The way a man dressed said a lot about him—who they were; what they did; where they’d been. According to Brody’s clothes, I deduced the answers were: a burden on society, two lines up the nose, and saddled up at the twenty-four-hour stripper emporium. The wrinkled white button-up shirt he wore was half tucked in toward the front and wild and chaotic in the back. The sleeves were uncuffed and rolled up to his elbows, exposing ridiculously toned arms.
At some point, he’d undone the first button at his collar, got frustrated, then ripped the next four clean off. The evidence was scattered across the floor with one resting against the soiled toe of my high heel. I kicked it to the side, continuing to study him. With a grunt, one hand flew from his mug and yanked off the tie draped around his neck. The muscles in his forearm tensed as he balled it up and pitched it across the bar railing.
Nice throw.
This version of Brody Harcourt looked nothing like the man I remembered. Then again, I doubted he gave a damn if he lived up to dress code since his mother tried to murder his entire family.
I should know.
Bits and pieces of the last year flashed through my head. The confusion. The loneliness. The pain. Refusing to lose control, I closed my eyes and blocked the darkness from rolling in.
No emotion. Not today.
With renewed determination, I made my way to the bar, my sleek dark hair dusting over my shoulder as I slid into the chair beside him. Before I could say a word, a bleach blonde bartender in a skimpy uniform rolled her eyes as she walked toward me with a cell phone suctioned to her ear and a groan on her lips.
“I guess I’ll have to call you back.” Cocking a hip, she braced one hand against the bar while shoving the phone in the back pocket of her cut-off jean shorts with the other. From the way she glared at me and then Brody, I could tell her crush on him was just as big as her attitude. “So, do you know what you want or what?”
A year ago, I would’ve had her choking on her own tongue for that.
“Añejo tequila in a stem glass. Room temp, only.”
I met her stare just in time to catch her raised eyebrow and quick glance to my right. When it went unacknowledged, she swallowed a few times and turned away. I sat in comfortable silence, refusing to blink. Even missing a second of this was too much.
It wasn’t long before the bartender returned with my drink and a brand-new attitude. With eyes downcast, she carefully placed it in front of me and disappeared.
Maybe she wasn’t so stupid after all.
“Bad day?” I pushed the tequila to the side, holding a perfect smile while nodding toward the discarded tie.
Brody didn’t bother to look up, still gripping the hell out of his mug. “Something like that.”
“Want to talk about it?” I urged, placing a hand across his forearm. My bold move captured his attention, snapping his eyes toward our connection.
Take the bait.
Whatever fire had lit in his eyes quickly extinguished. Turning away, he stared blankly across the bar before lifting the mug to his mouth. “Not particularly.”
Okay, time to change tactics. “Well, then, can I buy you a drink?”
“I own the bar, sweetheart.”
I’d learned patience. I was stellar at waiting my turn. But I’d also learned that leading a horse to water wouldn’t make him drink.
Unless you shoved his face in it.
“I get it.” Shifting toward him, I leaned my elbow onto the bar and dialed up the sarcasm to an eleven. “I’m just a stranger. What do I know, right? But you’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of Texas. You obviously need to unload. If not me, there’s got to be someone you can talk to.”
Silence.
“Girlfriend?”
Silence.
I assumed that particular brand of quiet dismissal worked on bar blondie, but unfortunately for him, petulance was my specialty.
“Boyfriend?”
“The fuck? I’m not—” His widened eyes slowly narrowed as he took in the smirk plastered across my face. Rolling a heated gaze over me, he held up his palm. “Lady, if I need to unload, this does the job just fine.”
Stop thinking of that hand. Focus. Stick to the plan.
“I’m told family is always there for you if you need them,” I offered, clearing my throat.
The corners of Brody’s mouth curled up in a cold smile. “Hard to do when they’re dead.”
“All of them?”
He shrugged, and I held back a smile as his fingers swiped a cocktail napkin back and forth beside his beer. He wanted to react. How could he not? The tension in the air was so thick, it could’ve choked us both.
“Might as well be,” he bit out finally, sending the cocktail napkin skidding across the bar. “Family is just a bullshit lie anyway.”
“Well, look at that—something we can agree on.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Brody arched an eyebrow and gave me a slow appraisal. “You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”
“Sorry, force of habit in my line of work.”
He let out a low chuckle and took another drink, a dangerous mix of intrigue and irritation flickering in his eyes. “Since you obviously can’t take a hint, I’ll bite. What do you do?”
A wide smile parted my lips. “I guess you could say I’m an international trade specialist.”
“Sounds vague.”
“Mm-hmm,” I agreed, taking a small but lethal sip from my glass. Although I somewhat enjoyed our banter, I’d grown bored with small talk. Propping my elbow on the bar, I rested my chin in my hand and leaned in. “So, is this what you do since getting fired from the district attorney’s office, Brody?”
Twisting around, he slammed his glass onto the wood, his disinterest shifting to suspicion. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“No, but I know you. Your Harcourt family scandal made national news, and your face is hardly forgettable, Brody.” I had no purpose in saying his name twice, other than watching the instability flicker behind his eyes. He didn’t anticipate being confronted with the fall of Houston’s own version of Camelot. Maybe he thought his mask was just that good, but dark-rimmed eyes and nervous twitches betrayed even the most well-crafted façade. It was obvious he’d been balancing on the edge of a breakdown for some time now.
“My last name doesn’t define me.”
“Well said.”
“It seems you have me at a disadvantage,” he accused, eyeing me cautiously. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours. You plan on telling me?”
I cocked my head. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Well, my last name didn’t define me either, so I got myself a brand new one. Thanks to you, of course.”
That was the moment the pieces fell into place and the puzzle clicked. Beads of sweat traced the seam of his upper lip as he stopped looking at me and finally saw me.
“No, it can’t be.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners?” Sliding off the stool, I stood barely a breath away and extended my hand. “My name’s Adriana.” I waited until all the color drained from his face before driving in the final nail. “Adriana Carrera.”
Chapter Six