Devastate (Havoc Series Stand Alone Book 5) (3 page)

              “You got lucky to call me both,” Ma calls over her shoulder.

              Jazz giggles again, the sound seeping through the hardened system I've spent years creating for this place. “I work with your grandson. Strictly professional relationship.”

              Pa grins again mischievously. “For now...”

              Quickly I snap, “Pa!”

              “I'm jus' sayin' let's not rule out all the ways the country lets you get loose.” He winks at her.

              She immediately covers her snicker and I yell again, “Pa!”

              “Oh, lower your voice before you ring the church bells in town,” Ma fusses.

              Pleased she's on his side he says, “You two are gonna wanna get washed up for supper. Rooms Mary Belle?”

              “One,” she answers washing her hands in the sink. “They can share.”

              “Share?” I croak out in confusion. There are more than 10 guestrooms in this house alone. Plenty of room for Jazz and I each to have our own space. Not that it would bother me that much to keep waking up beside her. She rarely sleeps, but any time she lays down beside me she seems to just drift off effortlessly. Typically no more than four hours. Still. Most beautiful four hours I have every day.

              “Are you sassin' me?” She turns on her heels. “Because it's my house you dropped into after years of being away, demandin' you need a place to lay low for you and your girlfriend--”

              “Colleague,” I mumble.

              Unhappy Ma's voice raises, “Rascal--”

              “It's fine,” Jazz speaks up. “We don't mind sharing a room.”

              “Good,” Ma hums and gives me a stern look. “You two go wash up. Miss Tina already dusted your room, fixed your sheets, and got you fresh bath toiletries.”

              Curious, my bunk mate questions, “Who's Miss Tina?”

              “One of the maids,” I answer before Ma has a chance.

              “House this big, she needs a little help cleanin' it every now and again.” Pa chuckles to himself.

              “Well you damn sure ain't helpin',” she grunts at him.

              “You have cooks that help too?” Jazz's curiosity continues.

              “Bite your tongue city girl. Ain't no one comin' in my house and cookin' for me. I'll be cookin' til the day my feet can't hold me up any more,” Ma swears placing a hand in the air.

              “Even then, she'll probably demand for us to roll her in here so she can bake something,” I insert and receive a chortle from Pa.

              “Damn right.” Her quick nod is followed with, “Now y'all wash up. And Rascal?”

              “Ma'am?”

              “I suggest you find those manners you buried with so much else when you left here. Understand?”

              Without hesitation I agree, “Yes ma'am.”

              “Good.” She turns back around to return to cooking.

              “Everyone will be here for dinner,” Pa says reaching for his freshly cleaned whiskey glass that has a cursive L on it.

              My shoulders slump, the weight of the situation increasing with each passing minute. Under my breath I grumble, “This day just keeps getting better and better.”

              “The big guestroom at the end of the hall Rascal. You should remember the way. It's got plenty of space. Supper's at 7.” Ma grabs a knife and cutting board.

              “Come on Jazz. Let me show you our room...” In disbelief, I turn away from them and head the direction we came to take the stairs.

              Without any more words spoken, I lead her up the grand stairs, catching a glimpse of my brother's wedding photo hanging next to my parents’. The image causes me to lose a step in which Jazz's attention flies to where mine was.

              Doing my best to clear away the irritation, I hurry up the remaining steps and grunt, “This way.”

              At the top of the stairs we take a right leading us past several guest bedrooms, bathrooms, and an additional sitting room Ma liked to use for her reading club. I wonder if she still has it. I wonder how much has really changed since I've been gone. Once we reach the very end of the right wing, I open the double doors and reveal the second master bedroom in the house. While the first is downstairs, this one was created to entertain out of town guests who would be staying longer than a weekend.

              “Wow,” Jazz whispers out admiring the room with the oversize luxury bed and antique touches everywhere. “This is not what I was expecting.”

              “Well, my grandparents may be the epitome of southern charm at times, but at others, they like luxurious things. They're not your typical southern pair,” I sigh with a smile.

              “I'm beginning to see that,” Jazz replies. “I'll make sure to add that and Tina's name to the files.”

              Surprised I ask, “She's not in there.”

              “Just says maid and changes every other year.”

              “Ah.” When she gives me a questioning look I inform her, “Ma has this thing about hiring local college students who need a job with flexible hours and a stepping stone to something bigger. Typically they stay the two years they're in community college and leave when they transfer to a university.”

              “Better than flipping burgers.”

              “Way better pay.” I point to another set of double doors. “Bathroom is through there. It's a full master as well. Built in glass shower. Clawfoot tub. Plenty of space for...girl...stuff...”

              “Make up?”

              “And hair stuff.” My hand gestures what I'm trying to communicate. “Not ideal to share a room with me for another night, I know, but I'll see what I can do by morning. They're punishing me in their own odd way.”

              “Sharing a room with me is punishment?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “So you've been grounded for a week.”

              “I didn't mean it like that,” I quickly blurt out. “I just meant...I figured you might want your own room--”

              “I'd ask if I did,” she clarifies.

              In no mood to have an argument or an awkward discussion on why she would want to share a space with me knowing my nuts can't get any bluer, I say, “I'm gonna go grab our bags.”

              “I can help.”

              “I've got it, Jazz. I can take care of it.”

