Phoenix (The Colton Cousins Book 1) Read online

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including mechanical photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

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  Copyright © 2021 Rennick

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  To Melissa

  For being part of my craziness and understanding my nonsensicalness. For being the sister I never had.

  Chapter 1

  Hillary

  “C

  ome on, come on. You can do it. Just a few more miles.” I beg my piece of shit car to keep moving forward. Leaning in as if it will keep the thing going.

  I can’t be late again. My horrid perv of a manager will take any opportunity to threaten to fire me—just because I turned him down about a dozen times. The man is a slimeball, and I would much rather lose my job than go out with him.

  Sputter. Clunk.

  “Fuck” I hiss as something likened to a screeching banshee emanates from the now fuming hood of my car. My hand slams on the steering wheel just as the 1992 Honda Civic putters to a quick and pitiful death. “No, no, no, no, no!” Rolling to a full stop, I bang on the peeling steering wheel. Resting my forehead upon it, all I want to do is scream.

  Stuck on the side of the road—great, I am most definitely losing my job this time.

  Hot tears threaten to fall from my eyes. First, that cheating lying asshat of a boyfriend—now, my car, and my job. This has been a fucking fabulous year.

  Without the breeze from the open window, the humid Mississippi summer heat starts to make me sweat through my white long-sleeved dress shirt.

  “Shit,” I mumble to myself. I’m going to melt in this deathtrap of a car if I stay here any longer. Looking around, I spot my escape, a bar. What the hell, might, as well. Today’s not going to get any better, so I might as well start day drinking.

  Stripping off my apron, I toss it on the passenger-side floor. Don’t need that anymore. No need for the dress shirt either. Time to join the apron on the floor. Much better. I’m down to a white tank top and skinny jeans. It’s still hot as hell, but at least I can breathe better, and I feel a bit of the breeze on my skin.

  Upside to not working anymore—no more long sleeves to hide my tattoo in this sticky Mississippi heat. The price to work in a nice restaurant. I don’t know why my tattoo is seen as offensive. It’s a beautiful illustration of realistic flowers growing on vines that wrap around my arm. Speckled throughout are butterflies, bumblebees, and dragonflies. I had drawn it myself—obviously, I couldn’t tattoo it myself. I searched and searched to find the right artist. I couldn’t afford to get it finished. It’s been grey scale for the last couple of years—just another reminder of how life basically froze in place and has yet to pick back up again.

  As I strip down and gather my measly belongings into my worn-out purse, I can’t help but think back on the last two years and cringe. It wasn’t always this shitty—things used to be good. I used to be happy. Ever since my mom passed away two years ago, though, my life has progressively gone downhill. I thought, with this job, I could start bringing things around. Apparently, I was wrong. All I got was a handsy boss, and shit tips from people too stuck up to understand a hard day’s work if it slapped them in their bank account. All I’m doing is adding to my reasons for day drinking. Self-pity is something I’m trying to rid myself of. It’s hard, though, when your car just died, you’ve definitely lost your job and only have four hundred dollars to your name. Welcome to my life. Depressing, isn’t it?

  I shake it off as best I can and escape from the metal deathtrap, heading straight for sweet serenity in the bar. The air conditioning blasts me as I open the door—it feels so freaking good. Sweat was already starting to trickle down my forehead. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a hair tie and twist my auburn-red hair into a messy bun, taking it off my shoulders and out of my face. The bar is generic; high tops, a few booths, one pool table, and a long smooth wooden bar top lining the left wall.

  Bingo! We have a winner.

  Seeking a quiet place to sulk and wallow in self-pity, I aim for the far end of the bar, claiming the second to last stool. Flopping my purse on the counter, my head follows. Facing down into my folded arms and purse, I take a deep breath and release it on a low groan. My life sucks donkey dick.

  “What can I get for you, sweetie?” A masculine voice with an enticing soft Southern accent asks me from somewhere to my left. Most likely the bartender. I don’t raise my head. That takes too much effort, and right now, I want to give as little effort into life as possible. So, I leave it where it is and respond.

  “What would you suggest to make me forget the shit show that is my life?”

  “Bad day, huh?”

  “Try bad couple years,” I grumble into my purse.

  “Yikes. Okay. Gonna make me break out the big guns before noon, huh? Okay, I got whatcha need. Don’t go nowhere.”

  “Where could I possibly go? My car just died, I won’t have a job by the end of the day, and I have three of the most irritating roommates in existence. Sadly, you’re stuck with me.”

  “Well, it could be worse.”

  “How so?”

  “You could be a fat middle-aged bald man. So, the fact that I get to spend my day with a beautiful young thing like yourself, on what was looking to be a very dull Tuesday, is a positive in my book.”

