Building Bridges (Bridges Brothers Book 1) Read online

  Building Bridges

  Bridges Brothers, Book 1

  By Lia Fairchild

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2019 © [Lia Fairchild]

  Cover Design: Amy Queau

  Cover photographer: Kruse Images and Photography

  Cover Model: BT Urruela

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author /publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9864153-5-7 (ebook)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9864153-6-4 (print)

  ALSO BY LIA FAIRCHILD

  Compulsive

  Liar

  In Search of Lucy

  Circle in the Sand

  Vigil-Annie

  Emma vs. the Tech Guy

  Special Delivery

  Home for Christmas

  High Maintenance

  Contents

  Building Bridges

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Building Bridges

  Bridges Brothers Book 1

  Former soldier Logan Bridges never imagined he would go from serving his country to helping raise a house full of children after a devastating family loss.

  Dealing with his rowdy siblings and cousins proves to be almost as treacherous as the battlefields he left behind. And though he’s committed to making it work, he soon finds he’s in over his head.

  Until someone from Logan’s past steps in to help.

  Mollie has always been independent but finds herself growing attached to the family, and Logan, discovering there’s more to life than working and solitude.

  Logan and Mollie quickly form a strong bond, and when attraction brings them closer, they agree getting involved wouldn’t be good for the children. But when they both struggle to keep the blurry line of friendship between them, Mollie won’t take that step unless Logan can open up and face his painful past.

  Bridges Brothers series follows four brothers as they attempt to navigate life and love after a tragic family loss. Each book can be read as a standalone but is more enjoyable read in order.

  Chapter 1

  Logan

  Nothing like waking up to the smell of bacon and sweaty socks on a Saturday morning. Ryder is lying next to me—head at the foot of the bed, feet under my nose—on top of the covers. He looks small in a pair of gray sweat pants and one of my old T-shirts. I lie there a moment, grateful for a goodnight’s sleep. Another one where I don’t remember the nightmares. I’m only left with the clues: rapid heartbeat, sweaty forehead, lurking sense of fear.

  I turn on my side and face my thirteen-year-old half-brother, pondering how my life went from sleeping across from guys who had my back under the most harrowing of circumstances to playing manny to the family I once left behind.

  This is not the first time Ryder has snuck into my bed at some point during the night. He might be a dare devil during the day but sleeping is a different story; I guess we have that in common. His nightmares are different from mine, though—and the person he used to climb in with at night is never going to be there for him again.

  I suppose it happens more than it should for a kid his age, but this isn’t a normal situation. It’s pretty screwed up.

  I shove his socked feet a few inches away from my smell zone. I won’t admit it to the little runt, but I don’t mind him here so much. Especially because I’m fighting my own demons, so I get needing the company of family. And, I know this guy better than I know any of my three brothers. I don’t give a damn that we had different mothers. I changed his disgusting diapers, pushed him around in one of those plastic cars while he pretended he was in the Indy five hundred. He’s taken a hard hit from life and keeps it all bottled up inside.

  Ryder’s long eyelashes flutter and slowly open. He looks so much like my stepmother, Nina, I almost choke on the lump in my throat.

  He squints at me with tight lips that say, Are you mad? Considering his own damn bed is literally on the other side of the wall, and I somehow got roped into moving back in to help the family, I should be. But instead, I smile back, and though I’m not sure what, I try to think of something to say—anything to take his mind from losing his mother and dealing with this craptastic family we’ve been left with. But like I said, I know what he’s going through, and now it’s like I’m living it all over again. But none of those other stoic losers are going to be there for Ryder…or each other for that matter. So it’s up to me.

  I inhale a deep breath and let it out. Putting words to feelings is not a strong suit among men in my family. Most of us are hovering at precision-level sarcasm or just plain denial.

  Ryder flips over so his head is on the same end as mine. “Would you rather eat a bowl full of scabs or lick a dog’s ass?”

  “Dude! Too early.” I rub my hand over my jaw and then through my hair.

  After a few minutes of silence, I decide to investigate the reason behind his bed invasion. “Did you have a bad dream last night?”

  He shakes his head and his face turns solemn.

  “What is it then?”

  “Is it true?” he asks, tucking his hands under the pillow and staring at me with wide, cobalt eyes.

  My brows rise in response as I stall for time. His intense stare tells me I can’t feign ignorance. I know what he’s talking about. The rumors started last week. Given they’d waited almost three months after the death of my stepmother, Nina, and my aunt Sheri, I thought maybe they’d let it pass this time. And when I saw some bullshit post on Justice’s social media page, I’d hoped it would fade away…like it did when my mom died.

  “It’s small town mentality,” I whisper, giving the response I’m sure Nina would say if she were here. “And small-minded people.” We don’t exactly live in a small town, though. Ventura: the less attractive, step-sister to Santa Barbara.

  Ryder lifts up on one elbow, shoots me squinty eyes, and then sits up all the way, facing forward. “So…it is true?”

