Vaughn swayed to the right, his shoulder slamming up against the wall. Then he kind of just hung there, counting forward and backward from one to ten. Not helping. Not helping. His stomach pitched at the sight of River walking through the drunks, like a nurse walking among the wounded on a battlefield. She could still knock his lights out on sight. Not that he’d doubted it for a second. But God, if it were possible, she’d grown even more beautiful over the last forty-nine months. Her blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail, a pencil stuck through the base, in a way he remembered well enough to make his throat go raw. In a short black skirt and fitted white T-shirt, River tried to look the part of indifferent barmaid, but didn’t pull it off. Not by a stretch.
Eyes Vaughn knew were just a shade darker than cornflower blue flitted to each table, and her fingers tugged on the skirt’s hem self-consciously every time she approached a new one. When she fumbled with the notepad, recovering with a nervous laugh, a choked sound left Vaughn. “Riv,” he whispered.
She looked up so fast, he might as well have shouted. The sudden impact of having River’s focus on him after such an extended period of time without it released a rushing sound between his ears, blocking out the sad lounge act…and apparently someone asking if he needed a table. Because when Vaughn snapped back to reality, a man he towered over by at least a foot was in his face. Snapping his fingers.
“I wouldn’t…” Vaughn shook his head to clear it, experiencing a resurgence of anger, this time for having his attention diverted from where he needed it to be. On River. “I wouldn’t advise snapping your fingers in my face again.”
“Why’s that, huh?”
A toss of blonde hair snagged Vaughn’s gaze as his angelic ex-girlfriend zigzagged through the crowd, drawing more than just his notice. Ah no, quite the opposite. She was putting on an unwitting show for every man in the room, attracting lecherous looks by virtue of being her beautiful self, light in a dark tunnel, same way she’d always been.
Fingers snapped in front of his face. Again. “This is my place and I asked you a question.”
“This is your place?” Vaughn asked. God, one hour back in Jersey and already his accent had thickened from water to oil. “You hired River Purcell?”
“That’s right.”
Vaughn plowed a fist into the underside of the man’s jaw, watching him fall backward onto the sticky concrete floor with detachment that slowly morphed into satisfaction. So much for calm, he thought, shaking out his right hand. Within his chest, he could feel the familiar dark satisfaction that came from fighting. He’d always had it inside him, never gone a day without it. That born and bred edge—passed on by generations of De Matteo men—that should have repelled a young River back in high school.
But no. No, she’d been drawn, instead. As she was now, swerving around tables, coming closer to where he stood, still just inside the entrance. She wasn’t the only one, either. Men were standing up, cracking their knuckles in the New Jersey state signal for shit-is-about-to-go-down. In the corner of his eye Vaughn saw the owner rousing on the floor, noticed him gesturing to the apparently lazy security staff, who also headed in Vaughn’s direction. So he did what every levelheaded man would do in a situation where he was outnumbered about two hundred to one.
He lifted his fists, pounding one of them against his chest. “Come on, then,” he called out. “Don’t be shy as well as stupid.”
“Vaughn.”
River’s voice was breathless as she reached his side, making everything inside him expand like an inflating raft. His fists shook in the air, so he tightened them. Don’t look at her yet, just get her out. “You got a purse you need to grab or somethin’?”
An expulsion of air came from her lips. “You can’t just—”
She broke off when he sent her a look. The look. It said, come on, you remember how I roll. Can’t isn’t part of my vocabulary. Placing his attention on River was a mistake, however, because now it couldn’t be dragged away by a dozen ox. Oh Lord. Those big, sweetheart eyes were tired. Of course, they were. If everything in the letter from Sarge was accurate, she’d been working day shifts at the local factory, in addition to slinging drinks at night.
My fault.
Yeah, his actions were going to cost her this job. Maybe he’d walked into the joint fully aware of that fact. But regret refused to appear. If fifty years had passed since they’d shared oxygen, he would have done the same thing. River belonged in the Kicked Bucket like a virgin belonged in a brothel. As in, she didn’t. And he was a presumptuous fucker for assuming the responsibility of that decision, but he’d never claimed to be otherwise. “Hiya, doll.”
This was where she coldcocked him. Screamed at him, scratched his eyes out, and told him she hated his guts. I’m not ready, I’m not ready.
Turns out he really wasn’t ready for what happened next.
River’s lips lifted in the bright, class president smile he remembered like the back of his hand. So angelic, the other angels in heaven had probably banded together to kick her out. Right onto his unworthy lap. “Hey there, Vaughn.” She reached out and patted his shoulder. “Guess you haven’t changed much, huh?”
Chapter Two