More Than Friends (Kingsley #4) Read online

  More Than Friends

  Book Four of the Kingsley Series

  BY : BRANDI KENNEDY

  Text copyright©2014

  Brandi Kennedy

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  It never ceases to amaze me, the support that I have found and the new friends that I have made, the entirely new aspect of life that has opened up to me, just because I took the risk of following my dreams.

  This book is written for my children who challenge me, who fill me with joy, and who continually give me hope for the existence of romance – if only for their sakes …

  For Dana, my twin spirit, my cousin, my friend, and so much more – Thanks for giving me courage and strength just when I need it …

  For men, past and present, “good” and “bad,” who have let me crawl inside their heads and examine their spirits – you all gave me a little bit of what made Michael Kingsley who he is …

  For all the others who have played a part in getting me to where I am …

  And for my readers.

  You mean everything to me. Without you, I’d still be a girl with a dream and no hope of ever seeing it come to fruition.

  *Thank You All*

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  A Letter From The Author

  Thanks For Reading!

  About The Author

  Follow Brandi On The Web

  Other Titles By Brandi Kennedy

  Chapter One

  “Ow! Damn it!” Michael Kingsley jerked his hand back from the rough edge of a broken bolt and shook droplets of blood away from a swollen knuckle. Grimacing at the sting of rough fabric against torn skin, he swiped the blood against his denim-clad thigh, shook his head, and bent back to his work. The radiator wouldn’t replace itself, and bloody hands or no, he wasn’t ready to quit yet.

  The garage bay rattled softly to the tune of Foreigner’s“Hot Blooded”, and Michael was exhausted. Staying at the shop all night working had seemed like a great idea earlier– when he’d closed up, sent his office manager home, and realized that he just couldn’t go home to an empty house again. Instead, he’d gone out to pick up a bottle of his favorite rum, then he had headed back to the garage, sipping slowly from the bottle as he worked his way through a parking lot full of backed up jobs. The trouble with only trusting himself to do the work correctly was that it waited for him to get it done, and there was no one to take up the slack.

  Two flushed radiators and a power steering pump later, the bottle was nearly half gone, and so was Michael. When he tripped over the air in front of his shoe and had to catch himself against the hood of the car he’d just finished working on, he decided it was time to stop working before he did something stupid to someone else’s car. Michael was a generally responsible person; he might have a drink after hours, but there was no way he was willing to risk someone else’s safety. Still, going home wasn’t an option– his house hadn’t been home since his wife had unexpectedly moved out and divorced him several years ago, and lately, he’d been thinking of selling the place. No sense keeping that big house, just to grow old in it alone.

  Chaos blared from the intercom speakers; during the daytime hours, his office manager used the system to tell him that a customer was waiting, but right now the speakers were Michael’s only source of company and classic rock was his best friend. Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler commanded Michael to“walk this way"; the corner of his mouth lifted slightly in response. Michael nodded, muttering,“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” He snagged the rum by the neck of the bottle, left the keys to the finished vehicle on the driver’s seat, and made his way over to the third bay at the end of the shop. Nothing soothed his soul like working on the restoration job that had inspired him to open his own garage in the first place, and right then, his soul needed soothing.

  “There you are,” he whispered, shaking his head as a fresh hot trail of rum burned its way to his stomach.“The only thing I have that hasn't left me yet.” Rapping his knuckles gently against the dusty body of the partially restored 1969 Chevy Camaro, Michael lifted the rum to his lips again. He swallowed, sighed as the liquor settled in his stomach, and left the bottle resting on the edge of the front bumper.

  Though it had once been a symbol of Michael’s dreams for his future, the old car had done nothing more than gather dust in the third bay of the garage for over a year after he'd bought it, waiting patiently, untouched as he had focused on building his business and turning a profit. Once the shop had become profitable, Michael had turned those profits into a decent starter home while working his way through restoring the body of the Camaro– but after he and Nicolette had gotten married, the project had been forgotten, the car neglected in favor of his marriage. For a long time after it was over, the shock of the unexpected divorce had broken him; the first several months after Nicolette had left him, Michael had barely been motivated to come to work and keep his business afloat, let alone taking on anything extra. Even now, there were days when he felt like he was just going through the motions, living his life without really feeling it. But at least he was living again.

