Glancing over my brother’s head to the dance floor, a flash of long red hair caught my attention and raised my hopes. When I realized it wasn’t Darlene, I swallowed a gulp of my beer and my disappointment.
Typical for a late summer night with nice weather, the place was crowded with locals. Duane and I had left together after work, leaving Cletus and Shelly at the shop to finish up.
I’d hoped Darlene would be able to make it back to the Valley this weekend, but she’d texted me earlier in the day that she couldn’t. She was busy. Two years older than me, she was in her third year of medical school and her schedule was crazy.
I understood.
Nevertheless, I hadn’t been able to shake off my disappointment since receiving her message.
Not helping matters or my mood, Shelly Sullivan had ignored all my attempts at making peace. I wouldn’t say I’d gotten used to the woman yet. More like I was starting to tolerate her, but just barely. She hadn’t spoken more than three words to me in two days. On the bright side, ignoring me meant she hadn’t made any more comments about how grotesque she considered my appearance or how stupid she thought I was.
I let my eyes linger on the woman with red hair. She was taller than Darlene and her curls were a fiery red, not strawberry-blonde. Unexpectedly, the woman turned, caught me staring at her. Recognizing her as Christine St. Claire—old lady of Razor Dennings, the president of the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club—I immediately averted my gaze. I didn’t want any trouble.
“You know that’s tax deductible, right? Donating to the church? I hope you got a receipt.” Hank was always quick to point out when something could be written off. Take his boat, for example. He’d written it off as a business expense because he used it to take customers fishing on Bandit Lake.
“I did. I gave the receipt to Genie when we got here.” I kept my stare fixed on Hank as a slight whisper of apprehension tickled my neck.
I sensed Christine St. Claire's eyes still on me and I braced myself. The woman was equal parts crazy and dangerous, or so my daddy used to say when we were kids. And he’d know, because he was equal parts crazy and dangerous, too.
My mother and father didn’t agree often, but I knew for a fact she didn’t like the woman much either. She’d always kept Duane and I close to her skirts at the Iron Wraith’s family days and picnics, giving Christine and the Wraith’s MC president a wide berth.
“No matter what she says, you never let her take you, okay? And always keep an eye on Duane,” Momma would say. “You’re older, he’s your responsibility. I’m counting on you. You keep him safe. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere with that woman.”
“You gave the tax receipt to Genie?” Hank had been about to take another drink of his beer, but stopped, the bottle suspended from his fingers, his tone edged with disbelief.
“Yeah, they’re her refrigerators, aren’t they?” I rubbed my neck.
“But you fixed them up.” Hank set the beer back on the table. “You went through all the trouble of moving those things, fixing them up, and taking them to the church. And then you give her the donation receipt?”
“Yep.” I ignored Hank’s stare and searched my mind for a subject change. “We still going fishing next Wednesday? Cletus wants to come.”
“We always go fishing on Wednesday. The only reason we didn’t go this week was because I had to be in town. And stop trying to change the subject.” He shook his head, sounding and looking like he considered this topic highly amusing. “You just proved my point.”
“What point? What are we even talking about?” I sighed tiredly, glancing to the side and noting with relief that Christine and her entourage were leaving the bar.
“I’m not surprised much by what you did for Genie. But framed in that context, why’re you still pissed off at that woman mechanic?”
“It’s ’cause she’s real pretty.” Duane scratched his jaw thoughtfully, peering at me.
I opened my mouth to object—not because I didn’t think she was pretty, but because that’s not why I was pissed off—but Hank cut in, “What do you mean, real pretty? How pretty is she?”
“Like, fancy supermodel pretty.”
“Oh man, I’m going to have to check this girl out.”
“And what about Patty?” I gave Hank a pointed look.
“Nothing wrong with looking, Beauford.” He smiled around a drink of his beer.
“She’s not a girl.” Duane took a pull from his beer, and then added, “She’s older than us. I think she’s at least thirty.”
“That doesn’t matter to me, and it certainly doesn’t matter to Beau.” Hank lifted his chin toward me. “You know he likes his women older.”
“Have at her.” I waved my friend off. “And good luck.”
Duane’s eyes grew unfocused, like he was debating weighty thoughts. “She’s almost too pretty, you know?”
“Too pretty?” Hank shook his head, his eyes moving from me to Duane. “No such thing.”
“Yeah, there is,” I said flatly. “You know, like when someone has a talent, like they’re too good at football, or they’re too smart? All they focus on about themselves is how smart they are? They’re nothing but smart? Same thing goes for people who are too pretty. Her talent is what she looks like.”
“She’s good at fixing cars.” Duane pointed his beer at me before taking a gulp.
“So, she’s real vain?” Hank addressed this question to me, but Duane answered.
“No. She’s not vain at all.” My brother looked puzzled as he said this. “Not as far as I can tell, anyway. She gets covered in dirt, grease, and sweat like the rest of us, and doesn’t seem to mind. She’s just . . . too pretty. It’s hard to look at her.”
I knew exactly what Duane meant, she was hard to look at. Her beauty was too harsh, too flagrant. Even though I didn’t like the woman, meeting her eye still sent my wits straight out of my brain.
Hank continued to look confused. “So, what’s she like otherwise? Is she nice?”
Duane shrugged. “Not particularly. She’s businesslike, to the point. Cletus calls her efficient.”
“Duane and Cletus would know.” I indicated to my brother with my beer. “She’ll talk to them, but she still doesn’t speak to me.”
“So, Miss Too Pretty ignoring you has your boxers in a bunch?” Hank looked like he was stifling a laugh.
“Like I said, it has nothing to do with her looks. And she can keep on ignoring me. I don’t care about that. But you’d be irritated too if someone you didn’t know told you your face was distorted.”
“She didn’t say your face was distorted, dummy.” Duane rolled his eyes.
I pointed at my brother. “She said your face was perfectly symmetrical and my face was wonky. And that—plus I’m an idiot—is how she could tell us apart.”
Hank barked a laugh.
I glowered at my friend. “And I’m the one who needed to apologize?”
“Now see, I don’t think you needed to apologize for mistaking her for a stripper. I think you needed to apologize for suggesting she take off her clothes. There’s the difference.” Duane nodded at his own words.