CrissCross (Crossroads Book 1) Page 5

  “Hey, Mom,” he greeted, hearing his brother echo his words.

  She took her seat again and sat watching them as they took theirs on each side of her at the square table. “My beautiful boys,” she murmured.

  River shot Chance an uneasy look. She seemed in a sentimental mood. Suzanne Reynolds rarely indulged in sentiment. Not even where they were concerned.

  “So tell me . . . how are you both doing?” she asked.

  “Same ol’, same ol’,” River answered. He was a man of few words, except for in his music. If you wanted to know how he was feeling or what was on his mind, all you had to do was listen to the lyrics of his recently written songs. Suzanne probably hadn’t figured that out.

  “Are you busy with the band?”

  He shot his brother another look. She didn’t usually ask about River’s Edge. “Yeah. We’re booked up locally for the next couple of weeks and then we’ll spend a couple in K.C. Got some shows coming in Chicago and trying to book more up there to make the trip worthwhile.”

  “That’s great!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “And the guys are all good?”

  “Everyone is good,” he confirmed.

  She switched her attention to Chance and seemed to be examining him closely. “Your last trip was successful, Chance?”

  He bit back a retort reminding her that he wasn’t a traveling salesman on a business trip. She never seemed comfortable acknowledging the reality of his job. Suzanne had not been pleased when he’d reported for BUD/S. He suspected she’d wished on everything she could wish on—stars, dandelion fluff, birthday candles—that he’d ring out . . . if he ever even crossed her mind during that time.

  “It went fine, but it’s good to be home.”

  She nodded but, before she could drive the conversation on, their server arrived with two beers that she had ordered for them and a glass of wine for herself. Her ordering their drinks was unusual too. Since this was their customary meet-up-with-Mom spot and they all knew the menu, they went ahead and ordered dinner. Suzanne liked the restaurant because they offered her preferred salads and healthy options, as well as decent steaks and seafood for her sons. Chance and River ordered steaks and she requested her usual salad, only this time she asked for hers to be topped with sliced sirloin instead of grilled chicken. Curiouser and curiouser.

  After the server left, she took a sip of wine and asked, “How long are you home for this time, Chance?”

  “At least a couple of months. I asked for a little time off,” he informed her.

  Her eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful. That gives us enough time to find you a house.” She had a successful career as a high-end real estate broker and it seemed she had her next client in her sights. “You know, I was in your neighborhood the other day and drove past your apartment building. It’s not a very good area, Chance. And the building seems a little rundown. You can afford much better.”

  He blinked at her. “The building is in good condition. It may be old, but management takes care of it. I like it there.”

  “I know you’re making decent money and I feel like you should be investing some of it. Real estate is a good way to do that.”

  He wondered how she knew what kind of money he was earning, but he guessed she could have researched it and gotten a good idea. “I’m happy where I am for now,” he stated in a no nonsense tone.

  She cut her losses. “Well . . . you’ll let me know when you’re ready to look,” she answered, seeming somewhat dejected.

  “Is everything okay with you, Mom?” he asked. “Business alright?” Maybe her wanting to find him a house had something to do with needing the commission it might bring.

  “I’m fine. And business is no better or worse than it usually is. That’s not why I suggested you buy a house.”

  Chance looked at River who gave him a minuscule shrug. They knew her husband owned a security engineering firm and did very well for himself. She did pretty well in her field too.

  She continued, “I’ve been working on building up a little nest egg for myself and cutting into my commissions for that.”

  Uh oh. He didn’t want to ask. He really didn’t. Oftentimes when they saw her, her sons never even brought up his—or whichever husband’s she was with at the time—name. But she seemed off, so he took the bull by the horns.

  “Things okay with Donald?” Chance was relieved he didn’t choke over the guy’s name.

  He didn’t like the man and he suspected his stepfather didn’t much like him. Not that they’d spent much time together over the past few years she’d been with him. He never understood that. Not that he’d know from experience, but he’d always thought that if he were in a relationship with a single mother he’d want to get to know her children—grown or not.

