~Jessica~
I was in a funk.
It wasn’t a fun, funky-town funk. It was a full-on, pseudo-depression funk. Not even researching Aztec Temples and reading travel blogs about New Zealand’s geothermic sites did anything for the funk.
And it was all my fault.
Before Halloween, the majority of my fantasies centered on world heritage sites. Now I caught myself daydreaming with alarming frequency about the time we’d shared. Also the reluctant curve of his smile, the shape of his torso, the cadence of his voice, the texture of his beard, and the radiance and intensity of his sapphire eyes.
Not to mention that incorrigible circumcised penis.
Accursed penis!
Making matters worse, I was second-guessing myself. Yes, I still had the insatiable wanderlust, I still desperately needed to see and know the world, but maybe there was more than one way to kill a rooster. Maybe I could save my money and go on really long vacations.
Teachers typically had the option of taking summers off; I could live the year in Green Valley and use the summer to backpack around the world. But this idea felt like settling, like giving up, and it gave me heartburn.
My point, I argued with myself, is that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. If you really like Duane and you do—don’t try to deny it!—then you should try to find a way to make something between the two of you work…
But with these thoughts also came fear, fear that I would be tied down, unable to travel, unable to leave. Fear that, if my intense like for him eventually turned to love, I would lose my freedom. It would be akin to having those National Geographic magazines read to me instead of losing myself in their pages. My dreams would be diluted and I would be stuck.
It was the fear that held me hostage, trapped in indecision purgatory.
I didn’t call him after our disastrous date, and it had been a disaster. We’d consumed our food in silence; it had stuck in my throat, settled like a lump in my stomach. Duane had packed up, and this time he’d accepted my help. Our walk back had also been silent. Though he was just as solicitous and polite as he had been on the trek out, he hadn’t looked at me. When we arrived to the car he’d opened my door.
Then he’d taken me home and again opened my door when we’d arrived. He’d walked me to the steps of my parents’ house, not touching me, and that’s where I was left.
He gave me a short impersonal nod, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and said politely, “I’ll see you around, Jess.”
Between the hot ache in my chest, the ballooning lump in my throat, and the stinging tears in my eyes, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just stood there and watched him leave, drive away, feeling sick and sad and stupid.
And now, as I pulled my bike into the parking lot of Daisy’s Nut House to meet my cousin Tina for dinner, I was still deep in my funk.
Tina had called me the Monday after my disastrous Friday picnic with Duane. In fact, she’d called just as Claire and I were dropping off Duane’s Mustang to the Winston house. We did it right after work, when I was fairly sure he’d still be at the auto shop, locking the car and slipping the keys into the mail slot of the house.
He hadn’t asked me to return it, and I knew he never would. But there was no way I could keep the car. First of all, every time I looked at the thing I felt like crying. Secondly, like Duane, it wasn’t mine to keep. It never had been.
As we pulled away from the house, Tina called my cell and said she wanted to get together. I was…surprised. I’d chalked her overtures the week before up to odd politeness. But now she was calling me, inviting me out.
At first she’d suggested beer and pool at the Dragon Biker Bar. I’d told her she was crazy.
In fact I’d said, “You’re crazy.”
She’d laughed. “What? Haven’t you ever been curious about going? Meeting some of the guys? They’re hot and they’d show us a real good time.”
I’d shaken my head, which she couldn’t see, and had repeated, “You’re crazy.”
I was curious about the Dragon Biker Bar and the Iron Order guys like I was curious about going to jail for life.
So…not.
As the Sheriff’s daughter, I heard all sorts of cautionary tales about the local biker club. And, granted, if these cautionary tales hadn’t included allegations of drug trafficking, prostitution, arson, and bouts of random violence, then I might have been a tad more curious.
Regardless, knowing what I did, the Iron Order bikers didn’t do a thing for me, except make me want to lock my doors, use the buddy system, take self-defense classes, and buy a German Shepherd.
