Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Bailey
W hat happened between us ten years ago was a mistake I’m not planning on ever making again.
I know I said I’d moved on, but goddammit hearing him say that fucking hurt. Like a sharp knife dug into an already bleeding wound, I had to hope I wouldn’t bleed to death from the constant reminder I’d meant nothing to him. I tried my hardest to swallow back the tears burning in my eyes as Nash promised my brother there was no way he’d ever make the mistake of touching me again.
Which finally proved what I'd always suspected was true. Jase knew more about what happened between Nash and me the night of my eighteenth birthday than I’d first believed. I’m one hundred percent sure Jase was part of the reason Nash disappeared. The only question is why is he now acting like it never happened?
I knew I hadn’t imagined hearing voices outside Nash’s room when I walked out after he confessed being with me had been a mistake. Though, when I did, there was no one out there. So I’d run home instead of returning to the party, assuming Nash probably freaked out about what had just happened between us and needed some space to work it all out in his mind.
Boys worked that way. They never thought before they jumped off the cliff. Not until they were free falling and drowning in the depths of the frigid water, frantically reaching for a safety raft to pull them out.
I figured it would take him a few days to realize that raft would be me. I would be the one to pull him out of his thoughts and calm the waves of unease that were threatening to drown him. What I never expected was to wake up the next morning, still reeling from the exhilarating feeling of being with him, to find him gone. To find he’d given up, and I found myself drowning with nothing or no one to keep me afloat.
Especially when Jase, who’d been his best friend, didn’t seem to care.
After Nash left, Jase didn’t seem so preoccupied with finding out why his best friend fled town, letting no one, not even his family, know where he was going or why he was leaving. I thought maybe he knew and was just covering for Nash, but as the years went by, that seemed less likely to be the truth.
It made no sense then, and it makes no sense now.
Why is Jase adamant on convincing me to let Nash into my home?
To let him into my world, my safe space. Maybe it’s because he never fully understood the extent of what Nash’s leaving did to me. It broke me. Made me a husk of the girl I once was. I changed everything about myself. Took on a new identity, changed my plans, outfits, my morals—all to outrun the ghost of him who haunted me infinitely.
I did so well to hide the truth behind all of those changes. I’d blamed it on rebellion. A Christian girl out in the real world, away from her sheltered upbringing. When in reality, it was that life I was running from and I was willing to do anything to escape the reminders of him.
Everything about Crossroads reminded me of Nash. The last two years of school, I rarely visited home, even though our campus was a quick road trip away. If I did, I avoided people who weren’t my immediate family at all costs.
It’s nearly two am when we lock up for the night, the last of our stragglers being safely placed into Ubers to ensure no one leaves Stingers intoxicated, causing some tragedy. It’s all part of the deal. We serve so long as you follow our rules, and that means we take your keys if you’re too intoxicated to drive. We make the judgement call.
“Alright, B. I’m heading out,” Jase calls out, grabbing his jacket that’s hung behind the bar counter. After appearing suddenly while I was arguing with Nash, he stayed the entire night by his side, the two of them chatting it up as if they remained the best of friends.
At first, things seemed tense and awkward, but soon enough, they were laughing and acting like the old friends they once were. Until they plotted to ruin my night, and the next two months of my life, convincing me to let Nash stay in my apartment. The same Nash I’ve loathed and resented for so long, by preying on my one weakness—to help those in need. Nash needed a place to stay since apparently no one else in town would take in a stray.
Too bad for me, I was known to take them in. When I was five years old, I brought a baby possum into my room when I found it crying out by our chicken coop one night. I’d told my mama it was cold and alone looking for its mama, but she wouldn’t have it and threw it back out in the night. I cried for hours and from that moment on, promised myself to always help someone in need despite who they were or where they came from—and apparently, despite what they’d done to me.
I pretend to wipe down the counter once more, though it’s now squeaky clean, and act as if I’m not attentively eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Nash,” Jase calls out before heading toward the front double door. “It was good to see you again, man. Hope you’ll stick around for a while.” Nash nods his head in agreement, but they don’t make a move to hug or even shake hands. “Let me know if you or Monty need help with anything around the ranch.”
Have I been swallowed into some alternate universe where no one but me remembers the last ten years?
