the damn thing through
the front door. Smiling through my embarrassment, I finally roll the behemoth
up to the counter under her heavy-lidded gaze.

“Hi. I’m just checking in for the night,” I tell her, “The
name is Porter. Mad—”

“And how many of you are there?” she cuts me off, crossing
her round arms.

“…Pardon?” I reply, taken aback.

“How many of your little friends are waiting out there to
sneak in the second I turn my back?” she goes on huffily, “I wasn’t born
yesterday, you know. I know how you young people try to take advantage,
sneaking around when my back is turned. We charge by the person, not just by
the room—”

“Um. It’s just me staying here tonight,” I tell her evenly,
choosing not to be offended by her assumptions.

“Uh-huh,” she drawls, unconvinced.

“Ma’am, I’m really just stopping here to sleep,” I press.

“And what’s a sixteen-year-old girl doing on her own. In a
place like this. At midnight. With a suitcase full of god knows what?” she
asks, narrowing her eyes. “Answer me
that
.”

Ah ha
. That’s what’s going on here. By now, I should
be used to it. Despite the fact that I’m 24, my 5’ 3” height and petite figure
tend to give people the impression that I’m a teenager. Most of the time, I’m
mistaken for the youngest Porter sister, rather than the oldest. But hey, I’m
sure I’ll get a kick out of that someday. Without another word, I take out my
driver
’
s license
and slide it against the sticky counter.

“This should put your mind at ease,” I say briskly, “And as
for the suitcase, well, I’m afraid I’m just something of a compulsive
over-packer.”

The would-be gatekeeper inspects my ID, peering through
thick bifocals. At last, she seems to be satisfied that I’m not going to be
throwing a keg party in my motel room. Or hiding a keg in my luggage, at that.
But she’s not quite done with the third degree yet.

“There won’t be any
men
stopping here to meet you,
right?” she asks, giving me a not-too-subtle once over. “Please tell me you’re
not
that
kind of girl.”

I can feel my blood rising to a low boil. If there’s one
thing I have no patience for, it’s shaming women on the grounds of their
sexuality. My mother may be spacier than Sputnik, but she taught my sisters and
me
to be fiercely feminist in our thinking. I
believe that every woman should have the freedom to make her own choices about
her body, whatever those choices happen to be.

“Tell you what,” I say to the woman behind the desk, “Let’s
just say that I’m the kind of girl who would like the key to her motel room
now, please. Unless you’d rather I find somewhere else to spend my money
tonight.”

“Ugh. Fine,” she says hurriedly, thrusting a square of
scuffed plastic my way, “Have a lovely evening,
Miss
.”

I grab my key and do my best to make a dignified exit,
onerous baggage be damned. My room is on the ground floor of the split level
motel, overlooking a leaf-clotted swimming pool and a stretch of highway. In
one direction lies Spokane, Washington; in the other, Montana. I’ve still got
half a day’s drive before I reach my destination, a lake house my mother’s
rented for the summer in her old hometown. At least, she described it as a lake
house when we talked on the phone. For all I know, it’s actually a yurt. And
come to think of it, she never mentioned renting specifically…we could very
well just be squatting. You never can tell with Robin Porter.

Nudging the door open with my shoulder, I trundle into my
darkened room. I decide not to inspect the space too closely—ignorance is
bliss. After a cursory sweep for cigarette butts, condom wrappers, or dead
bodies, I flop down onto the bed and gaze up at the water stains that blossom
across the ceiling.

Though it’s nearly midnight after a long day of work,
suddenly I’m feeling wide awake. This isn’t exactly a penthouse suite, but it’s
the first night I’ve spent away from my Seattle studio apartment in over a
year. I’ve been working my butt off on the job—trying my best to impress Carol
and Brian. Their creative agency, ReImaged, is a pretty small outfit, but we
still have our share of huge clients. Though we offer a full range of services,
we specialize in event marketing—planning parties and functions that double as
interactive advertising for the company at hand. Allie and I have become the
dynamic duo of the ReImaged event planning department. I love the variety and
excitement that are built into my work, but it’s easy to get swallowed up by a
fast-paced job like mine. This vacation is a very rare occurrence, and even now
I’m finding it hard to stop thinking about the tasks that are waiting for me
back at the office. The second I get back, we’re moving onto our next big
campaign for the denim company Asphalt. I’m already chomping at the bit to get
started.

