You Make Me Weak (The Blackwells of Crystal Lake Book 1) Page 9

  Tiny lingered an extra second or so and then moved away to garnish the drinks he was making.

  “Becs.” Hudson leaned closer.

  “We can’t do this.” She whispered the words and, not sure he heard her, looked up, shaking her head and speaking clearly. “Not now, Hudson.”

  His dark eyes were unnerving, but she managed to hold his gaze while reaching for the mugs and sliding them across the bar.

  “We good here?” Nash asked, glancing between the two of them.

  “We’re good,” Rebecca replied, that fake smile of hers back in place where it belonged.

  “Okay.” Nash leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “We’re going to grab a table.”

  She focused on Nash and ignored Hudson. “So how long you around for?”

  “That depends.”

  Curiosity piqued, she watched him closely. “On what?”

  “A lot of things.” He flashed that devilish grin of his. “We’ll catch up. When are you off?”

  “I don’t know. It’s busier than usual.”

  “Good to hear. Hudsy and I are in for the night.”

  Her smile frozen in place, she wasn’t sure if she answered or just mumbled something or walked away without saying anything. All she knew was, by the time she ran a few more jugs of beer out to another table and then went to the kitchen to pick up several wing orders, Nash and Hudson had claimed a booth in the back.

  They weren’t in her section—which was a good thing—and Dee Jacobs looked pretty damn pleased they were in hers. The girl was barely in her twenties. Her body was young and tight and toned, her hair long and lustrous. And her ass… Ugh. Her ass was as perky as ever. Rebecca hated her.

  Except she didn’t.

  Dee was a great girl, with an infectious laugh and more charm than she needed. So what if Hudson seemed to laugh every time the girl came to their table? Rebecca didn’t care.

  Except she did. And Dee was at their table a lot.

  By the time things were winding down, Rebecca’s jaw was sore from clamping it tight, and she was not in a good mood.

  “Dammit!” She grabbed her finger and stepped back from the bar. “Shit.”

  “You okay?” Tiny shot her a look. He was a few feet away.

  “I sliced my finger open prepping limes.”

  Tiny came over and had a peek, a concerned look on his face. “That’s deep. Hell, you might even need some stitches.” He glanced across the room. “We’re about done here. Why don’t you go and clean that up, and then we’ll see how it looks. The first aid kit is in the office.”

  Finger throbbing, Rebecca grabbed a clean cloth from under the counter and wrapped it up good. She headed for the office and found the kit on the top shelf behind Sal’s desk. Rebecca cleaned the cut quickly and, after checking it out thoroughly, decided a bandage was good enough. It hurt like hell, but the bleeding had stopped.

  Once she was done, she opened the door to leave the office, only to find Hudson standing there with a strange expression on his face. He glanced at her hand and immediately reached for her.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing. A small cut.”

  “You okay?” His touch was warm, and her focus shifted to his long fingers and strong hands.

  Mouth dry, she could only nod and carefully extract her hand from his.

  “I saw you at the hospital the other day.”

  Her head shot up, and she wondered where Hudson was going with this. “Liam and I visit Salvatore when we can. I’m not sure if you know or not, but he’s ill.”

  “Regan filled me in.” He seemed to be considering something. “I saw you in my father’s room. I didn’t know you guys were close.”

  Rebecca watched him closely. Did he really want to talk about his father? “Why are you here, Hudson?”

  “We need to talk about Saturday.”

  “Do we?” Her comeback was fast and sharp.

  “You don’t think we do?” he shot back just as fast.

  “I think…” Tongue-tied, she licked her lips nervously and shuffled her feet. “I think this isn’t the time.”

  Hudson swore and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

  “Why should I?” Her chin jutted forward, and she squared her shoulders.

  “I’m not letting this go, Becs. We need to talk about what happened.”

  Maybe it was the words he’d just said. Or the way his eyes held a dangerous don’t-fuck-with-me glint. Or the fact that he blocked the only exit from the office. Whatever it was, some kind of fire erupted inside Rebecca, and she took a step forward, thumping him in the chest with her good hand.

