Out of the Ashes Read online

  “You know that Sir Mix-a-lot guy who sang the song about big butts? Well, I have two beefs with him.”

  I run a hand down my face, trying my damnedest to hide my grin. “Do tell. What might those be?”

  She ticks off one finger. “First off, guys getting hard-ons from a big butt? That surpasses creepy. Not to mention it’s beyond gross.” Ticking off another finger, she adds with the kind of emphasis only an extremely intoxicated person can get away with, “Second, what kind of asshat lists women’s measurements like that? Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six? And a woman who’s only five-foot-three? Give me a break.” Shaking her head with a look of disgust, she takes a swig of her drink before muttering, “I barely resist the urge to cover my ears when that song comes on.”

  Gesturing at herself, she says, “Look, I’m five-foot-seven, and on a really good day with a really great bra, I’m a solid B cup. Throw that song in the mix, and I find myself wanting to shake my fist in the air”—she raises a fist in demonstration—“and yell, ‘Hey, universe! Yes, you! You can SUCK IT!’”

  It takes all my effort not to burst out laughing at her dramatic yet obviously heartfelt speech as I roll my lips inward.

  She lets out a long sigh and stares down at her drink. “But I refrain from doing so because the daughter of two renowned cardiologists should never behave in such a way. Or so I’m told.”

  “Well, I think that song’s overrated.”

  Her head whips around, eyes wide with surprise. “You do?”

  Nodding sagely, I lean toward her, lowering my voice. “Big butts are overrated in my opinion.”

  Her eyes flicker from my own then down to my lips, lingering there briefly. “Hendy, I—” She breaks off, and I recognize the look; the sudden paleness, the perspiration beading on her forehead.

  Nearly toppling off the barstool, Presley darts for the nearby exit. Quickly tossing down money for her tab and grabbing her small purse and some napkins, I rush out after her. Finding her around the darkened corner of the building, I see she’s bent over a row of bushes.

  Tucking her purse beneath one arm, I slide my hands into her hair, pulling it back more firmly out of the way as she empties her stomach.

  “Oh, God in heaven. What in the hell was I thinking?”

  There’s more heaving. Then she mumbles, “Dylan’s an asshole.” More heaving, followed by an additional plea to God.

  Finally, once she’s emptied her stomach and braced her hands on her knees, she slowly straightens. Pulling the two napkins I’d snagged at the bar from my back pocket, I hand them to her.

  “You okay? Or are you ready for another rager?” I can’t resist teasing her.

  “Ha-ha.” She rolls her eyes at me before groaning. “Can I maybe get swallowed up by these bushes? Please?”

  “I’m going to let the fact that you just mentioned bushes and swallowed in the same sentence go.” I grin and offer her a stick of gum from the small pack in my pocket before handing over her purse.

  “Oh, thank you,” she says with a sigh and unwraps the gum and pops it in her mouth. Finding a nearby trashcan, she tosses her napkins and gum wrapper in it before whipping back to me in alarm. “Oh, my gosh! I have to pay my tab! He probably thought I was—”

  “Already taken care of.”

  Her mouth snaps shut as she stares at me for a beat. “You took care of it?”

  Before I can answer her, I’m interrupted.

  “Hey, man. Aren’t you that Navy SEAL who was supposedly dead?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Presley

  It’s as if I can see every single one of Hendy’s muscles tighten in response to the guy’s question; his entire body draws up to appear even more imposing. It’s a Friday night, and I’m clearly not the only one who’s been drinking more than their allotted amount of alcohol. The guy sways on his feet, and one of his friends steps up beside him.

  “Yeah, you’re that fucking dude, aren’t you?” The drunk guy’s index finger jabs the air, pointing at Hendy, and I watch as a shuttered expression comes over him.

  “You need to watch your mouth around the lady.” Hendy’s fingers cinch around my wrist, and he casually tugs me closer to him, shifting in front of me as if to protect me from a threat.

  “Fuck that shit.” The drunk guy’s face twists into an ugly sneer. “What’re you gonna do? You got fucking tortured by terrorists, right? And then you got a medal for it?”