One thing is leaving the past in the past, but picking back up where they left off. There has to be something going on with Jase. Guilt, possibly for being part of the reason Nash left to begin with? It’s just unlike him to be this nonchalant about something I knew angered him for so long. I’ve suspected for a few days that Jase’s keeping something from me. He’s not only been acting distant and ignoring my messages and calls, but this calm and collected demeanor is unlike him.
I toss the dirty towel in the hamper under the bar and push through the swinging doors toward Nash. He lifts his head up from his phone when he hears me approaching, giving me a dangerously wicked smirk as I halt right before him.
I stand quiet for a moment, my gaze raking over him, unable to fathom how incredibly sexy he looks standing there, leaning against the table in that sinful leather jacket. There’s a patch of a skull sewn onto his shoulder, but I don’t allow myself to look close enough to make out what it says.
Those dark blue eyes are unreadable. So much tension bottled up in them. They’ve seen so much, yet when they look at me, it’s like I’m the only thing they see.
I clear my throat when his smirk widens, letting me know he’s caught me ogling him. Again. “You need to go pick up your stuff or something?” I ask, suddenly nervous about being alone with him.
He smiles, pearly white teeth gleaming at me. “Got everything I need in a bag on the back of my bike. Didn’t come with much. Remember, I ain’t here to stay long.” He lifts the duffle bag he must have gotten earlier tonight to show me.
Of course, he can fit his entire life into a small leather bag. Nash doesn’t seem like the type of man to set down roots wherever he’s been.
“Alright then, Bishop. Let me show you your new home.”
Nash follows me down the long corridor on the left side of the bar, where we have our liquor storage, the office Jase, Penny and I share, and a staircase leading up to my apartment. We take the stairs to the second floor and up to my front door, a rustic wooden door with one of those vintage brass door knockers you see around the older buildings in town. I kept it since ?it gives the place character and shines some of the history behind the building.
Before Jase and I purchased the foreclosed property from the bank, it was home to a town legend. The Old Nellie was the most popular honky-tonk this side of Tennessee after it first opened its doors in the sixties. But after nearly forty years, and the death of its owner, Nelson Harper, Nellie’s was forced to close the club's doors. Nelson himself had run the place bankrupt, running an underground gambling ring in the basement, and riling up a debt unlike anyone in Crossroads had ever seen.
My grandaddy Benson King was the one who’d told us stories of the Old Nellie in its prime and it was always a dream of mine to reopen a place that could keep the history of Crossroads alive the way the old honky-tonk had.
“What are you waiting for, B?” Nash asks, when I don’t immediately open the door. I’m reluctant to take the step inside, knowing it will only make this incredibly stupid decision I made a reality.
Taking my keys out of my back pocket, I feel Nash’s gaze on me, but I don’t dare turn around. “Wondering if I should have made a deal to let the devil in my home.”
He chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise at the feel of him so close to me. Rough fingers swipe my hair off my shoulder, his hot breath teasing the back of my neck as his left hand flattens against the door, caging me in.
“The devil would force himself in either way, Angel. You wouldn’t know how to keep him out.” God, he smells fucking incredible. The scent of his musky cologne and the whiskey on his lips are a delectable combination of man and mystery. But it’s the way his body presses into mine, forcing me against the door that makes me temporarily stupefied.
“Nash,” I whimper, hating myself for having this reaction to him when deep inside I know I should turn around and shove my boot in between his legs for touching me. But I don’t, because I know the moment I turn around to face him, I won’t be able to stay in control.
A dark, thunderous growl leaves him and I nearly jump out of my skin at the daunting yet invigorating sound. “Open the door, Bailey. Before one of us does something, neither one is ready for.”
Once he steps back, I quickly unlock and open the door, flicking on the light as we step inside. Nash closes the door behind us and follows me further into the living room. Relieved that I took an extra twenty minutes this morning to tidy up the mess of takeout and empty ice cream containers Monroe and I had gone through the past two nights, I grab the last bit of glasses from the coffee table and set them in the kitchen sink.
“Welcome home.”
Nash moves through the small living room, slightly enlarged by the cream-colored paint on the walls, silently looking around at the photo frames I set up along the bookshelf by my television. There are various photos of my brothers and I, but most of them are of the girls and me from our days in college, and more recently, the grand opening of Stingers earlier this year.
