Connor's Gamble: New Orleans Connection Series, #1

Chapter One

Wednesday

Connor cracked one eye open, squinting against the overly bright sunlight streaming through the window.  A sharp pain stabbed his brain and he bit back a groan.  Damn, that hurts.  He forced his other eye open and slouched further down, bumping his knee against the back of the seat in front of him.

Damn bus.

Finally awake, are you?  A decidedly chipper voice sounded to his right.

Oh so slowly he swiveled his throbbing head the smallest possible amount, cut his gaze to the side, and took note of the elderly woman seated beside him.

Where'd she come from?   She hadn't been there when they’d started day two of what he euphemistically titled the bus trip from hell.

Closing his eyes again, he contemplated ignoring her.  Yep, I'm being a rude bastard. Tough. After the night he'd had, he wasn't in the mood for casual conversation with a total stranger.  And from the brief glance he'd gotten, strange seemed apropos.

I know you're awake, Connor, even with those bloodshot peepers.

Connor couldn't ignore the woman, though.  His Gran had made sure he and his brothers were brought up better than that.  All women were afforded the utmost respect.  Always.  Didn't matter how bad things were; courtesy and respect were concepts ingrained from the cradle.  Besides, his Gran sat in the front row of the bloody bus and she'd march down the aisle and give him hell if she found out.  Easing up carefully, he straightened in his seat, wincing at the sledgehammers pounding a consistent boom, boom, boom rhythm at the base of his skull.

Morning, ma'am.

Morning, ha.  She smiled up at him, displaying the whitest teeth he'd ever seen on somebody her age.  Have to be dentures.  It's already afternoon.  We stopped for lunch a couple hours ago, but you slept right through it.  Leaning in closer she whispered, Don't know how, though, with all the racket those cackling hens was makin'.  She gestured toward the front of the bus.

Connor's gaze followed the direction of her pointing finger.  The twenty-eight-seater private charter bus was filled with senior citizens making their annual pilgrimage, a special tour package to New Orleans.  To gamble.  Slot machines and Texas hold 'em.  Flashing lights and loud music aboard a fully restored and refitted Riverboat smack dab on the Great Mississippi River.

How in the hell did I let Gran talk me into this fiasco?  Where are we?

Not nearly far enough, you ask me.  That's the problem traveling with a bunch of old farts.  Seems like we stop every fifteen minutes so somebody can go tinkle.

Too. Much. Information.  Connor closed his eyes again, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb.

Your granny's a real pistol, ain't she, Connor?

Ma'am?

She reached up to pat her bright red curls before flashing him that artificial white smile again.

Call me Gladys.  Winking at him, she shifted in her seat, her navy blue pants hitching up to reveal the fuzzy pink bedroom slippers on her feet.  She shifted to face him.  Her riot of short fiery red curls caught the sunlight pouring in from the window across the aisle.  The effect was startlingly graphic.  Connor blinked and stared at her.  She looked like her head was on fire!  It almost appeared engulfed in flames, the unnatural color at odds with her aged, lined face.  She had to be in her seventies at least, but she seemed to carry herself well despite her advanced age.  Gladys snapped her fingers in front of his face.

Your granny.  Molly.  Shoot, we've been friends since she first moved to Boca Raton.  Hit it off right away.  I've got the apartment two doors down and across from her.  She crooked a finger at him, indicating he should move closer.

The others don't know but a few of us got a steady game every Saturday night. 

Game?

Gladys looked around before turning back to him.

You know, she whispered. Texas hold 'em.

Connor choked back his laugh.  Poker.  Why wasn't he surprised his grandmother was running an illegal poker game at her senior living complex?  He just shook his head.

She win much?  He asked the question, already knowing the answer.  After all, she'd taught all her boys to play when they were up in New Orleans.  When she was on her game, he still couldn't beat her.

Yep.  She's pretty good.  Gladys grinned, winking at him.  I'm better.

Connor quirked his brow at that brash statement but said nothing.

That's why we're taking this trip, first to New Orleans and on up to Shreveport.  Gonna try our luck at the big tables.  See how good we really are.

Dammit.  Gran's at it again.  He couldn't resist looking toward the front of the bus, squinting against the bright sunlight pouring through the open windows.  There she sat, surrounded by her traveling companions.  An assorted group of women, varying in ages anywhere from late fifties on up.  There were a few men, too, not counting the driver.  Most of the seats were filled with only an occasional empty seat.  On climbing aboard the bus, he'd slouched into the last seat by the window and blocked everything else out.  He hadn't planned on this trip within a trip when he'd decided to visit his grandmother in sunny Florida.

