Page 25 of Street of Dreams
“No. I’m just letting you know that you owe me money. In case it slipped your mind.”
After staring each other down, Bruce let go of Mr. Fleming, dug his hand into his pocket and withdrew a wad of cash bigger than his fist. He dropped several hundred-dollar bills on the bar. “That more than covers what I owe.”
Mac’s gaze went to Jake and his brothers. The twins shifted in their seats. Uneasiness bounced between them as they looked at each other, at their father, then at their older brother. Jake nodded once, stood tall and squared his shoulders, clearly protective of his brothers. It was something Mac never noticed before – how the dynamic changed between the King brothers once their father was in the room. They seemed on edge, and their unruly behavior immediately halted.
Mac imagined what it would be like to grow up under Bruce King’s reign of terror. No wonder the three brothers were so angry all the time and bullied everyone. It’s all they knew. This man was their role model. A sinking feeling hit Mac in the gut, as he realized that, maybe, Bruce King was the man Jake was destined to become.
With nightfall, the temperature dropped, and the wind picked up. The hoodie wasn’t warm enough for the cold Chicago weather, and Mac shivered. He heated his chilled hands with his breath and wondered what the hell he was doing here. The idea that he was hooking up with Jake King seemed absurd. Yet, somehow, here he was, sitting on a park bench at night, freezing his ass off, waiting for a guy with a boatload of baggage. Although he’d been insanely attracted to Jake for years, the guy brought a ton of complications into Mac’s life, and he didn’t need to be derailed right now.
The roar of a motorcycle sliced through the air like a crack of thunder and grew steadily louder as Jake’s Harley came into view. The light from the streetlamp cast an array of shadows that highlighted his features in all the right places. He didn’t wear a full-face helmet. He wore one of those small skull caps which probably weren’t street legal but looked hot as fuck. It showcased the hard angles of Jake’s jaw, and the dark glasses he wore, even at night, looked ultra-cool. His trademark scowl, well-worn leather MC jacket, and matching bike boots made him look like a total bad ass.
Jake cut the engine, slid the kickstand down with the heel of his boot, and dismounted the bike. He pulled off his helmet, rested it on his hip and jutted his chin toward Mac in greeting.
Mac stood and took a few steps toward Jake. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.”
“I’m a man of my word. I said I’d be here. I’m here.” Jake placed his helmet on the seat of his bike, unbuckled his saddle bag and pulled out two brown paper bags. He kept one for himself and handed the other to Mac.
Mac pulled the cold amber bottle from the bag and gaped at the gold label. “You got me a Belhaven?”
“I know how much you like that shit.”
Not many places sold Scottish ale, even less served it. Mackenzie’s Pub was practically the only bar around who offered it on tap, and it was the only place Jake could have witnessed Mac drinking the classic ale imported from his family’s place of birth. It meant that Jake had been watching him for quite some time. And that Jake made a special stop tonight in order to pick up a bottle.
Jake grabbed the bottle from Mac’s hand, popped the cap with the bottle opener attached to his keychain, and handed it back. He kept his beer in the brown paper bag, lifted the tab and guzzled half the can. Then he sat on the bench with Mac, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and let out a loud burp.
Mac laughed. “You’re so crude.”
Jake displayed an easy smile that bordered on playful. There was no tension in his brow or hostility stemming from his posture. He looked relaxed, with his legs stretched in front of him and his ankles crossed. His leather jacket opened wider as he stuck one hand in his pocket, which made his T-shirt strain across the broad muscles of his chest.
While Mac watched the curve of Jake’s pecs flexing under the light, the two twenties and the ten-dollar bill that he gave Jake earlier landed in his lap. He stared down at it with surprise. “What’s this?”
“Take your money back. I only took it for effect.”
Mac didn’t know how to respond. Maybe fifty bucks didn’t seem like a lot of money to some people, but to Mac it was much needed padding in his bank account. He had planned on giving it to Skylar as a commission for getting him the gig last night, but she refused to take it, otherwise he never would have been carrying that much money. Every dollar he earned went into his savings for his future. “Thank you,” he said, as he returned the money to his wallet.
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m not a total asshole, Mac.”
The nickname, rolling off Jake’s tongue, took Mac by surprise. “You called me Mac.”
“Yeah. That’s what everyone calls you.”
“But you never call me that. Never. I’ve known you almost my entire life. You’ve called me a lot of things. Mostly obnoxious and insulting things.But never Mac.”
“Yeah, well . . . sorry about that. I didn’t mean any of them.” Remorse shown in Jake’s gaze, and the corners of his mouth bowed down before he forced a small smile.
Mac was floored at the apology. He contemplated the contrasting personalities of the guy sitting next to him and what it would be like to live with two different mindsets inside the same headspace. It sounded confusing as hell. “Why are you so different in front of everyone else? This is you, Jake. Right here. This is real. Why wear the mask?”
Jake stared into his beer can and shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess I trust you enough to be myself around you.”
“Why can’t you be yourself around other people? Why do you have to be such an asshole?”
Jake laughed. “Because Iaman asshole.”
“No you’re not. And no one knows it except me”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t understand.”