  “We don’t need to do anything, because you aren’t calling the shots. I’m not the same girl you left behind. I’m not going to sit in my room and cry for weeks over you. I’ve got a life, and a son to look after and things that matter to me. Things that you have no part of. Saturday night shouldn’t have happened. End of story.”

  “But it did.” He edged closer to her. “Happen.”

  “I…” Were they really going to do this now? “It did, and it was fine, and—”

  “Fine?” He was silent for a few moments, and then a slow grin crept across his face. “Maybe the first time was fine. But not the second.” He paused, head cocked to the side in that way that was all his, and the slow grin became a full-on wicked grin. “Definitely not the third. Remember we did that thing?”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  Silence fell between the two of them, and by the time it passed, the anger inside Rebecca deflated, leaving her spent, tired, and way too emotional for her liking.

  “Hudson,” she began, hating the way her voice trembled. “I really can’t do this.”

  A muscle worked its way across his cheek, and his eyes glittered in the dim light. He looked dangerous and edgy, and her defenses screamed at her to run.

  “Okay.” His voice was gentle, and she relaxed a bit, wincing at the pain in her finger.

  “Can I come by your place tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She shook her head slowly, almost afraid to ask the question. “What would it accomplish? We should move on and forget it ever happened.”

  “Why?” His question surprised her, and she didn’t quite know how to respond.

  “Because it’s never going to happen again.”

  Nash suddenly appeared behind Hudson and, after a quick look between the two of them, patted Hudson on the back.

  “We should head out. They’re closing up.” Nash nodded to Rebecca. “I’ll call you, and we’ll catch up this week.”

  “Give us a minute,” Hudson said, eyes never leaving Rebecca.

  Nash waited for Rebecca to nod. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot. I called a cab.”

  “I will see you tomorrow night,” Hudson said when they were alone again.

  She started to shake her head, but he stepped forward and placed his index finger on her lips.

  “That’s a promise.”

  Rebecca took a step back, some of that fire back in her veins. “I might not be home,” she responded, chin up.

  Hudson’s eyes glittered, and that damn smile touched the corners of his mouth once more. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, taking a step back. “I’ll find you. No matter where you are.”

  His words were coated in silk, but there was an underlying current of purpose to them. Rebecca watched him walk away, almost in a fog, and realized she was breathing so hard, she felt light-headed and her stomach went woozy. There was a strange electricity in the air, and she dragged a big gulp of it deep into her lungs.

  She watched him until he disappeared from sight and then sagged against the door. Her finger throbbed, and her body was hot, on edge. She knew there was no way to avoid Hudson Blackwell. He would show up at her home
or hunt her down.

  She should be pissed, and yet she wasn’t. Sure, there was anger there, but there was something else. Something that thrived on all that electricity in the air. It was a strange exhilaration, and she kind of liked the way it made her feel.

  She should be concerned, and yet, as she closed the office door behind her and made her way back to the bar, it wasn’t so much concern that she felt. It was almost like…anticipation. But that would be crazy. She pushed all thoughts of Hudson to the back of her mind and headed home. It was the wrong thing to do, letting Hudson back in. And in her short life, it was one of many wrong choices.

  Rebecca Draper was in trouble; she just didn’t know it yet.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning found Hudson downtown, sitting in his truck, gaze fixed on a large building that took up the entire southeast block. Several windows looked down over the busy town center, the black trim that boxed them in, crisp and clean looking against the aged gray stone. The surface had been recently sandblasted, and the windows were new. The plaque above the double doors was large and bold, featuring gold lettering encased in black granite.

  Blackwell Holdings.

