Shot of Sultry (9 page)

“Is that why the redhead don’t come around?” Carlo picked up a putty knife and practiced his technique. “You didn’t buy her nothin’?”

“
Anything
,” Trey corrected with a sigh. “And she’s not my girlfriend.” He gave Carlo a sideways glance, sizing him up for the first time. With a little meat on his bones, he could be popular with the senoritas—not necessarily a good thing. “Come to think of it, stay away from the ladies for a while. They’re trouble.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Biting his lip in concentration, Gopher produced a flawless seam.

“Nice! I think you’ve got it.”

Speaking of trouble, Trey’s cell phone vibrated in his back pocket, and he retrieved it to find a text message from Bobbi. This was the only way she communicated with him now, probably because she knew he wouldn’t respond.

Galley Cat bar @9pm. Speed-dating. Dress up.

Like hell. Enough of this immature bullshit. If she wanted him to cooperate, she’d have to meet him in person. It took fifteen minutes and a little help from Gopher, but Trey eventually managed to send a simple
No
.

What do u mean NO?

Come on me and we’ll talk
.

Oh, snap. He’d meant to type “come to me.”

Not funny, a-hole.

Sry. Come *here* and we’ll talk.

No. Will c u at bar.

Damn it, what was her problem?

If u want me there, come talk. Switching off.

Trey had no intention of turning off his phone—it was the only way to reach him at the community center—but he ignored the seven furious follow-up texts Bobbi sent over the next half hour.

He’d just sent the crew home and given up on Bobbi when his phone rang. An out-of-state area code he didn’t recognize flashed on the screen, and he almost didn’t answer. Reluctantly, he pressed “talk” and prepared to deflect a sales pitch.

“Hello?”

“Thank God.” It was Bobbi, and she sounded like someone had pissed in her Cheerios. “I haven’t been able to get ahold of anyone.”

“So, what does that make me, Bo Peep?”

“Shut up and come get me. I blew a tire about five miles from Luke’s place, and the spare’s ruined. Triple A can’t come get me for hours, and it’s a thousand degrees out here.”

“I didn’t hear the magic word.”

Bobbi fell silent for several seconds, and Trey could almost see the steam rising from her pretty, red head. “I’ve got six magic words for you. I’ll tell Luke what we did.”

Dang, she hit below the belt. “Be there in a few.”

***

By the time he reached her, Bobbi’s flaming, red locks clung to the sides of her face with sweat, and the front of her white blouse was so damp Trey felt like he was judging a wet T-shirt contest. She looked insanely hot, both literally and figuratively. He pulled onto the road’s grassy shoulder and parked behind Bruiser, then left the engine and air conditioner running when he stepped out to meet her.

Bobbi stood from her seat on the rear bumper, brushing her hands against her jeans. She’d picked a bad day to skip the shorty-shorts. With her gaze trained on his boots, her full mouth pulled into a frown. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t want to—”

“Go wait in the truck.” Trey brushed past her, nudging her shoulder with his elbow on his way to the driver’s door. “Before you get heat stroke.” He found the lever to pop the trunk and returned to the rear of the car, where Bobbi still stood with a puzzled expression on her flushed face. “I mean it,” he half growled. “And drink the Pepsi in my cooler. You’re probably dehydrated.”

“I already told you; the spare’s no good.”

“I wanna see for myself.”

She nodded slowly and backed away, still refusing to make eye contact. Trey watched to make sure she followed orders before rooting around the trunk for a jack and the tire iron. He tossed them onto the grass and pulled out the spare, frowning at its cracked rubber. Holy dry rot. No way this thing would last the five miles back to Luke’s house. When Trey bounced the tire against the ground, it gave a soft pop and lost what little air had been trapped there since the eighties, or whenever this ancient clunker had come off the assembly line.

Wiping his palms on a rag he’d found in the trunk, Trey jogged back to his truck and climbed inside with Bobbi. Even though two solid feet of bench leather separated them, she scooted away until her back hit the passenger door.