When I wouldn’t budge and refused to indulge her initial idea, she relented and agreed to my alternate suggestion of dinner at Daisy’s Nut House. This suited me since I didn’t have a car and the diner was within walking distance of my parents’ house.
Instead of walking, I opted to pedal my mom’s old Swinger Stingray bicycle and arrived a full ten minutes earlier than the agreed upon 6:30 p.m. I locked my bike up outside and meandered into the diner, happy and surprised to see Daisy behind the counter.
She waved me over as I entered and her dark brown eyes darted between me and the sugar containers she was filling.
“Hey. I’m not used to seeing you on school nights. How’s your momma’s sister? I haven’t heard anything all week.”
She wasn’t in the Nut House uniform, but rather looked like she’d just left a business meeting. Her brown skin was tinted with pink blush and her lips were bright red. As well, she’d restyled her hair since I’d last seen her. It resembled Michelle Obama’s trendy straight bob.
These days Daisy ran the business side of things rather than the diner itself. Daisy’s doughnuts had expanded over the last few years and were now carried by most grocery stores in the southeast.
I claimed a stool at the counter and helped her fill the glass containers. This was an old habit from when I worked at the Nut House and Daisy used to be my boss.
I loved Daisy. First of all, she was my momma’s best friend. She, her husband Trevor, and their three kids felt more like family than some of my blood relations. Also, she was smart and funny and sassy, had been a great boss, had taught me everything I knew about fashion, and lastly, she’d taught me her secret recipe for making her homemade doughnuts.
“Last I heard, Aunt Louisa needs dialysis. The chemo is working, but it’s messing with her kidneys.”
Daisy made a face. “That doesn’t sound good. You spent the summers with your aunt during college, right?”
“Yes. I was her personal assistant during the school year as well, but I worked remotely during the fall and spring, and lived at her house during the summers.”
“Her personal assistant? I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. She’s a big socialite in Houston now she’s retired.”
“What did she do before she retired?”
“She was a petroleum engineer, invented something important that lowers the environmental impact of drilling. I never knew the details. But she never married and has no kids, so she takes on a lot of charity work and special projects. Plus her house requires a lot of maintenance. It’s a huge sprawling mansion with stables and horses.”
“Yes. Your momma said something about her sister having more money than the sea has shells. Have you thought about going out there?”
“I thought about taking a visit…but, honestly? I don’t think my aunt likes me much.”
Daisy tsked, shook her head. “That can’t be true.”
“When I worked for her, when I stayed with her during the summers, she had me in the employee wing and she never ate meals with me. She didn’t talk to me unless it was work related, and when she introduced me to people—and only when she had to—I was her personal assistant, Miss James. She didn’t want her friends to know we were related. I’m not sore about it, but I think I must’ve embarrassed her.”
“I can’t see how that’s possible. You should go visit. If not for your aunt, then for your momma. I hate to think of her lonely over Thanksgiving. Why doesn’t Louisa hire a nurse?”
“She has. She has two fulltime nurses and a physician.”
“She hired herself a fulltime physician?”
“Yes. Momma is really just out there for moral support. But I’m sure she’d appreciate a call if you get a chance.”
“I’ll call tonight.” Daisy nodded and moved to fill another container.
“Is Daniella coming home for Thanksgiving?” I asked about Daisy’s oldest daughter, now a banker or something like that in New York City.
Daisy gave me a wide smile. “She is. Simone will be home too. But Daniella will be home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. I think she’s bringing a boy home with her, too.”
I grinned, wagged my eyebrows. “Really? A boy?”
“Yes. He works at her investment firm and, the way she tells it, they were flirting over hedge funds and gold futures for six months before he worked up the courage to ask her out.”
This made me chuckle, because I could understand his hesitation. Daniella was ten or so years older than me and always struck me as fiercely focused. She was valedictorian of her graduating class and received a full academic scholarship to Princeton.
Plus she was crazy beautiful. I’d always admired her long black dreadlocks, warm tawny skin, and Nefertiti-like bone structure.
