A Perfect Mess (10 page)

“That’s a pretty loud message, there.”

“I should really get home and back to my statistics.”

“How about you leave your boring statistics until tomorrow and have dinner with me? I dragged you away from your house to go frogging, got you all gunky, and made you cry. It’s the least I can do.”

“You didn’t make me cry,” I whispered.

“Okay, so that part was embellished to get your sympathy, but you’re responsible for me having to seek treatment for…you know…being a girl all over me. It’s the least you can do.”

“While you’re at it, Outlaw, you should seek treatment for being a jackass. But I’m not sure they have either medication or treatment for that.”

“Ooh, the
girl
counters, slams me against the backboard and scores.”

“That’s because she’s got game, bro and you got smack,” Boone said, passing by me on his way in from the garage like he lived here. He opened the fridge and pulled out a Jax, grinning. Screwing off the top, he took a swig. Again, I was struck by how much he looked like Booker. He was bigger, more muscular, his work much more physical than Booker’s. Booker, on the other hand was leaner, his muscles defined without the bulk. Boone did nothing for me in the swoon department. I smiled back at him.

“Oh, go easy on him,” I said. “He’s had a tough night.”

“You get the frog legs, or you been hanging out with Aubree, showing off your pecs and washboards all night?” He gave me a wry look and Booker a wary one. “Brax is going to shit himself if you didn’t.”

“We got them, skinned and in the fridge in the garage. You find anything over at her place?”

Boone moved into the living room and looked closely at my face. I ducked my head and wiped at my eyes. His eyes narrowed. “Nada,” he said. “I say it’s some asshole being an asshole. A coward who hides behind his text messages and can’t be decent enough to talk to a beautiful woman is nothing to worry about in my book.”

“Thank you, Boone.”

“You’re welcome, darlin’. Hey, you guys should come on over to Outlaw’s. I’m heading over there to bartend after I get a shower and change. Brax is making gumbo.”

My stomach chose that exact moment to growl again, and it was settled.

#

Booker

The whole time I showered I kept thinking about how much trouble Aubree was in, here. If she’d had any idea, she’d have been hightailing it off down the road and all the way back to New Orleans. Man, her hands on my face, on my mouth, over my heart, and I was down for the count, going under, so ready for her.

Who the fuck was I kidding? I’d already been primed for her.

I’d gotten hard the instant she opened her mouth on me, and every instant after had only made my dick all the harder. Being a guy, I knew about getting hard fast, and it was always in the presence of this beautiful girl.

Shit. All she had to do was breathe on me. I thought I’d handled her tears pretty well considering I was a guy and didn’t know jack about all that mushy crap. But with Aubree it wasn’t crap.

Like I said before.

That girl just got to me.

And I wanted her on so many levels.

My conscience kicked me hard. I’d have to be honest with her before this went any further. I wanted it to go all the way, but not if she wasn’t on board. She was going back to school and I was staying here. That was a given. But, I really wanted to give her something worth writing about in that book report
.

As long as she fully understood where we stood. Me: Not a forever type of guy. Her: Headed for something big in statistics. I kidded her about it, but it impressed the hell out of me that she could do math stuff. Hell, I was a right-brainer all the way. I loved words. I could write circles around math. Math could kiss my ass.

Even after standing under the cold spray for a while, I was still so hard I had to finish myself off in the shower. Damn, I hadn’t jerked off since high school.

This time I made sure to put on my shirt, one that actually had a collar and buttons. This would save me a lecture from Brax about needing to look presentable in his establishment. I also didn’t want any more situations here. I didn’t think I could stop again like that, even with her tears crushing my heart.

“I’m ready to go,” I said, tucking my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans and slipping on my sneakers, leaving them unlaced. “Ugh, we’ve gotta get you into the shower.”

Her head turned, her startled eyes slamming with g-force strength into mine. “I’m so fucking suave,” I said and hit myself in the forehead.

She walked up to me and patted me on the cheek. “Well, that’s okay. You’ve been through so much tonight.”

I chuckled and followed her back out to the garage. “The Shelby,” I said.

We folded into the soft leather seats of the Mustang. It was the first thing I’d bought when I hit the mother lode, and this car had been worth every penny. It was a purely macho, purely male possession, one guaranteed to make every guy who saw it grind his teeth with raging jealousy.

At her place, I paced downstairs and waited for her to get ready. I tried running football plays in my head so that I wouldn’t think about her upstairs doing all her sweet-smelling, girly things…or about her in the shower.

“686 Pump F-Stop on two…566 Quick Ace…Wily Dog on three…36 Blast…”

“Are you playing word association games? You bore that easily?”

I stopped pacing and turned—and almost swallowed my tongue. She was in this little pink flowered number that was tied at the back of her neck, leaving her shoulders and back bare. Damn. Any progress I’d made from running plays was summarily shot to hell. And, sonofabitch, I was hard again.

She looked at the delicate gold watch on her wrist and said, “I’ve only been gone like fifteen minutes.”

She had a tiny pink thing hanging on her arm, and when she handed it to me and turned, I slipped it on her, catching her delicate, just-showered scent. Then she did this amazing, feminine hair-flip thing to reset it outside of the tiny sweater. Her thick red hair fell to the middle of her back, sending a waft of floral, deliciously clean female to my already aching libido.

How was a guy supposed to win here? I conceded defeat.

“So…one of your brothers is in the landscape business and the other owns a bar,” she said as we settled back into the Mustang.

