Chapter 9
9
T hey used to see each other weekly. Then it became four times a year when they took advantage of a few books signings to use them as mini vacations. Over the past few years, they barely saw one another.
Whiskey wanted to blame Stormy living in Colorado, but she’d moved to the West Coast the year before for work. Distance made it a challenge for the two to get together. That and she’d had a baby. Ensconced at the kitchen table, Whiskey sat with her face resting against her hand, listening to Stormy explain to Reeves and his brothers what happened to her face. The small scar that ran across her temple was new, so were the bruises that were faint. Probably three weeks old.
The woman who, at one time, went through men like Whiskey changed panties seemed to be different. Things with her best friend seemed to be worse than what she had realized. Stormy had clearly lost weight. Weight, she didn’t need to lose. Even with the fitted leggings, tall boots, and baggy sweater, Whiskey saw how thin she was. Stormy’s face wasn’t gaunt, but it was close to it. Dark circles marred the underneath of her pretty eyes. The dark color that once held spark now seemed dull.
Whiskey listened as Stormy explain about her ex-Paul breaking into her home and attacking her. She sat up, her eyes glanced around the table, and locked eyes with Reeves. He showed no signs of how what Stormy had said affected him. She watched him move from his seat at the table to stand near the kitchen’s island.
Dropping her eyes back to Stormy, Whiskey let out an exasperated breath. She was done tiptoeing around the subject. “Was your ex arrested?”
“Yes.”
“But?” Whiskey questioned, knowing Stormy was holding out more information.
“I’ve been having notes, letters, and horrible things left for me at my house and on my car.”
“When did you get those bruises? I know they aren’t from when you got the scar.”
“Paul was waiting for me when I got home a few weeks ago. I wasn’t alone. One of my friends had been driving behind me and pulled into the driveway at the moment Paul grabbed me and started slapping me.”
Tired of waiting on stormy to spill everything, Whiskey called her out on the bullshit. “Those bruises aren’t from being slapped.”
Stormy let out a sigh. She had hoped Whiskey wouldn’t ask again after she’d given her the short version earlier. Still, she knew this would happen and promised herself she would avoid it at all costs. Now she had to come clean with everything. “Fine. He punched me in the head about a dozen times before my friend pulled up. I was unconscious at that point and can only tell you what was told to me.” That was right after Paul had gotten out of jail from the break in.
“Which is?” Whiskey said, tapping her fingers on the table.
“Paul walked off, got in his car and drove away. My friend called the cops, and I was taken to the hospital.” After she’d been released, she’d went back to her house with the cops, packed two suitcases full of her things and let them take her to a hotel. Once there, she rented a room on a secure floor. “I stayed there for a few days, then I came here.” Seeing the curious look Reeves sent her way, she explained, “I was packing up to move back to Colorado when he attacked me. That’s why my friend Aaron was following me home. He wanted to buy my furniture for his new place.”
Whiskey was done listening to Stormy making poor decisions. There was nothing for her in California or Colorado except going back to a job she hated. “You’re moving here.”
Floored at her friend’s sudden outburst, not to mention how forceful her words were. “Whiskey.”
“You can quit your job and get a new one here.” Whiskey held up her hand, stopping any argument from getting started.
Stormy shook her head, trying not to let the past six months come flooding back. “I lost my job because of all the problems I’d been having.”
Whiskey stared at Stormy and wanted to cry for her. Looking around the table, she kept waiting for one of the three men sitting with them to speak up. When they didn’t, she made the decision she had hoped one of them would make. “You’ll move here. You can live here at the ranch.”
Looking at Jackson and her brothers-in-law, she gave them a hard look. “Anyone have anything to add?” Staring across the table, “Jackson?”
“I agree that Stormy should live here.” Glancing at his brothers, he got no push back. If anyone should be speaking up, it should be Reeves. He was the one that had a bigger interest in the matter.
