“That is correct.” She’d gone from frustrated to discernibly downtrodden.
I searched my mind, and then I searched her face, her eyes, her body language, looking for some sign as to what the heck this was about.
On a hunch, I was about to ask her if she wanted to go grab something to eat after work when she turned and walked away, mumbling, “Never mind, forget I said anything,” or something like that.
After that things got worse. She started speaking to me again, but only to criticize and complain.
“You’re going to clean that up.”
“When are you going to be finished?”
“You’re not finished?”
“Do you need me to do it?”
The woman was seriously trying my patience. But the only thing that irritated her more than my presence was when I was unfailingly polite, so I made sure to be just that.
“Yes, I’ll clean that up. So sorry to have bothered you.”
“I’ll be finished soon, Shelly. But if you’re in a hurry, please take it.”
“Almost finished, but I’m happy to wait if you need to go first.”
“I don’t require your assistance, but I’m always interested in my friends’ expert opinions.”
Man, oh man, that last one really pissed her off. I thought she was going to lose her temper. She didn’t. Instead, she stomped out of the garage and disappeared around the corner.
She’d also spent the week wowing us with her mechanical prowess, engineering and casting a new part for Judge Payton’s 1923 Piedmont Touring that basically saved the engine, and worked overtime to save our asses. Between the four of us, we managed to catch up by late Friday.
Of note, those dirty dreams hadn’t stopped either.
Every day she impressed me, ignored me, or snapped at me. Every night I collapsed, exhausted, and we made use of each other’s bodies in my dreams. And every morning I woke up frustrated.
Adding fuel to the frustration tire-fire, Drill stopped by on Wednesday. He repeated more frantically that Christine wanted a meeting. I reminded him he’d given me a month and the month wasn’t over yet. He in turn reminded me I only had one week left.
I was more than ready to be done with work by the time Friday night rolled around. Duane and Jess had invited me to go with them to the jam session. I thought about it. A night of listening to music and eating coleslaw and fried chicken sounded like a good remedy for a shitty week. But the idea of being Beau Winston—joking, smiling all night after forcing politeness and disinterest in Shelly Sullivan all week—was unbearable.
Hank had asked me to fill in for his bartender at the Pink Pony, but I begged off. I wouldn’t be good company for anybody, especially not the horndogs at the strip club. My bad mood would be bad for his business.
For the first time in a long time, I was alone at the big house, reading in Momma’s library and drinking Scotch. I’d picked a book at random and settled in one of the four big chairs clustered in the center of the room. It turned out to be a book on art history, a subject I’d never given much thought to. The contents managed to hold my attention surprisingly well.
“You found yourself a picture book?”
I glanced up from the page I was reading to see Billy standing in the doorway. He was still dressed in his work clothes, though his tie and jacket were gone.
“Yep. And it has naked ladies, too.”
Billy smirked, then laughed belatedly, shaking his head at me. His attention snagged on the glass in my hand.
“What’re you drinking?”
“Aberfeldy.” I lifted my chin to the sidebar.
“Don’t mind if I do.” My older brother strolled into the room.
The bar used to be empty. Momma didn’t allow liquor in the house. But since she’d died, we’d slowly started filling it with the essentials for gatherings: a decent vodka, a better tequila, a subpar rum. I’d added the Scotch earlier in the evening, having made a special trip into Knoxville to pick it up.
After pouring two fingers, Billy claimed the chair diagonal from mine. He studied me over the rim of his glass, like he was waiting for me to speak.
When I didn’t, he asked, “What’s troubling you, Beau?”
“Nothing.”
“Something.”
“What makes you say so?”
“You’re here. At home. On a Friday night.”
“So?”
“Usually you’re out on a Friday night, entertaining your flock of admirers.”
I considered my brother, watched him as he swirled his drink.
Now, I liked Billy a lot, and I respected him more than I liked him. He stepped in, took care of Momma, took care of us when Jethro—who was the oldest and should have been drawing our daddy’s fire—was being an ass.
Yet he and I had never been particularly close, especially after his junior year of high school, when he’d lost all chance of a football scholarship. My father and his motorcycle club brothers had beaten the tar out of Billy. Broke his leg. My brother returned from the hospital sullen and withdrawn, and had been in a perpetually brusque mood since.
Until recently, Billy had hated Jethro.
Cletus and Billy had always been close.
Ashley had been living her life in Chicago until last spring. But since moving back home, I knew Ash and Billy had lunch once a week at his office.
Billy and Duane did stuff together, but they were always real quiet about it.
We all did stuff with Roscoe, because he was the youngest and we took turns.
But sometimes, rarely, like tonight, Billy would seek me out and we would talk. Usually, I’d spend the time making him laugh, telling him jokes and tall tales. He seemed to like that about me. At times, he seemed to need that from me.
Maybe that was why he asked me about my troubles now, because I hadn’t cracked a joke.
“Have you heard the one about the fisherman and his pole?”
Billy shook his head, his eyes bright, a small smile curving his mouth. “You remind me so much of your sister.”
I cocked my head to the side, his phrasing struck me as bizarre. “How so?”
Billy blinked like I’d startled him. He closed his eyes and waved his hand in the air. “You know. Funny.”
“Ashley? Yeah, I guess she can be, if she sets her mind to it.” Ashley was funny, but her humor was more like my momma’s, more like Cletus’s—sharp, witty, dry—whereas I preferred rooster jokes and exaggerated stories.
Billy opened his eyes once more and studied his drink. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Seeing no reason to avoid the conversation, I said, “I’m having trouble at work.”
“With what?”
“Our new employee.”
Billy inspected me for a beat, then his attention moved to some point above my head as he nodded slowly. “I see.”
I didn’t see how he could see anything of the sort. The man worked all the time. Here it was almost midnight on a Friday and he was just coming home from the office.
“Anyway, it’ll sort itself out.” I searched my mind for a subject change.
“You’re referring to the lady mechanic?”
“That’s right. Shelly.”
“Quinn’s sister?”
“That’s her.”
“Quinn is a good guy.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know him.”