Chapter 8
Eight
Storm
“St-Storm,” she stammers, her fingers clenching on the door like she wants to slam it shut.
And considering the storm—no fucking pun intended—that’s been brewing in me since this afternoon, that’s not a surprise.
“Don’t,” I growl, slamming my palm onto the metal panel.
“It’s late,” she says, fire sparking in her green eyes. “And we’re closed.”
“I’m not here for a fucking drink, Pop.”
Those fingers tighten even further, until her skin stretches tightly over her knuckles, turning them bright white against the soft golden pink of her skin. “Then why are you here?” she asks, like she doesn’t know.
“Now’s not the time to fuck with me, sweetheart.”
Her eyes go wider, her knuckles tighter, but she doesn’t step back to let me in.
Instead, she lifts her chin, straightens her shoulders. “It’s late,” she repeats firmly.
I grind my teeth together, try to summon some fucking patience.
But with each heartbeat that’s passed from the moment I realized what I fucking realized, it’s become harder to grasp.
Until I was practically vibrating with impatience.
Until I couldn’t stay away any longer.
Until I needed to hear the fucking truth from her fucking mouth.
“I’m not leaving,” I grind out. “We need to talk.”
Her voice wavers, those shoulders slumping just the slightest bit. “We can do that in the morning.”
“No.” I hold her eyes. “We can’t.”
She exhales, gaze drifting away.
And a blip of guilt slides through me. She looks tired. And scared. And I’m not making this easier.
But…
I can’t let this go.
“I think you’ve made me wait long enough, Pop.”
Those eyes come back to mine, the green depths heavy with so many emotions I can’t read them all, can’t even begin to.
But it works.
She loosens her grip on the door, pulls it open enough for me to step inside. She backs up as I close it, and a moment later, I’m following her down the dimly lit hall and into the darkened bar.
She moves behind the counter, as though it’s a comfort for her to stand there, as though the old wood is a barrier between us.
A protection.
I frown as she starts pulling out glasses.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stopping in front of her, watching as she begins to gather ingredients with practiced efficiency.
“Making a drink,” she says as she dumps bourbon and gin into a mule cup.
“Or two, rather,” she mutters, adding lemon juice and a couple of dashes from another bottle.
The crack of a can of ginger beer being opened fills the air, then she’s topping off the drinks, giving them a stir. “Here.” She shoves one in my direction.
“You made me this the other night.”
A nod.
“Why?”
“Because it’s yours.”
My frown deepens. “What?”
“It’s a Storm Warning.”
Now my brows lift in question.
“Uncle Sully came up with it,” she says then adds softly, “The first time he saw you play for the Sierra.”
I barely smother my flinch.
The Sierra. My friends. My family.
And now my fucked-up past.
She shakes her head, smiles softly. “He said you were like a storm blowing in off the coast, completely unstoppable.”
For a few seasons, I actually believed that.
Believed I finally found my place, my family, my future.
Then…
Things changed.
And I’ve been stopped plenty of times over the last few seasons, that’s for damn sure.
She nudges the drink my way and I take a sip. Just like before, it goes down like liquid fire, the tartness of the lemon chasing the flames of bourbon over my tongue. “Who else did Sully name drinks after?”
Now it’s her turn to frown, and I want to stroke my fingers over the V there, want to smooth it out.
Want to ask her a thousand questions about the last years.
Want to discover if she tastes the same, if she still makes those little moans in the back of her throat. If she still uses vanilla shampoo.
And more than anything, I want to know why I woke up alone.
But I need to hear the truth.
So why the fuck are you asking about drinks and thinking about the past?
Before I can come up with a good reason for that, Poppy pulls a menu out of the holder and opens it.
“Storm Warning.” I read the words out loud, take in the little cloud and lightning bolt beside the list of ingredients.
Then continue reading, “Clover Honey.” Bees and a honey pot.
“Bitter Blossom.” Flowers and a bottle of champagne.
“The Fine Print.” A pen and a ruler. “Close Quarters.” A bed and a golden retriever.
“And,” she says softly, tapping the heart and soft pink cartoon lips, “the town favorite—The Cedar Kiss.”
Vodka. Peach puree. Orange liqueur. And simple syrup.
Christ. I bet that goes down like juice.
No wonder it’s a favorite.
“I can guess who the Clover Honey and Bitter Blossom are about”—her friends are named Clover and Blossom, after all—“But what about The Fine Print and Close Quarters?” I ask. “Did Sully come up with those too?”
She nods.
“Who’re they about?”
A shrug. “Who knows? Sully…” A sigh as she shakes her head. “Well, you know what he was like. Always marching to the beat of his own drum and keeping his own confidence.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He was that.”
A stubborn bastard with the foresight of a true psychic.
And the balls to back up his predictions.
All of that’s the truth.
But it’s not the reason I’m here.
Yet, I still find myself saying, “Will you make me a Cedar Kiss next?”
Her eyes come to mine and she sighs softly, shakes her head. But she grabs two more glasses, starts mixing up what I presume are two Cedar Kisses, especially when she grabs the vodka and peach puree.
I take a long sip when she passes me one of the cocktails, and I instantly see why the sweet drink is a town favorite. “Yup,” I mutter. “Just like I thought.”
“What did you think?”
“That it would taste just like juice.”
She laughs softly. “You’re right,” she says. “And it’s taken down more than one unsuspecting townsperson.” Her mouth hitches up. “And many more unsuspecting tourists.”
I chuckle, take another sip, and silence falls between us.
It’s comfortable—sitting across the bar from her—even though I never did it before I left town. Her uncle Sully was a lot of things, but he wasn’t about to risk his liquor license serving an underage kid with a chip on his shoulder and enough alcohol in his own house to get an elephant drunk.
Always plenty of booze.
Meanwhile, I had to buy my own food.
And hide it because my drunk dad didn’t have boundaries…or know to not eat an entire week’s worth of food in a single day whenever the mood struck him.
Thankfully, there were always leftovers at The Shack.
But imagine not providing for your kid—
That thought fans the flames of old anger into something new and bright and…dangerous.
Because I suddenly remember why I’m here.
Because I suddenly remember I did that.
Seven years of being a deadbeat dad.
Seven years of memories lost.
Seven years of—
I push the drink away, and Poppy jerks, her face paling. But her chin comes up and her shoulders straighten and…
She pushes her own drink away, says softly, “Just ask your question.”
Anger pulses anew, my words clipped out like bullets. “I don’t think it’s a fucking question, Pop. It’s pretty fucking clear.”
Bubblegum ice cream and gray eyes and—
What?
So many other things I don’t know.
Because I wasn’t fucking there.
I hold her deep green eyes and wait.
And as the silence stretches, my anger ratchets up, twisting and twining through my middle, sharpening the edges of my rage until it feels ready to burst free, to lash out, to hurt her.
God.
How fucked up is that?
I want to hurt her.
Fucking hurt her.
Especially when Poppy whispers—
“She’s yours.”