Beard With Me: Winston Brothers Page 18

  “Okay. Shoot.” I shuffled to my dresser, picking through for the pair of jeans I wanted.

  “First, what’s going on with you and my very good friend, Scarlet St. Claire?”

  I cleared my features of all expression. “I wasn’t aware y’all were good friends.”

  “We are.”

  “Good to know.” Finding the jeans I was after, I shut that drawer and thumbed through my undershirts. I wanted a black one. They were bigger than the white ones, longer.

  He stared at me for a few seconds, presumably for me to continue. When I did not, he said, “Billy.”

  “Yep?”

  “I demand to know what’s going on with y’all.”

  “None of your business. Next question.”

  He grunted. “Fact: she didn’t come talk to me last night like I asked. Also fact: I saw y’all leave out the back door together. Another fact: she is a good, kind-hearted person who deserves to be with someone who will treat her like a treasure.” He paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, saying all this like he was presenting evidence in a case.

  “I agree with that last part.”

  “Ah ha! So something is going on with y’all.” He stopped pacing.

  “I already told you all I’m going to tell you.”

  “I’ve always approved of Sam. She’s aggressive, pushy, which you know I like in a woman. I admire her plain speaking. And she’s funny too. Nevertheless, I don’t think it’s right for you—”

  “Sam and I broke up.”

  “Really? Is that so?” He didn’t sound too upset about it. “You break up with her or the other way around?”

  “Yep.”

  He huffed. “That’s not an answer.”

  “That’s all you get.”

  “So that means you broke up with her. Is this because Scarlet—”

  “Cletus.” I let my glare rest on him before I finished. “Drop it.”

  “Hmm . . .” was all he said, and I thought he wasn’t going to drop it. But then he blurted, “I need money.”

  Without missing a beat, I said, “Then you should get a job.”

  “The money isn’t for me.”

  “And again, you should get a job.” Black undershirt in hand, I opened my sock drawer.

  “My birthday is on Sunday.”

  “Then wait ’til then. Momma always gives us money on our birthdays.”

  “That won’t be enough,” he grumbled. “And I know you got that savings account. You won’t need all that once you get your football scholarship.”

  Finding the clothes I wanted, I faced him. “Cletus Byron, if you get a job, you can give your money to whoever you want. Give it all away. I don’t care. But I’m not giving you any money.”

  I walked back to my bed and set my clothes down, pulling off my white T-shirt while I suspected my younger brother’s glare bored into my back. I ignored him.

  “What if I took out a loan? What if I paid you back? Name your conditions.”

  I smirked. “People without jobs can’t get loans. Go open a lemonade stand at the end of the drive. Or a hot chocolate stand. Do something to earn it.”

  “Hmm . . .” was his response. Then, he said nothing while I dressed, rubbing his chin, deep in thought, and staring at the floor of my bedroom.

  I’d just set my foot in my boot when he snapped his fingers, pointed at the ceiling, opened his mouth, stared at me like he was perplexed by my presence, and then said, “I gotta go. Bye.”

  Cletus turned on his heel and left in a hurry, not closing the door. But then, as I set my other foot in my other boot, he came running back in, his hands up, showing me his palms.

  “Y’alls last football game is next Friday, right?”

  “It’s the last game in the regular season. We’re headed to playoffs for state, though. After Christmas break. Why?”

  “Good,” he said, nodded once, and then ran out again.

  Staring after him, I wondered if I should be concerned.

  That’s not true. I knew I should be concerned. Cletus’s harebrained schemes—and he’d had many—always caused trouble for me eventually. On the one hand, I had a rare day off, to spend as I liked. No homework, no practice, no pressing chores around the house I had to do today that couldn’t just as easily be done tomorrow.

  On the other hand, Cletus.

  Undecided, I sat there, one boot unlaced. Nearly resigned to shelving my plans for the day and intervening before my brother could dive too deep into his latest mischief, my attention caught on the note Scarlet had left. Specifically, the words, PS When are you showing me how to play the guitar?

  Suddenly, I didn’t much care what Cletus was up to. Let him have his mischief. Let him have his fun.