“Yeah, Brax used to bartend there, but when the owner wanted to retire and move to Florida, Brax bought it. He’s turned it into something that’s not exactly a bar and not exactly a restaurant. Since it sits over near the highway, he gets great business from traffic and from other towns.”

“He obviously cooks.

“Yes. Even I have to admit it’s damn good.”

“What about the liquor license? Isn’t he too young to apply for one?”

“Nope. In Louisiana, you have to be at least 18 or older.”

We pulled up to Outlaw’s. My brother drew a varied crowd on the outskirts of town. Not the upper crust and their prim and pampered wives who dined on pristine white tablecloths with expensive silver. Outlaw’s catered to more elemental patrons. Farmhands, factory workers, blue collars, rednecks, all headed there for boiled mudbugs and cold beer, loud music and dancing, and the occasional brawl.

The building stood back from the breakwater and sat up off the ground on stilts to protect it from flooding. It faced the bayou, inviting regulars and visitors in from fishing and hunting expeditions with a blue neon sign that promised cold beer, home cooked food, and live music. Brax had put up a blue and white awning and created a rough and ready gallery along the side with wooden poles and sturdy decking.

The crushed-shell parking lot was packed with cars and trucks. The bar was ringing with noise. The sounds of laughter, shouting, the sharp tinkle of glasses were intermixed with the steady stream of loud Cajun music that cascaded out through the screens into the warm spring night. Cheerful and wild, a tumble of fiddle, guitar, and accordion. It was easy to let it tangle up inside me.

We went inside and, because I’m Brax’s brother, we immediately got a table. As the waitress took our drink orders, I excused myself. I waved to Boone as I went by the bar, where he was, of course, chatting up two pretty young things.

Inside the shiny commercial gourmet kitchen remodeled to Brax’s specifications, he was at the stove stirring a gigantic pot of gumbo.

“Hey, Book, where you at?” He tasted it and added something to the mixture.

“I need to talk to you.”

His eyes narrowed. “About what?”

“The party.”

“What about it?” He added more stuff to the pot. He pegged me with a hard stare. “If you were fooling around with Miss Gorgeous and Brainy and didn’t get those legs…”

I huffed out a tired breath. “I got the damn legs. Listen, I need you to add
boudin
to the menu.”

“What? Do you have any idea what it takes to make that?” He huffed out an irritated breath. “Blanc sausage made without the blood or Cajun-style balls, battered and deep-fried?”

I gave him a wry look. “You’re busting my white balls right now.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m going to bust your face. Does this have anything to do with Aubree Walker?”

“It might.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fucking fine. I’ll make it, but you’ll owe me.”

“Done. Make it blanc. She likes the sausage.”

“I bet she does,” Brax said with a chuckle.

“Shut up, gutter mind.”

“Or what? You goin’ to make me, huckleberry? Not to mention, if I hurt my hands on your face, I can’t make no damn
boudin
!”

“Well, you’ve got a point there. I concede the trash talk to the master.”

“You smug bastard. Shut the fuck up and get outta my kitchen.”

I couldn’t resist a parting comment. I so loved pushing Brax’s buttons. “I’m looking forward to your gumbo,” I said very smugly and very upbeat.

It was his turn to give me a wry look. “Aw, stop buttering me up. Didn’t you hear me? Get outta my kitchen.”

I grabbed one of his melt-in-your-mouth biscuits. “Hey, while you’re at it, make me some chocolate chip cookies.” He threw a spoon at me as I ducked it with ease and gave him a mocking laugh, sailing out the doors.

When I didn’t see Aubree at our table, I looked around and found her sitting on one of the bar stools talking to a dark-haired girl who looked really familiar.

I sauntered over, dodging dancers while I polished off the last of the biscuit. When I got close, I recognized the woman with Aubree. Verity Fairchild. Holy Mary Verity. The preacher’s daughter. As far as I knew, her father didn’t like her to hang out here. Even though he’d hired Boone to spruce up the revver’s home and the church, I had to wonder what she was doing sitting there on one of Brax’s barstools. It was rumored that her brother, Ethan, had a knock-down-drag-out with the revver when he’d turned eighteen and graduated from high school. Last anyone heard, he’d upped and joined the Marines to get away from his father, much to the revver’s disappointment. Ethan had always been a good sort in high school. I never had much of a problem with him. Like the rest of us, he had a lot of pressures pushing and pulling against him. I knew all about expectations.

The musicians finished up their set and left the stage. People went back to their tables.

Verity conversed avidly with Aubree, doing most of the talking, her face and gestures avid, while Aubree listened intently. She looked pale and tired. Must have been a tough year for her away from home. Then I noticed Boone at the end of the bar. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just staring at Verity with this odd look on his face. Very un-Boone-like. When he saw me noticing, he turned away and started polishing glasses.

Exactly, I thought. Get your eyes off the preacher’s daughter. The reverend would have a conniption if he ever thought Boone was sniffing around her.

Then another girl sauntered over to Aubree and Verity, and I had no problem whatsoever recognizing her. She was a blonde bombshell, tall, stacked, with enough Southern sass to hang a man out to dry. River Pearl Sutton, the daughter of the very rich, very proper relative of the town’s founder, Colonel Beauregard Sutton.

Along with her older brothers, Chase and Jake, they were the golden children
.
Then Chase went off the deep end a few years ago and high-tailed it to the bayou, where he’d opened up a bait shop and supplied seafood to the local restaurants. I don’t think that made his daddy happy at all. Jake was away at college up North, Harvard studying business I thought. He was the boy that knuckled under. Jake and Brax had a couple of run-ins in high school which Brax refused to discuss, but I guessed it was probably over River Pearl.