Chapter 9
Destiny
“That man’ll put a hundred-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar horse.”
~ Grandma Dixie
“It’s hotter than a goat’s butt in a pepper patch.” Tami Lynn dropped an ice cube down her shirt.
She’d been helping me at my Sugar Rush booth for the last hour, and the frosting on the cupcakes wasn’t the only thing that was melting. The weather report had predicted that it would be in the low hundreds today, and for once, it looked like they’d gotten it right.
Surrendering to the heat, I broke down and pulled my hair up in a sloppy bun. I was glad I’d decided to wear my cut-off jean shorts and a tank top. I’d almost worn my khaki shorts and a V-neck shirt in an attempt to appear more ‘business ownery.’ You know—dress for success and all that. But I’d opted for comfort instead. Thank the Lord I had. I was sweating so badly that it would have looked like I’d peed myself. Not to mention massive pit stains, which would not have been the most appetizing thing for people to look at while I tried to pedal them my baked goods.
“So, where did you run off to last night? I saw you dancing with Mr. Big Shot and then poof.” Tami Lynn’s fingers fanned out as she demonstrated the poof. “You were dust in the wind.”
“I knew today was going to be a long day, so I took off early.”
I decided to leave out the part where I’d run to the shed and JJ had come in, made me come, and then left. Yeah, she didn’t need to know those details. No one did. Not even Gram. Especially not Gram. She’d always raised me to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them. I had now engaged in round two of the hormone-fueled Battle of Mistakes with JJ Briggs and had come out the loser both times.
Maybe most girls wouldn’t mind if a guy who looked, smelled, and kissed like JJ got them off and then made like a ball and bounced. But I did. It made me feel cheap and used. Yes, logically, I knew that that was ridiculous. If anyone in this scenario was getting the short end of the orgasm stick, it was JJ. Unfortunately, my heart and my emotions didn’t subscribe to Logic Journal. They were both a fan of Irrational Digest.
“That spin on the dance floor you took sure did look…intense.” Tami Lynn grabbed her paper-plate fan and waved it in front of her face.
My nose scrunched. “Did it?” My tone clearly expressed that her statement had come out of the clear, blue sky. Like the intensity between me and JJ Briggs was not something I thought about every second of every day.
Playing innocent was my only move. If I commented any more than that, she would sniff the truth out like a police dog in a crack den.
“How does some sweet tea sound?” I asked.
Tami Lynn’s shoulders slumped as she let out a small huff. “Like a little piece of heaven on earth.”
“Great. Do you mind watching the booth while I go get us some?” I was already digging into my purse to grab a twenty.
She waved her fan at me. “Sure thing, pretty girl.”
The morning rush had been really hectic, but since the day had started heating up, the only booths that had lines were the ones serving cold, refreshing products.
“I’ll be right back,” I promised as I walked around the back of the booth. I waited for a break in the crowd so I could jump in. It reminded me of when the girls and I used to play Double Dutch. People were shoulder to shoulder, making their way around the town square.
I kept moving at a steady clip as I waved and said a walk-by, “Hey,” to everyone who spotted me. I was on a mission to get my sweet tea and return to my booth before I had any JJ sightings.
When Harmony had been helping me at the booth this morning, she’d said that Trace had told her that JJ was still in physical therapy and only here for the weekend. He was leaving tomorrow. So I needed to keep my distance for about twelve more hours and then like Tami Lynn had so eloquently put it, poof, he would be gone.
Which was what I wanted. Or, at least, what I should have wanted.
A small amount of relief washed over me because the line for tea was only four deep. Getting behind Gloria Knox, who played bridge with Gram, I kept my gaze straight ahead. But JJ’s words kept coming back to me.
“I listened to it hundreds of times, thinking of you. I’ve never stopped thinking about you. Missing you. Wanting you.”
“You are so beautiful.”
“Damn, I’ve missed you.”
And those songs. Holy guacamole! Sure, I’d heard those songs before. I’d been to more than one Brantley Gilbert concert. Whether he was playing them live or they came on the radio, I sang along to them. But, last night, I’d gone home and downloaded them from iTunes, which was embarrassing to admit, but…come on! What girl wouldn’t have done the same thing?! I also might have listened to them on repeat once, twice, or a dozen times. Those lyrics—talk about heart-aching swoon-worthiness.
I shook my head as I stepped forward in line, trying to get all thoughts of last night—the dance, the words, the songs, and the shed!—out of my mind. Because the one thing I knew was that JJ Briggs would be dust in the wind come tomorrow and all of this—whatever this was—would be gone with him.
“Two sweet teas.” I held two fingers up to Mr. Graham, who was hard of hearing, yet the Rotary Club had him manning the cash register.
“That’ll be six dollars even. How’s your grandmother doin’? I haven’t seen her today.” Mr. Graham commented as he handed me the teas.
I grinned as I paid him. “She’s around here somewhere, I’ll tell her to stop by and say hello.”
“You do that.” With a wink, he tipped his hat.
Maybe Gram has more than one admirer. Distracted by that thought, I wasn’t paying attention when I turned and I walked straight into a brick wall—or a brick chest. It was a miracle the teas hadn’t spilled, which would’a caused me to be an unwilling participant in a wet T-shirt contest.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you!” I explained as my head tilted up.
Great! I’d walked into the second-worst person I could have run into at this festival.
Brady Calhoun.
“Well, I saw you, Red. I was hypnotized by those damn Daisy Dukes you’re wearing.” He rubbed his hands up and down my bare arms, which had the opposite effect JJ’s touch had on me. His breath reeked of alcohol, and his trademark toothpick looked like it was trying to jump off his lip.
“Nice seeing you, Brady.” I chose to take the high road and ignore his comment about my attire since he was drunk.
Unfortunately, my attempt to step around him was foiled when his grip tightened to the point that it was painful.
He leaned down and murmured in my ear, “Come on, baby. What’s it going to take for me to find out if the carpet matches the drapes?”
Okay. That was it. Business or no business, drunk or not drunk, friend or no friend—Brady Calhoun had just crossed a line he was going to wish he hadn’t.
Using the leverage I’d gained from his close, tight hold on me, I brought my knee up as hard as I could, straight to his groin. At the forceful contact of my kneecap to his balls, his eyes bulged out of his head and he made a noise that sounded like an animal dying. Doubling over, he fell to his knees.
As much as I would have loved to watch him writhing in the dirt like the pig he was, his dramatic drop had caused quite a crowd to gather—and I was at the center of it. Panic rose like a tidal wave in my chest, and my fight-or-flight instinct kicked into full gear.
Flight won. I needed to get out of there.
With a short hop, I successfully maneuvered around him and I thought I was in the clear until a hand gripped my calf and Brady yelled, “You bitch!”
Oh, come on?!
And, just like that, fight trumped flight. I was turning around to roundhouse him in the face when air swished beside me, followed by a loud thump. Then Brady was falling backwards to the ground.
In a flash JJ was over him, picking him up by his shirt like he weighed nothing, and slamming him against the side of the Rotary Club’s food truck.
Oh s-h-i-t.