Truth or Beard Page 28

  I half listened, but not really, as Beau greeted all the girls we passed, only half heard them coo and flirt with my brother. I had no pleasantries for anybody and was relieved when we finished the gauntlet of barely covered breasts, glitter, and tall hair.

  Beau unlocked the office and the bouncer left us, stating he’d bring Tina. Once we were inside, Beau shut the door and walked to the desk. I stood by the door, leaned against the wall, and waited.

  Inevitably, my thoughts turned to Jess. Without meaning to, I conjured her face, was entranced by the slant of her mouth, mesmerized by the small freckles on her collarbone. She was a sickness, my sickness.

  I decided, once this was over, I was definitely getting drunk. Maybe for a couple days. At least through Monday.

  “…you’re going to have to fake it.”

  I glanced at my brother, knowing he’d spoken but unsure what he’d said. “What?”

  “With Tina. You’re going to have to find some charm and fake it. She’s not interested in me, wouldn’t help me out of a shallow ditch. But she’d do anything for you, if you asked nicely.”

  I frowned. “She wouldn’t.”

  Beau smirked. “She would. Yeah, like Cletus says, she’s a crazy bitch. But she’s got real feelings for you—as real as she can manage—and you’re going to have to use them if you want her to help us.”

  I gathered then released a large breath, wiping my hand over my face. “This was a bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m no good at bullshitting.”

  “Then don’t bullshit. Tell her the truth—or some version of it. You need her help. Tell her that. That’ll make her feel good, important.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but at that moment the door opened and Tina walked in. As soon as she saw me she stopped, her mouth parting in surprise. I straightened away from the wall and crossed to her, reaching around and closing the door.

  She swayed toward me, her big eyes made bigger with paint and fake lashes. “Duane…?”

  “Tina.” I tried to force some warmth into the word, but I couldn’t. Too many years of drama and stupid shit were between us. I looked at her now and saw nothing but a black hole of aggravation and tedium. Why I put up with her for so long was a mystery.

  At my greeting, she stiffened. I heard Beau sigh and saw him drop his head into his hands. Gritting my teeth I shook my head, searching for some inner strength or hidden powers of bullshit.

  “What do you want?” she spat.

  I studied her for a long moment. She was dressed in tight jeans and a blue halter top, real clothes, like she was on her way out.

  “I need your help,” I said simply.

  She blinked at me, my words obviously not what she expected.

  “You need my help?” Her tone was softer than it had been.

  “Yes. I need your help.”

  “Oh…I…” Tina appeared to be flustered by my admission; but she rallied after a few seconds, giving me what I recognized as a look meant to entice. “Well, you must need my help, seeing as you’ve been calling me for two weeks and you’re here now. You must need me real bad.”

  She strutted toward me and lifted her hand as though to place it on me; I caught her wrist before she could.

  “No,” I said.

  “No?” I’d surprised her again.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Never that. Never again.”

  “Then, w…what…” she stuttered, then huffed her impatience. “What could you want me for?”

  Beau finally spoke. “Tina, honey, there’s more to you than your snatch. You have a brain upstairs, might be worth dusting it off every once in a while.”

  This earned Beau a venomous look and I realized he and I had switched positions. I was now good cop…well, my version of good cop.

  “Shut up, Beau, and let me talk to Tina alone.”

  “You want me to leave?” Beau straightened from the desk, sounded appropriately surprised.

  “Yeah. Give us a minute.”

  Tina glanced back to me, her expression curious and uncertain.

  Beau made a show of his disgust on his way to the door. “I hope you know what you’re doing, because I told you this was a mistake. We never should have come here. She can’t be trusted, Duane.”

  “Just leave,” I said, holding Tina’s gaze.

  He snorted, all part of the show, then stormed out of the office.

  When he’d gone, I let go of her wrist and walked to one of the chairs in front of Hank’s desk, motioning her to follow. “Please. Sit down.”

  She didn’t move, but said in a rush, “You can trust me, Duane. You know you can. Beau never liked me and he never understood us.”