The sound of a rumbling motorcycle pulled my attention to the front window and I watched as Tina dismounted from behind a biker and handed him her helmet.
“Are you meeting Tina here?” Daisy asked, a hint of concern in her voice.
“Yes.” I nodded and hopped down from my stool. “She called me earlier this week, wanted to get together.”
Daisy seemed to hesitate for a moment, her eyes moving between the scene playing outside the window and me. Tina and the biker were kissing and if they hadn’t been in a parking lot, it looked like the kind of kissing that led to horizontal fun times.
“Don’t get hooked into your cousin’s drama,” Daisy said at last, leveling me with a penetrating glare. “She’s trouble, and she’s a user. If your momma were here she’d tell you the same thing.”
I grinned at Daisy and shook my head; her advice was good, but she wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. “Okay. I won’t get hooked into her drama.”
“Good.” She nodded once, wiping her hands on a towel and splitting her attention between me and Daisy as the latter waved goodbye to her ride. “I’ll send Beverly out to take your orders.”
“Thanks, Daisy.”
“Mmm hmm,” she said noncommittally, like she didn’t want to be rude but refused to sanction my dinner with Tina.
I walked to the door just as Tina entered. As I waved, and was about to suggest we grab a booth, she surprised me by yanking me forward and into a big hug. I was usually two inches taller than my cousin, but not tonight. I noticed she was wearing a pair of shiny-red, spiked platform shoes. If I wore those shoes I’d fall on my ass before I could take a step. But she walked in them as though they were slippers.
As we hugged she squealed, like she was super happy to see me, and this made me smile. We’d been good friends growing up, at least I’d thought so at the time. I wondered if, over time, our high school years would prove to be merely a friendship-sabbatical.
She leaned away and gave me a giant grin. “Oh my goodness, girl! You look so great.” Tina squeezed my hand one more time before releasing me. We both slid into the nearest booth, smiling at each other.
“You do, too. You’re looking great.”
She did look great. She looked hot. Like, super hot. Hot in a way I wouldn’t even know how to go about achieving.
Tina wore false eyelashes and an impressive amount of artfully applied eye makeup. She and I looked nothing alike. Growing up, no one ever guessed we were related. She looked more like my daddy’s side of the family, and I favored my mother’s side.
But we both had brown eyes, though not at all the same color. I thought of my irises as plain brown. Whereas her eyes—with all the careful framing and highlighting—appeared to be the color of whiskey. The effect was dramatic. Beautiful. I wanted her to teach me how to do it.
The rest of her makeup was impeccable. She’d dyed her naturally light brown hair dark black, wore it lose in long shiny waves around her shoulders—which was basically a miracle since she’d just been on a motorcycle. Her hair paired with her sun-bronzed skin—another miracle since the sun had been hiding for two weeks—gave her a rather exotic look.
Of course, her clothes took everything to a completely new level of conspicuous hotness. She was in black leather pants, really sexy leather pants, and a white, low cut V-neck angora sweater. Both fit her like a second skin, which was fantastic for her since she was clearly in excellent shape.
Beverly, our server, came by almost immediately with two glasses of sweet tea and water, assuming correctly what we wanted to drink, and we both already knew what we were going to order.
Tina waited until Beverly was out of earshot before leaning forward and saying in a low, conspiratorial voice, “I was a little surprised you wanted to meet here.”
“What? Why?”
She blinked at me as though the answer were obvious. When I continued to stare at her with obliviousness, she laughed lightly and shook her head.
“You know what I do, for a living, right?”
I nodded and sipped my sweet tea. “Yes. I know.”
“I guess I’m just surprised you didn’t mind being seen with me so publically.”
I gave her a sideways glance. “Wait…I think I know what you do. You’re still dancing at the Pink Pony, right?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“You haven’t joined ISIS or anything, right?”
“What’s ISIS?”
“I mean, you’re not actively plotting to overthrow the government?”
She giggled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I’m not even sure what that means.” Then Tina’s expression turned abruptly sober and she leaned forward, her eyes boring into mine. “But, listen, I have to talk to you about something important. It’s kind of why I wanted to get together.”
