It’s Always Us (Abandoned Brothers #3)

Chapter 1

LEX

The thick liquid swirls around the rim of my wide-mouth glass. I watch the translucent streaks recede into the blood-red pool. The pungent smell stirs the waves of nausea rising in my stomach as I try to keep my miserable heel-clad feet from running out the doors.

This is what I want. This is what I want. This . . . I push out a long, slow breath. This . . . is what I want.

You know that feeling you get in the very depths of your gut when something isn’t quite right? The one that sets off warning bells or sirens that are supposed to kick you into high gear and generate action.

Some people call it instincts, others the gift of fear. I’m not exactly sure what it is or where it comes from, but over the past few months, I’ve gotten really good at ignoring it. Tonight, every form of internal alarm system is going off, and it’s so loud I can’t hear anything else.

I tip my glass to the side, wondering what would happen if my unsteady hand slipped and this detestable, fermented sludge ran down the front of my stiff ivory dress.

“Alexandra.”

The startle of a familiar mousey voice prevents the first drop, and I turn to see Gail Chambers making a beeline for me with a group in tow.

“Alex, these ladies are my best friends. They’ve known Seth since he was a toddler and have been dying to meet you.”

The tiny, prim, and proper woman loops her arm through mine as if we’re best buds. It’s not that Gail isn’t friendly. She’s just never been that fond of me, or really, I’m not the princess she imagined for her son .

The women gather around, and I squeeze back, unsure I want to be included in their little plastic circle. I realize there’s a frightening similarity between my dress, which I hate, and the style and appearance of my future mother-in-law and her posse. My stomach rolls again, and I clench my teeth, forcing a polite smile as she introduces me to each of her friends.

I offer my hand, receiving each meticulously pampered and manicured one in return. The last desperate housewife offers one of those prissy handshakes that involves only a few awkward fingers, clearly appalled by my rough, grease-stained hands despite my light pink polish.

A nervous laugh escapes Gail as her friend studies her hand, ensuring I didn’t leave any residue behind. “Oh, yes, I told you all how Alex volunteers at her grandfather’s garage from time to time.” Volunteers? “Young women these days and their need to master the skills meant for the opposite sex.” Her condescending laughter makes my stomach punch itself.

This is what I want. This is what I want. This is . . .

I inhale, scanning the overly decorated room for Seth, needing rescue. When I don’t spot him, my alarm system activates the panic mode. The only cheese and cracker I choked down rises in my throat, a cold sweat creeps up the back of my neck, and my feet tingle with the urge to sprint to the nearest exit.

While the former county fair beauty queen and her band of BFFs babble on about necessary skill sets and changing times, I stare into the glass in my shaky hand, contemplating a spill as my escape plan.

“So, you work on automobiles, then?” one of the women, whose name I can’t remember now, asks with a little too much ‘Eww’ in her tone for me to care to answer. But because I’m mostly polite, I respond.

“Cars, trucks, SUVs, things with engines.” I force my lips upward as they all half laugh—the nose tipped-slightly-in-the-air, snooty kind.

The laughter halts as they study me like I’m some kind of new trend that challenges their highly strict values. It’s my cue to find somewhere else to be in this twinkle-light-flower-infested room.

“Alex is taking some classes and assists Seth at the firm, but once they’re married, you know how it is. Wifely duties take over.”

Her ability to make excuses for my line of work never ceases to amaze me. Helping Seth move his office furniture doesn’t even remotely qualify as working for his firm. As far as schooling, I’m enrolled in a single program working toward an ASE certification, as in Automotive Service Excellence.

School was never my deal, but working with my hands, specifically on cars, is where I belong. I grew up in my grandpa’s garage, filled with foul-mouthed men and the scent of oil and brake fluid. Those men are my family, and that garage is my life.

I want to get married, have a family, and work on cars. That’s my dream. It’s simple. It’s not flashy or grand, but it’s mine. But here I stand in a room full of people who will never understand me or the thrill of diagnosing a broken vehicle, repairing it, and returning it to its grateful owner.