  I sit up next to him, my stiff body protesting. “What exactly did you hear, Ry?”

  He turns his eyes to the ceiling as if he isn’t able to say the words, but I have to know what is going through his mind if I’m going to help him. A moment later he speaks.

  “We were doing a chem lab, and I heard Arianna at the table behind me.” He draws in a deep breath and sighs it out.

  During the pause I cut in. “She the one giving you the chubs?” I smirk and nod like it’s all good to be sporting wood in the middle of class.

  “No…shut up and listen.” His lips pull into a tight line. “She was telling everyone in her group that our family is cursed. She heard her parents talking and saying how all
the women in our family die or leave.”

  Shit. “It’s just gossip, man. People get bored with their own pathetic lives.” I get up from the bed, recover from a slight stumble, and grab the shirt that’s on the chair in the corner. He watches me but doesn’t say a word, which tells me I’m supposed to keep going. “Her mom’s probably a drunken whore,” I say under my breath.

  His eyes go wide, and his spine spikes straight up. “Really?”

  “No, forget I said that.” With his brows knitted, I can tell he’s thinking about whom he can share that tasty treat with because I had to shoot off my big mouth. “Hey!” I point a finger at him. “Don’t repeat that or I’ll kick your ass in front of all those weenie little middle schoolers.” He shakes his head, and I come over to the side of the bed and sit. I try to ignore the ache but rub at my thigh reflexively. “Look, some people have nothing better to do than to make shit up to entertain themselves. Trust me.”

  I’d heard the same crap when my mom died of cancer when I was a couple years younger than Ryder. Like our family was cursed or something because we have this eerie habit of losing woman. It humiliated me for weeks until the next scandal took the spotlight. But when my dad remarried, Nina couldn’t have done more for Mason and me. Now I don’t give a crap what people say about my family. I already know what we are—falling apart.

  I throw the shirt over my head and pull it down as I toss a quick glance at him to gauge his reaction.

  He jumps off the bed and plants himself right in front of me, chin jutting up toward my face, a decidedly angry crease in the skin between his brows, which I’m not sure I’ve ever seen. I try not to focus on the fact that no kid should look this wrecked. “Mom and Aunt Sheri are dead…and your mom died, too.” His eyes dart away for a moment as if the fuzzy picture he was trying to see comes into focus.

  I wasn’t sure if that was a question for me to answer, and I didn’t know what to say.

  We stare into each other’s eyes for mere seconds before his glass over. I pull him into a hug. “It was an accident, Ry. A horrible, terrible car accident. That’s the only reason.” I feel him nodding into my chest. Or maybe the little turd burglar was rubbing the snot off his nose.

  I grasp his shoulders and push him back so I can see his face. Steeling himself as he always does, he draws in a cleansing breath and stands taller. I palm the top of his light brown mop of hair. “Let’s get some breakfast before those jack-asses eat all the bacon. It’s Saturday breakfast,” I say brightly.

  Ryder heads for the door, but as he grabs the handle, he turns back to me with a slight grin. “Hey, what about Grandma Weezer?”

  My lids fall closed a moment, and I drop my chin to my chest. He desperately wants this to not be true. Hell, for all I know, maybe it is true. Or maybe it’s a horrible twist of fate or fucking karma because the fact is the Bridges men have never been worthy of the women in their lives. I know the reality I need to impart on my little bro—that life sucks. But that will have to wait until after bacon.

  “Sorry, Ry. Grandma Weezer is my mom’s mother. She’s not on the Bridges’ side.” He doesn’t need to know our dad’s mom—Gramps’s wife—took off when Dad and my uncle Frank were teens.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, and his shoulders slump as he walks out the door.

  I follow Ryder out to the kitchen, expecting a boatload of brash Bridges to be fighting for a spot at the table as Gramps hunches over our old stove. The cold silence should have been a clue, but instead, the reality of the lifeless scene slaps me in the face. Ryder stops and I press up to his back and lay a hand on his shoulder. We both gaze into the almost empty kitchen where Gramps sits alone at the table, scooping the last bit of eggs up from his plate. Just to the left of him sits a large bowl of scrambled eggs and a plate of crispy brown bacon. Clean, unused plates are neatly stacked next to the food, and sparkling clear juice glasses sit in a row on the other side.

  “There's plenty,” he grumbles with a nod.

  The sound of the television in the other room floats into my ears and I knit my brows. Nina never allowed the TV to be on during Saturday breakfast. My chest tightens. I turn and glance to the doorway, catching a glimpse of two denim-clad legs stretched from the couch over to an ottoman. Most likely that's my uncle Frank, because sitting next to the ottoman with his knees drawn up to his chest is my cousin Colton. My uncle and cousins moved in a few weeks after Nina and my aunt Sheri passed, unable to cope on their own.

  “Where is everyone?” Ryder says to Gramps.

