Page 3 of One Night Rebellion (Bellehaven Hotties #10)

A ddie

JT looked good. Better than good truthfully.

Like I knew, objectively, that he did. Even in the dim light last night, that had been obvious.

But in the bright light of day, standing in the middle of Malcolm’s office?

That was a whole other thing. It felt kind of like going back in time.

The two of them side by side, JT looking like a god and my big brother standing there—the living embodiment of all the reasons it was never going to happen.

Too big an age gap. My brother’s best friend.

Oh, and my P.O.S. bio-dad tried to kill his—fuck if I know what to call Troy James now.

That whole family dynamic is weird as hell, but somehow they’re all making it work.

With the truck keys in hand, I head out to the parking lot and climb behind the wheel.

I have to get to Rusty’s and finish my last shift as a waitress.

I’ll be happy to put that gig behind me.

Bartending is still peoply, but no one expects bartenders to be as nice as servers. Busy and rude are kind of requirements.

I don’t really like people all that much.

It’s been hard as hell growing up in Bellehaven, under a microscope with people watching for any sign that I’m going to be the same kind of trouble that anyone with Stevens’s genetic material tends to be.

It was different for Malcolm. Being the basketball hero that he was had given him a kind of credibility that my own mediocrity at team sports or any extracurriculars could provide.

So I was unknown to them. I coasted under the radar just enough for them to not know quite what to make of me. That’s probably still true.

I’d thought—hoped, I guess—that being formally adopted by Lucas and shaking off a last name that came with a metric ton of baggage attached to it would be enough, but I guess not.

Then there was the mess with Derek. Getting involved with him was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I didn’t know about his drug problem.

To be fair, no one knew about it. He was a high-functioning addict with enough family money to keep it hidden.

But I looked like an idiot and I could see people looking at me in that knowing way.

Apples don’t fall far from the tree. Blood tells.

All that southern gothic bullshit like I’m somehow destined to be a homewrecker, an enabler, or a DV victim.

And I get it. Historically, that’s what all the women who were born into or married into the Stevens family became.

But people only get to break generational curses if other people are willing to let them move on from it.

Even getting hired on with the tourism board had practically taken an act of Congress.

A lot of people had gone to bat for me on that one—Cody and Emma Willett among them.

The good thing about that job is that it will be largely digital.

Online campaigns, social media, placement in magazines that cater to certain sets.

Bellehaven has several nice bed and breakfasts that have opened in the last few years.

There’s a winery now and a small-batch bourbon distillery.

Those are the elements I want to play up—the convenience of being dead in the middle of the Bourbon Trail.

BothLexington and Louisville both just a short drive away,.

Bellehaven offers the charm of a small town with all the conveniences of city life still easily accessible.

That is going to appeal to a lot of people.

I pull into the gravel lot of Rusty’s and the mental image of JT driving his pristine Mustang over dusty gravel prompts a slightly mean-spirited giggle.

He’d be out there with a magnifying glass inspecting the paint job for even a hint of a scratch.

He’s not going to be hanging at Rusty’s anytime soon, not unless Malcolm drives him.

And the thing about my brother that is both impossibly sweet and incredibly gross is that he’s completely devoted to Rachel.

He even turned down playoff tickets so he could propose to her on her birthday.

That man was stone cold in love. Considering how much of a player he’d been in the day, that was saying something.

I walk into Rusty’s and brace myself for a demanding crowd.

It’s a Friday and even though it’s a hole in the wall, it’s still a bit of a destination.

Rusty’s, despite its lackluster exterior, has the best food in town.

Seriously world-class burgers and fried chicken that people will drive hours out of their way for.

Even as I don my apron and grab my ticket book, I’m thinking of ways to capitalize on that. There are a few TV shows—cooking and travel—that we could try to get placement on, if I can get Rusty to go for that. That’s a very big if.

—---

My shift is finally over. It’s been busy. No breaks all day long. A couple of the smaller tour companies that do guided a la carte bourbon tours like to include Rusty’s as their lunch stop. We had a couple of those today, and while the tips were great, my feet are killing me.

I step out into the parking lot, digging in my bag for my keys and phone.

All I want is to sit down. Somewhere. Anywhere.

But I look up and forget all about how bad my feet are hurting.

Standing just a few feet away is JT. He’s put on a jacket since the evenings are starting to get cool, but beneath it is just a plain white T-shirt and well-fitting jeans.

Is there a hotter look on a well-built man than the classic bad boy attire of denim and a leather jacket?

No. No, there is not. But what the fuck is he doing here?

“Malcolm had to get the truck,” he says as I walk toward him. “I offered to give you a ride.”

“How the hell did you get that thing in this parking lot without a scratch or a speck of dust?” I ask, waving toward the car.

“Carefully,” he answers with a smirk as he opens the passenger door. “And with no small amount of skill.”

“You’re starting to make a habit of chauffeuring me around.”

He pauses in the act of starting the car up once more. “I’ve had worse habits. You headed to your Mom’s and Lucas’s?”

“No. Tonight, I’m going to sleep in my own bed,” I tell him.

And I’m half tempted to invite him to join me, but that’s a whole mess of complications that I don’t need.

Too many things are in motion right now—the job, all the transitions, and changes that are coming at me are things that I’ve never done well with.

They tug at my anxiety. It’s not a big mystery as to why.

There have been a lot of good years in between, but nothing wipes away the memories of growing up in a house where Kyle Stevens’s temper ruled everyone and everything.

Growing up in that house made me cautious, prone to anxiety—a whole passel of trauma responses usually wrapped up in dark humor and feigned indifference.

JT’s got his own traumas. It’s pretty obvious that what my dad did to his dad left a mark.

It’s also obvious that having his dreams of being a pro athlete ripped away from him just when they were within reach—that’s fucked him up pretty good.

And two fucked-up people together is a recipe for disaster.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, as the car growls its way down the highway. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. It’s no trouble at all… I’m not exactly the favorite son of Bellehaven anymore. A lot of people are super disappointed in me.”

“No. They’re disappointed in their own lives and projecting that on you… And if they’re pissed because your life didn’t turn out the way they wanted? That’s their fucking problem, isn’t it?”

“When did you get such a potty mouth?”

I shrug. “About the same time I got boobs.”

Even in the dark interior of the car, I see his gaze cut toward me and then immediately back toward the road. “Lot of things have changed around here, Addie.”

But too many things have stayed exactly the same.