Collide southern spark, p.1
Collide: Southern Spark, page 1
Collide
Southern Spark
Copyright © 2023 by Kat Long
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
Except for the original material written by the author, all songs and song titles in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. The author concedes to the trademarked status and trademark owners of the products and franchises mentioned in this fiction novel and recognizes that they have been used without permission. The use and publication of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Please respect the author’s hard work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers. All characters are 18+ years of age, and all sexual acts are consensual.
ISBN 9798393032197 (print)
Cover Design: Kate Farlow with Y’all That Graphic
Formatting: Alt 19 Creative
Editing: Kimberly Hunt with Revision Division
Published by:
Alpha Marshmallow Publishing, LLC
First published in the United States on June 14, 2023
To My Amazing Community of FanFic Friends:
Just as Draco found his way to Hermione’s heart, you sauntered into Mine.
XX ~Kat
Contents
Magnum
Brooke
Brooke
Magnum
Brooke
Magnum
Brooke
Brooke
Magnum
Magnum
Brooke
Brooke
Magnum
Brooke
Magnum
Magnum
Magnum
Brooke
Magnum
Brooke
Brooke
Magnum
Brooke
Magnum
Magnum
Brooke
Magnum
Also By Kat Long
About The Author
Chapter 1
“Cunt-tastic? Wow, Mrs. Potter. Your purl stitch looks amazing,” I said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. She rolled her eyes and swatted my arm before tying off the end and reaching for another color.
“Oh, you. Quit flirting.”
“Not as long as you’re single, pretty lady. Here, use green. It will really drive the point home.”
“Hmm, you think so?” she asked, eyeing the other colors in a basket by her feet.
“Of course, darling. What says ‘cunt-tastic assgoblin’ better than purple and green? You can’t very well use pink or orange. Those are too cheerful. Who’s getting this lovely gift?”
“The beneficiary of this will be Irma, over at the library.”
I sputtered, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “You mean Irma, the librarian at the elementary school over on Lavender Street?”
“The very same. She had the gall to send my grandson a letter threatening an overdue book fee—for a book due on New Year’s Eve.”
“The nerve.” I gasped, laying my palm on my chest and shaking my head.
I’d never tell her the c looked more like an o—or that Irma had a serious mean streak and could retaliate without a second thought. She was the librarian when I was in elementary school and would follow unsuspecting students around the room, gasping if they had dirty hands or dared to crack the spine of a paperback. It’s a wonder I’d read anything besides the random magazines that had amassed in my bathroom these days.
“Murial, are you over here corrupting my favorite son?” My mother’s grip wrapped around a fistful of my polo before tugging it so I’d stand and kiss her cheek. She smoothed the material after letting go and straightened a blond strand that had fallen into her eyes. Maybe her hair was more gray than blond these days, and a few more lines were on her forehead, but she still looked the same as she did decades ago—and I’d never tell her differently.
“What are you doing here, favorite son-of-mine?”
“Can’t a son just visit his only mother in the middle of a Friday at her rage-knitting class before accompanying her to my place of business for a retirement party?”
“That depends. Are you hiding from your brother after your argument?”
Touché.
“After our—” I said, halting whatever else I’d planned to say and biting my tongue.
Asking how she knew about an argument that happened less than twelve hours ago was as stupid as asking if the wet stuff falling from the sky was rain. It was one of those innate superpowers all moms had ingrained in their bodies meant to weed out suspicious behaviors—or one of the benefits of raising four boys.
She had an unmatched bullshit-o-meter designed to detect the slightest subterfuge, and my shady actions were surely making it flash and blink like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float.
“I’m not hiding.” I scoffed, crossing my arms while keeping a steady hand on the skein Mrs. Potter had handed me. Not that she was doing a lick of knitting now that fresh gossip was about to be shared.
“Don’t bullshit me, darling son. Maverick came over last night because—”
“Ugh.” I sighed, throwing my head back against the chair. No one could ever deny my lack of dramatic flair. Still, I’d hoped it would be at least twenty-four hours before I had to have an in-depth conversation about an argument I had with my almost forty-fucking-year-old brother that resulted in me kicking a goddamned plant.
Never mind that I went to three different home and garden stores last night searching for a possible replacement, and said plant was currently propped up in my bedroom, held together with duct tape and chopsticks. Never mind that three unsent messages sat waiting in my cell phone to Maverick apologizing for making his temper skyrocket.
Nope, I thought, rolling my eyes and sighing again. I now had to subject myself to a lecture from my mother, who meant well, and who was, of course, right—but damn it—my fragile emotional state did not need this kind of stress.
Yes, I was perfectly aware I sounded like an immature toddler and got exactly what I deserved by showing up to her class instead of just facing Maverick at the office like a rational adult, but damn it—
“Son. Let me know whenever you finish the self-flagellation inner-monologue ridiculousness, so I can help.” She huffed, putting her hands on her hips and raising her eyebrows in a way that made me cower as a kid.