  Just like I helped raise Ryder, my granddad helped raise me, especially after my own mother died. His eyes shoot right to mine with what feels like a warning. Keeping my gaze, he lifts a hand. “They’re around. Just get yourself some food, Rebel Ryder.” That is the nickname Gramps gave to Ryder because he’s a crazy little shit.

  I hand Ryder a plate, and he reaches out for it slowly. I can see realization dawn in his eyes. “This sucks! They promised.”

  I should have thought to prepare him for how different life would be without the two women who held us all together. Saturday breakfast had always been a constant in our house. Loud, chaotic, but full of love and laughter, the two families of Edward (my dad) and Frank (my uncle) Bridges gathered together to share food and our lives. Of course, we all had things that kept us away sometimes, and Uncle Frank's family couldn't always make it, but it was never like this. Three months. That’s all it took for the Bridges men to prove they weren’t shit without the women who raised us and kept us going.

  Of course, I didn’t assume everyone could make it, but this is ridiculous. And where the hell is our dad? I know he’s not at work because Mason says he’s still showing up late and cutting out early—leaving the eldest Bridges brother to pick up the slack. None of us has the balls to ask what the hell he’s been doing lately, though.

  My eyes catch the pink juice cup on the counter next to the sink. It’s full. A knot forms in my gut, and I take in a measured breath. “Gramps, where’s Belle?”

  As slim of a chance it is, I hope she’s at the park with my dad. Sometimes he takes her there to give Uncle Frank a break. Raising two kids while you’re unemployed, freeloading, and lazing on the couch with your hand down your pants must be freaking exhausting.

  “I’m not running a damn day care, Logan.”

  I pull my lips tight, and before I can voice my annoyance, Gramps shoots me with, “She’s in her box.”

  That statement alone could earn us a visit from Child Protective Services, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Belle took a couple of packing boxes when they moved in and made a little fort for herself to hide in. Her brother, Colton, is the only one she lets in there with her. Probably because she knows he won’t talk much.

  I turn back to look at Colton in the living room as Ryder fills his plate. At just eight years old, our fair-haired cousin has barely uttered a handful of words since he was told his mother was never coming home. He reserves most of his speaking for school, which he does to survive.

  I watch as he appears to be watching television, but the look in his eyes tells me whatever's on the screen is not even registering.

  “Get some of that juice, Rebel Ryder,” I hear Gramps say.

  I can't seem to tear my eyes from Colton. I know Ryder is hurting and he needs me, but Colton looks so lost and Uncle Frank is completely useless. Yes, he’s got to be hurting like hell to have lost his wife, but we’re all struggling here. And if I'm being honest, Frank was a has-been before Aunt Sheri died. Part of me wants to grab him and shake the sense back into him. Scream at him to be strong for Colton and Belle.

  I turn and give Ryder a nod to make sure he's okay, and I see him sitting right next to Gramps even though the table is surrounded by empty chairs.

  “I'll be right back,” I say to them before heading out of the kitchen. I go the long way around so I can stop by the “bunk room” and check on Belle. That’s the den we made up for Colton and Belle’s bedroom.

  The hardwo
od floor of their room is barely visible under the piles of toys, clothes, and trash. Two large boxes form a teepee shape in the back corner of the room. I don’t want to get her riled up so I pass stealthily by just to make sure she’s okay. I catch a glimpse of a tiny pink sneaker sticking out from her hiding spot, and a few incoherent words from her adorable voice echo from inside. For a moment, I try to imagine how my three-year-old cousin will turn out, the only female in a house full of stooges. Though I know it’s ridiculous, I send a silent prayer that what people say about my family isn’t true. For Belle’s sake.

  At the end of the hall, I turn and head back to the living room. I cross in front of Frank and Colton, stalling when I'm right in front of them, blocking the TV. Neither of them blinks or even looks at me. I continue on to Gramps's recliner chair and take a seat. I see now they are watching Pawn Stars, my granddad's favorite show, which means neither of them bothered to change the channel.

  “Hey, Colt. You smell that bacon?”

  No response.

  When I glance up to Frank, he harrumphs as if I’m wasting my time. I ignore him and slide down from the chair to sit on the ground so Colton and I are eye level. I tap on his black Nikes.

  “Buddy, are you hungry?”

  His crystal blue eyes turn in my direction and grab hold of me. He’s asking—no pleading—for something much more than food. I work to keep my expression calm and comforting, but I’m pissed that I feel so helpless, and I’m more pissed that Frank is wallowing in his own pain instead of helping his kids.

  Colton’s always been an incredibly smart boy, but pain and grief have given his face a look of maturity that saddens me. His eyes pull from me as if he senses I’m no use to him. I follow his gaze down into his lap where he’s holding his mom’s old smart phone. Obviously, it’s been disabled, but Colton clings to it—has since the day we lost them—scrolls through her camera roll a dozen times a day looking at her selfies and images of her and the kids. Funny, there aren’t too many of Frank in there.