Forced into medical leave while recovering from an on-the-job injury, it had been a spontaneous decision to visit.  Florida in mid-December sounded like a really good idea, especially since he couldn't go back to work.  Stupid doctors told his captain he had to be off at least four weeks, in a sling for at least the first three.  After two weeks he was climbing the walls.  His captain finally ordered him not to show up at the fire station until his time was up or he'd personally throw him under Big Red, the station's shiny new fire truck.  All bluster, he knew.  But he also knew he needed to get away.

This last fire had been rougher than most, worse than he'd let on.  They'd caught the fire-setting arsonist bastard, though.  Put him in a cage for now and after the trial, he'd be there permanently.  Son of a bitch deserved so much worse for everything he'd put those families through, but at least he wouldn't burn another woman ever again.

A laugh from the front jerked his attention back, focused it like a laser.  He knew that laugh.  At one time his goal in life was to hear her laugh every single day.  Now she sat next to his grandmother near the front of the bus.  Her shining dark chestnut brown hair was cut in a style shorter in the back and lengthened as it skimmed her jawline, framing her face.  Dark chocolate brown silk, it shimmered in the sunlight.  His hands itched as he remembered the feel of those tresses when they'd been longer, his fingertips sliding through its glossy length.  Sense memory was a real bitch.  Her hair used to fall in waves past her shoulders and midway down her back.  Memories of it spread out on his pillows, night after night, tormented him like a tight fist encircling his lungs, squeezing the air out in a rush.

Not going there, dammit.  So not going there.

She sure is pretty, ain't she, Connor?  Gladys's voice pulled him back to the present and he dragged his gaze away from the raven-haired beauty at the front of the bus.

Got a real sweet heart, too.  Anything you need, just ask Alyssa.  Everybody at the center knows that.  We all thank God for sending her to Whispering Pines.  She's been a blessing, a true blessing. 

I'm sure she is, ma'am.

You stop that ma'am nonsense, Connor.  Call me Gladys.

Connor smiled.  His Gran would carve out his liver if he called a lady of Gladys's advanced age by her given name.

Wondering again how far they'd traveled while he'd slept, he looked out the window, watching for signs.  The Alabama state symbol on the side of a passing police cruiser brought him up short.  Damn, I must have been asleep a hell of a lot longer than I thought.

Gladys rose from the seat beside him to wend her way along the center aisle, holding onto the back of each seat as she ambled toward the front.  Her gait was slow and deliberate, displaying without words her frail elderly state.  Unwillingly, as though drawn by some unseen force, he looked toward the front of the bus.  Alyssa stared at him, her expression unreadable.  Connor stared back, refusing to flinch away from her condemning gaze.  She leaned in toward his grandmother, gave her a quick hug, then stood, a frown marring her beautiful face before her calm façade slid back into place.  She stood and started toward the back, walking past Gladys's shuffling form as though she weren't there.

Stopping in front of him, she stood with arms crossed, glaring down at him.  The bus hit a bump and she grabbed for the back of the seat in front of Connor.  Steadying herself, she held on, her frown evident not only on her downturned lips but equally evident in her golden-brown eyes.

What were you thinking, Connor, coming on this trip?  Her whispered words stroked along his spine like a caress, even through the underlying hostility.  It had been years since he'd set eyes on her.  Three long years to be precise.  The last time had been at the courthouse, the day they'd signed their divorce papers.

Gran invited me along.  I didn't know when I came to visit she had this trip planned.  I had the time off anyway so . . .

You should have said no, Connor.

Why?  It's been three years, honey.  Surely we can be in the same room or on the same bus together without causing a scene?  Connor kept his tone cool with a hint of sarcasm.  Their last encounter still rankled even after all this time.  If he'd know she worked at his grandmother's senior living center, he probably wouldn't have come.  Don't lie to yourself, buddy.  If you knew, you'd have been on the first plane to Florida.

Another rough bump and the bus skidded a bit before the driver wrestled back control.  Thrown forward with the lurching motion, Alyssa stumbled toward Connor.  He reached to grasp her arms, missed, and she landed hard, face-down across his lap, her floral skirt-covered backside a tantalizing mound directly in front of him.  He bit back a grin as she wriggled, trying to right herself, and her movements shot desire straight to his groin.  No other woman ever lit him up the way Alyssa did.  Around her, he'd always had a hair trigger.

Sorry, folks.  The bus driver's voice echoed through the bus.  These roads are getting a bit slippery.  Ya'll might want to stay seated now.

Alyssa slid into the seat next to his, and Connor couldn't help grinning at the flush of color staining her cheeks.  She'd have to be dead not to notice the physical effect she'd had on him.

Sorry.  Barely audible, Connor knew the whispered apology was hard for her.  Even with some of their knock-down, drag-out, over-the-top fights, she hated to be the one to apologize first.

