Energized (4 page)

N
IALL
G
RAHAM
FISTED
his hands at his throbbing temples. The numbers on the ancient computer screen mocked him. They fucking laughed at him. Or they would have, if spreadsheets could laugh.

Unbelievable. He'd nearly died in Afghanistan to come home to a disaster guaranteed to do what the insurgents hadn't. Kill him. Only this death would be painfully slower and it involved his family's money.

His grandmother's restaurant was so far into the red, he wasn't sure he could afford to keep the doors open another month. Sure, the money coming in should have had his business in the black, but the cost of the lease on the new building on the prime piece of Tidewater real estate drained the account faster than it could be replenished. A building his brother had rented at an exorbitant cost without consulting Niall. Now they were locked into a two-year contract in one of the most expensive parts of Tidewater that wasn't even on the beach. Only the luxurious Oceanfront area went for more money.

Niall cleared the cell on the spreadsheet, reentered the figures, then hit sum. The figures were right and seriously jacked up. How in the hell was he going to get the business out of this mess and profitable again?

“Hiya, Niall.” His younger brother Ross sauntered into the room. Calm and carefree, as fucking usual. “How're the numbers? Did I tell ya or did I tell ya? This place has been booming since we opened the doors. Location, man. It's all about location. Since we moved, we've been able to double our prices. I admit, it was hard at first because we did it in the off-season, but now, the money's coming. Just like I said it would.”

“And we've lost the atmosphere of the old Boxing Cat,” Niall couldn't help but point out.

Ross waved a hand dismissively. “You're worried because the Boxing Cat's clientele went from surfers to bankers? That's called progress, my brother.”

“Progress? You still dress like a surfer.”

Ross tossed a careless glance over his attire and shrugged, a happy expression on his face.

The boy's long blond hair hung in a ponytail trailing over one shoulder of his imported, green Hawaiian shirt. A shirt he left unbuttoned to reveal a white tank top that barely met the board shorts at his bony hips. And he didn't even bother to wear real shoes to work. Instead, he sported his open-toed Birkenstocks that begged for a major toe-amputating accident. He definitely did not fit in with the clientele he claimed improved the business.

Niall's thoughts must have shown on his face because Ross said, “Bro, lighten up. I may dress like a beach bum, but my business mind is sound. The changes we're making are going to rocket the Boxing Cat into being the best in town. Speaking of changes, Virgil's loving this. He's been able to try out some of his more exotic dishes. And it doesn't hurt that we're the only restaurant in town that serves gluten free on a daily basis. I tell ya, once we do a few weddings and the word spreads, we'll be so far into the black we'll need a flashlight to find our way home at night.”

Weddings. Yeah, that's just what they needed to do with
their business, cater weddings for the rich and entitled. Which meant spending more money on more expensive products and hiring more people. The thought made Niall's headache ratchet up twelve notches.

“And it's only the beginning of June.” Ross, oblivious to the ache burning in Niall's skull, kept right on scheming. “I swear, next weekend's wedding is just the beginning. It's not high society but the bride runs April's Flowers. We make her happy, she'll spread the word, and business will explode so fast we'll have to hire an accountant to come in every week to keep up with all the money we'll be raking in.”

That boy always had a boatload of self-esteem and an arsenal of harebrained schemes.

“About that.” Niall blanked the screen and pushed to his feet. “Ross, don't you think we might want to wait? Start the catering side of the business after we're a little more settled here.”

Ross's smile dimmed briefly, then he shrugged. “Nope, we need this, Bro. Besides, we can't back out now. I've already signed the contract.”

Something else the boy had done before Niall had made it back to Tidewater.

Ross wasn't actually a boy. Technically, he was old enough to legally drink. Even had a degree from culinary school. Still, Niall had a difficult time seeing him as a responsible adult and not just because Ross refused to get a decent haircut.

Perhaps it was because they'd spent the last ten years apart. Since Niall had joined the Marines at eighteen, he hadn't seen much of his brother. Ross, who'd been twelve at the time Niall left, spent much of his life more or less like an only child. And acted the part of the stereotype. Impulsive, careless, and sometimes downright thoughtless.

“Relax, Bro. I got this.” Ross clapped Niall on the shoulder, then leaned across him to grab an apple from the basket next to the computer. He crowded too close to Niall in the cramped office.

The hair on Niall's neck rose as if trying to widen his
personal space. It didn't work. His heart raced. The walls in the cluttered office shrank. The shelves were suddenly too large. The room dimmed. And God, it was fucking hot. An oven. The tiny space that had once been his office melted away.

Gone was the office and the apple and his brother.

The air grew redolent with the stench of blood and death. Niall was back in Kandahar. Trapped beneath Ignacio and Danny. The two bastards who'd only wanted waffles that morning. They'd stood between Niall and the wall when the insurgents had blown it apart.

Niall shoved to his feet so fast he knocked over his stool. He didn't care.

Christ, he needed air.

Moving to the doorway, he hovered between the office and the kitchen. Not in either room but in both. Two exits, twice as much freedom. And no one buried and dying on top of him beneath the rubble.

Sweat trickled down his temples. He wiped it away, panting. He wouldn't go back to Kandahar. Not in reality and certainly not in a memory. He fucking wouldn't go back. He was home. Stateside. Permanently this time. And the attack had been months ago.

“Niall?” Ross's voice was thin. Distant.

Niall swung his gaze to meet his brother's wide-eyed, worried expression. Ross righted the stool but didn't move closer.

With a calm Niall didn't feel, he grinned and gestured to the computer. “I hate math.”