Reeves stood near the island, wanting Stormy to look up at him. He needed to see her face. Wanted to see her face. Now standing there staring at her. All he could see was the mass of black hair hanging to the middle of her back in soft waves. He wanted to drown in her deep chocolate-colored eyes framed by thick dark lashes when she looked up at him. He knew when she did look at him it would be the bruises she’d tried covering with makeup and the dark circles under her eyes that would steal his breath. His hands balled into fists at his sides as anger clawed at him.
“Reeves?” Jackson looked at him, then at his balled fist.
Unfurling his fist, he made light of the comment. “I’m good with it. God knows having Stormy’s influence around here will get Whiskey off our backs”,” he joked, trying to ease his mood.
“We need to move Stormy’s belongings from the West Coast here to Texas Creek.” Whiskey explained, ignoring the comment her brother-in-law had made. Was it her fault they dragged their feet when it came to making some decisions?
“Monroe, Jackson, along with myself, will sit down and make the arrangements,” said Reeves flatly.
“My things are in route to Colorado to be stored”,” Stormy spoke.
Glancing down at Stormy, he saw her trying to cover her face with her hair. “I’ve already seen them,” he mentioned before walking off.
Stormy wanted to stop him, but Reeves had already disappeared out of the room. “Maybe I should move out of his suite?”
Whiskey picked up her tea and took a sip before reminding her best friend to let him go. She was sure Reeves was fine with Stormy staying in his room. However, Stormy may find out soon enough that being in a relationship with a Salvador could be daunting. She loved her husband and her brothers-in-law, still they could be overbearing.
When Jackson and Monroe left the kitchen, Whiskey and Parker sat silently with Stormy. There were things Stormy needed to know about Reeves. Things that they hadn’t had time to talk about since she arrived at the ranch.
Stormy knew she shouldn’t ask. She felt like she needed to know. “I know I shouldn’t ask, especially with everything that’s been going on with me, but…”
“I knew you would ask”,” Whiskey said cutting off Stormy’s question. “He isn’t seeing anyone. I can’t remember the last time I even heard him mention a girl’s name.” She knew Jackson was worried about Reeves. Whiskey had seen the scars and the stitches that marred Reeves’ body when he walked into the kitchen without a shirt on. “Reeves isn’t the man you met two years ago.” Whiskey felt the need to warn her friend.
Stormy was alarmed hearing Whiskey’s words. “What do you mean, Whiskey?”
Whiskey glanced at Parker, who leaned back in the chair, leaving her to answer. “Reeves… never mind.”
“Oh, no, you’re going to tell me what you mean.”
Whiskey hated to inform Stormy about Reeves being more hands-on, according to Jackson. “He works a lot.”
“Works a lot?” Stormy gave Whiskey a look that said try harder.
Whiskey looked around before saying anything else. She wanted to make sure the guys weren’t coming back into the kitchen. Leaning in where she could keep her voice low, she told Stormy the truth. “Reeves is dangerous, Stormy, not like in one of our books. He’s lethal and does not mind getting his hands bloody.” She shouldn’t be talking about her brother-in-law like some criminal. Jackson would be upset if he knew. What was she saying? He knew. “He’s not that beanie wearing kid anymore. He’s not the guy you spent time with two years ago.”
Stormy leaned back away from the table thinking about what Whiskey had just told her. Her fingers toyed with a speck of paper on the table. Somewhere in her mind she knew what it meant to be mafia. Not from words in books, but from working with prosecutors and defense attorneys. Did it bother her? She wasn’t sure. Yet.
The word mafia felt like something she’d always known, like a shadow lurking at the edge of every deal, every case she’d ever touched. But it was different now, personal, coming from someone she’d trusted. Was she supposed to care about what came with that label?
Mafia meant power, loyalty, fear. She’d seen it in courtrooms, in the cold steel of a judge’s gavel or the way certain names echoed in whispers between prosecutors and defense attorneys. What did she really know aboutit? Was it something you inherited, or was it something you chose? Sometimes, it was about survival.