Kiss My Boots (Coming Home #2)

“Am I going to have to drag you away from that damn truck or are you goin’ to stop avoidin’ me?”

I whip my head around at the shrill voice breaking through my thoughts so fast I lose my footing. Dropping the blaster, my arms windmilling instantly at my sides, I start cursing a solid streak any sailor would be proud of.

I land hard, the sand from the speed blaster prickling the exposed skin at my back, and my elbows digging into the asphalt beneath me. I ignore the pain and glare up at Leighton.

“Don’t you give me that look, Quinn Everly Davis! You know damn well you’ve been avoidin’ me.”

She doesn’t even finish talking before she steps out onto the shop floor and walks over to me, reaching down to offer me a hand up.

“I haven’t been avoidin’ you, you big jerk. I’ve been busy workin’ on Homer. He isn’t gonna put himself back together, you know?”

“Homer?”

I point around me—allllll around me—making sure to indicate all the pieces of Homer that I’ve slowly been dismantling over the past few weeks that I’ve had him. Only the shell of him remains at present, but I can already see him taking shape handsomely.

“So, Homer is . . . car parts?” she asks in confusion.

I don’t even bother trying to correct Leigh anymore. She’s like a dog discovering a squirrel for the first time when I explain what I’m working on. It doesn’t offend me, not at all, because I know if she started trying to teach me how to make some of her delicious pies I would be the same way. We can appreciate each other’s talents all the same, even without understanding a dang thing about ’em.

“Truck,” I deadpan, dusting off my ass before grabbing the discarded blaster and walking over to my workstation to turn down the music. “Just like Bertha. Same year, too.”

“Bertha?” she puzzles.

I lift my arm and point toward my girl, her gleaming black body shining under the shop lights. My skin tingles just looking at her.

“Got it. Kinda,” Leigh mumbles.

“You don’t, but that’s okay, Leigh. I still love you even if you can’t tell the difference between a coupe and a sedan.”

“A what?”

I laugh, turning to face her. “I wasn’t avoidin’ you. Promise. Things have just been busy here. I wanted to get as much done on this one as I could before my reprieve is over.”

“Do you know when he’s gettin’ into town?” she questions, knowing instantly what “reprieve” I’m talking about.

“Not a single clue. Ret deals with him when he calls for updates or when I need an approval on another expense. I just do what I need to do to ensure that Fisher’s Ford looks like it just rolled off the assembly line and it’s 1948 all over again.”

Leigh snorts. “Fisher’s Ford, that’s hilarious. God, he sure was a funny old coot, wasn’t he? I bet he never would’ve dreamt of drivin’ anything other than a Ford just for the shits and giggles people got when they said that.”

I snicker right along with her. It’s been in my head since I started working on it. Fisher Ford and his Ford. Not even sure why I find it so damn funny. “You probably aren’t wrong. He was a good man, damn shame about his passin’.”

“Ever since Emilie died, he seemed to age daily.” She sobers. “I went in for my yearly a few months before he passed and I’m not even sure how he managed to do all his cooter-doc work, his hands were shakin’ so badly.”

“God, Leigh, you make it sound so disgustin’.” I hoot, laughing even harder now.

“Your brother misses you,” she tells me, the swift change of subject catching me off guard. “He’s worried you’re backin’ away from him again.”

I feel a pang straight through my heart at her words. “Jesus, Leigh. How could he even think that?”

“Probably because the last time you started stayin’ away from him for weeks at a time it was right after he told you about your mama. He knows you were hurtin’, but I think a big part of him is scared you’ll blame him for whatever part he’s still convinced he played in her bullshit. Honestly, though, I think he’s a little worried you might be gearin’ up to ask him to take you to her again,” she whispers softly and with care.

“Is he really worried?”

My stomach clenches thinking about her, the woman who birthed us and abandoned us. When my brother came home king of the rodeo circuit, after being gone for close to a decade, he dropped a massive bomb on Clay and me: not only had our mother cheated on our father, resulting in her pregnancy with Maverick, but she was so mentally gone now from years of whoring and drug use, she wasn’t even a shell of herself anymore. She was basically alive physically, but dead mentally. A pill that I still have a hard time swallowing.

I’d reacted emotionally and begged Maverick to take me to see her, which he’d outright refused to do. I was angry at the time, but I know he has his reasons and they’re all about doing what’s best for me. He figures no good at all will come from my seeing Mama, and I don’t disagree. It’s taken me almost a whole year to work through my issues with her transgressions and if I’m honest with myself, I haven’t even gotten to the heart of those problems, but the last thing I would ever do is blame him. He isn’t too far off the mark, though. Part of me does still want to see her, even if it’s just to officially close that chapter of my life—the one about a girl who always wished her mama would come back and love her.

“He’s just worried about you, Q. So am I. It isn’t like you to pull away from us.”

“You know exactly what’s goin’ on with me right now, Leigh. You could have just told him what was happenin’.”

She exhales, the sound hitting my ears even over the noises blasting throughout the shop. “I don’t though, Q. You left the PieHole after that call with Tate and then nothin’. You left that night with a smile on your face after we pulled the moonshine out and talked about how you were glad he was comin’ back so you could show him what a, and I quote, ‘fine-ass bitch’ he missed out on. You’ve never been a good liar, Q, so far as I knew you’ve been workin’ on this grand plan of revenge and using your hot body to get it. It’s been three dadgum weeks since that night, and every time I see you, you brush off whatever’s up with you as nothin’ but work and lack of sleep. Three weeks, Q, and zip on the Tate situation. What gives?”

“That moonshine needs to be buried deep in the earth. It’s the devil’s brew, I tell you. It does nothin’ but make you turn into someone that does and says ridiculous things. When would I ever refer to anyone, let alone myself, as a fine-ass bitch, Leighton James?”

She tosses her head back, her blond locks dancing behind her back and over the delicate straps of her sundress. “You do it all the time, Q!”