Boston: Summer Nights in Last Call, #1

By R.V. Asher

Mackenzie keeps everyone at arm's length, for better or for worse. One chance encounter promises a real relationship—if she has the courage to forgive someone from her past.

 

If you had met me before this week, you'd have thought I was one of the most responsible, play-it-safe human beings on the planet. You'd have assumed someone juggling three jobs and managing her own business wouldn't even have the time to get involved in messy relationships.

 

That's what I thought, too.

 

I was wrong.

 

This week, I met Boston. He wears the ripped jeans, messy hair, and adorable look like he was born that way. I'm game for some harmless flirting, maybe a little more, and he definitely doesn't have any objections. Why deny the obvious spark we have?

 

Because that's all it is: a spark. The sooner we give in to our carnal yearnings, the sooner this silly infatuation of mine will be over. Then I'll be safe.

 

Except that kissing Boston doesn't snuff out that spark. Not the first time, or the second, or the third. Instead of satisfying my curiosity, I want to know more about him: why he's dropped everything to help out his family, why he has a way of calming tense situations down, why I can't get enough of his smile.

 

Why he's making me question everything I thought I wanted.

 

Why I can't stay away...

 

Series Description: Amid rumors, secrets, and lies, twenty-somethings traverse friendships and find love in the cozy, fictional town of Last Call, Virginia. Each book follows a different heroine and her love interest, offering memorable heat, endearing men, interconnected standalone plots, and a HFN/HEA.

 

Boston has "open-door" scenes with enough heat to melt your socks off.
Triggers: Loss of loved ones, topic of domestic abuse, overdosing, topic of drug use.

Complete 'Summer Nights in Last Call' series:
Boston
Cody
Leland
Jinx

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.V. Asher
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952235047

R.V. Asher

R.V. Asher is a reclusive houseplant slayer with a penchant for sneaking candy and finding silver linings. This is her pen name, chosen for being lively, strong, and a smidge mysterious, just like her heroines.

Book preview

Ch graphic

Small towns catch all types, the same as any big city. The only difference being, it's easier to spot the weirdoes when everyone knows who your first crush was and where you were when you got your first period. You know your friends and neighbors inside and out, whether you want to or not, but it's not the social suicide you might think. Our not-so-secrets are discarded when something truly noteworthy piques our interests, like when someone opts to move into town. It rarely happens, but when it does, it never fails to turn someone's life upside down.

I didn't fall for the hype. As a lifer in Last Call, born and raised, I'd seen plenty of faces pass through, none very special, whether they stayed or fled for their lives.

Working at the bus station in the heart of my little mountain town gave me an eagle eye's view of everyone coming and going. It never occurred to me that not one but two visitors would upend my quiet little life this particular Friday night.

The few travelers who marched off the buses were either taking advantage of the stop to use a real toilet before heading onward to the casino four counties south or they were here to visit family. Those faces, I instantly recognized. Faces like Sara's.

Sara unceremoniously broke rank from the cluster of sweaty travelers, lugging two huge roll-cases. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight, low pony, and her makeup was more conservative than usual. Sara was never one to back down from a new beauty trend or bold color. I'd never seen her face so purposely washed out. Then again, she was visiting her grandparents, not a club.

We had graduated the same year, from different high schools. Had it been six years already? We grew up playing on the river together. Sara spent every summer in Last Call with her grandparents from the time she could talk a week straight without taking a breath. That's when her parents realized they'd need a little break here and there. It worked out for me. Otherwise, I would have been stuck with a lazy little brother to drag around instead of my trusty partner-in-crime. Jeremy wouldn't build a tree fort if he was offered every cookie in the jar. Weren't boys supposed to like mud and building things and chaos just as much as girls? Well, he grew into that last one.

That was a long time ago. A lot had changed.

Baby girl! Sara shouted, setting her tired eyes on me from across the room.

It wouldn't be summer without seeing your face, I countered, scooting out from behind the booth to hug my oldest friend.

I quickly squeezed her before letting go, expecting the same in return, but something seemed a little off with my friend. Sara's arms felt like a vise, not wanting to let go even as she reluctantly set me free.

