Cletus was referring to our sister Ashley’s friend from her knitting group. There were seven women in the group, Ashley being one of them. Janie was married to a real big fella, security expert or something like that, by the name of Quinn Sullivan. All the ladies from Ashley’s knitting group had traveled to Tennessee last year for our momma’s funeral, and Quinn had accompanied his wife.
But that had been almost a year ago. It was a time I didn’t like to dwell on, so I didn’t. Unfortunately, the one-year anniversary of our mother’s death was coming up in just over two weeks. I was dreading the day.
And apparently this Shelly woman, downstairs with her hands all over my socket wrench, was Quinn’s sister. As I took another bite of the protein bar, I chewed on this information. I’d only met the guy a few times, but the family resemblance between Quinn and Shelly was strong now I knew the connection.
Quinn was six-four maybe, and his sister was at least six foot. They shared the same eye color—ice blue—and similarly sharp facial features. He’d had this watchful way about him, like he had secrets. And he looked at people like he knew all of theirs.
“Well that’s just great,” I grumbled, taking another bite of the bar.
“I thought so.” Cletus’s reply was cheerful and he nodded his head like everything was settled. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I have work to do and you need a nap.”
“No, I will not excuse you.” I inserted myself between my brother and the computer. “Just ’cause she’s related to a friend of Ashley’s doesn’t mean she gets a free ride.”
My brother crossed his arms and glared at me, leaning back farther in his chair. “Beau, what is wrong with you? Why don’t you like Miss Shelly Sullivan?”
“She’s rude.” I said this louder than intended, fire of frustration still in my veins.
“She’s a little quiet and standoffish, I’ll give you that. But I enjoy her economy of speech.”
“Oh no, she wasn’t quiet with me. She was rude.”
“What did she say?”
“She . . .” I slid my teeth to the side, not much wanting to admit that she’d made comments about my right eye and nose being uneven.
There’s no use pretending otherwise, I knew I was good-looking. I wasn’t Shelly Sullivan good-looking, but I knew how to work a smile and turn on the charm to achieve a goal. I’d never considered myself particularly vain. I didn’t spend hours in front of a mirror. Nor did I spend more than five minutes a day thinking about my appearance, usually just the time required to brush my teeth, trim my beard, and pick out clothes, which wasn’t hard since I worked at the shop five days a week.
This woman didn’t know me at all, and there she was pointing out my flaws.
Rude.
How would she like it if I’d done the same to her?
Except . . .
I swallowed on that thought, because the woman didn’t have any flaws. Well, no physical flaws in any case.
“What did she say?” he repeated, his tone and expression telling me I was treading on his patience.
“She said I was an idiot.”
Cletus flinched back a smidge, blinking his surprise. “She said that?”
“Yeah. She said that.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes growing sharp. “Well, what did you do before she called you an idiot?”
I rubbed my neck, avoiding my brother’s gaze, swallowing again, hoping I wouldn’t have to answer.
“Beauford Fitzgerald Winston,” his voice deepened as he used my full name, “what did you say to the lady?”
Releasing a heavy sigh, I turned from Cletus and walked to the door. “It was a misunderstanding.”
“Louder, please. I’m not Duane. I can’t hear you when you mumble and I can’t read your mind.”
“It was a misunderstanding. You know I picked that car up for Hank? The Jag? Well, Hank said he’d left a present for me at the shop, a . . . ‘her.’”
“Oh good Lord.” From the corner of my eye I saw Cletus throw his hands in the air and jump to his feet. “You thought he sent one of the women in his employ to give you a show? Well, he did not.” My brother reached for an item in the corner of the office and thrust it at me. “He bought you a fishing pole. A really nice fishing pole, one of those three thousand dollar bamboo dealios. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble catching fish on Wednesday—if you can figure out how to use this thing—but you might have a time apologizing to our new mechanic today for mistaking her for a stripper.” He paused, waiting for me to meet his glare before continuing harshly, “And you will apologize. Or else.”
* * *
“Did you apologize?”
I caught myself before I snapped at my friend, instead taking a short pull from my beer before answering. “I tried.”
Hank grinned, glancing at Duane who was also grinning. Well, Duane’s version of a grin, which was more like a small smirk.
Both Hank’s and Duane’s smiles were at my expense. Usually I wouldn’t mind, and I hadn’t expected any different when I launched into my story, but I’d hoped they’d agree with me that the woman was a menace.
They hadn’t.
“He did try to apologize, he really did. I was there.” Duane’s smirk widened into a true smile. “And she flat-out ignored him. Pretended he didn’t even speak.”
Simmering anger reignited at the memory, making the beer on my tongue taste stale. “I don’t see why I needed to apologize in the first place. Ain’t nothing wrong with being a stripper, is there?”
“Firstly, I think someone needs to acknowledge how unusual this entire situation is.” Hank, sitting next to me in the booth, moved his hand in a circular motion, indicating to my whole person.
We were at Genie’s Country Western Bar the Wednesday after my initial run-in with Miss Shelly Sullivan. Genie’s was the best place to go in the Valley if you wanted a beer, a dance, and no trouble.
The biker gangs usually steered clear of Genie’s. They had their own hangouts. Genie’s was widely considered the Switzerland of Green Valley and the surrounding areas, neutral territory. If they did show up, it was only two or three fellas at a time, not a giant herd of them looking for a fight.
“I second that.” Duane craned his neck, looking toward the entrance. “But nothing about Shelly Sullivan is ordinary, as far as I can tell.”
I knew Duane kept looking at the door hoping to spot Jess. She wasn’t late yet, but my twin always got fidgety just before seeing his woman.
My lips curved into a smile, but it was one of frustration. “What are y’all talking about?”
“Well now, let me see. Let’s start with the fact that this woman didn’t immediately fall victim to your bullshit charm.”
I snorted, shaking my head at Hank. He was always complaining about me and Jethro, said we made terrible wingmen because of our “bullshit charm.”
But before I could speak, Duane said, “See now, you got it wrong. Nothing about Beau’s charm is bullshit. That’s just the way the man is made. And you can’t fault the ladies, either. In our momma’s womb, he got my share of good humor as well as his.”