Happily Ever Alpha: Until Midnight Page 2

  Jamie was about to say more when his phone chimed with a text.

  "Look, just be careful, all right?" he said quickly, abandoning whatever he had planned to say first, then looked at the screen. "We have a location."

  "Location for what?"

  "A race. Do you want to come?"

  "No." It wasn't really my thing. Not anymore. I'd been the daughter of the island's founding father of racing. Ritchie "Rich Boy" Risto. So much had changed, without him around it wouldn't be the same. Jamie paid the check since it was his turn to treat.

  "Next time, we're going out for steaks since you're buying." He grinned, then stuffed his wallet in his back pocket as he stood.

  "Be careful out there tonight, Jamie."

  "Always." Then he pecked a kiss on my cheek and left.

  Weeks had passed since my night with Brando. Seventeen days to be exact. I kind of expected him to come after me, but he hadn't. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Everywhere I looked, there he was. It was like the universe had gotten a kick out of messing with me. The truth was he'd always been around, I'd just been too trapped in my own world to notice.

  Then there was the relationship he had with a girl named Tayia Jones. I'd heard the insane rumors about her. Cable reception was a little shoddy on the island, which meant real-life drama was the primary source of entertainment. I hadn't realized that the "other guy" tangled up in that triangle was Brando. Jamie had warned me the King brothers had a reputation. Apparently, that wasn't a lie. What Brando did with other women was none of my business. I had more pressing things to worry about.

  Besides, he had done as I'd asked and kept his distance...sort of.

  ****

  I couldn't believe I'd agreed to come to the party, but it was Harley's birthday. On a whim, I took a job waitressing at Annette's Catch. The help wanted sign in the window of the little beach bar caught my attention. I'd needed the money, and it looked like the sort of place that wouldn't ask a lot of questions. The girls at the restaurant, Harley and Jonna, had been the closest thing I had to friends. Building a social life had been a low priority for me since I'd been back home. It was sad to have grown up in a place where almost nobody knew me.

  The second I walked onto the back deck of the little house Harley shared with her boyfriend, Fox, I was ready to go home.

  "Have fun, dammit," Harley yelled over the loud music and handed me a beer. I took it and looked around. There were lots of familiar faces. Some were restaurant staff and others were customers. Some of them I'd recognized as racers. Sea Whisper Island was a seven-mile stretch of land just off the coast of South Carolina. It was a semi-isolated community that could only be accessed by boat from the mainland and had a ferocious street racing culture. Like my brother, Fox was also a racer. I was surrounded by laughter and car talk. I felt worlds away from that kind of life. Every time Harley caught my eye, I put a fake smile and pretended to be having fun. Just biding my time. A few more shots and she wouldn't notice me sneaking out of there.

  The house was situated right on the beach, and a fire pit had been lit several yards from the wooden deck. The night breeze held a little bit of a chill, and I regretted not bringing a sweater. Pushing through the crowd, I moved down the stairs toward the warmth of the fire. On the last step I removed my sandals and let my toes sink into the soft sand. Flames flickered in the darkness and waves crashed in the distance. I was far enough away from the commotion. Out there I could think a lot better, which wasn't a good idea. I hated obsessing over about things I couldn't control. It was a helpless feeling.

  There was an uproar of loud voices behind me. I turned and saw that a new group of people had arrived. A tall, lanky man with longish dirty blond hair was giving out bro hugs and laughing at something. I didn't know why, but I couldn't look away. When the crowd began to shift, Brando was standing there. He had lifted his head as if he were searching for something, then his eyes found mine. He held my gaze briefly, then looked away when someone approached him. A woman. The cute brunette handed him a beer, then stumbled and giggled. Brando reached out to steady her. She wrapped an arm around his bicep as she spoke in his ear. Brando leaned over and lowered his head to listen. I didn't know who she was to him, but the familiarity with which she touched him made me feel a little stabby.

  It was time for me to leave.