No problem, honey.

Don't call me that.

Old habit.  Connor shrugged at her quirked brow, his lips curving upward.

Look, I haven't seen Gran in over a year.  I had some time off from work and she invited me to visit.  He paused a second before continuing.  She didn't tell me you worked there.

I started working there about nine months ago.  They needed a new activities director, and I—needed a change.

Connor knew she had moved away from New Orleans after the divorce.  For a while he tried keeping track of her, but knowing she was so close yet forever out of reach seemed more painful.  He'd finally made a clean break, only finding out from his brother, Ryder, that she'd moved to Florida.

Connor, we can be civil.  Things ended badly between us, but we were once friends.  Maybe we can at least make everything a little easier on this trip.  Connor closed his eyes, leaning his head against the headrest.  Unbelievable.  The woman I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with, love as we grew old together, thinks we can be 'civil.  I must've screwed things up worse than I remember.

A sense of being watched prickled along his skin.  He knew exactly who stared daggers at him.  Waving at his grandmother, he placed his hands palms together and bowed his head slightly, a show of peace.  He even gave her a wink.  After what seemed like an eternity to Connor, she gave a regal nod and turned back to her consortium of traveling buddies.

"Alyssa, we can be civil.  We can travel together. Hell, we can even room together.  But we will never be friends."

A flash of hurt crossed Alyssa's expression, lasting only a fleeting moment before her calm façade slid effortlessly back into place, but it was there long enough for him to catch.

I see.   Standing, she braced a hand on the seat in front of her and took a step up the center aisle and away from Connor.  Good, he thought.  I've made her to leave me alone.  Again.

Before she had taken more than a step, squealing brakes, the crunch of ice, the sound of the bus driver's colorful curses, and shrieks from some of the front-end passengers filled the compartment.  The bus skidded along the roadway, the driver fighting for control.

Alyssa was thrown backwards, landing in an awkward pile at his feet.  Without a thought Connor reached forward, grasping her slight frame as though she weighed nothing.  He pulled her close, hugging her to his body.  Pivoting in his seat, he moved her to lie beneath him, doing his best to protect her.  His only thought—keep her safe.  Everything around him slowed to a crawl.  The voices, the screams all faded out as a dull roar reverberated through his skull.

No, dammit, this couldn't be happening.  He'd lost the woman he loved once through his own foolish pride.  Now here she was, back in his life, if only for a moment; he wasn't about to lose her again.

Turning his head, he saw the driver struggle against the lumbering beast of the private coach that spun in a three hundred and sixty-degree circle, skidding, a loud squealing sound from underneath as the tires wrestled for traction.  Patches of snow and ice flew past the windows, dirty muddy brown, flung up by the spinning wheels.  Everything slowed, and Connor lost focus, except for the woman cradled in his arms, her breath a soft caress in the curve of his neck.

With a horrific thud and crunch, the front end of the bus slid off the asphalt and careened forward, its momentum propelled by the slickness of the ice and slush buildup along the side of the highway before finally slamming into a stand of trees.

Chapter Two

Wednesday

Alyssa struggled with the dead weight atop her, pushing and shoving, eventually crawling from beneath Connor's body.  He wasn't moving.

Connor?  Shaking his shoulder, she tried rousing him.  Come on, Connor, don't do this to me.

From the front of the bus she heard moans and soft crying.  Above all the din, Molly's voice, distinct and carrying, barked out directions like a drill sergeant.  She didn't want to leave Connor laying there but other than the bump she felt on the back of his head, he was breathing and seemed okay.

Easing his head gently off her lap, she rose, quickly stripped off her jacket, folded it and placed it under his head.  He moaned softly at the movement, his eyelids fluttering but not opening.

Connor, I've got to check on my residents.  I'll be back—I promise.  Alyssa's voice cracked at the end and she bit down on her lip, nearly drawing blood as she turned and jogged down the aisle of the lurching bus.  The driver lay slumped behind the steering wheel, not moving.  Mr. Patterson was patting his wife's hand as she gently sobbed, her head against his shoulder.  Alyssa continued toward the front of the bus and retrieved the first aid kit from under the dash.  The driver had made sure the staff knew exactly where it was located, in case of emergency.  Good thing I paid attention, she thought.

Molly, is anybody badly hurt up here?

Gwen knocked her knee pretty hard against a seat.  I don’t think it’s broken, but she'll probably need x-rays.  The calm reassuring voice of Connor's grandmother, Molly Scott, helped Alyssa's racing heartbeat slow just a bit.

