Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (21 page)

Duane, who was sitting to one side of me, guffawed at Cletus’s abrupt departure; so did Jessica next to him.

Beau, who was on my other side also laughed and nudged my arm, yelling over the exuberant crowed. “He doesn’t care about the contest, not for himself. He did this to get Claire up there and to buy a car.”

“To buy a car?” I asked, confused. “You mean with the prize money?”

He shook his head. “No. One of the judges—some big record producer—owns a 1971 Buick Riviera. It has a split rear window that makes it look a bit like a shark. He already has one, but he wants two for some reason. He’s got the Lincoln to trade and is hoping to leverage Claire.”

I wrinkled my nose at the ridiculousness of this news, and also the fact that Cletus was using his friendship with Claire to get his hands on a car.

Beau, seemingly able to discern the direction of my thoughts, shook his head, leaned closer and spoke directly into my ear. “This is classic Cletus, killing two birds with one stone. Claire deserves to be on that stage, but she needed to be pushed. She never would have done it on her own. He did it because he cares for her. We all do. Cletus just handed her a record deal—whether she wants it or not, that’s up to her—but he’ll also manage to extort some powerful fella in the process.”

Beau pulled away, meeting my gaze and watching me process his words. He bent to my ear again, adding, “His mind works in mysterious ways,” Beau shrugged, “but the man always gets what he wants.”

***

“Oh good Lord.
Please tell me you did not use the words,
academically speaking
when you were giving sweet Jennifer advice.”

“I may have uttered the phrase.” Cletus’s eyes darted to mine, then away. “I don’t remember.”

“You lie like a dog, Cletus Winston. You do too, remember. You remember, and you did use those words, and you don’t want to admit it.”

I blushed, bright red, my eyes bouncing between Cletus and Claire.

The three of us were in a dressing room, sharing a bottle of champagne and a tray of fancy appetizers. It was my first time drinking champagne and my head felt fuzzy.

Shortly after their set ended, an usher came and found me in the audience, told me I was needed backstage. I excused myself from the row of Winstons and followed the attendant through a maze of hallways. He halted at a door with a piece of paper taped to it that read
McClure & Winston
.

The usher knocked, Claire opened it, hugged me, then pulled me inside.

“Cletus explained everything,” she’d said, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “I’m here to help. We are now good friends and you can ask me anything you like.”

And that was it. Just like that, Claire McClure, Cletus Winston, and I were discussing sex backstage at a big deal talent show.

“Fine. I did use the words ‘academically speaking,’” Cletus admitted reluctantly, “Moving on—”

“That’s a problem, Cletus, because there’s nothing academic about making love.”

“I beg to differ—”

“Just please stop talking and let me set this unsuspecting woman straight. Stop polluting her with your
academically speaking
.”

He started to roll his eyes then stopped. Instead, he plucked a carrot from the appetizer tray and snapped it with his teeth. “Fine. You explain it then.”

“I will. Prepare to be amazed.”

He frowned, like something smelled bad. “I don’t know if I want to be amazed by you when the subject is sex.”

“Then you can leave.”

Cletus brought his narrowed eyes to me, then away, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I’ll stay. For now.”

Claire laughed at him, like she thought he was funny and wonderful—which he was—then moved her warm gaze to mine, her smile softening as she considered me.

When she spoke, she did so as though we really were good friends, her voice was gentle and familiar. “I remember when you won at the state fair for the first time, for your banana cake. Your momma was so proud and happy, but you looked totally petrified.”

“I was,” I admitted easily.

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you’ve won every year since?”

I nodded.

Her brow wrinkled and her eyes moved over me, thoughtfully assessing. “You’ve never been kissed, or so Cletus told me.”

I nodded again, glad he’d told her so I didn’t have to. “I know ignorance is supposed to be bliss, but it’s feeling more and more like a cage these days.”

The side of her mouth hitched but her eyes looked a little sad. “Love is a . . . well, it’s interesting. It can be wonderful, but it can also be destructive. I understand your loyalty to your parents, I do. But you’re right. You’re in a cage, and you’re looking for a way out. Don’t rush it. You have time. I was actually the opposite. When I was nineteen I was a bird, looking for a cage. Believe it or not, your situation is better.”

I nodded solemnly, because I knew her story. Everyone in town knew about Claire, how she’d been born Scarlet St. Claire, the only child of Razor Blade St. Claire, president of the Iron Wraiths. She’d grown up in the motorcycle club and, by all accounts, it hadn’t been an easy life. At fifteen she’d disappeared for three years, only to show back up engaged to Ben McClure, son of the local fire chief. They married when she was nineteen. He went to war, she went to college. Four years later she had her degree, but Ben had died overseas.

She’d taught at my father’s high school—music and drama—and took care of Ben’s parents. Just last summer, she’d moved to Nashville to accept a teaching position at a community college. But if Beau was right, this evening she might be accepting a record deal instead.

She seemed to be debating what to say next, and when she spoke she started slowly. “Let me tell you a story. My husband—” Claire broke off, her eyes darting to Cletus for a split second, then away. Her cheeks heated, but she cleared her throat and pushed past whatever flare of emotion held her momentarily hostage. “My husband, Ben, when he was alive, loved to play baseball with his father. They’d toss the ball around. He loved it. When he joined the army and was deployed, a pro-baseball player was deployed with him. So he had the chance to play baseball with a real professional. I mean, this guy was fantastic, just one of the best in the world. But when I asked Ben about it, do you know what he said?”

“No,” Cletus said suddenly and unnecessarily.

