Ten Million Fireflies (Band of Sisters) Read online

  The pigtails bounced as she nodded. “I got two dollars for each teef.”

  “You must have had some beautiful teeth! Your new ones are going to be even more gorgeous, I bet.” Brooke held up her hand and didn’t take the change the elderly lady held. “I’ll take them both.”

  The bouquet of purple, yellow, and blue flowers smelled fresh and pure, not overwhelmingly fragrant like an overpriced bunch you’d spend too much on at a florist shop—not that Brooke had much experience buying or receiving flowers.

  The only time she’d ordered flowers was online, and it was to send to the families of fellow soldiers who had died in the line of duty.

  The sweet prairie-looking flowers she held in her hand spoke nothing of death. Instead, they reminded her of a sunny summer day with no stress, no worries in the world. She laid them on the seat next to her and followed Mountain Road to the Sherman farmhouse.

  “We’re so glad you could make it,” Marcus said as he greeted her at the door a few minutes later.

  “I’m flattered by the invitation.”

  “Oh, you’re just in time,” Helen said from behind him. “I just added the cilantro to the watermelon salsa, and the iced tea should be chilled by now.” She hugged Brooke in a motherly squeeze.

  “I hope you’re not allergic to flowers.” Brooke handed her the two simple bouquets.

  “These are lovely. Simply lovely. You’re so very thoughtful, Brooke.” Helen thanked her with another hug. “I’ll put these in a vase and then we can sit outside and enjoy this gorgeous evening.”

  Brooke followed the couple through the house and out to the back. The air was warm without being too humid.

  “Come dusk, the bugs will be out in full force. Especially with the stream not too far away.” Marcus took out a lighter and lit three tiki torches at the edge of the patio.

  “It’s beautiful out here.” Sugarloaf stood out among the trees in the distance, creating the most stunning backdrop. “It must be a magnificent view in the fall when the leaves turn colors.”

  “It is.” Helen set a tray with a blue glass pitcher and four tall glasses on the table. “Iced tea?”

  “I’d love some. Thank you.”

  Helen filled three of the glasses and took a seat next to Brooke. “Tell me about your girlfriends. Your sisters, as you call them.”

  Marcus sat as well, arranging the bowls of salsa and chips on the table.

  “You’re familiar with the term Band of Brothers?” Brooke asked, scooping a mound of watermelon salsa on her chip. “We call ourselves the Band of Sisters. Four Mainers who enlisted during the same summer twelve years ago, fresh out of high school.”

  “Did you fight together?” Marcus asked.

  “We met at boot camp in Virginia but trained on different squadrons.” She bit into the fresh salsa, the tang of the lime and cilantro contrasting well with the sweetness of the watermelon.

  “There weren’t many women among you, I take it?” Helen pushed the bowl of salsa closer to Brooke.

  “Not many, no. There’s a steady incline of women who enlist, though. Females are more present and more accepted among the male soldiers today, but discrimination does still exist.”

  “You’ve told us about your friends’ nicknames, Charlie and Fish. Do you have one?”

  Brooke squirmed in her seat. She’d been called her fair share of inappropriate names. None worth sharing tonight. She went with the tamest. “Boss. This salsa is amazing,” she said, hoping to change the subject.

  “Were you a commander or corporal? I don’t even know what branch you served.”

  “U.S. Army. They donned me Boss for my strength and stamina.” At first glance she was underestimated because of her gender, most bypassing her big bones and athleticism. When she ran the mile eighteen seconds faster than Wheels and never skipped a beat during the most intense training, the guys donned her Boss—teenage slang for kick ass. “I was a sergeant.”

  When she was thirteen and her uncle died in combat, she thought she’d honor her distant relative by enlisting. That and she had no idea what to do with herself once she graduated from high school. She could have been a staff sergeant, but after more than a decade under her belt, she’d realized the army wasn’t where she wanted to spend her career.

  “I’m sure you put those boys to shame.” Marcus sounded proud.

