I Want Crazy Read online

  I Want Crazy

  Loco, Texas #3

  Codi Gary

  Copyright

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  I Want Crazy

  Copyright © 2014 by Codi Gary

  Ebook ISBN: 9781943772674

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Dedication

  To my father, Andrew Hall,

  for teaching me about hard work and perseverance.

  And for supporting me through this journey.

  Thanks, D.O.D.

  Chapter One

  Red Calhoun was having a shit day. It was as if the sky had opened up over his head and started raining shit all over him and he couldn’t find an umbrella.

  First he’d gone into his part-time mechanic’s job at Jose’s Auto Body, but Jose hadn’t had any work for him. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except he wanted the distraction of a car engine. He needed something to keep him busy so he could stop stressing about his looming deadline.

  Who would have ever thought when he’d gotten mono his freshman year of high school that reading one of his mother’s romance novels would have led to him writing them? He had been miserable and bored, having only one TV in their house and most of the time, his mother was watching her “stories” on it, so he was stuck in his room. He had picked up one of her books with a cover of a shirtless guy and a woman with her breasts popping out of her dress and started reading for a laugh. Before he knew it, he’d spent the next two months he was home devouring every book on his mother’s shelf. He’d always been good at English, and when he’d gone back to school, he’d found himself writing short stories in his spare time, stories filled with romance, passion, and happily ever afters.

  It wasn’t until he’d come home after losing his scholarship that he’d seriously started writing, under the radar, of course. He’d joined Lovers of Romance online, an organization dedicated to the romance genre, and the people who read and wrote it. He’d taken some online workshops to hone his craft and even joined an online critique group, using his own name since he figured no one would ever believe that it was him. By the time he’d started submitting his work, he’d been writing seriously for four years. And when he’d been picked up by Everly Publishing, one of the biggest houses in New York, he’d been floored. He’d had a few conditions about his publication, mainly that his true identity remain under wraps. Although he still used Red Calhoun as his pen name, his editor had been more than willing to provide him with an avatar and elusive author bio that put him in upstate New York and reported how he enjoyed a sugar-free vanilla latte or some bullshit like that. He wasn’t worried about anyone in Loco tying the books back to him, because really, who would ever believe that he wrote romances?

  Of course, his sisters got a kick out of reading his reviews to him, and their favorite one, which they’d actually had framed for him, read: Red’s heroes are realistic and to die for. This is one author who definitely has a glimpse into what makes a real man.

  MJ, his oldest sister, took a break from her giggles to squeal, “Oh, she has no idea.”

  He didn’t mind their teasing, especially since every one of them had read his first book, Kiss Me Again, and sworn they loved it. Even Rand, one of his best friends, who wasn’t much of a reader, had read and reread it a handful of times, so many she could quote the book.

  Which brought him to shit storm number two. His editor, Elizabeth O’Neil, had called to let him know his second book, His to Hold, had just made the New York Times Best Seller List. His first book, Kiss Me Again, had made the list last year, and he’d been pumped about having two best sellers under his belt.

  Until she’d asked, “So how’s the next manuscript coming?”

  The truth was, it wasn’t coming. He had been staring at his laptop for over a week and had one sentence. Whitney Easton hated parties. That was it. That was his grand opening line meant to suck the reader in and hook them beyond measure. He had his outline and knew where he wanted the story to go; he just couldn’t seem to write it. He was officially in a rut.

  He hadn’t said that to Elizabeth, though. He’d assured her it would be in on the first of November, three and a half weeks away.

  Which led him to now. He had driven across town only to find his favorite bar, the Watering Hole, looking very unwelcoming, and all his stress, anger, and frustration piled into one huge mountain of irritation as he stared at the old cedar building. The irritation started to boil under his skin, making him hot and itchy until he was in a full-on rage. The heavy door was closed, unusual for this time of day, and the parking lot around him was empty. His large hands fisted as he focused on the white sign with red writing that taunted him.

  Under new ownership. Closed for renovations. Sorry for the inconvenience.

  Of course it was closed today, the one day when he really needed a few cold longnecks and some conversation. The day he needed to listen to other men’s problems so he could forget about his own.

  As he glared at the sign, his thoughts fueled the fire of loathing for the unknown person who had just put the cherry on top of his crap-tastic day.

  Who the hell had bought the Watering Hole, and worse, what kind of “renovations” were they talking about? The place was a little rough around the edges, but the creaky wood floors and cedar walls were familiar, and the décor screamed “rednecks welcome,” which was exactly how he liked it. He couldn’t imagine anything making the bar any more comfortable, unless they planned on opening up the kitchen again, but why did they have to shut down completely to renovate just that?

  Red could hear music playing behind the double doors, so someone had to be in there. Without thinking it through, he climbed the stairs until he stood on the wide front porch. The music sounded like pop or rock instead of the usual country that most of the locals blasted, and his mind flashed through several different possible owners.