  I nodded, but made no verbal response. I was starting to think I never understood us.

  Again I motioned to the chair. “Please sit down. We need to talk.”

  She gave me a hopeful smile then crossed to the seat, sitting as I’d instructed. I sat in the other chair, positioned it so we were facing. I couldn’t bullshit. That wasn’t my strength. But I could be focused, and I could be precise, and I was good at honesty.

  Thus, I focused on pushing distracting thoughts of Jessica’s sobs from my mind.

  I explained the situation to Tina in precise—but not explicit—detail.

  And I was honest.

  I didn’t have a choice. My family needed her help. And there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my family.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness.”

  ― Ray Bradbury

  ~Jessica~

  I wasn’t mad.

  I was hurt and sad and confused by…well, everything. But I wasn’t mad.

  My aunt’s funeral took place on Friday.

  Except she wasn’t my aunt. She was my birth mother. This devastating tidbit had been revealed as soon as I arrived to her house from the airport. My daddy traveled with me and both my parents—the only parents I’d known—and Aunt Louisa’s lawyer pulled me into the office on the ground floor and told me the truth.

  A big part of this truth was that she’d purposefully waited to tell me until she’d gone, and no one knew the identity of my biological father. Aunt Louisa hadn’t seen fit to share my paternal parentage with anyone.

  In light of the fact that Louisa had waited until dying to tell me she was my birth mother, I was feeling understandably emotional. And reflective. And reckless. And angry I’d been cheated out of knowing the truth while I had time to do something other than accept a huge inheritance from a woman who hadn’t liked me much.

  So I told Duane the truth, and he’d responded by saying nothing. Nothing.

  I’d told him I was in love with him and he hadn’t reciprocated. I’d been foolish. I’d allowed myself to fall too hard and too fast, and he probably thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. Maybe Aunt Louisa was crazy, or maybe my biological father was a whack job who fell in love too hard and too fast, who valued freedom and wanderlust over lasting relationships and responsibilities.

  Maybe I was the person I was because my biological parents were circles surrounded by good, generous, reliable square pegs. It certainly would explain a lot.

  When the will was read on Saturday, I was again named as her daughter, and therefore the official sole beneficiary. I’d had two days to adjust to the truth of my biological beginnings, but it was still a shock when the executor said, “To my daughter, Jessica James, I leave my entire estate. All patents, holdings, accounts…”

  After the word accounts I’d zoned out, feeling sick to my stomach.

  My daddy left on Sunday, needing to return to work. Before leaving he told me that I was his daughter. He told me he held me the day I was born and made me his, and nothing would ever change that fact. I cried. He cried. We hugged. He cleared his throat and told me to take care of my momma, and let her take care of me.

  Momma stayed and tried to help me get things sorted. I’d decided it didn’t matter whose u
terus I’d inhabited, my parents were my parents. They’d raised me. They’d bandaged my cuts and kissed my hurts and attended my school plays. Aunt Louisa might have left me her empty, cold estate, but she’d never tucked me in at night. She wasn’t my mother because she hadn’t been my mother.

  I tried calling Duane again on Sunday. He didn’t pick up and he didn’t return the call. My heart splintered a little more.

  By Tuesday evening Momma was anxious to get back for Thanksgiving, so we took one of my new-to-me cars—a new model Jaguar F-Type—and split up the fourteen-hour drive. I’d never driven a luxury sports car before. It was fun. Or rather, it would have been fun, if I hadn’t been so sad.

  I told Aunt Louisa’s lawyer I would return after Christmas to make arrangements. I’d decided to wait the month because I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do.

  Momma and I left early Wednesday morning and pulled into our driveway just before 10:30 p.m. We talked very little on the drive. I asked her all the obvious questions—Do you know who my biological father is? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t Louisa tell me before she died? Why did you adopt me?—and she had very few answers.

  She did reassure me that she chose to adopt me. That she loved me as her own and always had. But every question made her cry like the world was ending, so I stopped asking questions.

