Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (Winston Brothers Book 1) Read online

  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.

  “No one did,” Billy said, looking straight at me. “Not even Ash,” he added in a slightly sardonic tone.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? What exactly happened?” An unmistakable air of privilege and authority hung heavy around the stranger. “Start from the beginning,” he demanded.

  A gathering ache of frustration set up camp at the base of my neck. This man, this unknown person, sounded so entitled, as though he should be kept in the loop regarding what happened to my mother.

  Maybe it was my lack of sleep; maybe it was the stress of not knowing what was going on with my mother; maybe it was because this man’s sense of entitlement reminded me of every ivy-league ignoramus medical doctor I’d had to endure at my job in Chicago, but I had no patience for this behemoth at my shoulder despite his colossal handsomeness and the fact that I’d assaulted then molested his man-nipple.

  I glared at his unkempt beard and longish blond hair, both of which annoyed me now, then shifted my stare to his silver eyes. “Why is this any of your business? And who the hell are you?”

  Mr. Blond Beard considered me with impatience, as if I were gum on his shoe. I returned his malicious glower, as if he were gum in my hair.

  I heard Jethro clear his throat, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that he gestured to the stranger with a greasy rag. “Ash, this is Drew Runous. He’s my boss.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winston,” he drawled, extending his hand in a show of ironic southern politeness, like older church ladies use when they say “bless your heart,” and what they really mean is “you couldn’t find your way out of a small shed with a map, lighted signs, and an escort.”

  But his face held no amount of pleasure. In fact, he looked positively aggravated by the audacity of my existence.

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” Ignoring his offered hand, I returned his ironic southern politeness with my own vitriol-laced volley.

  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.

  Two: Never be alone with Drew Runous.

  Three: Do everything in my power to leave before Sunday.

  Chapter Two

  “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.”

  — Socrates

  The drive from my momma’s house to Knoxville took just under an hour. Lucidity was made possible by the triple-shot grande Americano I procured from Starbucks on my way out of town.

  It’s really true what people say about Starbucks. My hometown still didn’t have a sit-down movie theater, an Italian restaurant, an OBGYN, or a Target, but they had a Starbucks. I guessed this was because Green Valley was located right next to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Our two main industries were lumber and tourism, and big-city tourists need their coffee.

  When I made it to Knoxville, I stopped at a grocery store and picked up flowers and two get-well balloons with kittens on them. I knew based on several years of practical experience as a pediatric intensive care nurse in Chicago that unless my momma wanted to talk to me, getting near her or her doctors was going to be difficult. The flowers and balloons would give me credibility, but the kittens would get me in the door. Everyone loves kittens.

  I parked the rental car in a visitor’s spot and walked into the main entrance, flowers and balloons in hand. Once inside, I crossed to the information desk, I hoped it was being run by volunteers, who tend to be easily confused by pesky things like HIPAA (privacy laws).

  “Hello, Joan.” I said with a warm smile at the elderly woman behind the desk; her nametag was prominently placed, thank goodness. “I’m here to see my mother. I just flew in last night, and I’m not sure where I’m going.”

  She returned my smile. “What is her name, dear?”

  “Bethany Winston. Admission date was two days ago, if that helps.” My throat felt tight with anticipation.

  Jethro, Billy, and the twins (Beauford and Duane) had all tried and failed to see her over the course of the last two days. They’d been told she didn’t want to see any family and had restricted access to her records. This had struck me as a little odd, yet not out of the realm of possibility.

  Tired though I was, I started forming a plan B, just in case I was denied information on my momma’s location.

  Plan C involved going floor to floor, room to room. Plan D involved dressing in scrubs and logging into the hospital electronic medical record. Plan E involved pulling the fire alarm.

  Joan glanced up from her screen, her smile still friendly though not as wide. “You’re her daughter?”

  “That’s right,” I managed to say, nodding emphatically as I held my bre
ath and hoped Plan A would be sufficient.

  “Do you have ID?”

  I nodded again, set the flowers on the counter along with the balloon weights, and dug around in my purse for my ID. I handed it to her and waited, searching her face for clues as to how successful I would be.

  She glanced at my ID, then at the screen, then at my face, then at the screen, then at my ID, then at my face.

  She handed the ID back to me. “Your mother’s record has been flagged. There’s a note that she’s not to have any visitors other than you. I’m going to page her treating physician, but he may be a while.”

  I released the breath I’d been holding. “Okay, thanks. That’s great. Can I go up?”

  “Yes. She’s on the fourth floor. You’ll need to take those elevators.” She pointed around the corner. “Check in at the nurses’ station. They’ll want to see your ID too.”

  I thanked her and placed my driver’s license in my pocket with slightly trembling hands.

  As I made my way to the elevator, I couldn’t help but feel like everything was very, very wrong. I knew that it was a common practice to flag patients’ records, especially to keep out unwanted family members or the media. My momma’s decision to restrict access to her records struck an off chord.

  My brothers lived with my mother. She took care of them. Even Jethro, the oldest, now thirty, still lived at home.

  I briefly considered that she might be embarrassed. Perhaps she wanted to keep her diagnosis a secret because she didn’t want to admit weakness in front of the six Winston boys. I didn’t blame her. Winston men were famous for exploiting weakness.

  I knew she loved them, but they drove her crazy. When I lived at home, they—as a group—had a tendency to freak out when faced with facts or reality, yet happily buried their heads in the sand otherwise. Until facts were spelled out, they were like unsuspecting hogs before Easter dinner—dirty and well fed.

  I checked in at the nurses’ station on the fourth floor and received a similar inspection. This time, however, when the nurse heard my last name, her smile fell and I read sympathy in her expression.