“Oh, okay. What’s up?”
Her gaze turned speculative as it released mine and moved over my black, fitted, cotton long-sleeved shirt, then darted to my hair. “I always envied your blonde hair. It’s so pretty, just like your momma’s.”
“You want to talk about my hair?”
“No, silly.” She shook her head, rolling her eyes. “So…you and Duane Winston, what’s going on there?”
I felt my lips part and my eyebrows lift in surprise. An involuntary ache squeezed my chest, making it hard to breathe for a moment. She stared at me while I struggled to find words.
Finally I managed to say, “Nothing. I mean, we went on one date. But nothing now.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You went on a date?”
“Yes.”
“When? Recently?”
“Uh, last Saturday.”
“So a week ago?”
“Almost, yes.”
“But no second date?”
“No. No second date.”
She nodded slowly, still glaring at me through narrowed eyes. “Why no second date?”
I glanced at the vinyl of the booth behind her, trying to figure out how to best explain the situation and be sensitive to the fact we were talking about her ex-boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend for which she might still have feelings.
“We decided that our priorities weren’t compatible.”
She huffed and it sounded impatient. “In English, please. This ain’t a parent teacher conference.”
“Um, I guess he wanted one thing out of a relationship, and I wanted something else.”
Tina pursed her lips, her eyes losing focus as she considered my words. While I waited for her to finish thinking her thoughts, I sipped my tea and glanced at the specials board; Daisy’s pie of the day was apple.
“I’m not jealous.”
I shifted my attention from the list of pies to Tina. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not jealous, of you and Duane. I don’t care who he sees. You’re welcome to him, if I’m the reason you decided to call things off.”
I lifted my chin in acknowledgement, but said nothing. Because I wasn’t sure what to say. Tina hadn’t been a consideration in my decision to date or not date Duane. I wondered if that made me unfeeling. But then I reminded myself that Tina and I hadn’t really spoken in over eight years, the first four of which she’d snubbed me for more popular kids at our school.
Yeah…I wasn’t going to factor Tina into my dating decisions. That would be silliness.
“I just wanted to let you know that,” she said, as though she were being generous. “Duane and I were together for a long time and what we felt for each other, well I just think first love is really special. He’ll always mean something to me. But it’s over now and I’ve moved on. I hate to think of him pining for me.”
Again, I lifted my chin in acknowledgement—higher this time—and found myself without words. Thankfully Beverly interrupted by bringing our salads.
I changed the topic to one I hoped would be much more benign and asked her what she’d been up to recently. This turned into her giving me the oral history of Green Valley gossip for the last four years—who was sleeping with whom, who had divorced, had illegitimate babies, had a drug problem, was in debt. She made Green Valley sound like a sordid train wreck.
Strangely, while she spoke I found myself distracted by how incredibly hot she was. I mean, she was sex personified. Her movements were sensual, including how she chewed her food. Her smile was coy, alluring, captivating. She’d say something like, That little fucker got what he deserved and I hardly heard the venom in her voice because she somehow made it sound erotic.
I was thankful when dinner was over and her biker fella arrived to fetch her, because I was…exhausted. Maybe it was a by-product of my long work week paired with the Duane-funk, or maybe it was just the tidal wave of sexual energy that was my cousin Tina.
Either way, as I pedaled home, I felt bereft and depressed and wished I’d thought to grab a slice of Daisy’s pecan pie before leaving.
***
“What’s wrong, baby sister?”
I sighed, hugged the pillow I was holding a bit closer. I hadn’t been able to go to sleep. The depression followed me home and, though I was tired and tried lying in bed, in the dark, with my eyes shut for over an hour, sleep would not come.
So I took a shower, hoping it would help me relax, and it worked. I felt a bit better when I shut off the water. But then Sir Edmund Hilary—my psychotic cat—tried to murder me with his litter box. He’d pushed it directly in front of the shower door and I’d stepped on it, stumbled, and fallen to the floor with a squawk and a thud.