  Exhausted when we arrived home, I excused myself after receiving a round of hugs from my daddy and brother, numbly took a shower, and readied myself for bed. I pulled on my favorite sleep shirt—a black silk nightshirt that fell just above my knees—woolen socks, and climbed under my covers.

  Except, now I was settled and should have been feeling comfortable, but I couldn’t stop thinking. The money, what to do with it, what to do about the house and all the land, wasn’t what kept me awake. I wasn’t ready to wonder about my Aunt Louisa, or why in tarnation she’d kept me at arm’s length while she was alive and took the secret of my father’s identity to her grave. Maybe I was simmering in these questions, but I wasn’t ready to confront them. Regardless, she wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts either.

  The truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Duane.

  During the drive home I’d decided, on I-20 someplace between Tuscaloosa and Birmingham, I was going to search him out. He missed me, he’d said so. He’d offered to fly out to Houston. We’d made plans before I left, plans that included a whole night and a whole day and a rustic den of seduction in the woods. We’d made thirteen months of plans.

  Now at home, I tossed and turned, wondering if I’d misunderstood or misinterpreted things between us. I replayed every conversation—every touch and every look—over and over in my head, all the words he’d said that felt like promises.

  I think we’re suited.

  I’ve always wanted you.

  When we make love…

  The house fell quiet and still I fretted. Unable to stand the sound of silence any longer, I grabbed my coat, my car keys, and the keys to Duane’s cabin.

  On the way out I also nabbed a small flashlight from the kitchen drawer and pulled on my tennis shoes, not bothering to tie the laces.

  Finding the turn off from Moth Run proved to be relatively easy. But I began to doubt myself and the sanity of taking a sixty-thousand-dollar sports car on a Tennessee unpaved mountain road until I spotted the rough path that led to his place. Less than three minutes later I spotted the cabin, and my breath caught in my throat.

  I was momentarily paralyzed by the sight because light flickered through the windows, and what I guessed was smoke from the chimney rose into the air, made visible by how it blotted out the stars in the sky above.

  Inexplicably, I was suddenly quite furious.

  Riding the wave of intense anger, I put the stick shift in first gear, forcefully engaged the emergency brake, and turned off the headlights, opting to traverse the remaining distance by foot. No car was in sight—not Billy’s truck and not Duane’s Road Runner. I didn’t dwell on this trivia because with each step I grew more agitated. By the time I’d silently picked my way up the rough stone steps, I was good and pissed off.

  I didn’t knock before I tried the handle, found it locked, then laughed to myself maniacally as I search for the cabin’s keys.

  “No keeping this crazy lady out…” I muttered nonsensically to myself. “Hide all you want. I have a key, a key you gave me, you stupid hillbilly. You shouldn’t give a girl keys to your man cave if you don’t want her to open the door…”

  No sooner had I found the keys and exclaimed Ah ha! with wild satisfaction did the door swing open. My head whipped up, a ready frown on my face, and I was assaulted with the image of a sleepy, peeved Duane Winston in nothing but unzipped blue jeans and black boxer shorts.

  Of course, my frown gave way to wonder as my eyes moved over his body. Warmth permeated my bones. Goodness…I loved his body. It called to me. It wanted me to touch it. It promised to hold me and provide the comfort and reassurance I desperately needed.

  “Jessica?” The truly perplexed way he said my name cut through my wishful thinking and I lifted my gaze to his, found him looking at me, stunned. Like I might be a figment of his imagination.

  “I’m not drunk!” I yelled at him.

  I don’t know why I volunteered this bit of information. Maybe because showing up in the middle of the night to his cabin in the woods, dressed in my pajamas and coat and untied tennis shoes, seemed like something only a drunk person would do.

  His eyebrows drew together.

  “Duane Winston, I…I…” I swallowed, my throat working without success. My chin wobbled, my eyes stung and—not knowing what else to do—I punched him as hard as I could in the shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “Ow?”

  “What’d you do that for?” He was rubbing his shoulder, now looking at me like I was crazy.