Claire’s eyes cut to his and she gave him a flat look of annoyance before continuing. “He said, ‘You know, Claire, it was fun. But if I could play baseball with anyone in the world, it would still be my pop.’” She paused, allowing Ben’s answer to sink in, then added, “That’s the difference love makes. So Cletus is right on the one hand. Having experience, good technique, good moves—those are all just fine. If you’re having sex for recreation or playing it like a professional sport, then those things are critical. But if you’re making love, then experience and good moves are a bonus, but not at all important. It’s the person, not the technique, that makes it worthwhile.”

I felt my smile grow as she spoke and was grinning when she finished.

Claire’s clever eyes held mine. “So don’t worry about your lack of experience. You wait—if you want—because when the right guy comes along, he won’t mind about your technique or lack thereof, and you won’t mind about his. He’ll care about you. You’ll care for each other.”

Music, the muffled sounds of a live performance, invaded our space, but I paid it no mind. Claire’s words were like a salve to my nerves. Unthinkingly, I turned to Cletus, maybe to thank him for bringing me backstage, for making this stolen chat with Claire possible, but the words immediately caught in my throat.

His eyes were already on me and his look hit me squarely in the chest, a hot spike of awareness. It was another of those rare windows into the real Cletus Winston, unmasked and raw, but this time he didn’t look angry. He looked ravenous.

The hot sensation spread lower, to my abdomen and lower, to my . . . other . . . area.

I flushed, felt overheated. His gaze singed, and yet I also felt oddly liquefied by it, loose and adrift.

The muffled sounds dissolved, as though I’d been pulled into a tunnel where only he and I existed, Cletus and his ravenous appetite and his fiery-blue eyes.

But then I jumped, flinching and tearing my eyes away, because an unexpectedly loud knock rapped against the door. A moment passed where no one spoke and I couldn’t see, but the invasive clamor of live music met my ears followed by sounds of cheers and applause.

“I’ll get it,” Cletus said, his voice gruff, as though he hadn’t used it in days.

I watched him stand, watched him move to the door, his big shoulders rising and falling with an expansive breath. I noticed his hands were balled into fists and his forearms were bare. He’d rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. I tried to recall whether I’d ever seen his arms before. And, if so, why they were so distracting now?

A gentle nudge against my calf had me turning back to Claire. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was hanging open. She mouthed,
You and Cletus?

I shook my head quickly.

Her gaze narrowed and flickered over me. She nodded her head, mouthing again,
You and Cletus.
This time it wasn’t a question.

My stomach fluttered with panic-induced vertigo. I shook my head again, whispering, “We’re not like that,” just as Cletus opened the door.

“Mr. Winston. Fine performance,” an unknown female exclaimed, drawing my attention back to the door.

“Mr. Platt, Ms. Flom. I imagine you’ll be wanting to speak to my partner?” Cletus crossed his arms, tilting his chin up and adopting a tone I’d never heard him use before. Most of his accent was gone. He sounded like a Yankee.

“Where is the lovely Ms. McClure? We’d love to congratulate her as well, maybe talk some things over. Did she get the champagne we sent?” a voice asked, which I guessed belonged to Mr. Platt.

Cletus nodded once. “She did.”

“Good. Good. So perhaps we can—”

“Let’s cut to the chase.” Cletus leaned against the doorjamb and a friendly smile curved over his lips, but from where I was sitting his eyes were remote and remarkably shrewd. “I want your Buick, Ms. Flom. You want Claire McClure in a contract. I’m sure we’ll be able to reach an equitable arrangement, where everyone leaves the table happy.”

“That sneaky bastard,” I heard Claire whisper and I looked back to her. She didn’t look upset. In fact, she was smiling.

“Did you know?” I leaned close to Claire so as not to interrupt the negotiation occurring at the dressing room door.

“Beau warned me,” she said on a low breath.

“What are you going to do?”

Her gaze held mine and I saw indecision, but I also saw excitement.

“Well, Cletus wants that car.” Claire smiled and shrugged. I returned her grin, laughing lightly.

She sighed, it sounded happy, and her attention moved back to the man in question.

I followed her gaze, repeating the words Beau had said to me less than an hour ago. “And Cletus always gets what he wants.”

***

Soon after Cletus
concluded preliminary negotiations with Ms. Flom and Mr. Platt, I made my way back to my seat. They needed to get back on stage for the awards.

Claire and Cletus came in first place. Knowing the truth—that whether they won or lost made no difference, because Claire was already on her way to signing a record deal and Cletus had successfully negotiated the purchase of the car he wanted—was a bit like catching a glimpse of the Wizard of Oz standing behind his curtain.

Reality didn’t negate the triumph of their win, but the festivity that followed felt less about winning and more about just wanting to celebrate with family. Even though Jethro and Sienna’s wedding was literally three weeks away—and they’d all be seeing each other again for the occasion—the siblings and their partners seemed to jump at any opportunity to celebrate together. I loved this about the Winstons.

Thanks to Sienna’s clout, the entire second floor of the family’s favorite barbeque restaurant in Nashville had been secured. Billy was on my right and Beau on my left. Claire was way down on the other end, chatting with Sienna and Jethro. Roscoe sat directly across from me, with Cletus across from Beau and Jessica across from Billy. Duane sat on the end cap.

Next to Cletus was Ms. Flom, and she seemed intent on monopolizing his attention. A fact that had me both irritated and relieved.

I didn’t want to meet with another of his ravenous looks and deal with the confusing longings that accompanied it. I didn’t know what it meant and I had no experience from which to draw. Therefore, I sat quietly—avoiding eye contact with Cletus—and slipped into my role of people watcher. It was interesting to study the different dynamics at work.

The record executives had been invited to join our gathering and Mr. Platt was fawning all over Sienna. The servers were also hovering over her. Even while we were standing in front of the restaurant she’d been recognized and mobbed by strangers in the street.

“What are you staring at?” Billy asked, attempting to follow my line of sight.