It occurred to me that, had I been living alone and Sir Hillary knew how to wield a knife, I’d be dead and no one would find me for days, maybe months.
This thought reignited my depression. So I cleaned up, dried off, and went to the kitchen. I made hot cocoa with a liberal amount of Baileys, and channel surfed in the family room, hoping I’d pass out eventually on the couch absent thoughts of my inevitable and lonely death by psycho-cat.
Instead, I was still up at 2:21 a.m., which signified the end of Jackson’s shift. I was never up this late, so I guessed it made sense he’d assume something was amiss.
“Sir Edmund tried to murder me,” I said.
“Again?”
I nodded. “His attempts grow bolder. I think it might be time to confront him, or at the very least move his litter box to the basement.”
“Jess, the cat tries to take your life at least once a week. It’s not the cat. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I sighed again, not sure I wanted to discuss my depression with Jackson. “I had dinner with Tina tonight.”
“Our cousin Tina?”
“Yeah.”
Jackson crossed the room and sat next to me on the couch; he was still in his uniform, though his belt was gone. “She’s still dancing at the Pink Pony,” he said.
“Yes. I know.”
“And I think she’s mixed up with the Order.” Jackson paired these words with a sad sounding sigh.
“Yes. I know that, too…”
“Is that what’s got you down? Are you worried about her?”
I considered the question. I was a bit worried about her involvement with the bikers…but not really. She didn’t strike me as the kind of person anyone could take advantage of. Rather, if anyone was going to do the taking advantage, it would be Tina.
“Kind of. I mean, I’m a little worried for her. Based on what you and Daddy have told me about the Iron Order, they’re certainly not trustworthy.”
“They’re dangerous. And she’s going to get herself hurt if she keeps it up.”
“But I guess I’m also thinking…” I huffed. I didn’t know what I was thinking or why I was feeling so dissonant. Therefore, I didn’t know how to have this conversation with Jackson. He was my brother and therefore any discussion about Duane and Tina would be weird. Because at some point over the last five hours I’d realized my depression was related to my Duane-funk.
Tired of my hesitation, he pushed, “What are you thinking?”
I needed to talk to Claire at work in the morning, or call one of my old college roommates.
“Jess?” He prodded again, poking me in the shoulder.
“You don’t want to have this conversation.”
“Try me.”
I glanced at my big brother, found him watching me with determination—like he was determined to be helpful—and I felt myself waver.
He was a guy after all. Maybe he could give me some perspective.
Finally, I relented. I tucked one of my legs under me as I faced him. “So, first you have to forget I’m your sister, that Tina is your cousin, and that you hate Duane Winston.”
Jackson lifted a single eyebrow and his mouth flattened. “That’s unlikely.”
“Okay, never mind then.”
I moved to stand up, but Jackson caught my arm and kept me from leaving. “Now, wait a minute. I said it was unlikely, not impossible. Fine…fine, I’ll do my best. You’re not my sister, Tina’s not my cousin, and Duane Winston isn’t a horse’s ass.”
I scowled at my brother. He smiled. I supposed it was the best I could hope for.
“Fine. So, here’s my question…” I gathered a large breath and held it in my lungs as I tried to figure out what question I wanted to ask. When I could hold my breath no longer, my half-formed thoughts emerged. “So, here’s the thing, Tina is sexy. Like, really sexy. She’s got a perfect body and she’s insanely beautiful. Add to that she’s a stripper and erotic without trying to be and…I don’t know. I guess, I don’t understand why Duane would break up with her when she is basically every man’s fantasy. Why would he break up with her?”
Jackson studied me for a long moment, then surprised me by countering with, “Why would he break up with her? Or are you really asking me: why would Duane Winston choose you over making Tina Patterson his girl?”
I straightened, started to deny what he was implying, but then stopped myself.
He was right. That was the real question even though I hadn’t consciously thought it. It was the question stuck in my subconscious like a popcorn kernel buried between teeth.