  I took the long way around the deck, hoping my exit would go unnoticed. When I reached the stone path on the side of the house, I dusted my feet off and slipped on my sandals.

  "Carina?" I turned around to see Brando jogging toward me. "Wait up. Where are you going?"

  "Home," I answered, searching my purse for car keys. "Where's your...um...friend?" I wasn't even sure why I'd asked him that. Like I'd said, it was none of my business. When he didn't respond, I lifted my gaze. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" His mouth had curved into a small smile.

  "No reason." Then he reached for my hand. It took a second for me to realize he was drawing something on the skin of my inner wrist. His shadow had blocked the light, so I couldn't see what he was doing. It didn't hurt, and for some reason, I let him do it. When he released my arm, I saw he'd written 'Brando' vertically along the center of my inner wrist in a thin, neat script. I'd forgotten he was a tattoo artist.

  "Why did you do that?" I asked, cradling my newly tagged wrist in my hand.

  "So you can remember my name." He put the lid back on the pen then tucked it behind his ear.

  "That's silly. Of course I know your name."

  "Really? I haven't heard you say it once."

  "Yes, I have." I protested, though not really sure if that was true.

  "All right, say it now." He stepped closer, and I had to tilt my head way back to look at him.

  "Fine." I scoffed, "I'm not afraid to say your name," then I swallowed hard. "Brando." My voice sounding breathy as my heartbeat quickened. He was so close I could smell cologne mixed with the natural scent of his skin. I remembered burying my nose in his neck and inhaling just as I bit down. His groans echoed in my memory. I met his gaze and found his eyes were dark and clouded with passion.

  "Fuck," he whispered, pulling me to him. Before I could think, his lips were on mine, his tongue plunging deep as he pushed me against the wall. I hungrily kissed him back, open-mouthed and panting. The stubble on his face felt scratchy against my skin as I gripped the hair at the back of his head, holding him tight. He released me as quickly as he'd grabbed me. I stumbled backward, putting my hands against the wall for support. A group of people had started walking down the path, talking loudly and laughing. Brando grabbed my hand and pulled me around to the front of the house.

  "Yo," a male voice called from the crowd. "Yo, Brando." We stopped moving then Brando let out a defeated sigh before turning around.

  "Yeah?"

  The man came down the path with his arm around the cute brunette from earlier. She had been leaning on the guy for support, her legs wobbly and her eyes half closed.

  "Rosie is trashed, man. We need to get her home."

  Brando ran a hand over his face then looked down at me.

  "Un-fucking-believable," he mumbled, looking honestly torn over what to do. Thirty seconds before that I had been prepared to follow him wherever he was taking me, but that little interruption had provided enough time for me to regain control of myself. As much as I had resented the sight of Rosie, she'd been the best thing to happen.

  "I'd better go. I'm parked over there." I tried to loosen Brando's grip, but he wasn't ready to release me.

  "Carina, wait..." he said, still holding on to a few of my fingers, "can I come to your place later?"

  It was tempting. So tempting.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brando

  I had the worst fuckin' luck of anybody I knew.

  I carefully shoved Rosie onto the backseat of my car, then slammed the car door. I'd been so close to spending the night with Carina again. The way she hesitated when I asked her about going back to her pl
ace. The words had been on the tip of her sweet tongue. The taste of her lips and her smell on my shirt still lingered. I could have been balls deep in her that night if Rosie hadn't ruined it all up by emptying her entire stomach right there in front of everyone. The crowd that had brought Rosie to me scattered like a bunch of cockroaches, leaving me all by myself to get her cleaned up and in the car. I started the engine and Rosie began to mumble and moan.

  "If you throw up in my car, you are fired," I yelled over my shoulder and started the engine.