              Walking out of the room, I stroll back the way I came, and out the front door. The minute my feet hit the first step, I abruptly stop and flop down. My head falls forward as the hot sun starts roasting me from it's peaking position through the trees. I can't do this. I can't go through these next couple of weeks. Not here. Not with what lies ahead. And damn sure not with what I left behind.

**

              After a long hot shower, a shave, and a change, I walk out of the bathroom to see Jazz sliding on a pair of high heels that aren't her signature, sky high height or preferred color, black, for dinner. Her sundress is a pale yellow halter with a floral design that compliments her tan skin and exposes places my eyes rarely get to taste. As always her dark brown hair is wound tight on top of her head. Someday, I'd love to be the one to replace my hand where that hair tie has a firm grip.

              Seeing me leaning against the door frame, watching her, she stops and smirks. “Wow, those jeans are snug.”

              I hook a thumb in my pocket. “I prefer my jeans this way.”

              “I've been around you boys for months and never seen you wear a pair of jeans like that. Not even when you go out trying to pick women up.”

              “That's because there are only so many nut hugger jokes I can hear before strangling Glove becomes the only logical conclusion.”

              “That I believe,” she mutters.

              “So for the sake of my sanity, and his health, I started wearing looser pairs, but these are the way they should be worn.” My eyes watch her tongue dart out of her mouth while drinks me in. Tasting me the only way I'm allowed to taste her. The actions cause a low groan in my throat. “Do you like these?”

              “I um...” Her eyes have trouble dragging themselves up to mine. However when they finally do she compliments, “Nice belt buckle.”

              The custom made peach buckle with a cursive L in the middle, is one I haven't worn since I left home for the Marines. I took it with me when I left for nostalgic reasons. Each of us Lords have one. Traditional gift given for our 18th birthday from Pa, along with a bottle of whiskey because he believes when you can see over the bar, you can start to drink, and when you can go off to fight for your country you deserve the bottle he bought the year you were born. Sentimental. He's always been that way. Always obsessed with passing down lessons and customs that were passed down to him. My bottle has never been open. And this buckle, was worn the birthday I got it, and the birthday I left.

                “Gift from Pa on my 18th birthday. We all got one.”

              “It's a peach.” Without waiting for me to say something back she returns to putting on her heels. “Considering your family owns, runs, and operates the third largest peach distribution in the country that makes sense.” Once her shoe is on she looks back at me, “The boys have no idea, do they?”

              Folding my arms across my chest, I shake my head. “No. They just think I'm some run of the mill, come from middle of nowhere, country bumpkin cowboy.” After a brief pause I ask, “This is in my file, isn't it?”

              “Of course it is.”

              “So you've always known.”

              “Since the day your name fell on my desk.”

              “It fell on your desk? I thought you actively found us.”

              “I did,” she states. “But I still had research to do.” I hum as response. “You're supposed to be brothers on and off the field yet you all have secrets you've kept from one another. Grim with Haven. Glove with Khloe. You with your heritage. Why? Why don't you just tell them?”

              “Because this.” I motion a hand at my body. “Isn't who I am. I'm not the southern gentleman groomed to inherit this legacy. I'm the Marine who has become trained to be the best fucking Linguistic Specialist for HORN.”

              Jazz crosses over to me, her delicious scent flooding my veins like a calming poison, paralyzing me in place. I can feel my dick swell as much as my tongue. Adjusting the collar of my shirt she states, “I think in some ways you can be both.”

              I do my best not to dissolve into her touch. It's tempting. Just as tempting as it is to push her backwards, yank up her dress, and run my tongue in places it has no business being on the woman who could easily have my team disassembled and me banished for even considering that a possibility.

              Offering her my arm for escorting, I sigh, “We should get downstairs.”

              She wraps her arm around me. “No hat?”

              “That's rude in the house,” I explain. “And at the table.”

              On our approach to the stairs, Jazz questions, “So the entire family is coming?”

              “The immediate family. Yes.”

              “Your parents and your two brothers who’re still here.”

              “Yes.”

              “And your brother and his wife who recently built a house, if you wanna call that three story thing a house, as well?”

              “How do you know that?”

              She gives me a sarcastic look.

              “Right. My file. Magical pages and pages of information about everyone. So if you know all that, that means you know all about the tragedy that's coming to dinner.”

              “Facts and figures, but you know me. I prefer personal observations as much as what's documented. All sides of the equation.”

              “Thorough.”

              “Accurate.” She glances up at me. “Reading about people on paper is similar to reading about characters in a novel. You can use the information to predict plot twists and choices, but in reality, to get a precise prediction, it's best to have actual experience with the subject. Take your grandparents for instance. Reading about them and then meeting them in real life...there are major differences to say the least.”

              “Did you feel the same way about meeting us?”

              “No,” Jazz quickly denies. “You boys were everything I expected. At times even a little more. It was exciting at times and relieving at others.”

              “A compliment?” I tease as we round the corner towards the dining area. “That's like seeing a golden tiger.” When her eyebrows rise, I finish, “Rare.”

              “Dramatic,” she mumbles.

              Upon entering the dining room, we see Pa at the head of the long wooden table, where extra seats have been added for the larger, expected party. Leaned back with a glass of whiskey in his hand, I can't help but admire the relaxed yet wistful look on his face. What was already about to be a long dinner, just got longer.