She gave him a look of mock innocence. “So?”
Laurel enjoyed watching the interplay between father and daughter. All was well in Redlander country—at least for the time being. Fifteen was a mercurial age, as she well remembered.
*
Jase could have kicked himself. He’d made a total ass of himself, as usual, when Laurel Harlow was concerned.
That white pants thing she was wearing clung in all the right places, which meant his dick immediately expressed interest, which also meant he hadn’t heard a word that came out of her mouth when she opened the door. Her lips were moving, so she must have been saying something, but the blood roaring in his ears drowned her out. Must have flooded his brain too, because he completely forgot about Maxie.
Damn. When he’d taken her hand, he’d wanted to hold it forever. What would she have done if he’d brought it to his lips and touched her palm with the tip of his tongue?
Sixteen years ago, Laurel had said she loved him, but what does a fifteen-year-old know about love? It shook him to realize that Lolly was now exactly the same age as Laurel had been then. If any boy tried to do to Lolly what he’d tried to do to Laurel, he’d beat him within an inch of his life. And Laurel had never told her father, which made Jase feel twice as guilty. Reverend Ed had been his lone supporter, and look how he’d repaid him—by rutting after his virgin daughter as though she were the same kind of slut as Marguerite.
He’d known the gig was up at midmorning when Mr. Nyquist announced over the intercom that a substitute would be taking over Ms. Shelton’s classes for the rest of the semester. The kids sitting around him glanced at him, smirked, and gave each other knowing looks, which meant the word had gotten around.
He’d sat through the rest of the period class with a glazed smile on his face—then headed for the parking lot. His school days were over.
Friday evening, Bert Nyquist appeared.
He’d been out front, working on his truck, when the school district car drove up.
Growler hoisted his longneck in greeting and gestured his visitor toward the rusty lawn chair. “Come to see me about something, Bert?”
Nyquist remained standing. “Mr. Redlander, I am here representing the Bosque Bend School Board. Your son has sexually assaulted one of his teachers, but she will not press charges if you make arrangements for Jason to leave town immediately.”
Jase’s heart stopped beating for a moment, then went into overdrive. Make me leave town? Could they do that?
Growler grunted, glugged his beer, and heaved himself to his feet—all six feet, six inches, three hundred pounds of him. His arms hung loose from his shoulders, ready for action.
“I already heard about it at the tavern, Bert, an’ the way I see it, it’s all a part of growin’ up, an’ that old cow was lucky to have had a young bull like my Jase servicin’ her for as long as he did.” He took a step forward, and his voice deepened past its trademark rasp into an even lower, more menacing tone. “Now, get off my property before I dunk you in the Bosque!”
Nyquist raised his hands, palms out, as if fending Growler off. “Now…now, Mr. Redlander…let’s not get carried away!”
Growler took another step forward, and the floorboards creaked as his weight shifted. Nyquist turned tail and scurried down the steps to his car.
Later that evening, Growler, pumped with adrenaline from the confrontation he thought he’d won, took Jase off to Beat Down, slapped him on the back, and called him a chip off the old block. “Been porkin’ that cute little number down at the high school the kids talk about,” he’d bragged to the Friday night crowd.
Every man jack in the place wanted to buy Jase a drink, and he’d been so miserable that he’d taken them up on it. He’d had occasional beers since he’d been in elementary school—even when the water was cut off, the beer kept flowing—but that night he went overboard. A turbulent stomach had awakened him soon after he went to bed, and he’d made it to the bathroom just in time.
The next morning, Laurel appeared.
*
Jase finished off his serving of roast and looked around the room. It was large and well-lit, with French windows behind him opening onto a small terrace under the porte cochere. He’d never been in this room before. In fact, the only parts of the house he’d ever seen were the hall, front room, and Reverend Ed’s study. He’d never even had the nerve to ask to use the bathroom.