Beneath the Stars (Falling Stars #4) - A.L. Jackson Page 0,102
in pastel icing and sprinkles and twenty-one candles. Candy letters spelled out Happy Birthday.
There was a handmade card from Daisy.
All glitter and cutouts and the front claiming, Amor, Amor, Amor.
Love. Love. Love.
So much love.
So much that it crashed and broke and spilled all over the place.
A flood where I’d be happy to drown.
Then Rhys took my hand under the table and threaded his fingers with mine.
Tears pricked my eyes.
“Make a wish, Auntie!” Daisy squealed.
And I did.
I made the most important wish of all.
Twenty-Seven
Rhys
Charlie’s was this awesome bar down on the Riverwalk in Savannah.
Housed in a cotton warehouse from way back in the day, the rafters soared in the rambling building, so high the ceiling basically disappeared into the darkened nothingness. Aged wood made up the walls, blackened with time. The lights swinging on chains from that swellin’ abyss cast a dingy glow across the even dingier floors.
Place was this cross between dive and luxury. The booths were plush and a bit ostentatious where they rested in a secluded row along the far wall that ran up to the stage at the very back. A bunch of high-top tables surrounded by stools filled the space next to them, right up to the dance floor situated below the elevated stage.
On the opposite side of the massive building were a slew of pool tables lit by traditional billiard lights.
A huge bar floated in the middle of it all. Wood this gleaming, intricately carved mahogany. The barback was glass and metal, all the bottles illuminated in colorful lights.
It emitted a vibe of urban antique.
Carolina George had played here a ton of times through the years. Its original owner, Charlie? He was this cool as fuck old guy who’d welcomed us with open arms. By the second time we’d rolled through, he’d treated us like family.
Felt good to be back.
But what felt really good?
It was sitting in that private booth at the very back where a few other tables had been drawn up close so we could celebrate Maggie’s twenty-first.
Maggie who kept laughing loud and smiling big and having the time of her life.
Maggie who was wreckin’ me.
She sent me a sly grin where I sat three people down from her in the booth while the server rolled a cart for bottle service over to our spot.
This was a party, after all.
That glance, though?
It punched me in the guts.
Got me all twisted up in her pretty little fist.
I tried not to act affected. Tried to pretend like I was just another of the crew there to celebrate a friend.
Pretend like my dick wasn’t perkin’ up at the gorgeous sight of her.
But that was the problem. Every time I looked at her, I wanted more. That body and that sweet, sweet soul.
Knew I was gettin’ lost. In so deep I didn’t recognize myself any longer. With Maggie, it was easy to forget the lines that had to be drawn. Easy to get to thinkin’ that I might have the right to stand at her side.
Easy to break every fuckin’ rule. But those rules had been written for a reason, and I’d do well not to forget them.
“Now, now, everyone out of the way. I’ve got this. I’m an old pro.” Shea Stone popped up from where she sat at a table and moved for the cart. She was all country smirks and sass as she started pouring clear liquid into the shot glasses that had been left for our party. “Watch how it’s done.”
She started passing out the tiny, glittering glasses to everyone there.
This mish-mashed Carolina George family.
Most of Sunder and their wives.
The rest of Royce’s band. Van, Arson, and Hunter. All nicknames they’d earned back runnin’ the streets of Hollywood. Thought the dudes might have the whole sex, drugs & rock ‘n’ roll vibe trademarked, right down to the T.
“You sure you want one of those?” Royce shouted at Maggie over the clamor. Dude was watchin’ his sister like a hawk, though he had his own smile pulling at the edge of his mouth as he looked at her from where he sat on the opposite end of the booth.
Guy was nothin’ but devote adoration.
Had more respect for that than I could express. Which was an entirely separate reason guilt kept slogging through my bloodstream. My loyalties muddled.
Slowing my pulse before it went racin’ again when the girl would glance my way. When she’d sneak a brush of those fingers through my beard or devour me with those eyes.