It’s going to be a struggle to stay in the moment during
this little getaway. Maybe I should listen to Allie and make the most of it.
But what am I going to do for fun here, raid the vending machines and watch
porn by myself? Not really my idea of a good time. Don’t get me wrong, I can
appreciate a good dirty video as much as the next person—but falling asleep to
Pay Per View, Point Of View in a crappy motel would just be
too
depressing. 

As I stare up at the ceiling, a sudden dash of color catches
my eye. The glowing shadow falls through the window above my bed, blinking
softly in the darkness. Pulling myself to kneeling, I tug open the creaky
venetian blinds to investigate. I don’t have to look very far to find the
source of the bright light. There, on the next lot over from the motel, is a
low brick building facing the highway. The place was totally hidden from view
as I drove up. It would be a fairly nondescript structure, were it not for the
glaring neon sign blinking above it, luring in weary travelers like moths to a
flame. The sign’s directive is simple: “Drink Here” it reads, with an arrow
pointing straight to the front door.

“Can’t very well ignore a
literal
sign,” I murmur,
smiling at the kitschy signage. Maybe a nightcap would help me chill out?

The anxiety-ridden part of my brain reels against the
suggestion, and I immediately question the wisdom of braving a dive bar on the
side of the road…at midnight, by myself. But to my surprise, the long-dormant
curious side of me insists on an adventure before turning in. I’ve had a lot of
trouble getting excited about anything since Dad passed away. Even this
slightest spark of interest is out of the ordinary. I can’t just let it fizzle
out.

Squaring my shoulders, I rise to my feet and suit up. And by
suit up, I mean making sure that my canister of pepper spray is tucked handily
in my back pocket. (Hey, you never know.) I don’t want to wrestle with my
suitcase again, so my current uniform of boyfriend jeans and a white tank top
will have to do. I run my fingers through my long, dirty blonde bob, dash on
some mascara, and head out into the warm June night.

Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I try and
look casual, strolling toward the roadside bar. There
are a couple of cars parked outside, and a handful of motorcycles to boot. I
have about as much experience hanging around with biker types as I do kicking
back with Siberian tigers. For all I know, they’re equally dangerous company to
keep. The men I’ve dated have always been upstanding, clean-shaven, law-abiding
blokes…each one more painfully boring than the next. I’ve never been one to
tangle with bad boys. But tonight, I’ll wander into the tiger's cage. Even if
only to see one up close.

With a deep, steadying breath, I step up to the door of the
bar. I can hear voices and music from inside, an appealing sort of din. The
wide front windows could use a good scrubbing, but I don’t spot any bullet
holes. That’s a good sign, right? Wrangling my face into a neutral expression,
I push open the heavy door and cross the threshold.

The signature smell of liquor, cigarette smoke, and sawdust
rolls over me as my eyes adjust to the low light of the bar. An ancient juke
box wheezes out a classic hard rock tune, which underscores the rumbling tones
of male conversation. A group of men in leather cuts are huddled around the
pool table in back, in the middle of a game. There are a few women hanging
around them, too, rocking micro-mini skirts and bare midriffs. The bar itself,
a long slab of rough hewn wood, is spotted with solo men, cradling their beers
in silence and watching a hockey game playing on the TV hanging in the corner.
There are enough people around to put me at ease, but not so many as to be
overwhelming.

So far, so good. Now maybe I’ll actually be able to relax
and enjoy this drink. I sidle up to an empty stool at the very end of the bar
and climb up. This place is definitely built for big, strapping men, so it
actually does feel like a climb for my shorter self. The guys around me are so
engrossed in their games and pints, that they don’t even notice my presence. I
have to admit, I’m just the slightest bit put out by this. I half expected all
their heads to turn in unison when a new woman walked into their midst, like in
the movies. Guess I’m not exactly what you’d call a classic head-turner, though
honestly I don’t spend too much time worrying about it.