Okay.  She looked around at the other passengers.  Mrs. Spencer had blood dripping from a cut above her right eye and was dabbing at it with a tissue.  Everybody else scattered randomly throughout the bus, mostly toward the front, sat staring at her.  Waiting for her to tell them everything was going to be all right.  God, please let everybody be okay.  Especially Connor . . .

Molly, you might want to check on your grandson.  He's got a nasty bump on the back of his head.

Molly turned panicked eyes on Alyssa.

Giving her an everything-is-going-to-be-fine nod, Alyssa watched Molly shuffle her way back toward Connor.  Grabbing her tumbled-over purse, she spotted her cell phone lying on the floor amid a tangle of spilled contents.  She quickly dialed nine-one-one and explained to the operator exactly what had happened, doing her best to give an accurate estimate of their location.  The dispatcher relayed the information another driver at the scene called as well.  Assured they were sending help, Alyssa hung up and continued checking on the rest of the passengers.  Time and again her gaze returned to the back of the bus—to Connor.

An overwhelming sense of relief flooded her when she saw him sit up, and watched Molly help him slide onto the seat he'd been thrown from.  Thank you, God.

Turning, she took a step and knelt beside the driver's seat.  Holding her breath, she checked for a pulse.  Relief flooded her and she exhaled, a soft whisper of breath, when she felt the faint thump, thump, thump of the pulse beat in his jugular vein.  His whole upper body lay twisted at an odd angle, the steering column pressed against his sternum.  The front undercarriage of the bus had crumpled in, and torn metal flared upward in jagged hunks of steel, one spearing through the lower part of his leg.  A river of red blood covered the front floor under the driver's seat.  While she'd had basic first aid training, she wasn't qualified to deal with something like this.

Mary?  She called out to the nurse who accompanied the seniors on the trip.

Mary's head whipped up at Alyssa's voice, looking up from pressing a Band-Aid into place on Mrs. Spencer's brow.  Alyssa?

Not saying a word, she nodded toward the driver.  She knew Mary would do everything possible and Alyssa didn't want to draw undue attention from the passengers to worsen the situation.  The last thing anybody needed was a bus full of panicked senior citizens.  Whispering Pines was a senior retirement center, not a nursing home or assisted living facility.  The residents there were independent living, fully functional individuals.  But some of them were in their seventies and early eighties.  No need to worry them unnecessarily.

In the distance, the wail of sirens drawing closer to their scene filled the silence.  She heard pounding sounds coming from outside the lopsided bus.  Hands on the door release, Alyssa tugged.  Nothing.  No movement, not an inch of give.  It was jammed against something.  A rustling sound penetrated the broken glass from outside.  A man's head appeared through the opening.

Ma'am, can you open the door? the male voice asked.

No, it's stuck.

Okay, I'll be right back, then.  I'm going to find something to pry it open.

Thank you so much.  Flashing lights lit up the windows on the bus, bright blues and reds blinking like strobes, keeping an eerie rhythm to the wail of the sirens before the sound cut off abruptly, though the lights continued blinking and flashing.

Traffic slowed down to a crawl as passing cars filled with rubberneckers took in the scene, straining to glimpse what all the commotion was about.  Alyssa shook her head, surprised only one person seemed to care enough to actually get out of his car and attempt to help.

The creak of metal crunching against metal sounded through the relative silence in the bus.  Other than a few moans, nobody spoke. They all just waited for rescue.

Connor ambled from the back of the bus.  Alyssa smiled at him, grateful to see he was up and moving.  She reached up to brush a lock of hair off his forehead.  You okay?

Connor winced.  Yeah, fine.  Something hit the back of my head, that's all.

No, it ain't.  Molly's voice sounded from behind Connor as she peered around his massive frame at Alyssa.  He banged up his shoulder again.

Again?  Connor was hurt?  What happened?

It's fine, Gran.  He nodded toward the front exit.  Door jammed?

Yes.  Somebody went to find something to open it.

He nodded.  I'll check the emergency exit in back, see if it's functional.  He walked toward the rear of the bus.

Leaning toward Molly, Alyssa whispered, What did you mean, he hurt his shoulder again?

Molly shrugged.  You need to ask him.

Molly, is he hurt worse than he's letting on?

Naw, he bumped his head.  The shoulder's from before.

Alyssa sighed.  Molly avoided giving a direct answer, something she did when she wouldn't outright lie.  Thoughts flew a mile a minute, her mind racing.  Was Connor hurt before coming to Florida?  She wanted to ask but didn't have the right anymore.  The divorce three years ago had ended that.

Icy cold wind blew through the interior of the bus as Connor flung open the emergency exit at the rear.

We can get some folks out through the back.  His voice carried over the babble of people mumbling, the complaints starting now that reaction was setting in.

Okay, folks, listen up.  His authoritative tone quieted the other passengers, who turned to him expectantly.