She cleared her throat. How are they doing?

Nan and Pops?

Sara nodded.

Not bad.

Sara's nan had started to show signs of Alzheimer's last fall. Pops was never in the best of health, not that he had anything with a name or a medication to take. He was just one of those folks who was old even when he was young. And now that he was old, he was old.

I won't lie to you, I confessed. There are signs. Forgetting to take Pops to his appointments. Leaving the stove on overnight. Forgetting how to run the washing machine. Trying to focus on the positive, I added, Cody checks on them often, though. He makes sure they lock up before going to bed and looks in on the chickens, making sure Nan is feeding them and collecting their eggs.

Cody?

Cody Bowman, sheep in fireman's clothing.

She looked stunned. That ass for brains was never a sheep. Wolf, all the way.

Stifling a laugh, I shrugged. It turns out, he made bad choices because he wanted to, not because he had ass for brains. Who knew? Where women were concerned... I can't speak from personal experience. I took one of Sara's suitcases in hand.

You sure about that? she questioned boldly. A little birdie mentioned a rumor.

I knew the little birdie she spoke of—Petra, one of our dearest friends—and she was going to be wingless the next time I caught up to her.

Petra is no little bird. And yes, I am absolutely certain these lady lumps haven't been ogled or well-traveled by Cody. Got it?

She glanced at the floor as she made an mmm-hmm sound.

Disregarding her bid to look uninvested, I changed the subject. Let me lock up and I'll drive you to the farm.

Not yet. She pointed to the door. You've got one more on the homebound bus. The old boy may have fallen asleep. The driver rushed straight to the can after we pulled up. It seems he ate something disagreeable along the way, like enough BBQ for a whole tailgate party.

We cringed.

I'll check it out. I wasn't a bit happy about it. Unloading the buses was between the drivers and their manifests. But a stomach situation was not something to be ignored. No one could help that. Fridays were one of my long days, working mornings and afternoons in my catch-all shop before finishing the evenings at the station. I was grouchy by noon on Fridays. It wasn't the driver's fault. Or his irritable bowels.

Besides, what was I going to do, ream an old man for someone else's ill-advised dietary choices? Not my style.

Leaving Sara in the small station, I ventured outside and up the steep steps lined in yellow caution tape, boarding the bus. It smelled ripe, like hot fruit and forgotten yogurt. From my vantage point, the bus looked empty. To cross my T's, I checked each seat for the sleepy mystery passenger. If Sara said someone was here, he was here.

I was about to give up when the tip of a black boot popped into the aisle from the very last row. Sir, I moved toward the back of the bus, you've reached your destination... Sir?

An incoherent grumble cut through the silence. Someone was a deep sleeper.

Reaching the last row, I laid eyes on a figure slumped in the seat, face hidden against his duffel bag.

The ride's over, I broadcasted in a moderate tone so as not to startle the old guy.

That's a terrible 'glass half-empty' attitude. The ride's just beginning, the stranger countered in a deep, gut-tingling baritone. He yawned for what seemed like an entire minute. Unless I slept through my entire visit.

The chair creaked as he sat upright, eyes blinking away sleep. I gasped, literally taken aback. I'd never experienced such an instant attraction. It felt like a defibrillator shock right to the heart.

Stretching as far as the seatback in front of him would allow his long legs, he searched my face, countering my surprise with a groggy, serene expression. His sleepy smile was infectious, making it all the way to his charismatic blue eyes.

Sorry, he muttered. This may have been my last chance to get some quality sleep.

I wasn't sorry at all. It gave me a chance to size him up.

Faded tattoo ink peeked out from the edges of distressed denim jeans ripped from knee to mid, rock-solid thigh. The bottom of his pants caught halfway in the unlaced ankles of black motorcycle boots. And his casual charcoal pullover hung loose, tugging at the V around his neck, exposing more ink. Rather than drown the outline of his muscular, lean frame, the oversized clothing accomplished the opposite, proving that he didn't need to prove a damned thing. His clothes didn't need to work for him when he had a body that wouldn't quit.