  She was an apprentice at my tattoo shop, East Street Ink. She started off as a regular canvas, then started designing tattoos for clients. One of the other artists had suggested offering her an apprenticeship. Rosie had been a nice girl despite her edgy appearance. Long jet-black hair, bright red lipstick, and one arm covered in ink that stretched over her shoulder, down her bicep and stopped at the elbow. She had also developed a crush on me, but it had always remained low-key. It showed in the subtle things she did. Bring me food even though I'd never asked her to. Linger over my shoulder while I worked. Staying late with me while I closed the shop. Offer to take on the position as cashier for six, sometimes seven days a week without being paid more money. The welcome mat had been rolled out, just waiting for me to make a move. Rosie was just a little...off. I couldn't put my finger on it. Usually, something like that wouldn't have stopped me, and I wasn't sure why it suddenly mattered.

  I banged on the door of the apartment Rosie shared with a roommate. A wide-eyed girl opened the door then quickly directed me to Rosie's room. I had just dropped her on the bed when she reached for me.

  "Wait. Don't leave, Brando," she slurred. I let go of her and moved away before she could grab on to me.

  "I have to leave, Ro."

  "No." She sat up, using her arm to flip the heavy curtain of hair back away from her face. "Why won't you stay?"

  "Because you're drunk. You need to sleep it off." I knew I wouldn't have stayed even if she were sober, but I didn't want to be a jerk. Instead of the easy letdown I was going for, my words had given her hope.

  "Okay." She smiled softly, then sank against the pillow. "You're right. I shouldn't drink that much anymore." When her eyes fluttered closed, I turned and got the hell out of there.

  I loved women. Every shape, color, and size. I just didn't inhale them the way my brother, Mack, used to. He was a collector, an acquirer of beautiful things. His garage was a testament to that, full of vintage and new muscle cars. The only thing that came second to his love of cars was women. And not the normal ones. No, Mack made regular stops at the crazy train station. If a beautiful chick with problems was nearby, he'd find her. His ex-girlfriend Harley might have been the craziest of them all, but just as she was able to start a new life with Fox and change her ways for love, so had Mack. I told myself that I didn't want any parts of that kind of mess...until Carina.

  I thought about her walking around with my name on her hand. It might have been a juvenile thing to do, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing it would take a few days for that ink to wash off. Every time she looked down at her hand, she would think of me.

  On the drive home, my phone rang, and I groaned, preparing myself for the conversation ahead.

  "Hello, Brandon. This is your mother. Remember me?"

  "Hi, Ma." I rolled my eyes. It was the last thing I needed.

  "I guess nobody calls me anymore. I could be dead on the floor for weeks, and neither of my children would know it."

  "Not true," I replied dryly, already bored with the routine. "Besides, Jerry would find you."

  I would've called my mother more if every conversation didn't start off with a guilt trip and end in an argument. I still struggled with the remnants of a bad childhood and a deeply flawed mother. Our father was sent to prison when Mack and I were kids. I don't remember much about him, just that he was a drunk. Not the mean kind, he was just never around. My mother had really struggled to take care of us. We went days without electricity or heat. Dinner mostly consisted of any and everything she could drop into a big pot of water and call soup. Mack and I got jobs to help out with the bills, though she leaned on us pretty heavy. Heavier than a mother should rely on her teenage sons. Just before I graduated high school, she remarried. Jerry was her ticket to leaving everything behind. He fancied himself a businessman. An entrepreneur of sorts. He really just sold random garbage at the flea market. My mother grew convinced that being with him could drastically change her circumstances.

  "So tell me how are things going?" The rasp in her voice had grown deeper with age. She'd always been a heavy smoker and loved to drink gin.

  "Fine, Ma," I answered and took a deep breath before I asked the next question. The one that would get down to the bottom of why she called. "How are you?"

  "Well, since you asked. Not good."

  Her response was not a surprise. She always wanted something.