“You’re right.” He shut his door and gestured for Bobbi to fasten her seat belt. “I’ll drop you off at Luke’s and go pick up a new spare from Lloyd’s Auto. While you’re home, I want you to take a cool shower and drink plenty of water.” He pulled onto the main road and repeated, “Water, you hear? No booze.”

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Bobbi rubbing her nose, and he wondered if she was nervous, or getting ready to lie to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Scoffing, she gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. “It’d be easier to tell you what’s
right
.”

“Talk to me.” After shifting into overdrive, he tried patting her hand, but she pulled away.

“Judge Bea issued a temporary injunction barring me from filming anywhere in Sultry County. I’ve been summoned to his office.”

Trey didn’t know whether to whoop with joy or curse Bea’s name, because while this project was an epic pain in his ass, he could tell it was important to Bobbi. “Guess that means I’m off the hook for speed-dating.”

“For now.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. And I’ll help out any way I can.”

“Thanks. Speaking of help, I assume you’ll come get me when you’re done with the tire so I can drive home.”

“Nuh-uh.” He didn’t like the deep red staining her cheeks, and he wanted her to stay home and cool off awhile. “After I change the tire, I’ll chain Bruiser to my Chevy and tow it.”

“Why?” She turned her upper body toward him, right along with her warm, green gaze.

“’Cause I want you to rest.”

“No, I mean why are you doing it?”

He shrugged. It wasn’t complicated. “’Cause you need me to.”

“People only do nice things when they want something.” Leaning forward, she readjusted a vent to blow cool air on her throat. “So what is it you want?”

It took Trey a few extra seconds to form his reply. The air-conditioning had circulated Bobbi’s scent throughout the cab, and even sweaty as a linebacker, she smelled good. Like sugared cinnamon. How’d she manage to make his mouth water after baking in the sun for so long? At the end of a typical workday, he smelled like roadkill.

“I get why you feel that way,” he finally said. “From what you told me last week, it sounds like a lot of people took advantage of you as a kid. But I don’t want anything.” Glancing over, he added, “This is what friends do for each other.”

“So we’re friends now?”

“Sure, why not? I like you.” He reached over and tugged a lock of her hair. “And sometimes you even like me back.”

She pushed his hand away. “No touching. We can be friends who don’t touch.”

That brought a smile to his lips. “How ’bout friends who touch over the clothes? That’s the best kind.”

“No deal, Golden Boy.”

“All right, all right.” He walked two fingers in her direction and stopped just short of her hip. “I won’t touch you till you ask me to.”

“
Until
I ask you to? You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“Well, considering what’s already happened…” Like that relationship doctor on TV always said, the best predictor of future behavior was past behavior.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Bobbi took a swig of his Pepsi, and he took his eyes off the road long enough to watch her swallow. Even the way she drank was sexy as hell. “I’ll never ask you to lay a hand on me again.”

Sure
you
won’t
. Trey kept his thoughts to himself and grinned as they drove on—no need to poke the bear—but based on his passenger’s rigid posture, she wanted his hands all over her right now.

God help them both; it really
was
gonna be a long-ass summer.

Judge Bea liked fishing better than sex. What’d led Bobbi to this conclusion? A plaque hanging directly above his law degree, proclaiming
Ten
Reasons
Why
Fishing
is
Better
Than
Sex
. Leaning forward in her leather armchair, she squinted to read number one on the list. A limp rod is still useful for fishing. Classy.

At least two dozen stuffed trout adorned the wall of Bea’s chambers—their gaping mouths stretched unnaturally wide, eyes bulging and glassy, tails frozen mid-thrash—accompanied by hand nets and feathered lures that reminded Bobbi of eighties hair accessories.

The good judge exhaled a cloud of spicy-sweet smoke from across his desk and studied her over the pipe in his withered hand. Tired of playing conversational chicken, Bobbi took one for the team and spoke first.

“You’re taking ten years off your life, you know.” She nodded toward his pipe.

He took a few leisurely puffs. “Yep, I reckon. But they’re the worst ten, so I figure I won’t miss ’em.”

