Page 30 of Second First Kiss

“One of many reasons that R. J. is now banned for life. But he’s threatening to sue the lodge,” Tim said, and Kat rubbed her forehead. She could already feel a knot forming.

“Of course he is.” She could press charges, but what would be the point. Going up against a guy whose dad had more pull around town than the mayor would be a waste of time and energy—two things she was desperately short on.

Tim put his hand on her shoulder. “My cousin works at the Italian place on Cyprus and Pine. I can ask if they’re hiring.”

She shook her head. “Once word gets out about tonight”—and it would, secrets were like a commodity in Sierra Vista and rumors of the fight would spread faster than wildfire—“no one will hire me. I’ll probably lose my job with the county. All for doing the right thing.”

“Lucas still hasn’t spoken to you about it, so maybe he’ll change his mind.”

“Fat chance.”

“If you want, I can take this matter straight to Nolan. He is technically in charge of security, and this was a security issue,” he said, and Kat felt like she was going to be sick.

“Does he know?” she asked, surprised at how hard it was to get the words out. “About me being fired?”

After the Carmichael siblings took over the lodge, they split up the responsibilities, each overseeing a different part of the company. Responsibility over the resort’s security and bar and grill fell to Nolan.

“No, but I can call him if you want,” Tim said.

She couldn’t ignore the rush of emotion that came with the knowledge that Nolan had, in fact, not been a part of her possible termination. A part of her wondered what he would have said had he known, and where he would side on her termination. But a bigger part, the part that would rather bathe in acid than admit to him that she needed his help, had her shaking her head a big fat no.

“It’ll all work out.” When Tim didn’t look so convinced, she added, “I’ve made it through worse.”

Like her grandpa had always told her, sometimes doing the wrong thing for the right reason had consequences. And the consequences for her actions fit the crime. That still didn’t lessen the blow.

9

“All work out, my ass,” Kat mumbled as she yanked open the office door. She stormed past the break room, past three worried coworkers’ faces, and—ignoring the steady drizzle—across the employee parking lot.

She was met with the full force of a Sierra Nevada April night. The temperature wasn’t snow-worthy, but it was cold enough to freeze her nose. The wind sturdy enough to sting her eyes and cut through the denim of her jeans. But she didn’t let it slow her down.

Compared to the brutal winters in Boston when she was in college, this was child’s play. She rounded the side of the building, not stopping until she reached Bette Davis, sitting in a darkened corner of the lot. A corner that had been directly under a lit streetlight when she’d pulled in earlier.

The light had been busted out.

Unease pinched between her shoulder blades and a quiver of tension put her body on high alert. She whipped her head around and quickly scanned the parking lot, then scanned it again, releasing a relieved breath when she found herself alone.

Taking out her keys, she rounded the back of the car and came to a full and complete stop. Anger and resignation coiled in her gut and ate its way up her spine as fear gave way to frustration. Because there, spanning the entire length of the driver’s side, from the undercarriage all the way to the window trim, scraped deeply into the steel, was a title she’d spent most of her life trying to live down: Bitch.

A title she’d have to endure, at least until she had the extra cash to get it buffed out. Which would be in a thousand years. Some would say it was just a car. But it was more than that. It was Bette Davis, her grandpa’s pride and joy. The car that had driven Kat to school a thousand times, had rescued her when her parents’ arguments hit welfare-check status, and the car they’d spent countless hours rebuilding from the ground up.

She traced the first two letters, her heart aching when she felt just how deep it was. Deep enough that no amount of buffing was going to undo the endless wrongs of the night.

The light drizzle became more of a mid-spring storm, and she looked up at the sky as droplets stuck to her hair and lashes. Beneath the light of the moon the rain looked like a million shooting stars coming down to earth. If she believed in wishes, which she did not, she might have taken a breath and begged the universe for a break.

But then she moved her foot and a grainy substance shifted under her boots. Sand. She didn’t have to look to know what it had been used for. Tina had pulled this stunt with countless ex-boyfriends.

Kat looked at the gas cap, which was open, and the sandy residue around the rim. Pulling back her arm, she smacked it hard enough to make it rebound back and forth. It also left a gash on her knuckle, but she didn’t care. R. J. or his minions had poured sand into her gas tank, which meant she’d have to replace it before she could even start the engine.

“Mother,” she hit the cap again, “fucker.”

And when that wasn’t satisfying enough, she kicked the tire—which had been slashed— and heard a tear. She’d split the toe of her favorite boots. The boots she’d inherited from Zoe after she’d passed.

Even worse, she thought, resting her head against the top of the car and letting out a stifled sniffle. R. J. hadn’t just vandalized her car. Between four slashed tires, a toxic tank, and a keyed door, he’d also put her out of commission. Probably even cost her her damn job.

“Moth-er. Fuck-er!” She kicked the tire with every syllable.

A low masculine whistle made her stop mid-kick. “Assaulting a patron, and now an innocent car? Those boots come in steel toe?”

---