  Hendy says nothing, merely stares at the guy, and I watch, my eyes darting back and forth between them. The drunk guy’s friend wises up and yanks on his arm.

  “Hey, man. Leave him alone. Come on.” He walks away, but it seems the drunk guy has other ideas.

  “What are you going to do? Huh, scarface?” He taunts Hendy, who remains utterly still, watching him with that unnervingly silent, deadly, and intimidating stare.

  “You want to know what I’ll do?” He waits for the drunk guy to nod before he releases his hold on me, spine straightening further, shoulders wide, his stance ready to engage. Closing the distance between himself and the drunk guy and leaving only about a foot between them, he speaks, and his voice is dark and deep with an underlying steel.

  “Take the final step. Come here, and I’ll show you what I do to assholes who don’t know the first thing about respecting others.”

  Hell, I’m not even the person he’s directing his words at, and I’m intimidated. Because this version of Hendy is scary without doing anything more than speaking. Not once has he raised his voice, and not once has he done anything physically threatening, like raise a fist. Yet anyone with half a brain—sober or drunk—can plainly see he means business with his stance and dark, dangerous tone.

  Something must finally break through the guy’s cloud of drunkenness because he backs away with his hands up in surrender, nervousness lining his features. “My bad, man. My bad,” he mutters before turning and following the path his friend took a moment earlier.

  Hendy doesn’t move an inch, but his eyes track the guy’s movements as he walks off. I’m amped up, though, like I got gypped out of some action. And since I’ve been drinking, I’m mouthier than usual.

  Shoving myself around Hendy, I call out after the guy, gesturing with my arms and taunting, “That’s right! You’d better walk away!” Swaying in front of Hendy, he grabs my waist to steady me. I drop my arms, muttering, “That’s right. How do you like me now, huh?”

  Hendy barks out a laugh, turning me to face him, appearing amused. “Let’s get you home before you decide to channel your inner Mike Tyson.” Tipping his head to the side, he asks, “Ready to go?”

  I consider his question briefly. “Do I have to?”

  He offers only a close-lipped smirk. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Releasing a sigh, I look away. “Fine.” My head snaps up as a thought hits me. “You’re coming home with me?”

  His eyes scan my face. “Yes.” There’s a pause as he eyes me curiously. “Since I’m the one who will be driving tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  That slightly lopsided smile makes another appearance. “You sound disappointed.” He raises his eyebrows. “Why, Presley Cole, are you trying to get in my drawers?”

  “Ye—No.” Shit. My lips are loose from drinking. Attempting to school my expression, I place my hands on my hips. “I’ll have you know that wasn’t my…” I trail off as a thought hits me. “Wait a minute.” Peering closer at his khaki pants, I ask, “So you’re saying you’re wearing underwear?”

  Oh, no. I just said that out loud. To Hendy.

  My patient.

  Simmer down, Presley. Simmer. Stop asking patients if they’re wearing underwear. Even if they do happen to be super smart, have crazy sex appeal, and probably wear some of those boxer briefs that won’t be able to hide a huge—

  Slapping my hands over my face, I groan. “What is wrong with me?”

  “You’re drunk.” Hendy’s hands cup my shoulders, and he steers me in another direction. “Le
t’s head to my truck.”

  Dropping my hands with a sigh, I whisper, “Okay,” as he takes my hand in his and guides me along the sidewalk. I’m trying my hardest to resist the sway that comes with the amount of liquor still in my system and concentrate on walking as straight as possible. But it’s even more challenging because he’s so distracting; the feel of his calloused fingertips grazing my skin sends a tantalizing awareness through me.

  As we make our way to where he parked his truck on one of the nearby side streets in the downtown area, I observe women we pass who cast him inviting glances. He doesn’t appear to notice, or if he does, he’s ignoring it. I can’t pretend I don’t feel a sense of pride that I’m the one whose hand he’s holding, the one he’s escorting to his vehicle.