  And he was making progress; the shop was turning a profit again and Michael was really trying hard to get his life back in order, trying hard to get back to the man he had once been. Sure, he spent more time drinking now than he cared to admit, but if drowning his sorrows with a little drink was how he found escape from his loneliness, that seemed a small price to pay, and his progress on the Camaro felt like proof that he was finally on the mend. At least he had somethinggoing right and according to plan again. The hood of the Camaro hadn’t been closed in months– not since Michael had simply given up on going home after work each night– and in those months, the car had made remarkable progress. It was running more smoothly than ever before, the finally fully rebuilt engine was as shiny as it would have been in’69, and all that was left was to finish res
toring the inside.

  By now, Michael figured he had spent nearly six years restoring various parts of that car, and although it was the only real constant in his life, he wasproud of the accomplishment. He had hunted for original parts as much as possible, and along the way, he had made contact with several dealers of old and antique cars. He had made lots of good friends, and he had learned more than he’d ever thought he wanted to know, about more topics than he could have imagined.

  Michael turned to look at the boxes stacked in the corner of the bay, smiling softly at the sense of purpose that filled him. The boxes held the most recent shipment of restoration supplies– soft and supple red leather for the seats and interior, with white leather stitching and trim. Everything was custom made, and all that was left to do was install the interior fabrics, stand back, look down on a job well done, and finally take it for a drive. Even if he would be riding alone. As usual.

  “Nice to know I can still do somethingright, though,” he muttered, nodding slightly.“Even if cars are my people. Might be less weird though, if peoplewere my people. Less lonely that way.” Sighing, he shook his head and reached for the driver's side door handle.“And maybe then I wouldn’t be talking to myself like a damned idiot.”

  An hour later, the driver's seat of the car was on the floor of the bay, naked and pathetic without its old ragged coverings. Old seat foam had been ripped away and replaced, and Michael was nearly ready to finish for the night. Bare-chested– he'd long since discarded his sweat soaked t-shirt– Michael backed away from his third attempt to finish pulling the seat cover down, shaking his head in frustration. The new seat covers were pre-stretched, but they were still tight enough to put up a fight; the cover was only about halfway down the back of the seat, and Michael had just torn a second fingernail painfully beyond the quick.

  "Alright, you damned hunk of junk," he growled, glaring at the seat. "I've had just about enough of this shit. This is bullshit!" Still grumbling under his breath, Michael used his uninjured hand to snatch up the nearly empty rum bottle resting on the bumper of the Camaro and drained the rest of the liquor, hissing softly as the drink burned a trail to his belly. Michael spent a moment standing there, the bottle dangling from one hand, injured fingers flexing restlessly on the other. Finally, he shook his head and resigned himself to finish the night– and as he settled the empty bottle beside the naked seat of the Camaro, he couldn't help sinking back into the music still blaring from the garage speakers.

  "No pill gonna cure my ill, I got a ... bad case ... of lovin' you," he sang softly, gingerly working his fingertips beneath the snug new seat leather.

  By the time the seat upholstery was fitted and the driver's seat was ready to reinstall, Michael was wishing for another bottle, but he ignored the urge and pulled the passenger seat from the car. By the time both seats were finished and reinstalled, the blessed numbness of the liquor buzz was gone, although his constant craving was not. Michael's favorite classic rock radio station had changed moods, and Michael's mood had changed too– from just thoughtful to downright melancholy. Loneliness and broken memories kept him from going home, but staying at work– and drinking way too much rum– didn't change his problems. He was still almost thirty-four years old, with thirty-five and then forty just around the corner. He was still divorced, and still too miserable to do anything about it. He was still willfully ignoring the nagging feeling that he was fast approaching outright alcoholism. He was still depressed as hell.

  And he was still going to have to paint on a happy face and sober up– because just that afternoon, his baby sister’s fiancé had asked him to be the best man at their wedding, and he had about six weeks to find enough hope to offer a wedding toast. The problem was, Michael hadn’t felt hope in quite a while.

  Chapter Two

  There had been a flicker of hope when he had watched his younger brother Drew get married a few years ago. He had watched happily as his brother had promised to love and cherish his new bride, and he had felt the grip of loneliness ease as he watched Cass say the words that had made her his sister-in-law. Drew's best friend Nick had been his best man, and he had made a very inspiring toast during the wedding reception. Michael remembered it well, but not for the pretty words; what he remembered instead was how good it had felt to be hopeful for the first time after his divorce. What he remembered was feeling, for the first time since the divorce, like his life didn't have to end with his failed marriage.