  Suzanne sucked back a huge slug of her wine. “Things are a bit rocky right now. We’re going to start counseling next week.”

  River choked and almost spewed beer across the white linen-draped table. “Counseling?” he gasped through a cough.

  This was something new too. When things got rocky with one of her men, she’d cut her losses and begin looking for the next one . . . not bothering with putting work into fixing the relationship. With her job in real estate, she had a steady stream of victims . . . or potential romantic prospects would be a kinder way to think of it. It seemed Suzanne’s professional specialty was helping male clients going through separations or divorces find new homes. She’d met her last three husbands showing them houses.

  Chance wondered why she was changing things up and trying counseling to fix this one instead of going with her usual M.O. Could it be that she realized her age might be catching up with her and—as good as she looked—men in her age category would be in the market for younger women now? Or maybe it was because even she realized that with five marriages under her belt, moving into a sixth was getting past pathetic?

  “Yes, counseling,” she directed to River as she patted him on the back as if he was still choking. “May as well give it a try,” she sighed.

  River—never one for diplomacy—commented, “Well, good luck with that.” He didn’t mean it the way it came out, but Chance almost laughed anyway.

  Luckily, the server showed up with their food and the little dysfunctional family turned their attention to eating and chatting over trivial things. Back to normal. After finishing their meal and deciding against dessert, the perfunctory squabble over the check was won by Chance (as per usual).

  They sat chatting awkwardly while waiting for his debit card to be returned when Suzanne asked, “So . . . have you seen your father lately? How is he doing?”

  Both of her sons’ mouths dropped open before River threw Chance under the bus. “Chance saw him today.”

  Chance shot his brother a dirty look. “Um . . . yeah. I had lunch with him today.”

  He and River had already hashed over the visit with their father and the fact that he seemed somewhat cowed by Number Four and that he’d been mostly focused on talking about her and her extended family. The Loughlin brothers were still resigned to the fact that—even though they were grown men—their parents continued to put their current spouses ahead of their own offspring . . . even investing more time with their stepchildren than their own. it was not a new realization. They’d lived with it since they were children.

  “And how is Clark?” she asked nonchalantly. Or at least she wanted to pretend she was being nonchalant. She never asked about him. Ever.

  “He’s fine,” Chance answered lamely. He had no idea what to say.

  “Still with . . . that . . . oh, what’s her name?”

  Chance had to think hard. He only ever thought of her as Number Four. It finally came to him. “Alissa.”

  “Right,” Suzanne murmured. “Still with Alissa?”

  “He is.”

  Neither Chance nor River would ever elaborate on the sad state of their dad’s situation. It had been a lifetime ago since his parents first split and they would pump the boys for
information about the other. The brothers had learned fast not to provide their mom or dad with more fuel for the fire.

  The server came by to drop off his card, Chance quickly filled in the gratuity line and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the receipt so they could all get out of there and head their separate ways.

  River helped things along by stating that he had to get to the club and finish helping the band set up for that evening’s show. The other members of River’s Edge had agreed to start setting up while he was at the family dinner.

  The guys walked Suzanne to her car, but didn’t linger. As Chance made his way to his own, he noticed a family on the other side of the lot comprised of a middle aged couple, their grown children and a couple of toddler-aged grandkids. None of them seemed inclined to rush away from the others after their family dinner. With a pang, he realized that would never be his lot in life.

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

  Chance drove directly home, walked into the Crosswinds and started up to his place. When he turned the corner halfway up and noticed a woman ahead of him, he slowed down to enjoy the show. What she was doing could only be described as sashaying up the stairs. She was on the voluptuously curvy side in tighter-than-tight jeans and a snug-fitting purple tank top. Her hands were full of bags, one arm curled up to cradle a mass of yarn skeins. Her red hair was big at the top and tumbled in waves down her back, almost to her waist. The word “bombshell” came to mind. He grinned as he watched her almost bobble the yarn cradled in her arm before regaining control.