  For the most part, the men were respectful. She didn’t let a few dickheads ruin it for all the male soldiers. Skye and Charlie got the most heckling. With Charlie’s California blond looks and Skye’s siren red hair, they couldn’t help but stand out amongst the other soldiers.

  Fish had the girl-next-door innocence appeal to her, which made her the victim of too many poor-ass attempts to screw her over. Thankfully, her friend had a smart head on her shoulders and never fell for the boyish charm and sweet-talking falsity of some men who tried to get underneath her fatigues.

  Brooke didn’t get hit on nearly as much as the other women. If anything, she scared the men away, which suited her just fine. But now and then some jerkface—the extra tall, extra built type—had tried to get her naked. Only when she was semi-attracted to a man and his personality did she let her guard down.

  And it wasn’t with another soldier. Ever. She had brief affairs with civilians over the years. Nothing that ever lasted. Not that she ever wanted it to.

  “Military life kept me busy. And now I have the camp to think about.”

  The doorbell rang, and Helen got up. “I’d love to hear more about your plans for that as well. Hold that thought.”

  Brooke scooted closer to the table and scooped up a mound of the watermelon salsa on her chip. “Wow,” she said around a mouthful of goodness. The flavors were fresh and inviting. Sweet, juicy watermelon, a hint of lime, a kick of salt, and what looked like cucumbers and orange peppers. And the fresh cilantro. Total yum. “This is fantastic.” She scooped another mouthful and looked up as Helen stepped out onto the patio, her arm linked with Drew’s.

  Covering her mouth with one hand as she coughed, Brooke reached for her glass with the other to wash down the chip that poked at her throat, stabbing her as Drew had the other day with his hostility.

  “Brooke, this is our friend Drew. He’ll be joining us for dinner as well. Since he’s practically a neighbor to you now, we figured we’d introduce you two.”

  That explained the extra glass.

  “We me—”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Drew said, interrupting her, his eyes piercing her to silence.

  “Um. Okay?” Brooke set her glass down and held out her hand.

  He looked down at it and slowly took his out, slipping it in hers for a shake.

  It was the heat in the air or the tang of the salsa that had her warming from the inside out. Maybe Helen laced the iced tea with vodka or whiskey.

  Or maybe... Brooke stared at their joined hands. Drew’s was soft and... nice, not rough and calloused like hers or the hands she was used to shaking.

  She loosened her grip on him and pulled away. “You’re from around here?” If he wanted to do the ‘we’ve never met game,’ she could play.

  “Yup.” He stepped away and helped himself to the pitcher of iced tea. “You brew this today, Helen?”

  “Sure did. I’ll get the lemons. Drew likes extra lemon in his iced tea. And sugar. He has quite the sweet tooth.” Helen patted his arm and went inside.

  “Grab a chair, son. Have a snack while I heat the charcoal.” Marcus stood and went over to an old grill set up not too far from the patio.

  Brooke watched as he dumped a bag of charcoal briquettes in the grill's drum and doused it with lighter fluid.

  “Why don’t we know each other?” she asked Drew, keeping her eyes on Marcus.

  “It’s a long story. I don’t want to get into it.”

  “Same reason you don’t want me to open up the camp again?”

  Drew chomped down on a chip and ignored her question. Layers or walls, she wasn’t sure wh
ich he had. Either way, she was getting to the heart of his problem with her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hell if Drew knew why he didn’t want Helen and Marcus to know he’d already met Brooke. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and he realized pretty quickly he may very well be the jerk in the equation.

  “Here you go, honey.” Helen placed a plate of lemons in front of his untouched glass. Had he known they invited Brooke to dinner, he would have passed on the invitation. Yeah. Definitely the jerk here.

  “Thank you.” He took his time squeezing the perfectly quartered lemon into his tea and stirred the amber liquid, watching the ice cubes swirl around in his glass.

  “Brooke bought the old campground and has some wonderful ideas about resurrecting the camp.”