I peer around the stoic, handlebar mustachioed man sitting
one stool down for me, searching for a bartender. As I run my eyes along the
long rows of amber bottles and stacked glasses, a towering figure shifts at the
edge my periphery. I swing my blue-eyed gaze toward the end of the bar and find
that a tall, broad-shouldered man has appeared there. He stands facing away
from me, his muscled back rippling beneath a plain black tee shirt as he
reaches into the bar’s cooler for a bottle of beer. His well-worn jeans are cut
perfectly to his tapered waist, and I can’t keep my eyes from taking a good,
long look at his fine, sculpted ass.

But it’s not until he turns my way that I feel the rest of
the world fall away.

A crown of loose brown curls tumbles across his forehead,
falling to just above his collar. Long enough to be gorgeously scruffy, but
definitely not unkempt. His solid jawline is shadowed with dark stubble, giving
way to sharp cheekbones and a full, firm mouth that’s twisted into a wry
half-smile. He’s got to be over six feet tall, with a perfectly balanced and
seamlessly
muscled body; a body that strikes me
as evidence of both a genetic miracle and a ruggedly physical lifestyle. But
while this man would catch my eye any time he entered a room, it’s his eyes
that keep me staring at him with rapt, awestruck attention.

They’re the most beguiling, brilliant shade of hazel I’ve
ever seen in real life. Their color seems to shift with every move he makes.
Yet it’s the content of his eyes that’s most arresting of all. There’s a depth
to his gaze that’s seemingly bottomless. He has the eyes of someone who has
seen worse things than most people can imagine, lived through harder times than
many could survive. But despite that vast experience, there’s mirth there too.
The devil-may-care defiance of a true adventurer. Those right there are the
eyes of a warrior. A knight. A man who’s well acquainted with battle.

And right now, those eyes are swinging my way.

His gaze locks onto mine with a sniper’s precision, and I
watch as that small smile widens just a hair…at my expense.

“You must be lost,” he says in a rich, clear baritone.

“Wh-what’s that?” I stammer, feeling about two feet tall.

“I know every face that walks through that door,” he goes
on, nodding toward the exit. “And yours ain’t one of ‘em.”

“Oh,” I reply, straightening my spine, “I’m just, uh…passing
through.”

Passing through?
I chide myself.
What is this, a
John Wayne movie?

The man behind the bar nods, amused, and begins to turn away
without comment. I feel heat rise into my cheeks at being brushed off. What, is
he just going to completely ignore me? I have as much right to be here as
anyone else, even if I’m not exactly his preferred clientele. It’s not exactly
unreasonable to expect a bartender to take your drink order, is it? I call
after him, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

“Could I get a drink, please?” I ask him.

His head snaps back toward me with a look of indignation. He
cocks an eyebrow, giving me a raking once-over that leaves trails of heat all
along my skin. A searing pang twists my core—it feels something like longing.
Or ire. Or both?

“Do I look like a fucking bartender to you?” the man shoots
back at me, drawing the attention of a few other guys along the bar.

“Well…You do seem to be tending the bar,” I point out,
gripping the edge of my stool to keep my hands from shaking.

He tosses back his head, giving his dark curls a toss as he
lets out a bark of laughter. In one swift motion, he sets the lip of his bottle
against the bar and brings his fist slamming down, sending the cap flying.

“Nah. I’m just in a habit of getting what I want for my own
damn self,” he tells me, taking a long swig of beer. I watch those full lips
press up against the glass bottle and feel a jolt of sensation run down my
spine. He lowers the beer and shoots me an arrogant wink, “Don't jump to
conclusions, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe, asshole,” I shoot back before I can
stop myself.

That
gets his attention. For the first time, he
actually seems to pause and consider me. That pang in my belly rings out to the
very edges of my body as his gaze lingers on me. How can I be so viscerally
attracted, so automatically responsive to someone who’s clearly an arrogant
dick? Maybe it’s just pent-up sexual energy from these past few months of
lackluster lovemaking with Paul… Though I suspect this new guy would have the
same effect on me no matter when he happened to cross my path.