“But what about your family? I’ll bet they’ll miss those years.” She’d used the same argument to get Papa Bryan to quit smoking when she was fourteen. “Don’t you think you owe it to them to quit?”

His bushy, white eyebrows pinched together, and he tapped a small heap of ashes into an armadillo ashtray that Bobbi hoped to God was a replica. Considering all the dead, mounted creatures in this room, the odds weren’t in her favor.

“Well, the way I see it,” Bea eventually said, “I gave ’em life, a fine home, plenty’a food, and a righteous upbringin’.” Folding his arms, he nestled back into his seat. “Seems they owe me, not the other way ’round.”

Tipping her head in acknowledgment, Bobbi traced one finger along a zebra print stripe on her skirt. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” Common sense told her to let it go, but she couldn’t resist broaching the subject of Bea’s favorite “grandbaby,” the spoiled deputy. “I can tell you do a lot for your family, especially Colton. You ever worry you’ve done too much for him?”

If Bea ever decided to retire from the bench, he could make a sweet living playing poker. Aside from the slightest tightening of his lips, he betrayed no emotion. The casual observer never would’ve noticed, but it was all Bobbi needed to know she’d struck a nerve. She probed deeper. “He’s got a wildness in him—the kind that comes from a lifetime of overindulgence. Don’t you think it’s time to let him stand alone? Be accountable?”

A wily smile uncurled across the judge’s lips. “Jumpin’ to a few conclusions, there, little Bo. This has nothin’ to do with Colton, though I can’t say I’m surprised to hear the boy’s been showin’ his tail.”

“Then why the injunction?”

“It’s you.”

Now it was Bobbi’s turn to summon her best poker face. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“No? ’Cause I did a little diggin’, and your background’s murkier than my favorite fishin’ hole.”

Bobbi’s whole body flashed hot then cold. The judge was bluffing—he had to be. She’d gone to great lengths to make sure the details of her scandal weren’t readily available to the public, not even for someone with Bea’s connections. She let out a breath. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—”

“Nothin’.” Bea kicked up his booted heels and rested them on the corner of his desk. “Pretty tight-lipped crowd you run with. You must’a had a good lawyer.”

Not just good—the best. And she’d still be making payments to Jacob Corkwell, Esq., when her hair turned gray, and she started sporting Depends.

“All I know,” he continued, “is you got sued by the folks at Smyth when you accused ’em of unfair labor practices. After that, the trail goes cold, and that’s more suspicious than a rap sheet. People with nothin’ to hide, hide nothin’.” He folded his hands atop his belly. “So if you wanna get the injunction lifted, you better start talkin’.”

How much information would it take to satisfy his curiosity? She decided to start small. “I made an innocent mistake, and I paid for it. In the interest of protecting my reputation, I fought to keep things quiet. That about sums it up.”

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

Bobbi caught herself scrubbing her nose with the back of her wrist, so she tucked both hands beneath her thighs. “Look, I can’t have this getting out.”

“I’ll keep it confidential. Gentleman’s honor.”

“I don’t know…”

“I swear it.” There was no indecision in the judge’s tone. The promise in his gaze bolstered Bobbi’s confidence. Though she didn’t know Judge Bea from Bea Arthur, she believed him.

“Okay.” She nodded slowly and took a deep breath before exhaling. “A reliable source, who made me swear to keep his name anonymous, approached me with proof that Smyth had bought—” she leaned forward, locking eyes with Bea “—not just hired, but actually
bought
—migrant workers from Asia. Allegedly, Smyth was keeping them in a barracks on the job site, but it was hard to verify because the place was locked down tighter than Fort Knox.”

With a wave of his hand, Bea encouraged her to continue.

“Like I said, it was a reliable source, someone I’d known and trusted for years, so I was a little lax in verifying the documents and the photos. To make a long story short, my source wanted to bust Smyth so badly, he cut corners and forged some of the documents, and I had no idea.” She laughed dryly at her own ignorance. “I probably could’ve found the evidence myself if I’d slowed down and taken the time to investigate.”

“I think I see where this is goin’.”