Did I just think that?

So what if he had good taste in style and a moderately attractive face? I cursed myself for being a terrible liar. There was no moderate about it. He was sin on a silver platter. I was shamelessly drawn to his face like a moth to a candle, overwhelmed by a spontaneous need to feel the flame of his attention. With the deepest chestnut hair and a firm jawline littered with stubble, I could envision running my fingers along that tattooed neck while the tiny hairs on his chin explored my body.

Sara was full of bullshit with that old man spiel.

You've got business in Last Call? I asked, quietly chastising my libido. I was as skeptical as I was pleased.

I do.

As he stood, I was forced to track his eyes a good foot above my own. My neck cricked backward. He must have been in the neighborhood of six-four. I was five-four... Five-three and a half, technically. Damn DMV never let me forget it.

There was barely enough room in the aisle for both of us. I shimmied sideways, surrendering my ground. It was worth the instant relief. He simply stared. I was certain he was silently appraising me, as well.

Fair hair had been swept into a loose, low-hung bun that started the day on the top of my head. A series of stains tracked across my fitted brown shirt, calling to mind the explosive danger of a loaded soda can. My shoes were covered in a permanent layer of grit, making it quite clear that my feet had accrued far more miles than the bus we were standing in. Topped off with a look of pure exhaustion, though it had nothing to do with my actual day and more to do with a temporary frame of mind.

Are you visiting family?

Settling into a wide grin, he nodded. I am. Are you the welcome wagon? Boston.

I automatically shook the hand he offered. A gesture I'd done a thousand times, welcoming new people to town. What made this instance strange was the familiarity of his touch drawing me closer, melting any semblance of time.

Awkwardly realizing that I'd held onto his hand far too long, I countered, My name's Mac. Trying hard to disregard the flutters in my stomach, I asked, You said you're visiting family? I don't recognize you.

Ignoring my question, he asked, Mac, as in Mack truck?

Exactly like Mack truck.

Is it an ironic name, like calling a big guy Tiny or a scary guy Mouse?

By his reasoning, everyone likened me to a Mack truck because I was harmless. My brother, who gave me the nickname in fourth grade, would have bet his college fund against this poorly misled man.

I was walking down the aisle toward the exit—away from the sexiest creature I'd ever laid eyes on, creating as much space between us as possible—when I asked over my shoulder, What makes you think I'm harmless? My lips quirked in a crimped grin. The words came out more flirtatious than I'd expected. Me, flirting? God, it felt just as good as it felt wrong. I had a hair's width of room in my life for a new conversation, let alone a full-grown man and all the upkeep that entailed. My life was better with less complications.

Although, I was a sucker when it came to flirting. What harm would it do to flirt a little with an out-of-towner? He would be gone before the shelves were restocked for a new wave of visitors.

Gathering his duffel bag, Boston double-timed his strides, catching up effortlessly. I believe you.

I could be lying.

You're not. He shifted closer. It suits you.

My brother would agree. If he could, I finished the thought in my mind.

Dangerous women make the world go round, he added.

I didn't say I was dangerous, just that I'm not harmless. I'm not a serial killer, but if one needed a place to hide the bodies, I've got space to rent.

You're a business-woman, he inferred rationally.

Very perceptive.

Why did this stranger get me better than anyone in this damned town?

When we walked into the building that was scarcely large enough to be deemed a full-fledged station, my version of stink eye met Sara's mischievous smirk across the tight floor plan. She didn't take it personally, cloaking a bubble of laughter in an over-exaggerated cough.

Do you need a ride? Sara questioned, freely offering my services to Boston once her laughter died down. Mac has room in her car.

Trying not to stumble over my words, though slightly put on the spot by my dear friend, I nodded. I'm locking up the second that bus driver claws his way out of a bottle of Pepto.

I was already dropping Sara off with her grandparents. Depending on the direction he needed to travel, it might not suck the rest of the night into a black hole if I offered a helping hand to a stranded stranger with a solid body. Realizing what an asshole