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  B E A U T Y A N D T H E M U S T A C H E

  Beauty and the Mustache

  A Philosophical Romance

  By Penny Reid

  http://reidromance.blogspot.com/

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved, 2004

  Caped Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2014 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Caped Publishing

  Made in the United States of America

  Final Edition: August 2014

  ISBN- 978-0-9892810-6-9

  EBOOK EDITION

  DEDICATION

  For Carl and Winnie

  I love you in death as I loved you in life; to the stars and beyond, just like always.

  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 idi
ots 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.

  Unable to handle the intensity of his stare a moment longer, I blurted, “I’m so sorry!”

  He blinked at me and shook his head once, quickly, as if I’d just appeared. He released my hand and stepped away as though touching me might burn him. “What the hell was that?”

  I ripped my gaze from his and looked at his chest. It was a nice chest—a very, very nice chest—but his left nipple was red and angry. My nipple-wist marred the otherwise physical perfection of his chiseled torso. A small sound of dismay tumbled from my lips.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I stammered, and I reached forward and petted the offended skin. “I never would have purpled your nurple if I’d know you weren’t related to me. It’s just that I was trying to sleep. Really, I should have known you weren’t Cletus; he would have guessed my intentions a mile away and taken evasive maneuvers.”

  “Evasive maneuvers?”

  I glanced up from where my fingers continued to caress his wounded nipple to his silver eyes, now a tad less thunderstormy, but a tad more cautiousy.

  I blinked at him, my breath seizing in my chest, and I completely lost my train of thought.

  “What?”

  The Viking’s eyes looked directly into mine. After a short pause, he glanced down at his chest. I followed his glare to where my fingers were caressing his man-nipple. I flinched, yanked my hands away and balled them into fists between us.

  “Sorry,” I blurted again. “Sorry about twisting your nipple. Also sorry about petting it afterward. Furthermore, I’m sorry that I can’t seem to stop talking....”

  His eyes lowered to my feet then swept up my body in an unapologetic assessment, loitered on my bare calves and thighs for a minute, then dawdled on my chest.

  “Who are you?” He asked my chest, sounding annoyed.

  “Who am I?” I asked, because honestly—and I might lose my badass card for this—part of me had forgotten my name. Because he was the kind of ruggedly sexy that made me forget what number I was on and what my name was.

  “Yeah, who are you?” His eyes finally met mine and he sounded even more annoyed. I could tell by his accent that he wasn’t from Tennessee, though he had a distinct southern drawl. My brain told me it was Oklahoma or Texas.

  “I…I’m Ashley Winston.”

  He sucked in a sharp breath, obviously surprised by my response. His frown was equal parts severe, confused, and angry from behind his unwieldy blond beard as he surveyed me.

  Then he turned to Jethro. “You have a sister?”

  The fact that the golden Viking had addressed my brother rather than me was a slap of sobriety, and I responded with mildly offended displeasure. “Yes they have a sister.”

  Jethro had followed me around the car when I charged into the quonset hut and he tipped his head in my direction. “Yep. That’s Ash.”

  “I thought Ash was a boy.” The handsome marauder said this like he was both shocked and upset, like he’d been misled, lured into our cluttered garage with trickery and deception.

  “No. She’s a girl.” Billy bellowed from under the hood of the car.

  The man’s eyes swept up and down my body again, a flagrant scrutiny. He did not look pleased.

  “Obviously.” The blond stranger said, like he’d just tasted something sour.

  In that moment, I finally figured out what kind of handsome he was. He was fiction-handsome. Romance novel handsome; but not the clean-cut (billionaire) alpha male or even the tattooed (billionaire) bad boy archetype.

  He was the Scottish highlander, Viking conqueror, bodice-ripper historical romance kind of handsome; an unshaven, lion wrestling, mountain man recluse, toss you over his shoulder and plunder your goodies kind of handsome. He was both scary and swoony. I wanted to braid his beard. I also wanted to run away.

  But his less than flattering expression was just the reality slap I needed to propel me out of my stupor. I finally saw beyond my initial stunned reaction to his rugged handsomeness, and my anger boiled over anew. I remembered that it was six-something in the morning, and this male specimen of fineness was the reason I was awake.

  Handsome or not, it didn’t matter. I decided he was a jackass.

  I gave him my very best you’re not worth my time glare even as I fought against a delayed blush of embarrassment. I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed because I’d just inflicted pain to his nipple then tried to pet it, or if I was flustered because he obviously found me repulsive.

  Really, I’d ogled him. Then, amidst my ogling, he gave me the grossed-out stink-eye.

  Suppressing these disturbing and uncomplimentary musings, I turned to Jethro. “Sorry about maiming your friend, but will you please tell him,” I indicated the bearded stranger with a thumb over my shoulder, “to quit revving the engine at six fourteen in the morning, or else I’ll remove this car’s spark plug wires and lock you all out of the house.”

  Jethro sighed, but he was still smiling. Come to think on it, he was smiling a lot, which was not typical for him. “Come on, Ash. We need to be at work in two hours. Cut us a break.”

>   I blinked at him and briefly considered that I might be dreaming. “You have a job?”

  Jethro’s smile dimmed, turned brittle. “Yes. I have a job, baby sister.”

  I felt the stern line of my mouth soften and the back of my neck heat with renewed embarrassment. I had been gone a long time, and I had no desire to insult or hurt anyone, least of all my brother. He’d never shown any outward concern for me growing up, but he was still my brother.

  Billy poked his head around the hood of the car and glared at me. Even though I was younger than both of them, I’d been the only consistently responsible child of the seven Winston brood when we were growing up, and the only girl. My brothers had always seen me paradoxically as an authority figure and a doormat.

  I imagined it was similar to how they viewed my mother.

  I fought the jitteriness still plaguing me from the titty-twister tempest and took a calmer approach. “Look, my flight just got in at two this morning, and I’ve had less than three hours of sleep. I’m supposed to be at the hospital in Knoxville at eleven to find out what’s going on with Momma.” I sighed and put my hands on my hips. “I just need some sleep.”

  “Bethany is in the hospital?” This question came from the stranger. My back stiffened at his use of my mother’s first name.

  Billy walked to the side of the car and leaned against it. “When I came home two days ago, she’d left a note.”

  “What kind of note?” The Viking asked; I didn’t want to notice but he had a delicious growly and authoritative quality to his voice.

  Stupid growly commanding Texan Viking voice.

  “She said she was sick and had to go to the hospital,” Billy explained.

  My throat tightened as my eyes moved to the cement floor of the garage. I suppressed the wave of worried panic. I reminded myself that I hadn’t been home in a while, and maybe she was sick with the flu or just needed a vacation from the craziness that was living with my brothers. Maybe she was completely fine.

  “I didn’t know she was sick,” the blond man said, coming to stand next to me, my shoulder at his bicep. In my peripheral vision, I noticed that he’d folded his arms across his sculpted chest, his right hand covering his left nipple.