  “Sure.” He sipped his tea, not wanting to hear anything about it. “How’s the old tractor running?” he asked Marcus, hoping to change the subject.

  “She’s a fine machine. Cleaned out the brake lines and she’s as good as new. They don’t make them like they used to. Old Betty’ll be haying the fields until well past my due date.”

  Not that Drew knew much about big machines, tractors, or haying, but anything to keep the topic off Brooke’s pet project.

  “You know, Brooke has some fantastic ideas about making themed camp weeks,” Helen said, not getting the message.

  “You had your fair share of them back in the day as well. Halloween week in June, Christmas in July. Nothing that hasn’t been done before.”

  He could have sworn the top corner of Brooke’s lip quirked. Instead, he focused his attention on the aging John Deere back by the barn.

  “Oh, it’s so much more than that. She’s going to have a week for grieving children and maybe one for those who’ve suffered severe burns or lived through a fire.”

  Drew snapped his attention around to Brooke and glared at her behind his sunglasses.

  “That’s not—” He had no words. She was really going forth with her plan to stir the pot. Why couldn’t she let old wounds dry and harden? Why bring them up when all was going so well? “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?” she asked coolly over the rim of her iced tea. “You could have purchased the land and started a camp or torn it down and built a new McMansion. You’re just bitter because I got to it first.”

  “That’s not it at all.” She didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. He looked at Helen and Marcus for guidance, but they looked away, apparently siding with Brooke.

  Of course, they were. They’d moved on since the incident seventeen years ago, where Drew felt the wound as raw and fresh as if it had happened only last week. He couldn’t walk by the camp and not feel the guilt. The dread. The death. The grieving children who had laughed and played only hours before he found Ryan Westleigh dead on the cabin floor.

  The Shermans were just as devastated by Ryan’s death as Drew was. Only they didn’t know how much of it was Drew’s fault. And he hoped they never did.

  “I will not live next door to a kids’ camp. It’s been nice and quiet for nearly two decades. I’m sure there’s a noise ordinance somewhere. I’ll protest.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Helen patted his shoulder as if appeasing a child. “Brooke, would you mind coming inside and helping me with the potato salad?”

  “Sure thing.” She picked up her glass and brushed past Drew without a second glance.

  “Mind telling me what that was about?” Marcus asked as he stirred the coal in the grill. “I know you’ve not been too keen on seeing a camp start up again, but don’t you think it’s been vacant long enough?”

  “No,” Drew answered honestly.

  “Had we known you were still... troubled over the camp we would have talked to you about it first. The vision Brooke has for it is something special, though. It’s not like all the other summer camps in the area. She’ll be giving kids a chance to experience something they never dreamed of before. All on scholarship, too.”

  “She’ll run out of money before she makes a dime.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Yeah, he would be. And he’d be surprised if he made it through the summer in one piece.

  He sipped his tea in silence and didn’t react when Marcus walked past him to go inside, disappointment etched in his tired face.

  “So, you’re a big shot author, huh?” Brooke said loudly from behind him a few minutes later and placed a bowl of potato salad on the table.

  “I’m an author, yes.”

  “Figures.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Brooke and Drew were alone on the patio, which for some odd reason, made him nervous.

  “Helen showed me her book collection. Your books, mostly. You’re used to using your money to get what you want and are pissed I bought the camp and the land before you had a chance.”

  “I could have bought it years ago if I wanted.”

  “See? If you wanted. Rich prick,” Brooke muttered and stormed off the patio, heading toward the stream.

  Pissed that she left him hanging with no explanation, he chased after her.

  “Am I missing something here?” he asked when he caught up with her.

  “You’re so typical.” She jabbed her finger into his chest and damn, it hurt. “You only want something because someone else has it, and you think you can flash your millions around and everyone will fall at your feet. Well, not this time, pretty boy.”

  “I’m not waving any money around.” That was the problem. Had he flashed some cash and bought out the Shermans, he wouldn’t be facing off with Brooke.