  All of whom set his teeth on edge.

  Before he knew what he wanted to say, he banged on the heavy wood door. “Open up! I want to talk to you!”

  The music continued to blare. Out of patience, he hit the door so hard, it shook under his fist. “Hey! I said get your ass out here and give me some answers, asshole!”

  Suddenly, it was silent inside, and now that he had their attention, he shouted, “I want to know exactly what you think you’re doing, shutting down the bar without any kind of notice! People have been coming here for thirty years!” No one answered, and he slammed his palm against the door, sweat trailing down the back of his neck at the exertion and his temper, in spite of the cool autumn air. “I am talking to you!”

  Then he heard footsteps, the familiar slap of soles on the wood planks revving his temper again. It was probably some sissy from California, here to civilize the locals. He probably planned on cocktail hours and girly drinks.

  Well, if that was his game, Red was going to teach him a little something about what flew in a town like Loco. And if the candy-ass thought he was going to get away with ruining a town landmark, he was about to find out wh
at “Don’t Mess with Texas” really meant.

  The door opened, and Red gaped as his preconceived notions flew out the window. Standing in front of him was a beautiful, buxom blonde woman wearing a pair of paint-covered overalls and giving him the stink eye with a set of gorgeous green eyes.

  She pointed stiffly towards the red and white sign. “We’re closed. Can’t you read?”

  Red’s gaze drifted down to where her breasts pushed up above the neckline of her black long-sleeved shirt, especially when her arms crossed beneath them.

  “Hey, eyes up here, jackass.”

  Red jerked his head up, speechless for a half a second until her accent sank in. “You’re from California?”

  “Wow, how’d you guess that one? Was it the way I said jackass?” she asked.

  She sure had a smart mouth.

  “Or the fact that you have the manners of a rabid wolf,” Red snapped, scowling.

  “Me?” Her look clearly said she thought he was out of his mind, and unease settled over him.

  “You’re the one who goes around banging on doors and making demands.” When she stepped into him and poked him in the chest with her finger, he almost took a step back. “If you want people to talk to you nicely, maybe you should start off the conversation right.”

  Damn, she had a point. This close, he got a really good look at her eyes, which were a pretty mix of green and gold, matching her shiny golden hair trailing out the back of the bandana she had on her head. If his mother had been standing there next to him, she would have slapped him upside the head and lectured him on his behavior.

  Taking a different approach, he tapped the brim of his ball cap. “Apologies, ma’am. I am just having a bad day, and I’m sorry for dragging you into it.”

  He watched her lips turn up in a half smile. “My, that was charming. I see what people say about Southern drawls.”

  Red returned her smile and held his hand out. “Red.”

  She surprised him by laughing. “Seriously? Your name is Red.”

  He dropped his hand, his irritation back in full force. “It’s a nickname.”

  “Because of your hair?”

  He kept his hair short so it wouldn’t be so telling, but even then, people didn’t make fun of his hair. Not since he was in high school and grew eight inches in a year.

  “They called me Red when I played football, because I came off the line like a bull chasing a red flag.”

  “Oh man,” she said, her voice filled with mock sympathy. “Is that what they told you?”

  Tired of being the butt of her jokes, he added, “People don’t normally make fun of me, especially when I don’t even know their name.”

  “I’m Jessie. And I’m guessing people probably don’t make fun of you because you intimidate most of them.” Slowly, she looked him up and down with a mocking smile. “I mean, I’d call you Jolly Green Giant, but the color doesn’t fit.”

  He caught the twinkle in her eye and had a feeling she already had a nickname for him. “Obviously I don’t intimidate you.”

  He saw the twisted tattoo that started on her inner wrist as she pushed a few loose strands of hair back under the bandana, and his mind went to a dark place. I wonder how many tattoos I can’t see.

  He shook his head to get rid of those thoughts. Do not go there with her. This woman is the enemy!

  “Oh, sweetie.” Her voice oozed false sweetness. “I’ve met bigger and badder men than you.”

  He leaned down until they were almost nose to nose. “California, you don’t know who you’re messing with.”

  Despite his best “I’m the boss” voice, she snorted in his face. “Well, as charming as this little interlude has been, I need to get back to painting, so—”

  The last word pierced his brain like an arrow. Painting?

  Red pushed past her inside, ignoring her “Hey,” and sucked in his breath at the plastic covering most of the floor. Sure enough, everything was off the walls and the counters of the bar were pulled off. She had already started covering the wood walls with some kind of plaster.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

  “You! Get the hell out of my bar and go take your meds!” she yelled back, picking up a paintbrush and flinging it at him.

  He leaned to the left, and the brush whizzed by his shoulder. “You’re calling me crazy? You’re covering cedar walls with cement! You’re fucking crazy!”

