Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4) Read online

  That included being honorable, even when it was uncomfortable, even when it was inconvenient.

  After thinking it over for a few days, I called Darlene Friday afternoon before my lunch break. I’d been working on a tricky engine rebuild all morning and decided my mood wasn’t going to improve as long as I had this hanging over me.

  Darlene didn’t pick up, but then she never did when I called. I texted:

  * * *

  Beau: Let me know when you can talk

  * * *

  I hadn’t even tucked my phone away when it vibrated.

  * * *

  Darlene: What’s up?

  * * *

  Staring dumbly at her unexpectedly quick reply, I figured she must’ve been someplace where she couldn’t talk but could text.

  * * *

  Beau: Just let me know when you’re free for a phone call.

  Darlene: Just text

  Beau: It’s not something to text about

  Darlene: Oh! U want phone sex?

  * * *

  Before I could respond, she sent through a picture of herself. Naked.

  I choked on air, quickly responding.

  * * *

  Beau: Don’t send any more pictures. I need to speak with you.

  * * *

  What the hell? Had she just taken that picture? Or did she have nudes of herself on her phone? If so, I had to applaud her efficiency. Maybe I should hook up Darlene and Cletus.

  * * *

  Darlene: Only answer ur call if u send naked pix

  Beau: We need to talk.

  Darlene: Naked pix first

  Darlene: Don’t be such a prude

  * * *

  Scowling at her words, I decided I should’ve saved the conversation for after lunch. I was more irritated by her messages than I had a right to be and that was likely due to being hungry.

  * * *

  Beau: Just let me know when you have time for a call.

  * * *

  I turned my screen off, preparing to tuck the phone in my pocket, when it vibrated again. This time her number was flashing on the screen.

  She was calling?

  I answered.

  Darlene spoke before I could. “What are you wearing?” I heard the light splashing of water, like she was in a swimming pool.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m taking a bath.”

  My irritation grew tenfold. “Then why didn’t you answer when I called?”

  “Because I didn’t know you wanted phone sex,” she responded sweetly. “You know how sexy I think you are, what your body does to me. Send me a picture.”

  “But you don’t pick up just to talk?”

  “Come on, Beau.” I could hear the eye-roll in her voice. “What is there for us to talk about? You want to tell me about an interesting oil change?” She laughed at her own joke and my lungs filled with fire.

  Unfuckingbelievable.

  Well, clearly she didn’t have a high opinion of me. No worries there.

  “I didn’t call for phone sex, Darlene.”

  “Oh . . . Fine. Then what do you want?” She sounded irritated, as if she was . . . sulking. What the hell?

  I didn’t laugh, but her shitty attitude was enough to ease any guilt I’d been harboring about what I had to do.

  “I’m ending whatever this is we’re doing. I didn’t want to do this over text message, that’s why I insisted on the call. So, that’s it. Goodbye.”

  “What?” I heard the sound of lapping water in the background, like she’d moved suddenly, and she made a strangled sound. “You’re not serious. Of course you want to see me again.”

  “Nope. I’m serious.” And that was the truth.

  I may not have been going to medical school like her, or vet school like Roscoe, or be senior vice president in charge of everything like Billy, but I wasn’t an idiot, and I wasn’t going to put up with being treated like one.

  I listened as she gathered an audible inhale just before screeching, “You bastard!” followed by several key phrases that would’ve made Shelly’s profane parrot blush.

  Moving the phone to my other ear, I released another tired breath as she ranted. Unfortunately, she kept on ranting, calling me every name under the sun, and some names I was pretty sure were only supposed to be used at night.

  For my part, I didn’t understand why she was so upset. We’d barely spoken in weeks. She couldn’t even be bothered to pick up her phone. So why make a big stink now? Was it because of the naked picture? Or had I hurt her pride by calling things off?

  I pulled the phone from my ear and checked the time while she continued her one-sided conniption fit. If this didn’t wrap up soon, I was going to miss lunch. Usually, the good manners drilled into me by my momma and Grandma Oliver demanded that I wait for a pause in conversation, allowing me to end the call as politely as possible.

  But standing there, staring at the minutes tick by, I was all out of good manners. I didn’t want to waste another second on this deranged woman.

  I hung up.

  I turned off my phone—all the way off—and I tucked it in my back pocket. Then I wove through the cluttered garage, heading for my car in the front lot.

  “Hey Beau,” Duane called as I passed, catching my attention.

  I hadn’t noticed him there. I stopped abruptly, finding my twin poking his head out from under the hood of a Nissan.

  “What’s up?” I asked as movement on the other side of the hood caught my attention.

  Shelly.

  I ground my jaw as our gazes connected and braced myself for the inevitable scattering of wits. It happened, but wasn’t as severe as normal. Maybe I was growing used to her attention since she took her blatant eyeful of me on Sunday. Or maybe my current irritation had made me impervious to Shelly Sullivan’s stare of doom.

  “Where’re you going? Are you getting lunch?” Duane wiped his hands on a rag at his pocket.

  “Yep. You want anything?”