Ross glanced at the darkened screen and back, doubt digging grooves around his mouth. “If you want to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” Niall feigned confusion. The last thing he wanted to do was to discuss his claustrophobia with his younger brother. Or the disaster that had caused it.

The only living person who'd even had a clue what Niall had been through was a bartender who hadn't bothered to give him her correct phone number after a single night of mind-blowing sex.

He wasn't going to think about her. Hadn't he told himself
that twice daily since he'd returned to Tidewater in May and discovered he had the wrong number?

A lesser man might have broken down and called Heaven's Gate trying to find her after he returned stateside. Not that he had. Not that he'd heard she'd left her job shortly after graduation. And certainly not that he'd been told in aggravatingly clear terms that no personal information would be given out on Hannah, since Niall hadn't bothered to learn her last name.

Fuck it.

“Bro?” Ross laid a hand on Niall's shoulder, concern in his light green eyes.

The haven in the doorway evaporated. The walls of the tiny room shrank two sizes again.
Too many people . . . too small a space.

“Excuse me.” Niall sidled out of the room.

Unlike the little dark gray office, the kitchen was large and gleaming white. Granted, there were things both rooms shared, like wire racks lining every available wall space.

But his office shelves were loaded with books, extra bags of flour and sugar, reams of paper, and files. The racks in the oversized kitchen were loaded with dishes, canned goods, pots, pans, plates, and utensils. Two sets of everything. The previous owners had kept to the kashrut, the body of Jewish law dealing with food, when serving kosher meals. While the Boxing Cat didn't need two sets of everything, it came in handy since Niall had added certified gluten-free options to the menu.

On the wall to his right hung a bulletin board littered with schedules, notices, various pictures, notes, and business cards. Next to that was the sink. Over it hung a magnetic knife rack covered in the best cutlery their business could afford.

In the center of the room, between three pillars, were two steel worktables. Two cooks ran the kitchen. The men were dressed in crisp white chef coats and chef pants covered in ugly dancing chili peppers. With the fluidity of dancers, they moved around the kitchen and each other as they prepared meals. The air was rife with the welcoming scents of oregano, caramelized onions, and freshly baked pizza. Niall's stomach rumbled.

“Hey, Paulie,” Ross called out to the short, young chef. He spoke around a mouthful of apple. “Wanna hit the clubs tonight?”

That single question had Niall grinding his teeth to stem the flood of words burning his lips. Their business was barely hanging on and his brother wanted to go out drinking. Again. No doubt to get drunk enough to screw some random woman in another pointless attempt to prove to the world that he wasn't gay.

Wish the damn kid would grow up and come out of the closet already.

Ross jabbed a friendly elbow in Niall's side. “You should come too, big brother. You need a night out. Virgil can handle closing after the dinner rush. Right, Virg?”

Niall glanced at the taller chef who'd been on staff for more than thirty years. At sixty, Virgil looked eighty. Skin leathery and bronzed. Hands twisted by arthritis. But his mind was sharper than some recruits fresh out of boot camp. And he was still the best chef in Tidewater.

Virgil lazily shrugged his shoulders and said in a thick southern Tidewater drawl, “Sure can. Y'all go out and have some fun. You boys work too hard, especially you, Niall. Go on out and live a little while you're still young enough to do it. Why, if I was forty years younger, I'd be right there with you.”

“Not tonight.” Niall shook his head, then noticed a yellow sticky tacked to the bulletin board. He'd put it there yesterday, before he'd left to help his father move his mother into the rehabilitation center. “Ross. You did deposit last night's money at the bank, right?”

Ross screwed up his face in a pained expression. “Ah, crap, Niall. I forgot.”

A hot ball formed in Niall's belly. Training warred with breeding. He wanted to give his brother a proper dressing down, but he couldn't do it in front of the staff. Instead, he counted to ten silently.

“Fine,” he said, hoping the venom didn't leech into his voice. Two months. Ross had been in charge of the Boxing Cat for two months since their parents had decided to take
an early retirement after Pop's heart attack. Their retirement plans took a sharp turn two weeks ago when a drunken jet skier crashed into the kayak Niall's mom had been paddling. Thank God, she hadn't been killed. That could have given Pop a second heart attack.

At this rate, Ross would give the man another one.

Not if Niall could help it. He was here now. He'd handle things, starting with the bank deposit. Turning on his heel, Niall returned to the tomb of an office, beelining straight for the safe.

In under a minute, he'd pulled out the bank deposit bag, relocked the safe, and walked back into the kitchen. Both chefs kept their eyes on their work and their mouths closed. Only Ross had the temerity to try to pick up their conversation.

“So we on for the club tonight, Bro?”

The cooks hustled to their respective stoves, as if trying to blend in with the walls.

Niall's training gave way to his temper. He stepped closer to his brother and dropped his voice to a deadly whisper only Ross could hear.

“I'd worry more about doing your job and less about partying unless you want to see the Boxing Cat go under. Now I'm taking the money to the bank, like
you
should have done last night. Then I am taking the hope chest over to Mom and Pop. Instead of partying tonight, why don't you join us at the rehab center for dinner?”

Ross scrunched his face like a child. “I hate it there. Why don't we bring them over here?”

Niall was pretty sure he was going to break a molar from grinding his teeth. Inhaling a breath for patience he said, “Mom broke her leg. In three places. Doctor says she cannot leave the building, let alone her floor for another six weeks. Whatever. Don't join us. I suggest while I'm out today, you run this business the way I know Pop trained you and less like a spoiled frat boy. The toilet in the men's room is leaking, the light bulbs are burned out in the pantry again, and the walls and floors behind the shelves need cleaning before we get another surprise inspection. Do it.”