Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
It had sounded like a good idea when she’d thought it up—sweet, maybe even brave. But now, sitting in the front seat of her Bug outside the garage, Brandi wasn’t so sure.
Still, here she was—parked in front of the garage, engine off, headlights casting two pale cones against the closed bay doors. The bag of takeout sat on the passenger seat, still warm. Her palms were clammy.
It had been weeks since she answered any of Tool’s calls. Avoided going anywhere she might run into him. Which meant she’d stayed locked up in her apartment. Parked her car out of sight instead of on the street. She’d become the coward she accused him of being.
Leaning forward, Brandi rested her forehead against the steering wheel. She tried to breathe through the knot in her throat, to summon the kind of courage she used to have. The kind that hadn’t gone all soft when it came to him.
She’d seen him leaving LuLu’s and drove past without so much as a nod. She’d picked up her car later that same day, half-hoping he’d still be around. But he wasn’t. No note. No sign. Just the fixed-up Bug and a few words from Wrench about what had been done.
Earlier today, she’d seen him again—briefly. Parked outside the Firehouse. She’d watched from across the street as he walked inside, still broad-shouldered and unreadable, the kind of man you couldn’t look away from, even when you knew you should.
Why?
Because she loved him.
And her heart, stupid thing that it was, didn’t seem to care that he’d never said the words. Never made a move. Just hovered at the edges of her life like a shadow with warm hands and haunted eyes.
She blamed herself for leaving without so much as a thank you. She’d left to escape the pain that would come when he didn’t want her as his ole lady. She’d had enough of chasing the uncatchable.
A knock at the window jolted her upright. She turned, breath catching, and found herself staring into eyes the color of dark chocolate, unreadable as always. Tool.
He didn’t wait for her to roll the window down. He opened the car door instead, gaze dropping to the plastic takeout bag she fumbled to grab.
“I brought dinner,” she said, her voice thinner than she liked.
He arched a brow. “Did you?”
She swallowed. “I thought we could talk.”
Tool didn’t move, didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, one hand resting on the roof of the car like he was deciding whether to lean in or walk away.
Brandi lifted her chin. “If you’re not gonna deal with this… us… then I will.”
A beat. Then another. Finally, Tool stepped back, giving her room to get out. “All right,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
Talking to her—seeing her—was the last damn thing he wanted to do.
But there she was, sitting in her blue Bug with a takeout bag on the passenger seat and a look on her face that shattered something in him all over again.
It hurt to look at her. Hurt more to hear her voice.
He’d been spiraling since the fight with Killer. The bruises had long faded, but the shit that surfaced between them hadn’t. He’d told himself it was fine.
Then she rescued him from drowning in a bottle of scotch. Stayed with him through the night.
Before that, he’d thought he’d made it clear she was his—maybe not in words, but in the way he watched her, looked out for her, didn’t look at anyone else. That had to count for something, right?
Then came the car wreck. And everything went straight to hell.
Tool clenched his jaw as the memory surfaced. He hadn’t even known it was her on the side of the road that night. He’d driven right past with the others—headed for a bar, chasing beer and noise like it would fix what was unraveling inside him. Hadn’t even glanced twice at the accident.
By the time he found out it was Brandi, it was already too late. The guilt twisted in his gut every time he thought about it. She could’ve been injured more than the sprained ankle, bruised ribs and some scratches. Alone. Scared.
And he hadn't been there.
That night proved what he feared most—he wasn’t good for her. He didn’t show up when it mattered. He never said the right thing. Never made the claim official.
Then after months, he’d thought they turned a corner.
He left everything up to her, not wanting to be overbearing and controlling. Not wanting to scare her off. He had thought backing off was the right thing to do. That if he kept his distance, it’d be easier for everyone.
Now here she was, bringing him dinner, standing in the silence he created and asking to talk like he hadn’t failed her in every way that counted.
He looked at her again. She was holding the bag a little too tight, like it was some kind of shield. Her voice had shaken when she asked to talk, but her chin had been high, her spine straight.
Braver than he was. He stepped back and gave her room to get out of the car—not because he was ready, but because he owed her that much. At least.
“All right,” he repeated, voice rough. “Let’s go up, and talk.” Leading her upstairs, he opened the apartment door and waited for her to walk inside.