  His comment makes me smirk, but only a little. I can hear him moving bottles and pouring liquids, making whatever he thinks will make me feel better. At least he’s a nice bartender. He could have been an ass, and that would have just made this day perfect. I hear ice in a glass and finally lift my head to get my first view of my friendly bartender—my day just got a little better. He is hot. Not like just your average hot, but boy-won-the-genetic-lottery-hot. Strong jawline, dark green eyes that sparkle—yes sparkle—when he smiles at me. His body is muscular but not bulky—trim. I can tell by the way his shirt fits snuggly around his torso. He’s at least six feet tall. That might not be tall to some people, but to me, at five foot, three inches—that’s tall. Silky brown hair hangs down to his ears in a very stylish cut that most men in a bar like this wouldn’t have. This is definitely not his natural habitat; he stands out way too much. Someone like him belongs in a high-end nightclub, not a dive bar in the middle of a Tuesday in Jackson, Mississippi.

  One toned and tanned arm reaches out, placing a tall glass in front of me. The edges of a tattoo are peeking out from under the short sleeve of his t-shirt. I can’t quite tell what it is. Maybe after a few drinks, I’ll ask. I’ve never had problems talking to people. Still, it’s been a while since I’ve spoken to a man of his attractiveness without an apron on. Typically, it is me asking for their order while avoiding eye contact with their scorching date. The fact that he’s acting really nice to me is throwing me off. People who look like him aren’t friendly to people who look like me for no reason.

  “Thanks…” I hesitate.

  “Beau. You can call me Beau,” He says with a white-toothed smile and a wink.

  So. Freaking. Hot.

  “Thanks, Beau.” I return the smile as best I can, but I’m still partially sulking in self-pity. So it’s only halfhearted. The glass he han
ds me is tall and cold, filled with a drink that blends from red to caramel brown.

  “What is it?” Doesn’t look like any drink I’ve had before.

  “I call it Death by Door Nail.” Is all he says, nothing more. The liquids swirl and blend together as I tilt the glass in my hand.

  Why the hell not? Nothing really matters at this point anymore.

  “Sounds inviting.” I swallow back a healthy gulp, jumping right in. It’s sweet but burns on its way down—a welcome feeling. Licking my lips, I raise an eyebrow to Beau, who is watching and waiting to see my reaction.

  “Tasty. It’s got a bite to it.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I agree. “Keep ’em comin’, Beau. It’s gonna be a long day.”

  Two hours pass in this manner, me wallowing in self-pity and Beau refilling my drink religiously. Eventually, the drink loses its bite, and I’m left with only the sweetness. Every so often, Beau says something friendly and flirty. I react minimally at first, but the more I drink, the more I respond. He’s hot, sweet, and probably just doing his job, but it’s all in good fun. Besides, I don’t need a boyfriend right now. My life is too much of a hot mess to bring someone as nice and sweet into it as Beau. I’d probably end up turning him into an alcoholic having to deal with my smart ass, but it’s nice to flirt again.

  On my fourth—no fifth—drink, my head is laying on my outstretched arm on the bar as I fiddle with the straw in my glass. All the negative things in my life running through my mind. Not like there’s much positive to think about these days.

  “Stupid fucking car—lousy shitty job—sexist dickhead boss… Annoyingly perfect fucking roommates. Horny, lying, cheating men. Fucking hot heat,” The words come out muffled with far too many slurs and obscenities.

  “You doin’ all right over there?” Beau’s voice is even sexier since I’ve ingested way too much liquor.

  “No. Everything fucking sucks. People suck. Life sucks. I suck.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling,” He agrees as he comes to stand just on the other side of the bar, in front of me.

  Staring at him through blurry eyes, I pause. Why can’t more people be like him? Nice, polite, sweet, and attractive. Having to stare at a bartender all day, I’m just thankful that I stumbled into this bar with him.

  “Tell me, Beau. What do you do when your life means nothing? No hopes, no dreams, no aspirations. Nothing.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he says, “Start over somewhere new.”

  Somewhere new? What I wouldn’t give to be someone—else, some—where else.

  “Sounds great, but you usually need money to do that. Which I do not have. Four hundred dollars can only get you so far. And it’s not far enough. Especially without a car.” The words come out softer and weaker than I intended, and much more pathetic and bitter. I suck out the last of my drink through the thin red straw and burp. Excusing myself under my breath. “Another round barkeep.” I giggle at my own exclamation because it’s funny.

  Why it’s so funny, I’m not sure, but it is. I’m goddamn hilarious. Why isn’t Beau laughing? He should be laughing, too. Everyone should.

  Begrudgingly, he takes my glass and starts to make another. Shaking his head and smirking. He better be making it strong ‘cause I don’t want to think anymore. In the time it takes him to make the drink, my mother creeps into my mind. That sinking depression that started hours ago falls to the pit of my stomach. The bitter sting of tears burns my already bloodshot eyes.

  My mother was the last family I had. The last friend. The last person who really knew me, who cared for me. Who loved me and accepted me as I am. She didn’t try to make me someone else or put me down for who I wanted to be—an artist. I loved to draw and paint, and I wanted to explore the possibilities. But when your mom has stage three lung cancer, things like that fall to the wayside. Starving artists don’t make enough to support medical bills and prescriptions needed to keep her alive. Surgeries, radiation, chemo, it took a toll on her body and mental state. It wasn’t good in the end. She was tortured and asking me to finish it for her.

  I wipe away the tears and the thoughts of my mother. That’s the last thing I need to deal with right now. Those kinds of thoughts could push me over the edge, back into something stronger than liquor.