  I owed Scarlet a guitar lesson, and I always kept my word.

  Chapter Thirteen

  *Billy*

  “People are rarely as attractive in reality as they are in the eyes of the people who are in love with them. Which is, I suppose, as it should be.”

  David Levithan, Every Day

  “Hey, sleepyhead.” Scarlet stood at the top of the small incline, grinning, no headphones on, no jacket either.

  She’d been expecting me by the looks of it. Luckily, when I made it to the edge of the forest this morning, I didn’t have to wait too long before her voice carried to me. And so my feet carried me to her.

  “Sleepyhead? It’s only eight thirty.” I studied her pose, her hands on her hips, her feet braced apart like she was a superhero about to take off into the sky. She was so darn cute and the sight of her had me suddenly nervous.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I was nervous. I didn’t get nervous. If something was difficult, I didn’t think about it or worry about it, I just did it.

  “Where’s the guitar?” she asked, not seeming to notice my pause. Her grin looked both teasing and threatening. “I was promised guitar lessons.”

  “I didn’t bring the guitar.” Refusing to give into my anxious smile, I lifted an eyebrow at her instead. This is just Scarlet. I’d been anxious to see her, but there was no reason to be anxious around her.

  Giving me the side-eye—and also lifting an eyebrow—her big grin persisted. “Afraid I’d talk you into giving me your guitar for my birthday?”

  “No,” I drawled, finding it harder and harder to keep my face straight. “Your birthday isn’t until May.”

  “Afraid I’ll talk you into giving it to me for your birthday?” She giggled. “December, right?”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” I said flatly. The words left an unexpected aftertaste as soon as they were out, as though they’d been a lie. Which was ridiculous. I’m not afraid of her. . .

  Frowning at the direction of my thoughts, I continued, “I didn’t bring it because I thought I’d teach you the basics of how to read music. I brought some blank sheet music for today; I’ll bring the guitar tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? You’re coming back tomorrow?” She examined me, like this information perplexed her.

  “Yep. Same time tomorrow, just make sure you sing so I don’t get lost. Here.” I shoved a paper plate covered with tinfoil at her, anxious to have her eyes looking elsewhere. I’d carried it from the house, suspecting she might be hungry. “Breakfast.”

  Scarlet’s forehead wrinkled as she took the plate. “Breakfast? What’s for breakfast?” Not waiting for me to answer, she lifted the foil and groaned, loudly. “ARE THOSE CINNAMON ROLLS? OH MY GOD!”

  “Shhh!” Laughing, her reaction was so darn funny, I shushed her and walked past to place the notebook of blank sheet music paper next to the tent. “I can barely make out your singing at the edge of our field, but I’m pretty sure half of Tennessee heard you just now.”

  “Sorry,” she whispered, her nose stuck under the tinfoil.

  I took a moment to glance behind me, studying the trees and the flat stretch of raised land. I thought perhaps, after a few more trips back and forth, even without her voice I might be able to find t
he camp. The path looked familiar in a way it hadn’t before.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, plainly happy and excited and clutching the plate to her chest. “I love cinnamon buns and I smelled them this morning as I was leaving. Your momma got up early, huh?”

  “No, Ash. She always makes these the day after Thanksgiving. My brothers are usually so grateful, they’re nice to her for the rest of the weekend.”

  “They usually give her a rough time, do they?” She made a silly, cackling sound, like she approved of the twins’ antics.

  Looking at Scarlet, I found myself wearing a perma-grin. Despite my strange nerves, her good mood was contagious. It was great to see her well-rested, well-fed, and seemingly happy. Her skin looked brighter, her features more animated, and so did her eyes.

  She’ll look like this all the time if she sleeps with you every night, I thought. But then the double meaning of the thought occurred to me all of the sudden. It struck a strange chord, and I was very, very glad I hadn’t said something similar out loud.

  “Uh, yeah.” I scratched the back of my neck, which was mysteriously hot and prickly. “Jethro gave Ashley a lot of grief—when he was at home—but mostly it’s the twins causing trouble for her now. Sometimes Cletus, but less than he tortures me. Roscoe is real sweet. I think he tries to make up for the others. Brings her flowers in the spring and puts them in her room.”