  Hudson slid down in his seat and watched a bunch of leaves whip across his windshield, pushed by a gust of wind that shook his truck. The sky was overcast, a dull, gray start to a cool, and what promised to be a wet, fall day. Across the street, he spied a woman opening one of the many boutiques that filled the downtown core. Tall and thin, with white-gold curls and a sharp profile that was unmistakable. Mrs. Martin. She was older and a little slower, but it was definitely her. She’d been in business as long as Hudson could remember. She fiddled with her key, let herself in, and a moment later, the OPEN sign was face out. For just a second, she looked his way, eyes lingering on the truck, before she disappeared from view.

  God, his mother had loved that boutique, almost as much as Hudson had hated being dragged into it. He smiled at the thought, a small, wistful sort of thing, and closed his eyes. The sun filtering in through the window made him warm and lazy.

  “Hudson Zachariah Blackwell. Get your butt in that chair and don’t move until I tell you.”

  Hudson froze.

  “If I ever see you peeking up a lady’s skirt again, well, mister, it will be the last time. Trust me on that.”

  “But, Mom.” Embarrassed, Hudson glanced over to Mrs. Martin, the rest of his retort dying at the look of disapproval on the woman’s face.

  “Women are not objects, Hudson. And when I say that, I mean the girls your age as well. They should always be treated with the same respect you show me.”

  He snuck a peek at Mrs. Martin. The woman looked at him as if he’d committed some sort of crime. His mother marched into the changing room, and Hudson was pretty sure the fact she spent a good half hour in there was her way of turning the screw. ’Cause really, after all that, she didn’t buy anything. Not even the pink shirt with the white lace.

  Geez. It was a stupid mannequin. And he didn’t even like girls. What was the big deal?

  Hudson sighed and climbed from his truck. He stepped onto the sidewalk and gazed up at the building that carried his family name. The Blackwells had been in the area since the early 1800s, though the Blackwell money was both Southern and old. His grandfather many times removed had come to the area to take advantage of the lumber boom, and Blackwell Holdings was born. Lumber gave it life, but diversification into construction, railways, and roads filled the family coffers.

  Today, Blackwell Holdings included banks and investment firms, though the bulk of its money came from the construction empire built over the last couple of centuries. An empire with no prince to take over the helm, because sadly, he and his brothers were the last of their line and none of them was interested.

  Hudson felt the weight of that hit him hard, and with a curse, he swiveled around and headed in the other direction. Sam Waters could wait.

  He’d never wanted any part of the business, though in truth his father had made it easy enough for him to turn his back on the family legacy. Frowning darkly, he strode down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the wind as the first drops of rain splattered on the pavement in front of him. He crossed at the light, and before he knew it, he was inside Coffee Corner, a mug of hot java in his hand, a double-chocolate donut in the other, and sitting in a seat at the counter.

  The place was busy and boasted a mix of local business owners as well as a good number of retired folk. Hudson nodded to several of them but made no effort to start up a conversation. He wasn’t in the mood to talk and sipped his coffee in silence, glancing at the door now and again when the bell jingled, signaling a new arrival.

  The owners were either new, or the Nelsons had hired staff to run the place, because he didn’t recognize the middle-aged man behind the counter or the woman who worked alongside him. The other guy, though, the one who was sweeping up in the corner and moved in a peculiar way, that one tugged at Hudson’s memory. Though the heavy beard and long hair did a lot to disguise his features, something about him was familiar. He was roughly six foot, with wide shoulders and long, lean legs. His faded blue sweatshirt was frayed, and his jeans had seen better days, but they were clean.

  “Harry doesn’t like to be stared at.”

  Hudson yanked his head back and found crystal-clear blue eyes on him. “What was that?”

  The woman behind the counter frowned as she wiped up crumbs. She leaned on the counter, her gaze direct, and nodded at the man mopping the floor. “Harry doesn’t like to be stared at.”

  Harry.

  Hudson glanced at the man again. Now that he was turned, Hudson could see the writing on the back of the sweatshirt. Crystal Lake Cannons. Football.

  “Harry Anderson?” Couldn’t be.

  “You know him?” the woman asked, taking his empty plate and depositing it under the counter.

  “We played football together.”