  After Drew's wedding, Michael had started trying to get out more. He had dated a few very nice women, had joined – and then quit – several somewhat expensive dating websites, and had tried more unsuccessful rounds of speed dating than he cared to admit. By the time he had attended his sister Cameron's wedding, he had stopped seeking dates and had started settling for what his brothers jokingly referred to as "companionship." And now, he didn't even bother looking for that; now, when he went to the dark little bar down the street from his lonely house, all he wanted was a stiff drink that would put him to bed when he got home.

  A soft click pulled Michael out of his thoughts, and the lights to the garage bays all went dark at once. The music kept blaring though, and Michael shook his head as he fished his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. "Damned old wiring. Be so glad when that's fixed!" He swiped his thumb over the screen of his cell phone, still muttering under his breath as he navigated through the phone's menus. Finding the icon for the flashlight application, he jabbed it with the tip of a grease-stained finger and used the resulting circle of light to help him find his discarded t-shirt.

  It wasn't until after Michael had popped his head through the neck of his shirt and made his way carefully through the semi-dark to the lobby of his building, that he noticed the voicemail icon at the top of the phone's screen. Frowning, he tapped the little envelope symbol, waited for the call to his voicemail account to go through, and then set the phone on speaker. Dropping the phone lightly onto the counter, he listened to his messages as he updated the invoices for the jobs he had completed that evening.

  "Michael," the phone said, using his father's voice, "I need you to call home, son. Your mother wants to finalize the dates for Harmony's engagement party, and we need to make some plans to do something for Xander. You're the one who knows him best, so get back to me when you can. Alright, love you, son." There was a brief sighing sound, as if Adam had been thinking of saying something more, but then he was gone.

  A second message began as Michael started the process of shutting the computer down for the night, and he grinned to himself as he listened to the low tones of his brother's voice. "Hey, Michael," Drew said. “I just got off work and I'm heading home for the night. I saw the lights on in your shop ..." Drew's voice trailed away, and Michael could hear him drawing a breath. By the time he spoke again, Michael had stopped moving, the computer forgotten as he stared curiously at the phone. "Look, Michael. I just ... I want you to know I'm here for you, man. I know you barely leave the shop anymore, and – look, just call me, okay? Let's get together and hang out."

  Michael rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh of his own as he turned back to the computer. Obviously, his family was getting worried. Obviously, he was going to have to get better at looking like he had his shit together.

  The automated voicemail operator gave the time for the next message, and as the robotic female voice recited the phone number of the missed caller, Michael's grin resurfaced. The sound of the voice leaving the message only made the grin grow wider. "Hey, Michael," she said, her usual smile softening her voice. "It's Renee. Call me back when you get a chance. I wanted to check with you about what we were going to get for Harmony and Xander's engagement gift. I found the cutest thing, but I wanted to get your thoughts on it before I went ahead and got it. We're still planning to go in together on a gift, right? Call me back."

  His cell phone was in his hand before he realized he had even moved, his fingers tapping out the digits of her number. "Hey," he said, smiling as she answered the
call. "What did you find today for Harmony?"

  Renee laughed softly, the sound as smooth as bourbon in his ear. "You'll never believe me," she said, still laughing. "It's so silly but I can totally see Harmony and Xander loving something like this, just because of how hilarious it is."

  Michael laughed with her, without the slightest clue what they were laughing at. "You already bought whatever it is, didn't you?"

  She laughed again, and Michael heard paper rattling in the background. "Maybe. But I couldn't not buy this, Michael. I had to order it before it was gone. Wait 'til you see it. Go look – I just sent you a picture."

  Michael held his cell phone away from his ear, glancing at the screen in search of a text notification. Sure enough, it was there. "Alright, hang on," he said, wondering briefly when he had silenced the device. Shaking his head, he pulled his thumb over the screen to bring down the notification bar, before tapping the envelope that would open the text from Renee.

  The image was of a wedding statue, which would ordinarily not be particularly funny in itself – except that the statue was of a bride and groom in a wrestling ring. The groom was holding his bride in his arms, in the classic carry-over-the-threshold pose, but they were standing at the edge of the ring; the groom was poised as if on the verge of throwing his bride over the top rope, while she clung to the lapels of his suit coat. Both parties wore fierce expressions, and the plaque at the base of the statue read, Mr. Right vs. Mrs. Always Right.

  "Do I even dare to wonder where you found that thing?" Michael asked, laughing as he brought the cell phone back to his ear. "That thing is ... really something."