  Scarlet, engrossed by the cinnamon rolls, hummed the song I’d followed from the field, “Wild Horses” by the Rolling Stones. Even her humming was beautiful and I wished she’d do it louder. She strolled to a spread blanket set back from the fire and peeked at the plate again.

  Sitting, she inhaled deeply for a third time and closed her eyes. “These smell like heaven.”

  Content to just watch her be cute and smell and smile and hopefully sing again, I stayed put by the tent, hooking my thumbs in my pockets. “You can have all of those, if you want. There’s plenty more I can bring tomorrow.”

  “You know, I’m not going to turn you down. I don’t have that much pride.” She selected a roll and re-covered the others. They’d been warm when I wrapped them.

  “Pride?”

  Transferring the roll to her other hand, Scarlet licked her fingers of the brown sugar stickiness. The action caught my attention, oddly distracting and . . . fascinating. And that made no sense. I’d seen plenty of folks lick their fingers before. Nothing fascinating about that.

  Meanwhile, Scarlet was still talking. I had to focus in order to listen.

  “See, if you’d tried to bribe me with cinnamon rolls last Sunday—” she laughed, and I got the sense it was 100 percent at herself “—I’d be long gone right now.”

  “Was that just last Sunday?” I scratched my cheek. It seemed so much had happened since then, so much time had passed. I didn’t much want to think about what I’d said or how I’d acted last Sunday.

  “Yep. It took less than a week for me to bend you to my will.” Her pretty eyes sparkled; she was teasing again. Inexplicably, I found I liked her teasing. I didn’t generally like to be teased, never much cared for it. The only person who got away with teasing me was Cletus, but that was only because there was no avoiding Cletus. He was an equal opportunity teaser and harasser.

  I crouched, saying only, “Hmm,” and picking up a long stick with a charred end. Needing something to do, I readjusted a few of the logs. I suspected the long, sturdy stick was what she used to stir the fire. “I should bring you some fire tools.”

  “Don’t bother.” She held her hand in front of her mouth, covering it as she chewed and spoke. “That stick works just fine.”

  “You need the right tools, at least a poker, shovel, tongs. Maybe a bellow.”

  Scarlet tilted her head to the side and giving me a strange-looking smile. “Billy, I do not need all that.”

  “The right tools would make the fire easier to manage,” I argued, still out of sorts, not understanding myself. Maybe I was just in a strange mood this morning.

  “But then I’d have to store them someplace and look after them and then carry them around if I left.”

  “You’re not leaving.”

  She ignored my statement, continuing her thought, “Besides, all the right tools in the world wouldn’t help me any better than that stick.”

  All the right tools in the world. The words sounded familiar.

  All the right tools in the world . . . Pastor Jones. David and Goliath. That’s where I’d heard those words.

  About to press my point on the fire tools, my thoughts were abruptly derailed by the vision of Scarlet—after taking another large bite of her bun—rolling her eyes back in her head. Her tongue slipped past her full pink lips to lick the corner of her mouth. And then she groaned, long and low.

  I stiffened, spots at the base of my skull and spine throbbing, a quick pulsing ache, chasing my breath from my lungs.

  Now, I was more than fascinated. I was paralyzed by the look of ecstasy on her face, held hostage by her groan of pleasure. Something about both the look and the groan made her much, much less cute, and yet much, much more . . . attractive.

  It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why and the direction of my mind SHOCKED THE HELL out of me, like a zap coursing along my veins, and had my hands gripping tightly around the fire stick.

  “These are SO GOOD! My biggest dream is to one day have a kitchen. I’m going to be a gourmet cook and—” Scarlet blinked, her eyes growing wide. “Uh, what’s wrong?”

  “What?” Caught, I shook myself, fire in my lungs and low in my stomach.

  “You’re looking at me funny. Do I have something on my face?” She swiped at her chin, her cheeks turning pink.