  “You’re from Crystal Lake, then.”

  Hudson turned back to the woman and accepted a fresh cup of coffee. “I am.”

  She nodded to the man at the till. “That’s my husband, Milo, and I’m Beatrice. We bought this place a couple of years ago. Originally from LA.”

  His eyebrow shot up at that. “You’re a long way from California.”

  She snorted. “And happy to be. Life is so much slower here. We love it.” She paused. “I haven’t seen you before. Must be a while since you’ve been home.”

  “You could say that.”

  “You got a name?”

  He liked Beatrice. She was direct, and he was going to assume her bullshit meter was in fine form. “Hudson Blackwell.”

  “Blackwell?” She whistled and smiled. “I see it now. You look a lot like John.”

  Startled, Hudson took a sip from his coffee. “You know my dad?”

  “He comes in every morning for his coffee.” Her smile dimmed a bit. “That is until he took sick.” She wiped up the counter once more. “How’s he doing, by the way?”

  “Hanging in there.”

  “Good. Glad to hear that.”

  Hudson glanced back at Harry. “What happened?”

  Beatrice lowered her voice a bit. “Motorcycle accident, I think. At least that’s what I was told. He’s a sweet soul and, after his morning coffee, likes to sweep my floors. He has a hard time sitting still.”

  Jesus. Harry Anderson had been one of those guys who’d had it all. A popular guy, he’d had unlimited potential and a love of life that should have taken him far. He was a gifted athlete and had gotten a full ride on a hockey scholarship, if Hudson remembered correctly. And now he was mopping floors in a coffee shop.

  Hudson was silent as he drank his coffee, his thoughts dark and his mood blacker. Sometimes life sucked, no way around it. The bell tinkled, and, lost in thought, he didn’t bother to turn around. Someone slid onto the seat beside him, and after a few seconds, Hudson glanced over.

  Mackenzie Draper ordered a coffee and b
agel from Angie and nodded. “Blackwell. Heard you were back in town.”

  “Draper.”

  Rebecca’s brother was dressed casually in old jeans, boots, and a plaid jacket more suitable for a lumberjack. He accepted his cup from Beatrice, took a sip, and then set it down.

  “I hear the old man is holding his own.” It wasn’t really a question, and the green eyes that regarded him weren’t exactly friendly.

  “He is. How are your folks?” Hudson realized Rebecca hadn’t mentioned them once, and as Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed, he found himself curious. He’d always liked Rebecca’s mother, Lila Draper. Her father, on the other hand, was a no-good son of a bitch with a mean streak that was well known.

  “Not much has changed there. Mom’s good. She keeps herself busy at church. I guess she thinks if she prays enough, some of that holiness might rub off on Ben. He’s a bad habit she just can’t give up. He’s drying out again. We’re all hoping he’s gone for a good long while.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He knew firsthand how much of a bastard Ben Draper was. Most folks in town did. But back then, and even now, he supposed, most people turned a blind eye to problems of the domestic sort. Figured if they didn’t get involved, the bad things they suspected might be happening, weren’t.

  Mac shoved his bagel into the pocket of his jacket and scooped up his coffee-to-go. When he turned back to Hudson, curiosity filled his eyes. “You’ve been in DC?”

  “Yeah. For over five years now.”

  “FBI, I think I heard.”

  Hudson nodded.

  “Huh. Never figured you for a lawman.”

  “No?” Considering he’d been a bit of a hell-raiser back in the day, not many folks did.

  Mackenzie slowly shook his head. “No. I remember you and Becca talking about moving up north. You guys were always camping or on the water. I remember plans to own your own hunting and fishing lodge. Never saw you for a suit-and-tie guy living in the city.”

  Annoyed, and for no reason other than the man in front of him, Hudson barely kept his tone civil.

  “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want it to.”

  Mackenzie took a step back, and gone was any semblance of warmth. “I hear ya there. Just ask Rebecca.” He glanced to his right. “Harry. You ready?”