I sighed. “Please don’t try to reassure me that I’m pretty. I’m…it’s not really a question of prettiness, is it? But, you’re right. I don’t understand why Duane would break up with Tina and then go out with someone like me.”
Jackson examined me for several long seconds, his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted to one side. At length he exhaled and shook his head.
“So, I might be biased, because you’re my sister and I think you’re equal parts annoying and awesome, but it actually makes a lot of sense to me.”
I scrunched my face and braced for a deluge of reassurance about my “gifts” or “talents.” Instead, my brother surprised me a second time.
“Let me put it this way: have you ever seen someone and thought to yourself, Whoa, he’s hot! I’d like to screw his brains out. And then, you talk to the guy and realize someone already has?”
I barked an astonished laugh, covered my gaping mouth with my hand, and shook my head at my brother. “I can’t believe you said that. Just last week you told me I was being unladylike.”
He laughed lightly at my reaction. “I’m sorry. I’m tired so I guess my gentleman filter is off. But you have, right? A guy who’s super good-looking, but with not much going on upstairs? Now, Tina is…Tina hasn’t ever…what I mean is, Tina isn’t interested in learning anything. She’s interested in looking good, being the center of attention, making dramas, that kind of stuff. I’m not saying I don’t love her—I do. She’s family after all. But she’s always been…well, she’s always been shallow.”
Jackson paused, allowing me a moment to let his perspective sink in, before he continued. “Not all the girls at the Pink Pony are that way. Hannah Townsen dances up there, has for the last year.”
“Hannah? Really?” This was surprising news. Hannah was two years behind me in school and I remembered her as being extremely shy.
“Yeah. Dancing makes good money, she uses the money to help her momma keep the homestead, and The Pony isn’t like the G-Spot—you know that strip club down near the Dragon Biker Bar? Where all the girls are strung out? The Pink Pony isn’t like that. Hank—you know Hank Weller? He owns The Pink Pony. Well, anyway, Hank does a good job of keeping things clean and tidy at his place, he treat his girls well, and hires good guys, bouncers to keep out the bad element. But Tina is always stirring shit up. One of these days I’m pretty sure he’ll get tired of her dramas.”
I assumed Jackson knew all of this startling information because of his job. Notwithstanding the local strip club politics, I tried to wrap my mind around his words regarding my cousin and Duane.
But Jackson pulled me out of my thoughts before I was able to gather them. “Now, I know you don’t want me to tell you that you’re pretty, but you are.”
“Jackson…” I rolled my eyes.
I assumed, similar to most people, I studied myself in the mirror and saw imperfections, little things I wished I could change or wanted to target for change. But, at the risk of coming across as a complete nut, I totally thought I was pretty. I thought I had a pretty face. I thought I had a decent body. I woke up early four days a week so I could go swimming at the YMCA—because I loved swimming and I liked feeling strong. I ate fairly well (not counting my obsession with pie). I took reasonably good care of myself.
Relatively clean living paired with biological gifts meant I was on the right side of pleased with my reflection. Therefore, I didn’t need to hear my older brother tell me I was pretty. But I was no personification of every man’s sex fantasy.
Jackson cut me off and insisted, “You hush up and hear me out for a minute. You are a pretty girl. And pretty girls who don’t know how pretty they are sometimes feel overwhelmed by attention from the opposite sex.”
I rolled my eyes again, smirked at my brother’s impression of me, but didn’t interrupt. I was perversely curious to see where this was going.
Jackson’s voice deepened, and adopted a lecturing tone. “Duane Winston is…well, he’s a horse’s ass. I don’t like him. He drives too fast and doesn’t respect authority. But he’s not stupid. None of those Winston boys are. And after a few years of Tina, he’s got to be tired of conversations involving nothing but nail polish and gossip. It wouldn’t matter if Tina looked like Angelina Jolie and—pardon my candor and potential lack of sensitivity—loved giving blowjobs every ten minutes. No man with brains would be able to put up with her brand of boring and crazy indefinitely. Not even Duane Winston.”