Beauty and the Mustache

CHAPTER 1

“There is no comfort anywhere for anyone who dreads to go home.”

? Laura Ingalls Wilder, Little Town on the Prairie

It was 6:14 a.m. and I was awake.

The engine revved for a third time—louder, longer, angrier.

I know an engine can’t be angry, but this engine sounded angry. Specifically, it sounded angry with me. The engine must’ve been feeling pretty pissed in my general direction, because why else would it be waking me up after less than three hours of sleep?

But what the engine didn’t know was that I was not afraid of its anger. I took crap from no engine, not anymore and especially not when the engine was under the control of one of my six brothers. Because now, I was a badass.

The only way one of them would be awake at 6:14 in the morning was if they’d never gone to sleep the night before.

Likely, they were either drunk or stoned or both.

Lovely. Just…lovely.

Good old boys revving their loud engines early in the morning was reason number thirty-three for why I never came home. I’d started making the list two days ago, when I’d decided that I had no choice but to fly to Tennessee.

Though I hadn’t been home in eight years, my momma had visited me at college many times. Every year since I’d graduated four years ago with my BSN—a bachelor’s degree in nursing—I’d taken her on a vacation with me, just the two of us.

But three days ago, she hadn’t returned my call, nor had she picked up the phone when I’d called the next day. This was remarkable because she and I had spoken on the phone at the same time every day for the last eight years except for when we were together, of course. Our conversations didn’t typically last very long, just a quick check-in to see if she needed anything, see how life was treating her. Sometimes she’d share gossip about people I’d grown up with, and sometimes I’d tell her about a new book I was reading.

Mostly, I think we just took comfort in the sound of each other’s voices.

So after two days with no contact, I was worried. Finally, I resorted to calling Jethro, my oldest brother. He told me that Momma was in the hospital, and she was refusing to see or talk to anyone.

Therefore, I hopped a plane, intent on discovering the truth behind her mystery hospital visit. I was determined to take care of the woman who’d never failed to take care of me.

The car engine revved again. I growled, threw my covers off, and marched out my bedroom door. In my rush to rain a world of hurt on whoever was responsible for the early morning wakeup call, I slipped on the last three stairs leading to the first floor of my momma’s house and cursed, almost falling flat on my ass. The resulting spike in adrenaline was rocket fuel to my irritation.

Gone was the girl from small-town Tennessee, mild mannered, sensitive, and ignorant youth that my brothers once knew. Before I left I’d just begun to fight back against their antics. Now I was a ninja of mind over matter. Whichever of my brothers was responsible for waking me up revving his hopped-up engine after I had endured a delayed, three-connection flight from Chicago to Tennessee was going to suffer.

Retribution. Revenge. Perhaps death. At the very least, someone was going to be the recipient of an epic titty-twister.

I flew out the front door and let the screen door slam behind me. I wasn’t worried about waking anyone. If the inhabitants of the house could sleep through the ruckus coming from the garage then they could sleep through the banging of a porch door. Besides, the roosters were already holding a crowing contest.

Another thing I wasn’t worried about was my state of undress. My family’s property was situated on fifteen acres in the middle of Green Valley, otherwise known as podunk nowhere. It backed up to the Smoky Mountains National Park on the Tennessee side. If you didn’t count all the cars on blocks, defunct trailers, old tires, rusted machine parts, and general trashy appearance of the grand old house and yard, it was actually a lovely spot.

Usually, my idiot brothers ran around half-dressed, so I paid no mind to the fact that I was in my pink tank top pajamas with matching sleep shorts. I was likely overdressed.

I avoided a pile of broken beer bottles on the path leading to the detached garage; really, it was more like a giant hanger. My mind told me that the structure was called a quonset hut and I told my mind to hush. I didn’t care what it was called. I only cared that all of its inhabitants were soon going to be murdered by my hands. Then I would go back to sleep.

The sun was already up, which made the inside of the metal structure dark in contrast. Regardless, I could see the machine of my angst as I approached; it would have been impossible to miss.