  When they reached the top of the staircase, she made a beeline for Jimi’s door, reached up with a bag-laden hand and banged on it. He was enjoying the jiggle this caused until she lost her hold on the loose skeins and they fell, bouncing and rolling all over the floor. He noticed among the skeins were hand-rolled balls of yarn that began unspooling themselves as they skittered in every direction.

  The bombshell cursed under her breath before banging on the door again and yelling out, “Jimi baby, come to the door! Hemp emergency!” Then she let out a bawdy laugh.

  Chance imagined a simpering giggle would never escape out of this woman. He grinned as she laughed, dropped to her hands and knees and crawled after a burnt orange bundle of yarn, losing a flip-flop in the process—which sent her into another peal of bawdy laughter. He bent to gather up a few skeins and caught an eggplant-colored ball that was rolling toward him and the stairs, unraveling in a long strand on its way. Jimi’s door popped open and she took in the scene. She didn’t laugh bawdily, but giggled. Chance enjoyed that too.

  “What did you do, Mama,” she teased as she dropped to crawl after the skeins as well, “knock over a yarn shop?”

  Chance froze in his rescue attempts. Mama? Sometimes women called each other “mama” as a term of endearment. Men sometimes did the same. He looked over to see the bombshell had twisted around to face Jimi and plopped onto her generous behind, still laughing softly. No, Jimi’s use of the word “mama” was literal. He could see it in the resemblance of their features.

  Her mother’s lips were a bit fuller than Jimi’s, her face more rounded and softer with maturity. The older woman’s hair was a darker and brighter shade of red . . . more ginger than Jimi’s strawberry blonde, and wavy where her daughter’s was corkscrew curly. She had Bonnie Rait-style wide streaks of gray at the front. He liked that she was going gray gracefully and letting years of laughter and wild living show on her face instead of fighting her age like her life depended on it—like his own mother did. Jimi had her brown eyes. The woman was beautiful and sexy, appearing to be the epitome of a biker babe. Her purple tank had a beginning-to-peel “Full Throttle” screen-printed on it in white gothic lettering.

  As much as the two women resembled one another, their style was completely at odds. He remembered Axel referring to Jimi as the white sheep of the family. Now, seeing her with her mother, it was truly sinking in.

  Jimi crawling around grabbing up skeins was proving to be an enjoyable show as well. Her behind wasn’t nearly as generous as her mother’s, but looked better than good in a pair of well-worn low rise cargo-style pants that fit snug in the best places, but loose and relaxed in others. She wore a heather gray tee with the darker gray cotton pants and when she moved in certain ways the hem edged up to show her midriff.

  He forced himself to look away and snatched up more of the yarn that had landed around him. He knew he’d been noticed when he heard a low sexy voice.

  “Well, hello . . .” Jimi’s mother purred.

  Chance looked up to see she’d risen to her feet, bundles of yarn held to her generous chest. He grinned. “Hello.” He grabbed the last of the yarn and stood up as well.

  Jimi struggled to her feet and looked from her mama to him. “Hey, Chance.” Her attention went back to the older woman. “Mama, this is Chance Loughlin—my across-the-hall neighbor,” then back to him. “Chance, that’s my mother—Nova Alexander.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Alexander,” he murmured in greeting.

  Nova’s lips twitched. “No need to be rude,” she cracked. “It’s Nova.”

  He chuckled. “Nova, then.”

  “Chance,” she drawled as she raked him with a long, slow look, taking in his crew necked beige-to-tan hombre tee, slim fit distress washed jeans and the brown loafers he wore without socks. She took extra time on his heavily muscled and tattooed chest and arms.

  “Geez, Mama,” Jimi muttered.

  Chance watched Jimi’s embarrassed expression go alarmed when Nova’s eyes darted from him to Jimi and back again before a speculative look crossed her face. Now his own lips twitched.