I smiled, shaking my head as I continued to help Mrs. Potter. She put down the unfinished tea towel and reached for the yarn, and I passed it over before standing to my full height, looking down at Mom before pulling her into a tight hug.
“How do you know me so well?” I asked, laughing. She shrugged, pulling away to pinch my cheek—hard.
“Benefits of you being my favorite. Now come over here and talk to me. I’ve made a beanie for you. You and your brothers never wear enough layers.”
I nodded, following her to the large green, flowered recliner in the far corner of the library where her bag of knitting supplies sat. I groaned, sinking beside her as my body protested to the unyielding, threadbare carpet, and she passed over the beanie.
“So, what’s this about you kicking one of my prize topiary plants?” she asked, bending down to adjust the beanie on my head. It fit perfectly, and the hand knitted in sporting the middle finger fit my mood perfectly.
I dismissed her words with a wave. “That topiary provoked me, Mom. I had no choice but to fight back before it got further out of hand.”
Saying that out loud had me fighting back another grin, like the stupidity of the words—or of me attacking an innocent plant—snapped me out of my funk.
“The topiary provoked you? The topiary provoked him?” She rolled her eyes and raised her head, mumbling words I couldn’t make out to some unknown force in the sky. “I guess I should be glad you didn’t throw the plant away. Wait—you didn’t, did you?”
“Of course not. It’s at the house, fighting for its life in a sunny window with fresh soil and growth hormones.”
I could fix anything with duct tape, elbow grease, and a fair amount of luck, but this broken topiary with its dumb green leaves eluded me. Not that I had any experience with keeping anything other than myself alive, but it couldn’t be harder than water and sun—and truthfully, I’d be okay with it being un-alive.
Wait. No, I wouldn’t.
I had no problem snuffing the life out of spiders or those awful insects we southerners insisted on calling palmetto bugs because it sounded better than cockroaches, but I wouldn’t purposely inflict damage on an unsuspecting plant that couldn’t fight back.
“You’re a good boy,” she said, patting my cheek as I rolled my eyes and scoffed, tugging the beanie over my ears. I sucked in the air
and held it until my lungs burned. I was better than petty temper tantrums and thoughts of junk punching.
Our argument mocked me, repeating until I spiraled down a rabbit hole of anger and self-pity—and I didn’t blame him. Mostly.
“Why would I bother asking for your input when you’re the least likely to take initiative?” my oldest brother had hissed, crumbling the paper airplane invoice I made and throwing it at my head before slamming his fist on my desk. “Get the hell out of here until you learn to act your age.”
“You know, honey,” she started, and I groaned, lying on the floor before realizing how dirty it was and sitting up, desperately not wanting to have this conversation.
I knew he’d overreacted, and I made matters worse, but one of the great things about being a guy—other than being able to pee standing up—was that most people never demanded that you have long, drawn-out conversations about your feelings. I’d bet by the time I made it back to the office, I could punch Maverick in the shoulder, and he’d retaliate by attempting to junk punch me. Things would be back to normal—aside from the new hire, but that wasn’t something I was ready to revisit.
I’d know he felt bad for yelling at me, and in return, he’d realize I felt bad for needling him to the point that I did. I’d get over my bruised ego and double down to take more initiative, showing him—and everyone—that I deserved to be a partial owner at TriVolt. I’d take the damn computer course again, or perhaps tell Maverick the payroll and scheduling were now my responsibility.
Win-win all around—and he’d buy the first round of drinks at Cooper’s after work while I pummeled his ass at darts. Mom knew that was how we guys liked to deal with our issues. When we were younger, she even encouraged it—buying two giant sumo wrestler costumes where you could use the other person as your personal battering ram while causing very little damage. It was a great way to get out all that teenage hormonal aggression, and it made me wonder if she still had them somewhere around her townhouse—not that any of us could still fit into them.
“Listen,” she snapped, still smiling though her lips were pursed it a way that said she wouldn’t take any of my bullshit. “I’m not your keeper, but I still have the right to give you all the unsolicited advice I want, even if your brother wouldn’t tell me what happened, only that he felt bad.”
“Sure, Mom,” I mumbled. “And I’ll figure out a way to fix the topiary.”
“I know. We can stop by my house and pick up a new one on the way to the party. Are you looking forward to meeting the new hire? Amelia’s niece, right?”
Ugh.
I groaned, dropping the yarn I’d fetched from her bag and crawling after it like a damn cat.
“Nope,” I said, letting the irritation drip from my voice as my sour mood threatened to rear its ugly head. “I, as a one-third owner of the company, was not made aware that a new hire was onboarded.”