  “No. I don’t need to start over. I’m just gonna sit here and drink until I can’t move anymore, then die of exposure and starvation.” Taking a deep drag of stale bar air, the statement comes out much drier than I planned. The humor all but lost. It doesn’t seem to throw off Beau, though.

  “I don’t think my boss would like that very much. Plus, he’d probably make me clean up your corpse.” He chuckles.

  “Fuck him.” We both chuckle at my outburst. Laughing feels good—it scares away the demons. There’s nothing they hate more than laughter. My heart lightens just a little.

  The glass Beau sets in front of me is not another Death by Door Nail but a glass of clear, crisp water. That’s not what I need. I need another drink, so I can forget everything and feel nothing. Like the hollowness of being alone. The stinging pain of despair that seeps in every morning when I wake up to the less than mediocre life ahead of me.

  There’s an even better way to forget. A little voice in the back of my mind whispers to me. It wouldn’t take much, just a few pills. There are still a few stashed away. It’ll take the edge off, make it easier to just slip away.

  No. No, I can’t do that. I promised myself. I worked too hard. Mom wouldn’t want me to. Beau’s deep voice breaks through my fog of emptiness, pain, and pills.

  “So, if you had the means, would you start over somewhere new?” The question throws me. We were just joking, so what does it matter? The high concentration of alcohol in my system lowers my guard and my ability to form a cognitive thought beyond lifting my hand. Pushing the stray strands of hair out of my face, I humor him with an honest answer.

  “Yeah. Why not? Not like anything is keeping me here.”

  “So, if I could find you a job and a place to live in North Carolina, would you go?” He asks seriously.

  “North Carolina? Sure. Why not? Can’t be any worse than this shithole.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  Picking up my glass, I stare into the clear water. I’m not ready for water; I want more alcohol. I take a sip anyway—a little hydration couldn’t hurt. It tastes bland after the alcohol. I make a face and lick my lips.

  “I don’t want water. I want to be nailed to death.”

  Beau’s laughter is hearty and deep. It’s comforting and makes me smile, soothing a little of my aching soul.

  “Oh yeah, you’re gonna fit right in.”

  “Fit in where? What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.”

  “I am sober,” As the words come out slurred on my lips, he doesn’t believe my lie. High-pitched giggles escape me. A hiccup shakes my body, and the world slowly turns on its axis. The lines of the liquor shelves behind Beau’s head soften. Everything looks soft and fuzzy, especially the bar top. All the sound has been removed from the world, and a peaceful quiet takes over as my head finds its way to the blurry bar top. The world slips away as I finally fall into a dark, quiet emptiness. No thoughts, no fears. Nothing.

  Chapter 2

  Hillary

  T he first thing I feel is the throbbing in my skull. What did I do to cause this? A few memories slip in past the fog in my brain. My car broke down, I went into a bar, and an attractive bartender gave me yummy drinks. What happened after that? Was there more? I’m not sure, but I am not going to drink for a while. Maybe ever. This hangover is already brutal, and I’ve only been awake for like thirty seconds.

  Did I make it back home? The bed feels so comfortable. Soft and warm. This can’t be my bed. My bed is an old spring mattress that pokes me in the middle of the night. So, where am I?

  At that thought, I jolt awake, and my eyes spring open as my b
ody does the same. Shooting up into a sitting position, which I instantly regret, my throbbing hangover is now skull fucking me in my eye socket. I have to close my eyes again to stop the room from spinning and whatever is in my stomach from spewing out like The Exorcist. After a few motionless seconds, waiting for the world to chill the fuck out, I can open my eyes and look around. I am definitely not at home.

  The studio apartment I’m in is nice, really nice—exposed brick walls in an open floor plan. The room is neat and tidy. No dirty laundry thrown on the floor, no half-empty cereal bowls on the table. Just clean lines, stainless steel, a black leather sofa, and modern art. This is definitely a man’s apartment—but what man?

  “Where the hell am I?” I whisper to myself, not expecting an answer.

  “You’re in my apartment.”

  “Ah!” I shriek at the sound of a gruff man’s voice in the bed next to me. There, lying shirtless next to me, is a half-asleep Beau. I can see his entire tattoo now. It stretches across his well-defined bicep and shoulder, across his chest and pec. It’s a Pegasus with the wings spreading out wide with a few feathers flying free around it. It’s beautiful, and I have the urge to touch it.

  Wait—I’m in his bed—in his apartment, and he’s not wearing a shirt. Did we have sex?

  “Oh my God, did we?” I panic as I lift up the sheet to see I’m still wearing my skinny jeans and tank-top.

  “No, sorry, you’re not really my type.” He chuckles as he shifts higher on the headboard and stares at me sleepily. He really is handsome. Hold on, I’m not his type?

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t worry. No girl is my type.” Lifting an eyebrow, he grins at me knowingly.

  “Oooh, gotcha.”

  Now that I know I didn’t have drunken sex with a stranger, I relax against the headboard next to him. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes and take in a steadying breath. My long red hair is tangled around my shoulders, and I probably look like Anna from Frozen—drool and all, but I don’t care. I’m too lazy to fix it.