Beauty and the Mustache

When I’d left Tennessee eight years ago, Jethro’s “job” was selling weed to vacationing teenagers then stealing their cars. I guessed that this self-important blond toolbox was likely in a similar trade.

I continued, “Your professional relationship with my brother notwithstanding, I’m certain even someone like you can recognize that this a personal family matter and is, quite frankly, none of your business.”

Not waiting for his reaction, I turned back to Jethro. “Rev your engine all you like. I’m getting dressed and going to the hospital to see what I can find out.”

I strolled out of the garage with my head held high and did my best to ignore the fact that I felt Drew’s eyes—sure and hot as a brand—on my backside. This was accompanied by the unavoidable and spreading warmth in my chest associated with the awareness that a super-hot mountain of a man was watching me walk away.

I decided to overlook the knowledge that my hasty, arrogant dismissal of him was likely undermined by the fact that I was leaving in a snit while wearing nothing but my sleep shorts and pajama top. Also undermining my superiority was the fact that I’d just attacked his chest then fondled it. I’d even ogled him, and he’d responded with repulsion.

So…yeah, I didn’t have much air in my sad little kite.

Once I was back in the house, the door behind me, I leaned against it and released a slow breath. My hands were fisted at my sides so I shook them out, flexing my fingers, and sent a silent prayer upward that whatever was going on with my momma was resolved sooner rather than later.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, holding the banister for balance, and crossed to the upstairs bathroom. I had no desire for any further interactions with Viking marauders, especially when the marauder was so good looking that it nearly eclipsed his entitled arrogance.

These were the thoughts in my head when I opened the bathroom door and, to my life-long horror, saw Beauford Winston—at least I think it was Beauford, though it could have been Duane, the other twin—standing at the edge of the tub. He was naked except for his ginger beard, a dirty magazine propped on the counter, and his hand wrapped around Beau Jr.

I screamed.

He screamed.

My hands flew to my face.

He cursed.

I heard a thud and I turned my back to him. I was now fully and mortifyingly awake.

“Shit, Ash. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry—I should have knocked.”

“Nah…” he huffed, “I should have locked the door. It’s just that everyone knows Tuesday mornings are my time slot.”

“Your slot? What do you mean your time slot?”

“It’s my private time in the tub, you know, to get my rub on.”

“Gah!” I shook my head and pressed my palms into my eyes.

“I can give you a copy of the schedule.”

I heard the front door open and footsteps thundering through the house then up the stairs.

“Don’t! Do not give me a schedule. I don’t want to know. Just, can’t you put a sock on the door or something?”

“That’s what we used to do but then we kept losing socks. It’s good to see you, Ash.”

“Uh, you too…?” My hands fell away from my face and I moved to the doorway. “I’ll just give you some privacy.”

My escape was blocked by the worried visages of three shirtless, sweaty men—Jethro, Billy, and Drew Runous.

I closed my eyes and covered my face again; I seriously considered crawling into the cabinet under the bathroom sink, one of my favorite places to hide from my brothers’ torture when I was a kid. I wondered if I would still fit.

“What the hell?” Jethro’s winded exclamation met my ears, and I stifled a groan.

“Are you okay?” Billy asked. I felt a small, hesitant touch on my shoulder. “We heard screams.”

I nodded. “Yes. Fine. I just need to learn to knock.”

“Who screamed?” Drew demanded.

“I did,” I said, inwardly grimacing.

“We heard two screams,” Jethro contradicted. “Did you scream twice?”

“I didn’t scream. I…I hollered.” Beauford said.

“That wasn’t a holler. That was a scream. You screamed like a woman.” Billy said this like he was addressing a jury.

“Whatever, screamed, hollered, who cares. I should have locked the door.” Beauford’s easy-going tone made me feel a bit better. I didn’t remember him being so nice. Then he said, “Oh, hey, Drew. Didn’t see you there.”

“Hey, Beau.”

“What happened to your chest?” Beau asked.