Two male bodies leaned inside the open hood of an orange and white Charger. A third numbskull, currently hidden, was in the driver’s seat revving the engine.

As was my custom, I was yelling before I’d made it to the garage. “I don’t care which of you hillbilly, disease-infested, flea-bitten, catawampus-heads are in here making this ruckus, you better stop right this minute!”

Jethro turned as I approached and tugged his pants upward. As I suspected, I was overdressed. He wore nothing but his beard and a pair of stained jeans. Jethro’s longish brown hair was askew and unkempt, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his beard could do with a trim. But his brown eyes were warm and sharp as they surveyed me.

Billy, the second in our family, kept his back to me. I knew it was Billy because he had a tattoo on his left shoulder of a goat with the word Billy beneath it. He was likewise attired, which meant that his ass-crack was on full display for the sun in the sky and the small woodland animals in the forest.

Of my brothers, Billy and I look the most alike; we are almost replicas of my father. We both have dark brown hair that’s almost black, blue eyes, and the same wide mouth with pillow lips, as my brother Duane used to say.

But where I was pale skinned and curvy, he was suntanned, muscled—presumably from manual labor—and tattooed.

“Well, hello gorgeous. When’d you get in? It must’ve been late.” Jethro waved with grease stained hands, his white teeth a glaring contrast to his dark brown beard.

Billy called over his shoulder, “Why are you even up?” He sounded exasperated.

“Because you geniuses are out here testing decibel limits. I can’t sleep through all the-”

Just then the engine revved again. The sound spiked, absorbing my words, and caused a new wave of aggravation.

“Argh! Which of you ugly idiots keeps doing that?” I guessed it was Cletus, the third oldest, behind the wheel. He was the sweetest, but also the least likely to comprehend the obvious.

I charged into the garage, nearly kicking over a quart of oil in my haste. I didn’t care. I needed my sleep. I did not need an early morning of boys and their toys.

I began bellowing as soon as I crossed the threshold. “I swear to the god of moonshine, I am going to pinch your nipples straight off your chest!”

Without a second thought, I reached my hand in the open driver’s side door of the charger and twisted the nipple within reach. I did this with relish, the gleefully vindictive kind, not the pickle kind. I also gripped the roof of the car with my other hand for leverage in case Cletus tried to push me away.

“Ow! What the…?”

A string of impressive expletives arose from the car. A large and powerful hand gripped mine and ripped it away from the male chest.

I gasped. This was for several reasons, not the least of which was that Cletus didn’t know the equivalent word for fuck in Latin, nor did any of my brothers.

Therefore, this person whose nipple I’d just assaulted was most definitely not my brother Cletus.

A shot of adrenaline coursed down my spine, my eyes widened with shock, and I tried to unsuccessfully wrench my hand away. The fingers that held me were punishing; with one fluid motion the occupant stood from the driver’s seat, twisted my arm behind my back, and brought my body flush against his.

He was breathing hard.

I was breathing harder.

I stared at him.

The occupant stared back.

Gray-blue eyes, almost silver, held mine in a vice grip of anger and surprise. I felt an electric bolt, like I’d been tazered in the stomach. Other than a very slight shadow of wonder, he wore an expression that would have made a thunderstorm proud.

As well, he was so ruggedly sexy I’m sure my mouth fell open to protest the unfairness of his existence. Luckily, no sound emerged. I was too busy oscillating between stunned, mortified, and turned on.

This man was definitely not one of my brothers.

First of all, this guy had a blond beard and a smattering of blond chest hair. All the Winston boys had dark brown beards except Duane and Beauford, who were twins. They were numbers five and six in the family and had ginger beards.

Also, this guy had a bronze tan. He was tan all over, like a grease stained surfer or a Viking marauder who spent all his time at sea shirtless.

And… what number was I on?

Oh yes. Third, he was the kind of expertly disheveled, ruggedly handsome that made me forget what number I was on.

He was massive. Like, six-foot-four huge. His chest and arms and stomach and shoulders were cut like a boulder; he felt stone hard.

The staring continued. I watched confusion war with fury as his glare devoured my face, lingered on my lips, and darted back to my eyes.