“After I launched the documentary, the company sued me for libel, and we settled out of court.” She’d owe the bastards at Smyth for the rest of her life, but at least she’d insisted on a gag order under the settlement terms, so they couldn’t breathe a word about her embarrassing screw-up. All the outside world knew was that she’d been sued and pulled the documentary. “For what it’s worth, Smyth was guilty. I just couldn’t prove it.”

“And that’s slander.”

“So sue me.” A nervous giggle rose to her lips. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

“Well, hell, Bo. Is that it?”

“What do you mean,
is
that
it
? I can’t get financing for a new documentary, so I’m stuck filming Garry Goldblatt’s garbage just to pay my debts.” Correction: to make a tiny dent in her debts. “I’ve sunk from filming award-winning social commentaries to following around two bachelors while they hook up with sleazy women. And even if I nail this project, it’s no guarantee anyone’ll take me seriously again. Not to mention all those migrant workers—I don’t know if they were freed or just shuffled somewhere else. Isn’t that enough?”

“I figured you’d done somethin’ more…well…illicit, like blackmail or extortion. Why’re you tryin’ so hard to hide this from your family?”

Bobbi gave a soft snort and folded her arms. “Because everyone in this town assumes I’m some kind of shady criminal, just like my mother. You proved that.”

“Now, hold up, there.” Bea lifted one hand in supplication. “You were actin’ fishy—stayin’ away twenty years without a word, then showin’ up with no good reason. That’s what made me suspicious, not your mama’s history. And everyone makes mistakes, ’specially Luke. Your kin won’t think any less of you ’cause you messed up.”

“Don’t be so sure. We barely know each other.”

“You gotta trust ’em with your flaws.”

Easy for him to say—he didn’t know the extent of her flaws. He’d grown up here in this virtual Eden with Luke and June. None of them knew what it was like to pick pockets while they were still in diapers, which, embarrassingly enough, had been until the age of four for Bobbi. Add “potty training” to the list of tasks too demanding for an addict.

“Remember, I told you this in confidence,” she said, turning her thoughts away from neglect. “So, can I start filming again?”

“S’pose so.” He dropped both feet to the floor and opened a manila file folder. Unlike Luke’s desk, the judge’s was organized and free from clutter, each office supply neatly encased in plastic the way nature intended. While he scribbled his signature on her new license, a sudden gleam sparked behind his eyes and he smiled, transforming his countenance so completely Bobbi couldn’t help smiling in return. “If you’re lookin’ to tape a
real
love story, I’m proposin’ to Prudence at the church barbeque tonight. Five dollars a plate.” Still beaming, he blotted his signature. “Keep quiet though. It’s a surprise.”

That wasn’t the kind of love Garry was looking for—too much small-town purity and not enough drunken wardrobe malfunctions—but Bobbi didn’t give a damn. “That’s better than speed-dating any day. I wouldn’t miss it.”

***

Since Bobbi had no place to be and the fierce summer sun had given the town a reprieve today, she decided to take a stroll down Main Street, where the air was thick with the scents of cedar trees and grilling hamburgers. At eleven in the morning, it was a little early for the lunch crowd, so the only sounds competing with her clicking heels were the flap of nylon flags overhead and snippets of Mexican folk music drifting on the breeze from the
Hallelujah!
dance studio on the corner. A wide banner stretching between two streetlights promised free hot dogs and fireworks at the Fourth of July parade next week, while wooden signs and green awnings clamored for her attention, boasting the best prices in Sultry Springs and enough religious literature to save a legion of souls.

Funny how the crumbling, rust-colored brick added to the town’s charm—quaint and whimsical as opposed to run-down. That same aging brick composed the urban shops back home, but with a dilapidated effect that drove shoppers to the shiny, new strip malls on the outskirts of the city.

“Mornin’.” A middle-aged man in coveralls nodded as he passed her on the sidewalk.

She returned his greeting with a smile and paused in front of the Sultry General Store. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she peered through the shop window, noting Texas-themed knickknacks, T-shirts, and an assortment of cowboy hats. Papa and Daddy didn’t usually go for kitschy souvenirs, but the mental image of them in matching Stetsons had her gravitating through the door with a grin on her face.

