Chapter

29

Under the cover of night, I snuck away from the hospital like a drunk stealing sips of whiskey from a hidden flask. I wanted nothing more than to fall into a deep sleep in my own bed. Since I didn’t have a car anymore, I had to rely on the Collier County Taxi. And I do mean, one lone taxi and driver, in all of the county. Thankfully the driver didn’t comment on my sad attire of two hospital gowns tied together to conceal my butt, since the doctors had cut away my clothes to assess my injuries. I staggered into the taxi, wincing with each step.

Thirty minutes later, I flopped facedown into my bed, dropping into its soft, fluffy comforter. No sooner had my head hit the pillow than I was snoring loud enough to wake myself.

Too little of a time later, a buzz saw reverberated through my brain.

Literally.

Just outside my window some jerk was happily pounding, hammering, and sawing away. Whistling too. I wished him a plague of warts.

My eyes flew open, realizing what I was hearing. Someone, or what sounded like a lot of someones, were working on the rackhouse.

I jumped from bed. A bad, bad idea. My muscles, the very ones that had hurt last night, had atrophied and now refused to move without intense pain. I staggered to the bathroom, choking when I saw my bruised face in the mirror. A long, jagged cut followed my eyebrow and reached into my hairline. The blood from the gash had congealed in my hair. I ran a hand through it. My hand came away black, though how much was from blood and how much was from soaking in swamp water was unknown. In addition, my upper lip puffed out, giving me a bee-stung look. The kind women usually paid dearly for. And all it had cost me was a Prius and a quick trip to the ER.

Next time I’d kiss a wasp.

Against my better judgement, I disrobed and took a quick, scalding-hot shower. My muscles eased as the water massaged them. Within a minute I could stand upright once again. The cut on my head, which the doctor had declared needed a bandage and no stitches, burned as the water pounded against it. But that didn’t stop me from scrubbing every inch of my body. Twice. At long last I felt almost human and stumbled out of the shower.

Foregoing my normal two cups of coffee, I headed downstairs and outside. Since the county inspector wouldn’t be here for several more days, I had to stop whatever work had been done to the rackhouse. Last thing we needed was a hefty county fine.

“Hello?” I called to the broad-shouldered back of the man with the saw in his hands. Muscles bunched and released with each movement. For a moment, I stood mesmerized by the sight. Then the man turned, ruining my pleasure. He slowly removed his safety glasses, studying me head to toe. He winced when his gaze landed of my face.

Not the sort of thing that helped a woman’s self-esteem.

“Damn,” Brodie said, reaching out to touch my damaged skin. I pulled back before he made contact. Not that I feared his caress, but I didn’t want what looked like half the town crowded around to witness his concern. More rumors flying around about Grodie Brodie and me would only add to my current host of problems.

Brodie dropped his hand. “Looks painful.”

“I’ll live.” My head started to pound, at odds with my declaration. “Longer than you, if you don’t stop sawing.”

“Now, was that nice?” He raised the saw. The blade gleamed menacingly in the sunlight. “I’m here, doing you a favor, and this is what
I get?”

I ignored his complaining, not in the mood for it after last night. “Favor? Is that what this is? Because it feels more like the Getts trying to stir up trouble, seeing as the county inspector hasn’t given his approval to do any work.”

His free hand flew to his chest. “I’m hurt. You need to have more faith in your fellow man.”

“I do.” I flinched when my battered lips cracked as I tried to smile. “Just not those with the last name Gett.”

His eyebrow rose, but he didn’t respond, instead he restarted the buzz saw and turned away. The noise drowned the string of words falling from my mouth. Most of them starting with the letter F.

Every time I took a breath, the saw idled, but as soon as I spoke again, he revved the engine.

“Bro—”

More revving.

“You—”

Louder still.

“Man-baby!” I yelled.

Sadly just as he cut the engine. Workers nearby spun around, eyes wide.

“Damn y—”

The chainsaw sputtered to life again.

I’d had enough of this game. I smacked his arm. “Stop. Please,” I added when it seemed like he planned on continuing to torment me.

He shut the saw off, turning to face me. “What?”

I took a calming breath. Brodie was, even if his ultimate plan was to ruin us, standing there, along with half of Gett Whiskey’s employees, trying to help us rebuild after the questionable fire.

“We aren’t supposed to go inside the rackhouse until the inspector gives the okay.” I paused, fear for his and my own employees filling me. “It’s dangerous.”

He waved to a man I’d never seen before. The man looked both terrified and in awe of Brodie. His eyes were wide, face pale. “George,” Brodie said, motioning from George to me, “I’d like you to meet Charlotte Lucky, the owner of Lucky Whiskey here.”

George tipped his baseball cap. “Ma’am.”

I gave him a warm smile. “Do you work at Gett? I’m so thankful for all of your help.”

“No, miss.” He looked from me to Brodie. “I work for the county.”

Oh no. My stomach dropped. “Are you going to fine us? Please, you have to understand, I didn’t know Brodie had this grand idea to fix us up today. I would’ve stopped him had I known.”

Brodie snorted.

“With violence if necessary,” I added, meaning every word.

“No fine, ma’am.” His gaze returned to me. “Mr. Gett asked me to come out to inspect the rackhouse early this morning.”

“Oh.”

“Lucky Whiskey is welcome to do whatever you need to do to get back in distribution, at least in an official capacity.” He chewed his lip, the hair above his upper lip dancing. “We all heard about your recent misfortunes. I hope this lessens some of the burden.”

Wetness threatened to leak from the corner of my eyes, but I managed to blink it away before Brodie or anyone else noticed. “Thank you.”

He nodded, clearly uncomfortable.

“Thanks again, George,” Brodie said, patting the man on his shoulder. “Rue sends her regards.” At the mention of Brodie’s grandmother’s name, George’s face grew gray in color. I winced, feeling sorry for him while wondering just what dark secret Rue held over the man.

Blackmail was her specialty after all.

George did the smart thing: He said nothing and slowly crept away.

“You forced him to come here.” I tilted my head. “Why?”

“Why what?” Brodie looked honestly confused, as if his reasons were as clear as the water we used for Lucky’s Finest. “It’s Gett. You need help. We’re here to help.” He looked down at me with a grin so patronizing I nearly smacked it off his handsome face. “Guess it doesn’t work that way in L.A.”

Not even close. Often when the fancy mansions slide off the cliffs after a rain, the people on the other side of the 101 cheer, happy their view has opened up. “Whatever your motives,” my voice rose, to include the men and women of Gett willing to spend their day helping out their fellow man—or in this case, pathetic-looking woman—“Thank you all. You have no idea how much we appreciate your help.”

“Beers are in the cooler. Cleaning supplies in the back of my Jeep. And you”—Brodie pointed at me—“back to bed. You look like hell.” With that pronouncement, he revved up the saw once more and went to work.