“So you’re in the living room and this is the kitchen.” No shit, Bailey. Of course, he knows this is a kitchen.
Nash Bishop is standing in my living room, staring at the bright yellow kitchen I’ve yet to paint and remodel. The tenant before me was an artsy woman who decorated the space like she was in some Andy Warhol museum with pops of bright color across the whole space. I haven’t had time to redecorate, only focusing on one room at a time, which so far are to be my bedroom and the upstairs loft.
He remains silent as he walks further into the room and takes in the small place. Thankfully, my bedroom door is closed, but the completely disheveled guest room is in full view from where he stands.
Suddenly something catches his eye, and he squats, reaching for it under the coffee table. To my utter embarrassment, he stands and holds up a lime green lace bra which must have fallen while I was folding the laundry last night. Mortified, I reach for it, but he holds it up over my head, playfully taunting me.
“Give it, Bishop.” He chuckles and I quickly pluck it out of his hands and stuff it into my back pocket. Though I don’t miss the way his breathing changes as my chest presses up against his. It lasts no longer than a few seconds but I notice it and it somehow makes me feel empowered to have elicited such a reaction from mister cool, calm, and collected.
“How long have you lived here? Looks like you just moved in.”
I fluff one of the colorful couch cushions, and remove a box from the other, setting it down in the corner of the small dining room I rarely use, afraid he'll find something else entirely inappropriate.
“Six months. But between HoneyBees and Stingers, I’m never home. The place needed a lot of work, which I have had no time to do. Until two hours ago, I wasn’t expecting to have a roommate. The bedroom has a lot of boxes piled up inside. It currently serves as my storage room, but we can move some things around to make room for you.”
“No need. I’ll take the couch.” We both look over at the two small loveseats that don’t even look like I’d be able to lie down comfortably. I’m pretty average sized at five foot five, but Nash is at least six two and I’m not sure both couches together would fit his broad frame.
“The upstairs loft has a futon you can use until I get the guest bedroom setup. It’s usually where the girls and I hang out but, I’m sure we’ll be having our weekly girls’ nights over at Billie’s for the next few weeks.”
I’m sure Monroe won’t be happy to hear Nash is staying with me, but at least she’ll be able to work and live in peace.
“Look, I don’t need much Bailey. Just somewhere to lay my head. I’ll spend most of my time down at the ranch with Monty, getting as much work done as quickly as we possibly can. I’ll take the floor if necessary. Trust me, I’ve dealt with worse.”
“What happened to the backhouse you lived in? I get why you don’t want to stay at the ranch with your dad, but why aren’t you staying back in your old room?” I remember when Jase and Nash spent an entire summer renovating the small rancher’s quarters into a livable house.
“The old man had it knocked down the moment I left. But my dad’s not living at the ranch. He’s currently in a hospital down in Rivers’ Bend. After his heart attack, they found the cirrhosis in his liver was at a stage four. He ain't getting out of there, B. Monty and I are just trying to get the ranch fixed up and sold before he croaks.”
I’m struck by his words, unsure of what to say since Nash doesn’t seem at all disturbed by the fact his father is dying. My heart aches for Monroe. Not because her father deserves any of her grief, but I know this is something that she won’t take easily, regardless of how strained her relationship with him is.
As far as I know, Monroe never had a healthy relationship with the man. For years, he ignored the fact she existed, and things got worse after her mom walked out on them. It’s the reason Monty took guardianship over her as soon as he could.
“I’m sorry things ended that way.”
Nash says nothing, but his gaze leaves mine for just a second before returning. “A lifetime of drinking and nothing else. It’s what the bastard deserves.”
“I’m not sorry for what’s happening to him, Nash. I’m sorry for what it’s doing to Monty, Monroe and…” I pause, unsure if I should even have this conversation with him. In less than ten minutes, I’ve allowed Nash to fit right back into the hole he left. Conversations were always easy between us, even if my crush on him turned me into a nervous, rambling mess.
What the hell am I going to allow him to do in two months' time?
The silence between us is deafening and I much rather have the earlier constant bickering that feels safer. This feels intimate. I don’t want to like the way his eyes look into mine, trying to figure out what I’m thinking. Nash is staring at me like, after all these years, he still knows everything about me. What’s scarier is not only am I letting him, but he does.