  His eyes skimmed over me, drilling into mine. I could see it was on the tip of his tongue to ask what was wrong. I shook my head subtly, knowing he read the meaning in my stare.

  We’ll talk about it later.

  “No, thanks.” He waved me off. “Jess is bringing me something. Just let me know when you get back for—uh—coverage. Also, Shelly has her Friday appointment this afternoon and has to leave early.”

  That's right, Shelly's Friday appointment. They made Friday afternoons more bearable.

  “Fine.” I moved to continue heading toward the parking lot, but an invisible weight held me back, had me stopping again, sighing, and glancing at Shelly. Just because she was rude didn’t give me license to be rude in return.

  The woman still watched me, which was no surprise.

  “Hey,” I called to her.

  “Hi,” she responded immediately, almost too fast, like she’d been waiting for me to speak to her.

  “Are you hungry? Do you want me to pick you up anything?”

  She hesitated, or maybe she stopped herself from speaking, staring at me for several seconds before finally saying, “No, thank you.”

  “Fine.” I nodded once.

  That done, I turned from them both and stalked to my car, deciding to drive up the road to Daisy’s.

  Hopefully, my sour mood would settle as soon as I had something in my stomach.

  * * *

  My foul mood did not settle, and this was because—after waiting forty minutes for my order—Naomi Winters accidentally bumped into me outside of Daisy’s Nut House, causing me to drop my lunch all over the gravel lot. In truth, I broke her fall. She’d tripped over a cement parking marker.

  I helped the woman right herself and escorted her into the busy restaurant. Once I made sure she was settled, I went out to the lot and cleaned up the mess. Out of time, I drove back to the shop both empty-handed and empty-stomached.

  Placing another to-go order wasn’t an option. I knew Duane wouldn’t take his lunc
h until I returned; it wasn’t his fault I’d had a crappy day. Plus, I was fairly certain Cletus had hidden more protein bars in the file cabinet.

  No biggie—I thought, as I endeavored to shrug off the events of the afternoon—I can make do.

  And I would have made do, and everything would have been just fine.

  Except—as I pulled up—I spotted Shelly Sullivan leaning over the engine I’d been working on before lunch. By the time I parked, I was wading through rage fueled by my earlier nasty confrontation with Darlene, plain-old bad luck, and hunger.

  After getting yelled at by Darlene for fifteen minutes and dropping my lunch all over the parking lot, the last thing I wanted to do was talk to Shelly Sullivan. But I didn’t really have a choice.

  “What are you doing?” I struggled to keep my tone even.

  She glanced over her shoulder, giving me her profile and not meeting my eyes. “The distributor cap is rotating, which is making the pistons lose timing.”

  “I know that.”

  “I think if you welded a piece here,” she motioned to the engine, “that would keep the distributor from moving.”

  Glaring at the woman, I poked my tongue at the inside of my cheek as I tried to quiet my temper. I spoke only when I was certain I wouldn’t raise my voice. “No, thank you.”

  “I can engineer the piece for you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I have a welding studio.”

  “No. Thank you,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Shelly studied me, pressing her lips together and swallowing. At length, I went to move around her, considering the matter closed.

  She said to my back, “I can help.”

  Without turning and without thinking, I growled in response, “I don’t want your help.”

  She persisted stubbornly, grabbing my sleeve and tugging me around. “Stop being idiotic.”

  I shook off her hand and shoved my face in hers; she’d picked the wrong day to call me idiotic. “I’d rather be an idiot than a narcissistic pariah!”

  At that she recoiled. It was one of the rare times since meeting the woman weeks ago that her expression was something other than aloof. Her eyes flashed with hurt and she winced, shocking the hell out of me. The sight surprised me to such an extent, my temper deflated instantly and a stab of guilt stole my breath, landed like a punch to my ribs.

  Acting on instinct, I reached for her.

  “Don’t touch me.” She evaded my grip, twisting away as Duane and Cletus jogged over.

  “What in tarnation is going on?” Cletus inserted himself between us and pushed against my shoulders to edge me back.

  Shelly’s gaze flickered to mine then to the floor, lowering to the cement of the garage. “Nothing.”

  “No. Not nothing. Someone is going to tell me what happened,” Cletus wagged an accusing finger at us, “or else.”

  I pulled my hand through my hair, biting back a curse and the urge to apologize. I would apologize, just not yet. Not until after I ate something and could guarantee I wouldn’t lose my temper again.

  “Or else what?” Duane asked Cletus, his eyes on Shelly. “You going to keep us here all night?”

  Cletus’s scowl intensified. Suddenly, he looked as frustrated as I’d felt just seconds ago and he snapped at Duane. “As nice as that sounds, I can’t rightly entertain you all evening, Du-ane. I’ve got something important to tend to at the jam session.”

  “Something? Or someone?” Duane smirked, crossing his arms.

  Cletus stared at my twin for several long seconds, giving me a chance to study Shelly. She’d shifted a few steps to the side and was presently less than three feet to my right. Her eyes were still on the ground and it looked like her jaw was clenched. The rest of her body was rigid and unmoving, except her hands.