I wished for the ability to disappear, especially when Drew responded, “Some woman couldn’t keep her hands off me. What’s going on in here?”

Beau didn’t answer. The room was blanketed in a brief silence as, I was sure, understanding began to dawn.

Jethro was the one to break the awkward soundless comprehension. “Uh,” He cleared his throat. “Tuesday mornings are Beau’s time slot.”

“I know that now,” I peeked at them from between my fingers. “I’ll just knock from now on.”

“Do you want the schedule? We have a schedule.” Billy’s offer was paired with his thumb thrown over his shoulder, presumably pointing in the direction of where the schedule was kept.

“Nope, I’m good. I’ll just knock.”

The sound of barely suppressed laughter pulled my eyes to where entitled Drew stood in the hallway. His lips were compressed, rolled between his teeth, his big shoulders were shaking, and he stared at the floor like his life hung in the balance.

My mortification abruptly turned to irritation, then to fury.

Drew Runous and my brothers probably looked at me and saw the gullible little sister I used to be, not to mention the starry-eyed beauty queen I was in high school.

But I was now more than the accident of my genetics, more than the face and body I’d inherited from my parents, more than my backwoods Tennessee accent.

I wasn’t that person anymore. I’d worked eight years to change and improve myself. I’d become someone new, someone stronger, armed with knowledge, fierce. I was someone who could hold her own in any situation, be it a discussion on post-modernism or Japanese art as an influence on Van Gogh; debating with an MD Harvard graduate when I disagreed on a course of treatment for one of my patients; or standing up to four bearded masturbators (obsessed with schedules, no less) in the upstairs bathroom of my momma’s house.

In fact, I was completely different. I was a new person entirely.

“On second thought,” I said, my hands dropping from my face, my spine straightening, “I will take that schedule.”

Billy glanced over my shoulder to Beau then shot a look at Jethro. “Oh, okay. I’ll get it for you.”

“In fact,” I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled at Drew the Amused Viking’s persistent smile, “what days are free?”

Another stunned silence descended, and I noted with satisfaction that the marauder’s grin fell as his eyes lifted to mine. They searched and burned. I knew, beyond a doubt, that he was imagining me in the bathroom naked, by myself, getting my rub on, as Beau put it. It was written all over his ruggedly handsome face.

Strangely enough, given our earlier encounter, he didn’t look repulsed by the thought. Maybe he was just an equal-opportunity perv.

I refused to blush. I refused to appear even an ounce embarrassed.

Because he was staring at me—his gaze moving to my chest, then hips, then thighs—as though compelled to take mental notes. His eyes were hot and a little unfocused and, irritatingly enough, were making me feel hot and a little unfocused.

I couldn’t conquer the thundering of my heart or the sudden twisting in my abdomen or the tingling awareness on the back of my neck. It was everything I could do to hide all the outward effects that his evocative, penetrating gaze elicited.

Instead, as Drew looked directly at me again, I slid my eyes over to Billy, who was staring at me like I was a three–headed possum.

“Uh, what?” Billy asked.

“Which days are free, on the schedule?”

Billy blinked at me and his voice cracked a little when he responded, “I think Sundays and Wednesdays, since Roscoe moved out. But you probably don’t want Wednesdays.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s usually when the new magazines show up in the mail.”

I fought the urge to grimace. Instead, I nodded once and gave him a tightlipped smile. “Good. Put me down for Sundays. There’s no postal service on Sundays.”

Beau groaned, which he turned into an overly dramatic gagging sound. “Things I never needed to know about my sister.”

With that, I strolled down the hallway to my room, pointedly not looking at the physical manifestation of every bodice-ripper hero I’d ever read. Like before, I felt the weight and heat of his gaze on my backside.

Once inside, door shut (and locked), I crossed to my bed and flopped down on my stomach. I willed the tingling and twisting heat that had taken up residence there to stop post haste.

I made three mental notes:

One: Always knock on every door, every room, every time. Drag my feet and bang pots and pans down the halls. This is not a house to be a ninja in.