  “Oh. No.” I stood and speared the ground with her fire stick, twisting aimlessly, requiring a deep breath and a moment.

  I used the moment to reprimand myself.

  What the hell? She’s fourteen. Fourteen. Fourteen. She is underage. She is a minor.

  . . . So what? I’m sixteen. And she isn’t a kid.

  She’s the same age as Ash, as Momma was when Darrell showed up.

  Scarlet isn’t my sister, and I’ve never thought of her that way either. That’s for damn sure.

  I’ll be seventeen in less than a month.

  Two and a half years isn’t much different than two years.

  Hasn’t she been through enough? She doesn’t need your long looks; she doesn’t need you noticing how cute she is or anything else. She needs your help.

  The devil on my shoulder had no response for that argument, and I was relieved. Shoving the fingers of one hand into my hair, I glanced at her. She was looking at me like I was strange, which made sense since I was acting strange.

  “You okay?” she asked, an edge of concern there.

  “Yeah. It’s just, uh, something you said reminded me of something else.”

  “What’d I say?”

  “When you said, ‘All the right tools in the world.’ Something like that.” This was me grasping at straws, looking for any opportunity to redirect the conversation.

  “What’d it remind you of?”

  “Pastor Jones was talking about David and Goliath last week and he used the same words.” My hands on my hips, I forced a thin smile and looked at her again, working to see her as just Scarlet. Just normal, plain old Scarlet. Not moaning, groaning, lip licking, sparkly-eyed, teasing, gorgeous, fascinating Scarlet.

  Oh good Lord. I was the worst.

  “I know that story. It’s about the boy who defeats the giant, right?” She skootched to her right and patted the blanket next to her. “Here. Sit and have one of these, otherwise I will seriously eat them all and give myself a stomachache.”

  I hesitated. Fact was, sitting so close seemed like a bad idea right now. But then I relented. I was hungry and being ridiculous. She’s just Scarlet. Just. Scarlet.

  “Let’s see.” Walking around the fire, sitting next to her, I tried to think back to last Sunday. “Past
or Jones said it wasn’t really about someone weak defeating someone strong, it wasn’t about David and Goliath really. It was about David and Saul.”

  “Saul as in St. Paul?”

  “Different Saul.”

  “So many Sauls and Pauls in that book. You’d think the author would give folks new names so we didn’t mix up the characters.”

  Flashing her a grin, she was so funny, I reached inside the covered plate and took the first cinnamon roll I found. I then spent the next few minutes filling her in on the background of David and Goliath and Saul—as she didn’t seem to know it—while I ate my first bun and she devoured a second. Thankfully, there was no more groaning or eyerolling in ecstasy.

  Also, thankfully, whatever alarm she’d set off in my body turned off, mostly. Talking about bible verses had been a fantastic idea, maybe the best I’d ever had. No more unsettling throbbing pulses or what-the-fuck-ever. But she was still darn cute, no denying that and no ignoring it now.

  “So, according to Pastor Jones,” I finished up, “it’s about Saul and how he wasn’t fit to lead.”

  “’Cause he didn’t defeat Goliath?” She was licking her fingers again.

  And again, I found the action distracting, fascinating. Gritting my teeth, I tore my eyes away. I breathed out. I worked to focus on what we were discussing. This is Scarlet, just Scarlet. You’ve known each other forever. She’s no different than she was yesterday. You are not allowed to be attracted to her as anything other than a friend.

  “Uh.” My eyebrows pulled together as I struggled to think.

  This woman—GIRL—had just gone through a trauma and here I was thinking about how beautiful she was. In my defense, I was sixteen. She was funny, gorgeous, smart. Most other sixteen-year-old guys I knew thought about sex constantly, talked about it constantly. I thought about it a lot too, obviously, but I had other things on my mind as well. Important things. Point was, I prided myself on being in control.

  Scratching the prickly heat at the back of my neck, I forced myself to concentrate. “It’s not really about who defeated Goliath. I think—I think it’s, uh, it’s because Saul had all the armor and weapons—all the right tools in the world—and he was nearly as tall as Goliath, but he didn’t even try. He lacked faith.”