The pool of women I’ve encountered in my life that seem to understand my career choice could be counted on one hand. There are even fewer men who appreciate it for more than assuming I’m some chick who cluelessly tinkers under a hood because it’s ‘cute.’ Gag.

Women in the garage are rarely accepted, but someday, Grandpa’s garage will be mine, so I’m doing what I can to give myself the best leg up when that day comes.

Wanting no part of the load of crap being shoveled out here, I excuse myself. “It was nice meeting you all, but I need to find Seth.”

They all nod in unison.

“I’ll catch up with you later about dress shopping,” Gail chimes in an overly eager tone that causes my feet to move even faster.

I weave my way through people, most of whom I’ve only briefly met over the past two years, searching for the man who’s supposed to be helping me through this. The one who’s supposed to be standing by my side yet never seems to be present when I need him most.

These are his people, his family, and his friends. If I had it my way, I’d forgo all this pomp and circumstance. Unfortunately, my ideas were vetoed immediately once Gail got wind of our engagement. But maybe this extravagance is giving me the time and observance I need to put things in perspective.

I stop at the bar to set down the glass of wine I didn’t order and would never drink. Chugging it is an appealing idea if I didn’t think it would come right back up. Then again, maybe that’s not such a bad plan.

“Hey, Pal. ”

I turn to the man who’s taught me everything I know, his slightly wrinkled gray button-down shirt only mildly fitting over his short, broad frame. He leans an elbow on the bar, surveying the room.

“Hey, Grandpa.”

“Your mom messaged me. She got caught up at work.”

I nod, wishing I could get back to working on the truck that came in this afternoon with a valve cover leak.

“This is quite the setup. You doing all right?”

My eyes roam over the room filled with people and things representing nothing of the world I belong to or my preferences. The white linen covered high-top tables with elaborate pale pastel floral centerpieces and hundreds of twinkle lights strung from one end of the room to the other. It’s all elegantly stifling and stiff, just like my dress.

I tug at the scratchy material around my neck. “Yeah, it’s all a bit . . . bright.” I spend my days in coveralls or jeans covered in grease and grime; T-shirts and flannels are my go-to. All this flowery vibrance is nauseating.

Grandpa chuckles. The low, gravelly sound so familiar eases the waves of panic, cresting higher and higher with each passing minute. “That it is. How are your nerves? Time is ticking.”

I can’t meet his gray-blue eyes because this man will see right through my shaky conviction. “They’re holding on.” I try to joke, but it comes out flat.

In my periphery, I see one of his bushy gray brows arch as he studies me. I pretend to search the room again, attempting to ignore his prying eyes.

“No one is forcing you to do this.”

My head snaps in his direction. I’m used to Grandpa being blunt, but this comment came out of nowhere.

“What?”

He rests his back against the bar, turning his attention to the room full of men and women dressed for the Kentucky Derby. This was supposed to be an informal engagement party for family and friends—a.k.a. Gail’s family and friends.

“All this,” he gestures around the room with his head. “I want to be sure that this is what you envisioned when you think about the rest of your life. Seth is a good guy, but he’s not . . . ”

Don’t say it. Don’t even say it .

Every muscle throughout my body constricts, and I turn to face him, stopping him before he says it. “Grandpa, this is happening. This is what I want.” A sour taste fills my mouth with those five words, my stomach in full revolt.

He doesn’t look at me, likely knowing I’m full of crap. He releases a long exhale through his nose, and there’s that slight whistle that’s always there.

“Sometimes, the comfort and reliability of a Buick seem like a safe bet, but a Mustang . . . it’s where real fun and living happens.”

I stare at him as he pushes away from the bar. The man who’s raised me, at least where it’s counted most. The one who knows me better than anyone. He just had to do it.

But this is what I can’t handle right now. I can’t have him putting thoughts in my head that don’t belong there. Thoughts that haven’t belonged there for a very long time. I’ve never been able to rid myself of them no matter how hard I try. Thoughts I don’t have space in my head for, especially tonight.