  Jimi huffed and turned to go back through her door. “Come on. Let’s get this stuff inside before there’s another hemp explosion.”

  He glanced down to see that the brand new skeins’ labels did indeed indicate that the yarn was made of hemp. Interesting. He brought up the rear and entered Jimi’s place for the first time.

  Her apartment’s floor plan was an exact mirror image of his. She had hers furnished with a cute living room set comprised of a couch, two club chairs—one with an ottoman—and a recliner covered in mix-and-match patterns of reds, salmons, peaches and yellows. Her living room tables, as well as the six seat dining set, were made of blonde wood and were probably all serviceable and affordable IKEA products.

  The entertainment center not only held a TV and other electronics, but also a three-section partitioned aquarium tank where beautiful multi-colored betta fish swam under dramatic lighting among brightly-colored plants and rocks. These were the infamous pets she’d entrusted to her cousin’s care.

  There were artsy-craftsy wall art pieces and knick-knacks all around, mixed in with photos of family and friends. He didn’t have the opportunity to look closely, but he did get the impression that some of the pictures seemed incongruous with her attractively cute furnishings because they featured groups of rough and rowdy looking bikers. Her family.

  He made his way over to dump his armload of yarn on the dining table and looked up at her. When he finally saw the front of her t-shirt he snickered. It read, “She believed she could, but she was really tired. So she didn’t.”

  She was standing with her hands on her hips—which, again, brought the hem up to show a sliver of midriff. This sobered him up. Luckily she noticed neither of his reactions since her attention was on Nova.

  “So, what’s with the yarn?” she asked.

  “Daisy shipped it for you. It arrived this morning so I decided to bring it by.”

  “Why didn’t she just ship it to me?”

  “She didn’t have your new address. Your pops was supposed to drive by and get it off the building while he was out working, but he forgot.”

  “He could’ve called me. Or you could have. Or Daisy could have,” she reminded her.

  Nova shrugged unconcernedly. “You know your pops and cell phones. Daisy’s reception is spotty up there in t
he boonies.”

  “What about you?”

  “I wasn’t in on the scheme. I was as surprised as you when it arrived today.”

  Jimi started poking around inspecting the skeins.

  “Is it good stuff?” Nova asked.

  “Yeah, it is. It’s great. Where did she find it?”

  “One of the colony artists knew this guy who got arrested. His stuff got sold off cheap to make bail and a friend of Daisy’s got hold of this.”

  “How much did she have to pay for it?”

  “Nothing. She traded for it. A portrait, I believe.”

  “Well, I’ll fix her up a care package and ship it out as a thank you.”

  “That’ll be nice,” Nova commented. “Let me know when you do that and I’ll bring some things to add to yours.”

  Chance took in this whole exchange drowning in a sea of questions. Who was Daisy? What was with the artist colony? What charges did the guy get arrested for? What kind of trade? Why would this Daisy need a care package? Was she in a third world country? He was engrossed with wondering while watching Jimi rearrange the pile of hemp when he heard a bloodcurdling squeal.

  “Jimi baby! This is fantastic!” Nova was jumping up and down which set all her best physical assets to jiggling. She was holding up an intricately knotted macramé cord she’d found draped over the back of one of the club chairs. She pulled it around her waist and fixed in place with the funky fastener it was adorned with, leaving the belt to rest loosely around her hips. “I love it.”

  “Good,” Jimi answered, a pleased smile on her face. “It’s yours.”

  “Aww. Thank you, baby,” Nova answered as she twisted it this way and that, studying the complicated decorative knots carefully. “It’s really beautiful.”

  “Do you think they’ll sell?” Jimi asked.

  “Are you kidding? The biker babes’ll eat ‘em up.” She looked at her daughter. “What else have you been working on?”

  Chance was seemingly forgotten. He wasn’t used to that where women were concerned, but he didn’t mind it. This scene was too interesting. So many mysteries to be solved.