  The woman was pressing her thumbnail into the tender skin of her wrist, leaving red, semi-circular indentations in a neat line, one right after another.

  I squinted at the skin on the interior of her forearm because there was something else; little white scars, one-inch lines, tidy rows of them, starting halfway down from the bend of her elbow and continuing all the way up as far as I could see.

  Cuts. Those are scars of healed cuts.

  Abruptly, she yanked the sleeve of her shirt, covering her arm and drawing my attention back to her face. I’d been caught staring. She was glaring at me again. Just like always, my thoughts scattered as soon as our eyes met.

  And just like always—well, almost always—the impenetrable barricade between her and the world was firmly in place. Shelly Sullivan’s emotions were once more safely hidden behind a frozen façade.

  8

  “When we have suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good fortune.”

  ― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

  * * *

  *Shelly*

  “How many Hail Marys are you saying these days?”

  “Fifty-three.” I squirmed, because the number was actually fifty-four.

  “That’s great news.” Dr. West smiled, as though to congratulate me.

  This was in reference to a long-standing compulsion of mine to say a Hail Mary every night before bed for every person I knew, or was related to, or could remember meeting. I had a composition notebook with people’s names. If I didn’t pray for them, my obsessive thoughts told me that the person would die.

  Before starting therapy seven months ago, I’d start the Hail Marys at 5:00 PM and finish just after 10:00 PM. Now I was finishing in an hour.

  Dr. West was right. I’d improved. I’d trimmed the list down to just fifty-four. Fifty-four people I couldn’t not pray for.

  I knew, I knew these thoughts were ridiculous. I knew it. I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t. I didn’t believe my obsessive thoughts were actually true.

  They’re irrational.

  And yet . . . I couldn’t escape the persistent voice in my head that sometimes whispered, and sometimes screamed, and sometimes made me feel like I was covered in bee stings, What if it is true? What if someone dies because of you? What if? . . . Better be safe than sorry.

  “That is good.” Her smile was gone, but her expression was gentle. I really liked her. She reminded me of my sister-in-law. Maybe not as charming, but just as honest, supportive, and straightforward.

  Nevertheless, anxiety built a skyscraper in my chest until I couldn’t stand the pressure and I had to admit the truth. “It’s actually fifty-four. I was unkind to the local fire chief, so I added his name to the list.” I exhaled my relief at my confession.

  “You were unkind?”

  “He seemed really nice, but I just couldn’t shake his hand. It upset him.” I upset him. And I’d upset Beau as well. “I thought about sending him an anonymous fruit basket. Except I thought, what if he’s allergic to fruit? That’s like sending an anonymous death threat. Instead, I added him to the list.”

  She gave me an encouraging smile. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Fifty-four is still really good.”

  “You are right. But . . .”

  “What?”

  “I have a nephew who I can’t think about without worrying that I’m going to hurt him.”

  “You’re not going to hurt him, Shelly.”

  “But what if I do? What if my touching him causes something—”

  “No.”

  I pressed my thumbnail into the skin of my wrist, making an indentation.

  If the marks are there, the baby will be okay.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to answer, taking solace in the fresh half-moons on my skin.

  “Are you marking yourself, Shelly?” Her voice was quieter than it had been a moment ago.

  I had to answer. That was part of the deal we’d made when she agreed to take me as a patient. I’d promised to be honest.

  “Yes.” I nodded, not looking at her. “With my nail.”

  “Wh
y?”

  “The lines will keep the baby safe.” As soon as the words left my mouth I winced. I sounded completely crazy when I spoke these thoughts out loud.

  “Do you believe that, honestly?” Dr. West was still speaking deliberately this week, presumably still counting most of her sentences to make sure they contained an odd-number of words.

  “No. Yes. No.” Closing my eyes, I rubbed my forehead. I was exhausted. Tired of this. Tired of being this way. “I do not believe it. I know pressing my nails into my skin will not keep Desmond safe. I’m being stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid. You know you’re not stupid. But you must be patient with yourself.” Three. Five. Seven.

  Opening my eyes, I studied my therapist, my stomach a knot of remorse and frustration. “I’m sorry I need you to speak in odd-word numbered sentences.”

  “It’s all right. I know you will not focus on me otherwise. Not yet, anyway.” She waved away my apology, her eyes sharpening. “Can we talk about your coworker again? The one you brought up last week. What’s his name?”

  I swallowed, fighting the urge to remain silent.

  I didn’t want to talk about him.

  And yet, just like last time, I did want to talk about him. He made everything better. And worse. Chaotic. He made me feel . . . a lot.

  I promised. I promised. I promised.

  “Beau.”

  “Tell me about Beau, please.” She scribbled something in her notes.

  I shook my head.

  “Please.”

  I promised. I promised. I promised.

  “He’s a mechanic.”

  “You’re coworkers, Shelly?”

  “Yes.”

  I knew she’d added my name to the end of her question to ensure each of her sentences contained an odd number of words. I appreciated that. I appreciated her.

  She wants to help. She wants to help. She wants to help.