The rotten old fart drops a bomb of wisdom and leaves me standing here as he heads back to the fresh trays of cream puffs and crab cakes.

He just had to say it. He had to put it out there.

I glare at his back as my dress suddenly shrinks around my chest, and my need to flee escalates. Where in the hell is Seth?!

I move toward the doors leading to a small deck needing fresh air.

I push into the cool night air that’s filled with the overwhelming stench of cigar smoke.

“Alex.” Seth’s voice catches me off guard. He stands off to the side, surrounded by his college buddies and their ladies. “Come here and hang out with us.”

My feet stay put as I glance over my shoulder at the party inside that’s for us, yet we’ve spent the whole evening apart. What’s new?

My positive attitude hits rock bottom, and my desire to be here evaporates like the billowing smoke around me. Tired of me not listening, that little voice of my innermost being screams. This is NOT what I want!

Seth takes another puff of his cigar and closes the distance between us. He leans down to kiss my cheek, and the smell is repulsive. I wrap my arms around myself as my skin breaks out with goosebumps at the recognition of what’s happening—of what’s been happening that I’ve chosen to ignore.

“We’ve been catching up.” He shrugs off his jacket and places it around my shoulders. One of his arms comes around me and pulls me toward his friends.

I join their little smoke-filled group, trying not to breathe while an unspoken war rages within me.

Buick. Mustang. Buick. Mustang. Buick. Mustang.

As the Buick talks next to me, I can only think that the Mustang is long gone. My heart sinks yet again to the toes of my overly-priced and horrendously uncomfortable shoes.

“So, Alex, does this mean we all get free oil changes when we’re in town?” One of the guys asks, pulling me from battle. When I realize who said it, it’s accompanied by a smug smirk, like it’s some kind of joke. Pompous dick.

“It’s buy ten, get one free.” My voice is quiet as my mind spins with sudden awareness.

The women in the group giggle like I said something funny, and Seth’s arm slides around me. “Alex runs the shop. She’s got guys to handle the dirty work.”

I’ve got guys to handle the dirty work? I might actually vomit. I’d change oil every day for the rest of my life as long as I don’t have to sit behind some computer or work in an office.

This isn’t new. These comments, the condescending little jokes, and this weird type of protectiveness as if I need help to explain the work I do because it can’t possibly be serious. I guess I’m finally hearing it all loud and clear.

What the hell have I been doing?

A chill runs up my spine as heat consumes me. I try to breathe through the smoke and the vice cranking tighter around my ribs.

It’s not my problem these people are too close-minded to think a woman might genuinely enjoy fixing things—like cars.

It’s time for me to go before I melt down and make a fool of myself in front of people who really don’t care to know me other than I’m becoming Seth’s wife. Seth’s wife. I’m not even sure who that’s supposed to be because I’m afraid it’s not me .

I’ve been a flight risk for the past two hours, but my timer just went off.

“I have a valve cover leak waiting on me,” I announce to no one in particular, pushing Seth’s jacket off my shoulders and handing it back to him.

He frowns. “What? You’re leaving?”

“Yes.” My heart begins to race with the need to run. Mustang.

“ Are you all right?” He follows me to the doors.

I stop, peering up at his freshly shaven face and golden-brown eyes while my heart hammers away at the thought of what I’m about to do.

“What do you think of this dress?”

“What?” His brows tip in so far they almost meet.

“This dress,” I whisper, running a hand over the stiff, ugly, plain material covering my body. Punch. Punch. Punch. My heart bangs against my ribs as if it, too, is searching for the one who isn’t here. The one who hasn’t been here in so long but it has never been able to forget. “What do you think of it?”

He studies me like he’s noticing I’m wearing a dress for the first time. “I think you look beautiful. It’s stunning.”

My heart sinks into a pit of disappointed despair. Buick. Mustang. Buick. Mustang . . . Mustang. It’s always been the Mustang.

“I have to go.”

I swing open the doors, and all the bright whiteness of the room shocks my senses into flight mode. I make a run for it, not taking even a second to think about what happens next.