  I wasn’t crazy. I was simply a woman scorned, in the Shakespearean sense.

  “I’m mad at you!”

  “You’re mad at me?”

  “Yes! I needed you and you don’t love…” I trailed off, unable to complete the sentence and moving to punch him again even as tears blurred my vision.

  Obviously anticipating my intent, he easily intercepted my wrist and used my momentum to pull me forward, into the cabin. He kicked the door shut and caught me around the waist before I could face-plant on the floor in front of the fire.

  “Stop—”

  “I’m so mad at you.” I thrashed against his hold, the tears now streaming freely down my face. “I thought we were in this together, I thought you wanted me, I thought you’d be there for me when I needed you! But I tell you how I feel and you want to talk about it later? Was this all a set up? A big lie? Did you ever want me at all?”

  He snaked his arm around me and managed to keep my arms from flailing. My back was pressed to his front and he had me in a tight hold.

  “Jess—”

  “You are such a bastard!” I had just one goal: hurt Duane Winston. Hurt him just as badly as he’d hurt me with his cool dismissal of my confession.

  “Just calm down for a second,” he growled in my ear.

  “Calm down? Calm down?!”

  “Yes, calm down.” He dragged me farther into the small space.

  I tried to wrench myself free, digging my nails into his bicep and scratching viciously as I bellowed, “I AM NEVER GOING TO CALM DOWN!”

  With one smooth movement he twisted me around and pushed me backward. I thought I was going land ass first on the hard floor, but instead my back connected with the soft mattress. A split second later he was on top of me, holding my wrists above my head and pressing me against the bed with the weight of his body.

  I bucked beneath him to no avail. His breathing was ragged and so was mine. I took the opportunity to glare daggers at his skull. But it wasn’t long before I realized he appeared to be just as angry as me.

  As soon as I comprehended his fury, Duane’s eyes lowered to my mouth, like
my lips distracted him. Then his expression changed, teetered between furious, hungry, and lost.

  “Jessica…” he whispered.

  I wasn’t mad anymore. Well, I was mad, I just didn’t feel mad. I felt tired, and all the hurt beneath the anger bubbled to the surface.

  “I am so mad at you,” I repeated, like the watery words might protect my heart, and I felt hot tears slide past my temples into my hair.

  His gaze lifted to mine and he winced, his hold on my wrists loosened and he let them go. Duane cupped my face with his big hands and I felt his thumbs lightly wipe away the wetness at my temples.

  “Don’t be mad, Jessica. And don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

  He brushed his lips against my forehead, pressed a lingering kiss between my eyebrows. Then he moved over me, trailing kisses from my eyebrow to my cheek, to the corner of my mouth, my jaw, my neck. Once there he licked and bit the exposed skin, making me shiver and tense.

  His hands slipped from my cheeks, lower to my neck, my shoulders, tugging at my coat. Instinctively I lifted myself and he shifted his weight to accommodate the movement, his mouth capturing mine, making my head swim. I loved his mouth, loved how he kissed. I wanted to lose myself in him and he was making it easy for me to do so.

  Unwilling to break contact, together we worked to free me of my jacket. I heard him toss it to the floor and I climbed on his lap, straddling his legs and kicking off my untied tennis shoes. Duane’s fingers sought my skin, caressing my thighs, slipping into my panties to squeeze my bottom.

  I decided, just as soon as we finished kissing, I was going to demand an explanation. But first we would kiss, because my brain told me I needed it. My heart seemed to think so, too, because it warmed and expanded, making my chest feel airy and achy in the best way.

  My hips, however, seemed to think I needed more than just kissing and his caressing hands, because they rocked against his middle.

  Okay, that’s not quite right.

  I grinded against him. Multiple times.

  I did that.

  I’m not ashamed.

  The friction felt necessary.

  My grinding made him groan, which made me moan. His fingers dug into my hips, encouraging me, and mine fisted in his hair, like we were anchoring ourselves together. Like maybe, if we could just hold on, we could hold on to this moment, being wrapped in each other.