Twenty minutes later, she left with gifts for her dads, a jar of Brimstone Barbeque Sauce for Luke, a homemade lemon pound cake for June, and a copy of
The
History
of
Sultry
Springs
for herself.

“Traffic” had picked up a bit in her absence, with four cars and two pickup trucks idling at the only red light on Main Street, and about two dozen clerical workers from the courthouse had filed out in search of lunch offerings. Bobbi wasn’t hungry, but an iced mocha latte sounded good, so she headed to the coffee shop and took a seat at one of the bistro tables on the sidewalk. She’d just plunked her shopping bags into a nearby chair when she heard a familiar voice from behind.

“Hey, boss, it’s that lady with the hot legs.”

“Shh!” an even more familiar voice scolded. “Girls don’t like hearing stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“You gotta pretend to like ’em for their personality.”

Bobbi turned and glared at her new friend—the one she couldn’t allow herself to touch. “Actually,” she told the boy at Trey’s side, “it’s because women are more than just pretty faces or nice legs or big breasts. They’re more than the sum of their parts. They’re
people
with feelings and ideas, and they want to be respected. You remember that, and—”

“—and,” Trey interrupted, “you’ll score like Michael Jordan.” After a moment of thought, he added, “But remember to keep it wrapped.”

Bobbi balled her fists against her hips. “Don’t teach him stuff like that!”

“Safe sex?”

“No! The scoring part.”

“He knows I’m kidding.” Trey ruffled the boy’s hair and asked him, “What’ve I told you about the ladies?”

“Leave ’em be,” Carlo said with conviction. “’Cause you can’t get your hand pregnant.” He pursed his lips for a second. “I guess your hand won’t give ya an STD, either.”

“Smart kid,” Trey said to her, nodding at his young apprentice.

While she stewed in silence, Trey slid an appreciative gaze over her body, starting at her sleeveless blouse and ending at the tips of her four-inch, peep-toe heels. A slow grin lifted the corners of his mouth and brought both dimples out to play, leaving behind a pool of tingly heat low in Bobbi’s abdomen. She glanced away from his stunning face, but the sight of his broad shoulders and the steely contours of his chest didn’t help matters. Maybe they needed to be friends who didn’t look
or
touch. Hell, who was she kidding? They couldn’t be friends at all.

“Well, um.” She glanced at his boots. At least those were safe. “I don’t want to keep you.”

“It’s cool.” Carlo shoved both hands in the back pockets of the jeans she’d seen Trey give him a couple of weeks ago. “We’re just pickin’ up some—”

“Nah, Gopher,” Trey said. “
I
don’t wanna keep you
is code. It really means ‘leave me alone.’ Let’s give Miss Gallagher some peace.”

The boy’s face fell, and Bobbi felt it like a kick to the stomach. “No,” she objected, gesturing to the two free chairs at her table, “I’d like you to stay.” She leaned forward and told Carlo, “You can’t listen to everything Mr. Lewis says. He was raised by wolves.”

“Werewolves, actually.” Trey didn’t waste any time taking a seat. “You order yet?”

Bobbi shook her head. “I’m just having an iced—”

“—mocha latte. Got it.” He leaned forward to grab his wallet and handed Carlo a few bills. “Order the lady’s drink, and get whatever you want. I’ll have a Coke.” After mini-Trey loped into the café, his mentor began rifling through Bobbi’s bags. “Did some shopping, huh? Nice hats. Didn’t take you for a Stetson girl.”

“They’re for my dads.” She smacked his hand away.

“Did you just touch me, Bo Peep? I feel so violated right now.” He waggled his blond brows. “Does this mean I get to touch you back?”

His sinful expression stole her breath. God, his eyes were so blue—even more so outdoors, like the color of Saint John’s Bay in the Caribbean. When he looked at her like this, all wicked and full of mischief, her heart quivered almost painfully. In all honesty, she could see herself falling for this man if she wasn’t careful. Maybe it was time to get serious about matching him with the perfect country girl, even if only for the summer.