“There,” he said hoarsely. “All better.”
Before she realized it, her hands were trailing down the front of his torso, traveling over ridges and valleys, her fingers twisting in the material covering his abdomen—but she stopped just short of pulling him closer. Andrew pulled his lower lip through his teeth, his hands settling on her hips. Shaping them. There might have been an inch separating their lower bodies, but that’s not how it felt. They might as well have been locked together, the way they’d been on the beach.
Speaking of which, she would have signed over a limb to have her legs around his waist.
She could feel how much he wanted her.
The evidence was wedged between them, stiff and ready.
But she could also sense him trying to find the willpower to stop what they’d set in motion. And she didn’t think she could take the rejection today, when her emotions were already being held together by a string. So she eased out of his hold with a smile—one that couldn’t have been more forced or unnatural—and she tugged his arm. Let it drop.
“Come on. Let’s get you to work.”
“Jiya…” he rasped behind her.
She kept walking, though, and they once again rode in silence.
CHAPTER TEN
In the basement of the Castle Gate, Andrew tapped the clipboard against his thigh. Papers containing the next two weeks of shift schedules flapped quietly. Above his head, he could hear the scraping of chairs, the buzzy din of music and conversation, the bell dinging in the kitchen. He was needed behind the bar because the rush would begin momentarily, but he’d gotten a text from Handler while serving drinks and needed a moment to process it. Away from his perceptive brothers, preferably, who would pounce all over him if he appeared as unsettled as he felt.
Wedging the clipboard beneath his arm, he pulled up the text again on his cell. The fact that Handler had his phone number at all when Andrew didn’t provide it was threatening enough. But the picture he’d sent of Andrew locking up the Castle Gate late last night was alarming as fuck. It said I’m watching you without a single accompanying word. On the dark boardwalk, no less, where no witnesses were present. Making matters worse, Andrew hadn’t even noticed anything out of the ordinary.
He supposed he should be grateful it wasn’t a picture of Jiya. Or Rory or Jamie.
Good. Focus on me.
That’s what he wanted, but the picture made him feel vulnerable and he hated that with a passion. He’d been vulnerable before. Too many times to count.
The stacked boxes on the far end of the space absorbed his attention, not for the first time.
Words were written on the sides in thick, black Sharpie, his father’s blunt lettering to match the man’s harsh personality. Every time Andrew came down to the basement, he stopped to stare at the boxes, knowing he needed to go through them at some point, if only just to throw everything away. To get rid of any reminder of the man who’d terrorized him until he couldn’t anymore. Something always stopped Andrew, though.
A finger of guilt dragged up the back of his neck, leaving ice in its wake. Disturbing the boxes felt a little bit too personal. Made the man a little bit too present.
A beat-up metal desk was situated in the corner of the basement, a reading lamp from Staples still bent over the center where it used to illuminate their father’s money counting or paperwork. Andrew never used the desk now, preferring to count money upstairs, but there were many times when he had, as a teenager. He could still feel the crisp bills in his hand, the sounds of his father snoring nearby after a bender. The way those snores had ceased abruptly, sour breath wafting over the side of his face.
“How much?” The question was slurred.
“Four hundred and fifty-two.”
A vile curse. “Count it again, you little shit. There’s got to be more.”
Andrew inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I’ve counted three times.”
He’d prepared himself for the backhand, but it still stung like a son of a bitch. Still created starburst patterns in front of his eyes. The second time was worse because his father’s fist was closed and the force sent the chair crashing into the concrete wall. “If you’re stealing from me, I’ll kill you,” his father growled. “Empty your pockets.”
Andrew did as he was told with shaking hands, dropping some gum and his house keys on the table. “I’m not stealing. The bar just isn’t making money. Maybe if we fix the awning or—”
“You telling me how to run my fucking bar?”
“No. I just—”
The next punch made his ears ring. Out went his lights on the final one.
With a hissed breath, Andrew turned from the desk and stacks of boxes, his grip tight on the clipboard on his way back up the stairs.