  "Jerry's job has been screwing up his paychecks. He's been shorted some commission..." My thoughts wandered off, not needing to hear the rest. It was always the same story. It wasn't the first time my mother had called to ask for money. It turned out that Jerry was a lot less ambitious than she'd given him credit for. He'd hopped around from one get-rich-quick scheme to another after his flea market business tanked. Jerry landed a high paying, commission-based job with an insurance company in Phoenix, so they packed up and left Charleston. For a while, things seemed great. They bought a big house with a pool and a couple of fancy cars. I'd flown out there one Christmas, though Mack chose not to go. Ma was happy, and I really wanted it to work out for her. She was far from perfect, but she was still my mother. The downside to working on straight commission is that one bad year could ruin you.

  "I have never heard of such incompetence," she continued to rant.

  "How much, Ma?"

  "Huh?"

  "How much do you need?" I repeated, my patience wearing thin.

  "About eight," she said, not bothering to pretend money wasn't what she was after.

  "Eight hundred?"

  "No, thousand."

  "Eight grand?" I yelled into the phone. "Jesus. What's it for?"

  "If you're going to start hollerin' like a wild animal, Brandon, then forget it." A fake sob sounded at the end of her speech. "I don't know why I even bother," she whined, laying the guilt on thick. Southern women were experts at that. She reminded me of how she was there for us and how it hurt asking her own children for help. Her tears turned to indignation as she went on about how she knew I had the money and that it shouldn't have been a big deal. I listened but didn't say a word. The conversation could only end one of two ways. My mother hanging up on me in tears, then I would give her the money because I felt like shit, or I could just send the damn money before the hysterics got out of hand. Either way, she would get the money, and she knew it.

  "You have no idea what it's like—"

  "Fine," I cut her off before she really overdid it, "I'll put the money in your account first thing in the morning." She mumbled something that sounded like appreciation and then hung up. That was why I didn't call my mother. "Fuck!" I pounded a fist on the steering wheel and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

  Worst fuckin' luck.

  In one night I'd had to deal with my mother wanting money, being hit on by my drunk apprentice, and the only woman I wanted didn't want anything to do with me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Carina

  Seconds before the doors swung open, I felt his presence. I turned and watched as Brando strode into Annette's Catch, his jet-black hair mussed from the wind and wearing a T-shirt with East Street Ink stretched across the front. He settled into a booth in the corner. I approached him, hesitantly, ready to take his order. His gaze flickered to my hand, where his name had grown faint, but it was still there. He gently reached for my wrist then pulled the pen from behind his ear and went over the gray lines, until they were dark. I stood there like an idiot and let him do it...again. When he
was satisfied, he tucked the pen behind his ear and ordered coffee.

  He kept to himself, content with his own company. At closing time he'd drop enough cash on the table to pay for a week's worth of coffees, along with one of his sketches. It was a picture of a coffee mug. He had added a very detailed face complete with freckles and steam billowing from the top. The character looked ill, with a thermometer in its mouth. The caption read, "Coughy." It made me giggle. So I folded the picture and tucked it into my apron.

  A couple of nights later, he came in for more coffee, darkened his name on my wrist, then left behind a drawing of the same coffee cup character. It had droopy eyes and looked like it was trying to walk with wobbly legs. The cup was empty and the word, "Drunk" was written above it. Brando's pictures were silly but clever. It had become the highlight of my nights, and when I got home, I put the drawings in my nightstand drawer. Sometimes I pulled all ten out and stared at them. Then I would glance at his name on my skin. There was something hot about seeing it there. It also meant I was probably losing it a little, too. Brando was making it harder and harder to remember why I'd been staying away from him in the first place. He was giving me plenty of distance and at the same time wooing the hell out of me from afar. How much more could a girl take?

  I'd decided the only way to make it stop was to ignore him. So next time he walked in I pretended not to see him. I had hoped my co-worker, Harley, would make her way over to his table. She loved to go over there and tease him. I'd hoped that if I held off maybe she would wait on him and I could start distancing myself. When time continued to tick by with nobody moving, I spotted her at the bar staring doe-eyed at her boyfriend, Fox.