  “You will. You’ll try to buy me out or make a media circus over this to get your way. Whatever. As long as the rich boy can take advantage of the poor girl. It never ends.” She spun on her heels and marched through the long grass.

  “I’m not taking advantage of anyone,” he called to her back. And hell, he wanted anything but a media circus.

  Drew jogged up to her and crashed into Brooke’s solid body when she stopped suddenly and whirled around.

  “Your kind doesn’t know how not to take advantage.” She jabbed at his chest again. “People can’t be bought. Pride can’t be bought. Integrity can’t be bought.” She lifted her stormy gaze to his and clenched her jaw. “Never forget that.”

  She shoulder-checked him as she pushed her way past him and stormed back up the slope to the house, leaving Drew in her wake.

  How the hell did she flip the table and make him feel guilty for wanting to do exactly what she accused him of? Yeah, if she’d take the money, he’d offer his next book contract and all his future earnings not to open the camp.

  Maybe he was the asshole she thought him to be. First a prick. Now an asshole. And they hadn’t even had dinner yet.

  “ARE YOU OKAY?” HELEN asked when Brooke returned to the patio.

  “Oh, yeah. I just wanted to check out the stream. It’s really picturesque around here. Like a postcard or the cover of a book or something.”

  However, not one of A. R. Beckett’s psychological thrillers. His covers were dark and filled with angst, nothing like the feeling of the Sherman farm.

  “I hate to be rude,” Drew said when he approached them, and Brooke bit back the urge to snort under her breath, “but I should head home.”

  “The steak’s just coming off the grill,” Marcus said from behind them. “Stay for dinner. It won’t take long, and I’ve made too much for just three of us.”

  He stayed, and they made it through the dinner without a sound from Drew... almost. Not wanting him to get off so easy, she figured she’d taunt him a little. Brooke wasn’t one to hold back.

  “So why do you write such dark and messed-up stories when you have beautiful people like the Shermans in your life?” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin and placed it on her lap.

  “He’s quite the storyteller. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve stayed up late with my lights on because of his b
ooks.”

  “You get your rocks off by scaring elderly women?”

  Helen laughed. “I’ve been caught double-checking the front and back doors at night, especially after reading Deranged Disciple.”

  “And the basement door.” Marcus chuckled as he patted the top of Helen’s hand.

  “That too. Our boy has a knack for storytelling, for sure.” When Brooke had excused herself to the bathroom to wash her hands before dinner, she Googled the famous author on her phone. He preferred to fly under the radar, according to most articles she read, but his work was highly acclaimed. Fresh, twisted, and compared to the likes of Stephen King, Gillian Flynn, and Dean Koontz.

  The man also liked his privacy. If that was his beef, having a camp so close to his fancy home, he could pick up his millions and move his ass somewhere else.

  “Why psycho books?”

  Drew shot Brooke a sideward glance. “Psychological thrillers.”

  “Sure.”

  He shrugged. “They’re the stories I have in my head.”

  “Must be nice to not have to worry about money and play with words all day.” Being petty and biting wasn’t normally her way of dealing with people, and she didn’t know why Drew—aka A.R. Beckett—got under her skin.

  If the Shermans sensed the undercurrent of the mood at the table, they let it slide.

  “How about dessert? I made a strawberry rhubarb pie this morning and there’s a half-gallon of vanilla bean ice cream in the freezer.”

  “I appreciate it, Helen, but I really should go. I’m on a tight deadline.”

  “Skipping dessert? That’s a first.” Marcus stood and gave Drew what looked like a fatherly hug. Not that Brooke had witnessed many—any—in her life.

  “I have a batch of M&M cookies I made for you. Maybe they’ll help with your muse. Let me box them up.” Helen pushed back her chair and scurried off into the kitchen.

  “Thanks for dinner. And it was nice, uh, to see you, Brooke.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Go kill off some characters.”

  Fear? Worry? Sadness? Something washed over Drew’s face, clouding his eyes and drawing a slack in his jaw as he nodded respectfully to her and walked away.