  She headed toward the bar, shooting him a black look over her shoulder. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “Good, ’cause I want to file a restraining order!” He knew he had no legal recourse, but there had to be something to stop her from ruining his second home. Okay, maybe third home.

  “A restraining order against me? This is my bar!” She’d picked up the phone and was pointing at her chest. Red tried not to lose track of his mission, but damn, she was stacked. Why did someone that hot have to be so disagreeable?

  “Lady, this bar has been the same for over thirty years, and if there’s one thing the people of Loco hate, it’s change.”

  “Which is probably why I got such a great deal. This place is a run-down piece of—”

  “Why you—”

  She picked up the phone, cutting him off. “Yes, this is Jessie Dale. I just bought the…” Her lips thinned as she paused, probably listening to the person on the other end. “Yeah, I’m the flat-landing hippie from California.”

  Red didn’t even bother smothering his laugh and earned a killing glare from her.

  “I’ve got some crazy guy who won’t leave my bar, and I need someone to…well, he’s huge and says his name is Red…” She waited a second, then held the phone out to him. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Red walked over the plastic-covered floor and took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Red, are you trespassing?” Red recognized Finn Meyers’s deep, amused voice. They were friends and had grown up together, but Finn was a cop first.

  “No, I was just admiring the way Ms. Dale was plastering over the cedar planks,” Red growled. “Fuck, man, she’s ruining the Watering Hole!”

  Finn spoke slowly, making him feel like a child. “Regardless of how much you hate her decorating style, it’s her bar now.”

  “But, you don’t know—”

  “Don’t make us waste a trip down there to put you in handcuffs.”

  There was enough weight behind the threat that made Red believe him. Disloyal son of a bitch.

  Red slammed down the phone and faced off with the interloper once more. Her triumphant little smirk would have made him stand his ground under normal circumstances, but suddenly he felt inspired to write for the first time in days.

  With a wolfish grin, he leaned over the bar toward her. “This ain’t over, California. Not by a long shot.”

  He turned to walk away, but her voice stopped him. “I look forward to it, Texas.”

  Gritting his teeth, he walked out and headed for his Dodge Charger.

  Oh, honey. You picked the wrong bear to poke.

  * * *

  Jessie Dale wiped her hands on the overalls and admired her work. She had dreamed of owning her own sports bar and grill, and everything that had happened over the last couple of years had finally given her the chance and excuse to do it. The minute she’d seen pictures of the Watering Hole online, she’d wanted it. It was exactly like the places her dad used to take her when they’d watch the 49ers on Sundays and Mondays, filling up on hot wings and root beer. Those were her favorite days, and she remembered them all.

  Pulling a long neck from the fridge, she sat down on one of the stools. She hardly remembered her mom at all. She had left when Jessie was barely two, and although her dad always told her it had nothing to do with her, she had a pretty good feeling it had to do with her realizing motherhood didn’t suit her. It was fine, though. Her dad had been her hero. He had helped her with homework and never hesitated to tell her when he got a bad feeling about one of her friends, or even her boy
friends. The first time he’d met her ex-boyfriend, Will Archer, he had said, “That guy is a bum.”

  Sighing, she took a long pull of her beer. She missed her dad. Well, she missed the way things used to be before he’d remarried. It had always been the two of them, and they had done everything together. She’d known he’d gone out with women, but he’d never brought any home to meet her. At least not until high school. He’d brought over a sweet-faced, tall woman who was reed thin and wanted to be her friend. And Jessie had hated her on sight. At first she’d tried to talk to her dad, to break them up, but they had already been seeing each other for a year, and he had met her girls. He was really serious about her.

  When her dad had married Silvie, Jessie had been a senior, and it had thoroughly rocked her and their close relationship. Especially since Silvie brought along two other daughters a few years younger than Jessie. It was bad enough sharing her dad with another woman, but sharing him with two stepsiblings had been too much. Her dad had talked about her going to UC Davis, where he’d gone to school, since she was five, but she was so mad, she wanted to hurt him. She knew it had been a selfish, dick move, but she had taken the scholarship to the UCLA and hadn’t bothered coming home for several years.

  Her dad had been hurt, but she had pretended not to care. He had taken on a whole new family, a family she hardly knew, without asking her, and she was supposed to just be okay with it?

  Two years after leaving home, she met Will, and he was hot. With smoky gray eyes, black hair, and tattoos, he had been gorgeous and deep. When she’d finally gone home for Thanksgiving three years after leaving for college and brought Will with her, her dad had hated him on sight. It had caused a huge fight between them, and she and Will left, but she had felt sick the whole drive back to LA. It had taken over a month for her to get up the courage to apologize to her dad, but even then, things had been different. And when her world had come crashing down two years later, she’d ended up with a money settlement and a thrashed reputation.