  Of course, I’m also ignoring the fact he’s doing this only because I drunkenly puked into some bushes, and that’s the reason—the only reason—he’s taking me home. But hey. If that’s the way to get to hold the hand of a sexy former Navy SEAL who can nearly best me at Jeopardy, then I call that a win.

  Pressing the key fob to unlock his vehicle, he opens the passenger door for me, turning and settling his hands at my waist. My startled eyes fly up to meet his, but he merely lifts me, placing me on the seat before reaching to fasten the seat belt across my chest.

  “Wow.” My tone is a mixture of bemusement and dry humor. “I can’t say I’ve had someone do that for me—let alone a guy—since I was in the single digits.”

  He studies me briefly, reaching out to tuck some hair behind my ear with a quick wink. “Maybe you’ve been hanging around the wrong guys.” With those words, he closes my door and crosses around the front to get in.

  Fastening his own seat belt, he starts the truck and adjusts the air conditioning to battle the never-ending Florida humidity while I ponder his actions, his words.

  This man has shown me more affection, more attention, and has been more caring toward me than someone I had been with for close to a decade. It makes me wonder if—

  “Have you ever been in love?” As soon as my words are out, panic engulfs me because, yet again, I didn’t mean to voice my thoughts. Before I can backtrack, to apologize, he answers.

  “No.”

  I’m surprised at his response. “You answered that really quick.” Leaning my head against the seat, I add, “And you sound so certain.”

  His look is intriguing, and I wish it weren’t so dim in the cab of the truck. “Because I’m certain I’ve never been in love before. Because I’ve never…”

  “Because you’ve never…?” I prompt.

  Staring out the windshield, he exhales slowly. “I’ve never found anyone who made me want to commit. Anyone who had the qualities I could see myself appreciating for the long-term.”

  He falls silent for so long I think he’s finished speaking when he begins again. “I’ve always thought of real love as finding the person you want to weather the storms of life with. The person who’s so perfect for you, yet they couldn’t be more imperfect.” His lips curve up into a faint smile. “Someone who always ends up burning the toast but remembers exactly how I take my coffee and orders pepperoni pizza only to pick it off her pieces to give to me because it’s my favorite and I always want extra.

  “Someone who can forgive even when it’s tough.” Turning to meet my eyes, he softens his voice. “I think of real love like the kind that rolls up its sleeves and isn’t afraid to get dirty, do some hard work, go through some tough shit because, after all the sweat and maybe some tears, too, I know the result is going to be worth it. That all the time spent and all the hard work went into making that love even better.” Hendy shrugs. “I’ve just never found that with anyone.”

  Shifting slightly in his seat, he turns to look out the windshield again with a more subdued voice. “Some of my friends have found it, but I’ve never found someone who made me feel…” He trails off with a shrug.

  Anything like I feel when I’m with you, I want him to say. Which is ridiculous. I shouldn’t be feeling this. Not right now. I should be home licking my wounds, not fantasizing about the man next to me.

  Instead, I want to lick him. All over.

  “I’m so drunk,” I whisper-groan more to myself than to him as my eyes fall closed.

  “Let’s get you home,” Hendy says quietly, putting the truck in gear then pulling onto the street.

  I decide to rest my eyes for a moment. It’s probably safer to just chill out right now and try to keep my mouth shu—

  “I Googled you. Hard.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hendy

  “I Googled you. Hard.”

  Presley’s words have me teetering between laughing and an aroused-as-hell groan. Because the word hard coming from her lips is pure ecstasy and immediately sends blood rushing south to my cock.

  Then the full force of her words hits me. My hands constrict on the steering wheel in an unforgivingly tight grip, and my muscles tense so much I fear they’re nearly to the point of knotting.

  She looked me up on the internet. That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Until another emotion rapidly edges out that surprise.

  Panic.

  Panic that maybe she came across something that would end up tainting her view of me. Glancing briefly at her before returning my attention to the road, I hear her let out a soft groan beneath her breath.

  “God, Presley. Just shut up already,” she murmurs to herself.

  This has my lips turning up a bit, but there’s no denying my curiosity as to what information she dug up on me. “Did you find anything interesting?”