“Oh, sweetness,” she cooed, patting my cheek—harder than she would a child, but enough to let me know she understood the frustration. “I knew I’d find out why you boys argued, but you’ll have to measure your dicks another time. Take me home to grab a cactus for her and another topiary. There might be leftover tacos in the fridge for you as well.”
Ah. Food. The universal way to make any guy feel better.
I helped her pack up and made my rounds, getting my cheeks pinched and kissed by at least a dozen old ladies before slinging Mom’s electric purple bag over my shoulder and helping her to my truck. Whatever nonsense was ricocheting around my brain had to wait until after the party—and tacos.
There was always time for tacos.
Chapter 2
“What the fudge? Turn left in point two miles, then make an immediate right? Stupid small town, bumpkin, ridiculous streets,” I grumbled to my GPS as I put on my blinker and merged. This would never have happened if I were still in Colorado. I could drive those roads with my eyes closed—not that I would.
February in Colorado wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience unless you’re on top of a mountain with skis strapped to your feet and wearing a thermally insulated snowsuit. The trees collected so much ice the branches would snap and break, blocking the roads and forcing you to creep along at a snail’s pace with the heat blasting and seventies love ballads playing through the speakers.
State law should require anyone who drives under the speed limit to have a bright yellow caution sticker on their bumper. And a law to make it illegal for them to use the left lane. I zipped past a beat-up Chevy truck, glaring at the driver, who had the nerve to look at me and wink. Or maybe he blinked at the sheer speed of the forty-five-fruitcake-miles-per-hour I pushed my black Bronco to pass him in the damn right lane.
I shook my head, gripping the steering wheel to settle my road rage—and nerves. What started as an extended visit to get my head on straight somehow turned into a cross-country move for a new job with a trunk full of clothes and a moving van that arrived two days ago, thanks to the quick work of my aunt and a company that took American Express.
A cozy two-bedroom condo awaited me in the thriving metropolis of Charleston, South Carolina, conveniently near a Chick-fil-A, Japanese sushi, and an organic grocery store.
Yep, that’s me, ladies and gentlemen. Brooke Abbott, your very own walking contradiction.
I believed in natural remedies and essential oils, but would fight you for the last slice of greasy, cheesy pepperoni pizza.
“Gotta keep people guessing,” I replied to the GPS’s voice coming through my Bluetooth speaker that sounded suspiciously like Morgan Freeman with a bad Australian accent.
“Your arrival time has been adjusted.”
“What?” I tapped on my phone’s screen like it would make a difference as the arrival time changed from a respectable three thirty to an abysmal four forty-five. “This can’t be happening.”
Life, the universe, and everything in between had bent me over and sugared me six ways to Sunday without bothering to use lube. I should have expected that something would thwart my efforts the afternoon I was due to meet my aunt and new boss. I couldn’t pretend to be fashionably late or show up with coffee and cookies as an excuse—not when the entire reason for leaving Colorado a day early was so I could power through the twenty-five-hour drive in two days—all to attend my aunt’s retirement party.
I jabbed the power window button so hard my fingertip ached and breathed in the crisp winter air, letting it blow through my hair. This weather was practically balmy compared to Aurora, but I still kicked the heat up. The last thing I needed was to arrive late to the party with a runny nose, perfect for infecting the entire office with a head cold and cementing my reputation as the chick who passes germs.
A shrill ring pierced the low sounds of Bishop Briggs, and I cringed, pressing the decline call option so fast my fingertips were likely to be bruised from the ferocity of the action.
“Hello? Brook? Are you there?”
“Sprinkles.” I hissed, realizing my mistake a second too late.
“Wait. Don’t hang up, please. I need to talk to you.”
“I cannot imagine there is anything left for us to talk about,” I yelled over the wind whipping through the car and pushing my speed to a ridiculous fifty-two miles per hour. I pushed aside the way her voice trembled, not giving two shits about her feelings.
I sighed, leaning toward the window, not believing the lie as it slipped through my brain.
“You could at least hear me out. I had to use a pair of panties as toilet paper earlier because you took all the paper products in the house along with the washcloths, towels, linens, and takeout menus.”
“Do you mean to tell me I was unjustified taking those things or that you were actually considering using a takeout menu to wipe your booty?” I scoffed, letting the cold air hit my face for another few seconds before rolling up the window halfway.
Maybe I could hold on to my pettiness a little longer and continue to take sick satisfaction at all the things I took from the house to inconvenience them.
Knowing they were stuck without batteries, lightbulbs, phone chargers, coffee filters, and other random stuff I shoved in my duffle bag as a last-minute fit of spite—including the vowels on his laptop, did nothing to ease the nagging sensation in the pit of my stomach. The sensation that I was running—or driving away from my problems instead of kicking them in the chocolate balls like they deserved.