I take a deep breath and nervously tuck my hair behind my ear. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it. I leave pretty early in the morning. Most days I open HoneyBees at six.”
“After getting home at nearly three?”
I look down at my watch and exhale. It’s after two in the morning and I know my body’s going to feel it later. Moving around him to grab water from the refrigerator. I grab another and hand it to him.
“Want one?” He takes it without answering, so I continue. “It’s what happens when you own a business. I don’t always close, but it feels like there's always someone’s shift that needs to be covered.”
“You’re going to run yourself to an early retirement.”
Why won’t he stop talking?
“That’s what Billie always says, but I love my job. I love waking up in the morning and heading over to HoneyBees to bake. Sometimes, I’ll get up here and make the pastries to take over instead of baking them there. Only on the days I’m too exhausted to leave any earlier. And then the rush I get at Stingers, with the music, the dancing and the conversation. Taking care of the people in my town, in my home, it’s what I live for.”
He takes a few steps toward me, his movements slow and calculated. Like he wants them to make an impact. “And what about you? Who takes care of you, Bailey King?”
My smile fades away as uncertainty creeps up my spine. “I don't need to be taken care of. I have that all figured out.”
He’s closer now, so damn close I can see the specks of gray in his eyes that swirl around the shades of blue, making them look like a stormy night sky. “Everyone needs to be taken care of.”
I need to put some distance between us, but I can’t move, frozen under his spellbinding stare. “Not you. All this time spent alone, who was taking care of you?” I immediately regret the question, not wanting to hear anything about his time away or who he spent it with. “Never mind, I don’t care who you were spending your time with.”
The grin he gives me should be illegal. Bright teeth, thick lips turned up at the corners in a sly, crooked smirk. “Jealousy looks adorable on you, B. Always did.”
“You’re out of your mind.” I close the last bit of distance between us, foolishly bringing my hand to rest on his chest. Immediately there's a spark of something that zaps me, electricity running through me as I gaze into his eyes.
There’s a small mark under his right eye, one I hadn’t really paid attention to before, assuming it was a scar, but it’s not.
It’s a tattoo. A small, barely noticeable B in script. My heart nearly stops, but I brush off the thought it has anything to do with me. His last name is Bishop. It has to be that. “Cat got your tongue, B? Suddenly the smart sass and quick remarks are gone.”
I try to move my hand away, but he keeps it in place, long tattooed fingers enveloping it and further pressing against him. “No funny business, Bishop.”
There’s that fucking smile again, only this time, his jaw ticks when I dig my nails into his shirt. “Not sure what you mean, Angel.”
A gleam of darkness sets over his eyes, clouding them with what looks like desire. “That right there is exactly what I mean. My name is Bailey, not angel, sugar, darling or whatever the fuck else men like you say to women.”
A loud rumble leaves his chest as he laughs, but doesn’t release me. I try to pull away, but when he refuses to let go, I do the next best thing and take his nipple in between my fingers and pull. “Men like me?”
The sudden twinge seems to further incite his laughter. “The charmers. The ones who think if they talk all sweet and soft to a gal and call her pretty, she’s a sure thing.”
“Well, ain't she?”
His smile is wide and gleaming and I’m fucking pissed. “Quit it, Bishop. Or I’ll kick your ass out before you even unpack.”
With a hand around my back, Nash pulls me in closer to him, my hands flying up to his chest to keep me from crashing against his. I can feel his rapid heartbeat under my palm just as quickly as my own. “I’m fucking with you, B. I’d forgotten how fun it was.”
“Well, don’t, Nash. I don’t need you to fuck with me or play your games. You’re living in my house because you have nowhere else to go, and my brother realizes that’s my one weakness. Not because I want you here. It’s best if you remember that.”
He releases me and takes a step back, his gaze hardening as his sudden playful teasing turns cold. “Got it, B. You’re the boss, you make the rules.”
I want to apologize, feeling bad for being so harsh about it, but it's the truth. The alternative is falling for his charm, and I can’t risk doing that again. Nash will be in town for two months. That’s sixty days of fighting the feelings he resurrected in me with just one glance and an innocent touch. I can’t afford to fall into the place he sent me when he left me. I’m afraid if I do, this time, I won’t make it out alive.