  Coming to a stop at the traffic light at Centre Street before we head onto Atlantic Avenue, I look over, trying to gauge her expression. Her head’s turned to the side, relaxed against the seat, eyes soft, watching me.

  “Like the fact that you’re a badass? A modern-day Chuck Norris?” The corners of her mouth tilt up. “You could be one of those internet memes.” Deepening her voice, she says, “Chuck Norris didn’t join the Navy! The Navy joined Chuck Norris!” Laughing softly, she murmurs, “But yeah, I think I ended up even more impressed. You’re a hero, Hendy.”

  A humorless laugh escapes me. I’m no hero. “Right.” Turning onto South Fletcher Avenue to head home, I feel it.

  Presley lays her palm over the hand I have resting on the middle console, and the comforting affection spreads warmth through my veins.

  “Speaking of Googling hard,” she begins with a strong hint of wicked mischief in her voice, “maybe you can show me just how har—”

  “Presley Cole.” My tone is one of warning even though I’m fighting a smile. Because tipsy Presley is more amusing than I would’ve expected. Certainly, she’s naughtier than I ever imagined.

  Which means it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to pull off this road and tug her body over to straddle mine and show her exactly how hard I am.

  “How do you do this?” she blurts out suddenly.

  Confused, my brows furrow. “Do what?”

  “How do you do this? It’s like you have this effect on me whenever I’m around you where I always want more—more time with you, more talking, more fun. Just more…”

  Every fiber in my body tenses at that moment because…shit. She’s voicing what I’ve wished for all along. If only she hadn’t been drinking tonight.

  “It’s like when you use one of those car wash vacuums, and you’re going crazy trying to frantically get every possible square inch before your time’s up”—she takes a quick breath, her words frantic, rushed—“and you’re one quarter short of another vacuuming session and just when you’re about to finish cleaning that last spot, in that crevice you only now discovered that seems to catch every god-forsaken crumb known to man, it shuts off. And you’re mentally screaming, ‘Nooooooo!’ but it’s too late and then—”

  “I’m pretty sure I get the idea.” I struggle not to break into a huge smile at the way she’s comparing a frantic need to get as much time with
me as possible. She’s so damn adorable like this. Partially flustered, honest, and that hint of desire I detect in her eyes… Fuck.

  Being noble and doing the right thing might actually kill me tonight.

  Pulling into her driveway, I park and turn off the ignition. Raising a hand, I slowly skim my thumb along her cheekbone. I watch her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting slightly as if my touch is something she wants to cherish, to bask in.

  Leaning over the console, I softly brush my lips against her forehead. Backing away is fucking torture, but it’s the look of disappointment in her eyes that nearly does me in. She clearly wants more than a peck on the forehead.

  Exiting the truck, I walk around to open her door and help her down. Those eyes drift over my lips once more before meeting my gaze. “Clue: Person with the worst case of blue lady balls tonight.”

  My eyebrows nearly hit my hairline, and it appears as if she might have even surprised herself in voicing that one. “Answer: Who is Presley Cole?”

  Pursing her lips, she carefully steps down from my truck before I close the door. Chuckling, I guide this still slightly unsteady beauty up the stairs, leading to the front door of the house.

  “Sorry.” Her tone is soft, faint. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Shaking her head, she mutters, “I should know better. No guy likes that kind of talk.”

  “That kind of talk, meaning…?” Watching her, I’m curious for her response.

  Presley lets out a long sigh, eyes averted. “You know”—she waves a hand—“any talk that’s remotely dirty.”

  I know I’m staring at her in disbelief. I can’t help it. Because what the hell? “And you have this on authority that guys don’t like dirty talk?”

  “I do.” She finally turns to look at me. “Among other things.”

  Among other things?

  “And who told you this?” I’m still dumbfounded even though I’m sure I already know the answer.

  “Dylan.”

  “And no other guy liked it?”

  We’ve come to a stop at the top of the stairs and beneath the yellow outdoor light casting a soft glow over us. I can feel her embarrassment and see the flush spreading across her cheeks.