“Well, hell. There goes my Starbucks tomorrow morning.”
Her eyebrows go up. “Is that where you spend all your hard earned money?”
“No, actually. It’s going to a much worthier cause.” The second I think of Addie, my breathing changes.
Brenda must notice because she leans closer. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. As long as you don’t dock my pay. All it means is your brother won’t get any help with groceries this month.”
She shoves me out of the chair. “Between the two of you, don’t know how there’s ever a scrap of food in the place. You’re both freaking vacuums.”
Blaire used to tell me the same thing when we still lived at home. She did all the grocery shopping, since Mom and Dad worked long hours, and she would always complain that I ate everything before she even bought it.
I stand and move around the counter, patting my stomach. “Not my fault. Growing boy.”
She snorts a laugh then pulls up the billing program.
By nine thirty, the gym’s empty. Deanna is in the locker room and everyone else is gone.
“You mind closing up, Marcus?” Brenda asks, grabbing her bag. “I’ve got a date.”
“No problem,” I say, shutting down the desktop. I glance toward the locker rooms as I grab the keys and follow her to the front. “I’ve got a date too.”
Her eyes widen. “So Bran’s on his own tonight.”
I shrug. “We’ll see how it goes.”
“Why would this one go different than any of your others?” she asks.
“Good question.” And the answer is I’m just not feeling it, but I don’t say that, because I’m not ready to answer the question that would come next, which would be some version of “Why?”
She gives me an eye wiggle, then turns for her car. I lock the door behind her and wipe down the equipment while I wait for Deanna. When she emerges from the locker room a few minutes before ten, she’s primped and polished, in a black tank top and a short white skirt, smelling of soap and some sweet perfume.
“You ready?” she asks, looking around the empty gym.
“Just need to set the alarm,” I say, walking with her to the door. I punch the code and usher her out, locking the door behind us.
Once again, I catch myself hesitating. I place my hand on the small of her back and guide her toward the parking lot. “Sam Hill?”
“We can start there,” she says and, at the intimation in her voice, parts of me get hot as others chill, making me shudder.
“I’ll follow you?” I ask as she clicks the car locks on her BMW. The lights on my fifteen-year-old black Dodge truck flash when I press the button to unlock it.
“I’ll go slow,” she says, glancing at my truck and giving me a shrewd smile.
“You dissing my ride?” I ask, throwing her attitude back at her.
Her smile turns decidedly more suggestive. “Certainly not. I’m a big fan of pickup trucks. Lost my virginity in the back of one.”
I open her door. “I’ll follow your lead. Go as fast as you want. Promise I’ll keep up.”
“See you there,” she says, sliding in.
I close the door behind her and head for my truck.
She guns the engine and we weave through town well over the speed limit. She screeches to a stop in front of Sam Hill Saloon. I find a spot just up the road and my truck predictably backfires when I cut the engine. When I double back to the bar, she’s waiting out front.
“Fast enough for you?” she asks, brushing my bicep with her fingertips.
“I’ve done faster.” I open the door. “After you,” I say with a flourish.
We step through into the dimly lit space. Several people sit along the mahogany bar in back, and four of the eight tables up front are occupied with small groups. The sound system pumps Florida Georgia Line into the bar, and people are talking and laughing over the music, making it feel warm and homey. As I guide Deanna to a table near the window, I look around for Bran’s “problem,” but he’s related to everyone I see working here. His mom, Vicky, is behind the bar. She’s a local legend, rumored to have been a porn star before she got pregnant with Bran. Bran’s cousin, Carol, is waitressing tonight. She’s very pregnant. I thought maybe Vicky had hired her replacement and that’s who was giving Bran fits, but I guess not.
Carol checks on the table next to us, then comes up behind me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Marcus. What can I get you?”
I send a look at Deanna. “Ladies first.”
“I’ll have a glass of your house cabernet,” she says.
Carol looks a question at me.
“The regular.”
She gives me a skeptical smile. “Wouldn’t it be less syllables to just say ‘a Bud’?”
I shrug and flash her my best grin. “But then I wouldn’t feel special.”
She rolls her eyes and makes a spiraling motion with her index finger near her ear. “You’re special all right.”
She turns for the bar and Deanna nudges her shoulder into mine. “Is there anyone you don’t know?”