Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (25 page)

“You’re right. I wasn’t going to help her. I don’t fight other people’s battles anymore.”

He stiffened and a shadow of apprehension passed behind his eyes. “What happened wasn’t your fault, Cletus. You’re not responsible for the actions of our father.”

I looked beyond my brother to the window behind his desk. “He and his club brothers put you in the hospital when he found out you helped me.”

“I was older than you, and it wasn’t the first time he’d put me in the hospital, if you remember.”

“He broke your leg. You lost your football scholarship. Everyone in town might think you voluntarily turned it down, but that’s because no one knows the full story.”

“What happened is no one else’s business but ours. He broke your nose. And he killed your dog. You were only sixteen.”

A vivid flash of memory—a memory I’d stopped fixating on years ago—held my mind hostage. “I shouldn’t have tried to help her. Carla wasn’t family.”

“She was a friend.” He waved away my remorse impatiently. “Sometimes friends are family.”

“Carla wasn’t, though. She wasn’t that good of a friend and I’ve never required hindsight to figure that out.” I brought my eyes back to my brother, transposing my memory of his bloodied face over his clean features. “It was the unfairness I hated. I had no particular warmth for her. But her daddy, he was a monster.”

Carla’s father and our father were captains together in the Iron Wraiths. I didn’t add that our father was also a monster. I didn’t need to. Billy, maybe more than any of us, already knew.

“You helped her run away. That was good. You did a good thing.”

“And you paid for it.”

“Your only mistake was getting caught. Picking fights with bullies at school was one thing; calling out a captain of the Iron Wraiths is another. You should have kept your mouth shut.” Billy tried to keep his tone light, like we were talking about other people and their problems. His eyes were understanding, just like they’d been thirteen years ago.

My brother was a great man. He would achieve great things in his life, of that I had no doubt. His regard for us, for all of us, was humbling. I suspected sometimes that we didn’t deserve it.

“I’m so sorry, Billy.”

Billy stared at me for a stretch, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, then he shrugged. “It’s in the past. As momma used to say, ‘Best to leave farts and the past behind you
.
’”

I chuckled at that. It was one of her more scandalous sayings.

“Tell me what happened with Jennifer.” Billy attempted to get us back on track. “You said she videotaped you, and then what happened?”

“I contacted Alex, in Chicago, and asked him to remove the video from her computer and phone.” I frowned, refocusing my thoughts outward. Sometimes it took me a bit to switch gears between the distant past and the present. “I thought he had, but re-reading his message, it looks like the video was never there.”

“What’d his message say?” Billy asked around a bite of food.

“He said, ‘I can confirm the video isn’t on the subject’s phone, computer, or saved to the cloud.’”

“So you thought he’d deleted it, but it turns out—”

“She didn’t save it on her computer, phone, or the cloud. She saved it on thumb drives.”

Billy’s smile was slow and small and appreciative, his eyes moving down and to the side, then he laughed. “She’s smart.”

“She is. But it turns out her father does random checks of her phone and computer—this is according to Jessica. I didn’t put the pieces together until last Monday.”

“What happened on Monday?” He picked up his hamburger.

“I kissed her.”

Billy paused mid-bite, removing the burger from his mouth. “Good.”

“No. That’s bad. She thinks I did it just to help her practice kissing, like you helped her practice dating.”

“Oh. Bad.”

“Yeah. And then she gave me the thumb drives and told me I was dead to her.”

“She said that?” Billy was mid-bite again, and had halted again to ask me his question.

“In so many words.” I pushed my food away. I wasn’t hungry.

“Cletus.”

“Billy.”

“Don’t embellish. What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Thanks for your help. I don’t need you anymore. Here is your video. Go away.’ More or less, that’s what she said.” Despite not being hungry, I munched on a French fry. The saltiness of the French fry distracted me from the ache in my chest.

“Hmm.” Billy finally took another bite of his burger, his eyes sliding to the left as he chewed things over. “Things could be worse.”

I picked up another fry, glanced at it, then set it back on the table. “They are worse. She’s going to Jethro’s wedding with Jackson James.”

Billy’s eyebrows jumped again. “That asshole?”

“I know,” I responded flatly, sliding my teeth to the side. “I should have given him leprosy back in September. It would’ve kept him occupied through Christmas.”

“Hmm.” Billy set his burger down, studying me and wiping his fingers with a napkin. “What are you going to do?”

“That’s why I’m here. I need you to tell me what to do.”

His eyes communicated wary disbelief. “You want me to tell you what to do?”

“Yep. Because my instinct is to go over to the bakery, toss her over my shoulder, and make her mine.”

Billy crossed his arms. “That’s a bad idea. I’ve tried that, it didn’t end well.”

“Exactly. Plus . . .” I breathed in, held the air within my lungs, and exhaled slowly, my eyes flickering to Billy, then to my burger with no top bun. “Plus there’s the small matter of her wanting to have a lot of children.”

I could feel Billy’s eyeballs on me. His eyeballs had always carried a very specific weight. Growing up, Jethro was a joker, our father a monster, and Billy was the one we looked up to. He was the one I never wanted to let down.

“Cletus—”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“Then we can skip it and you can admit you’re wrong.”

“I can’t admit I’m wrong about two things in the same day.” I brought my attention back to him, found him smirking at me. “It might bring about the apocalypse.”

“Then admit it tomorrow.”

I swallowed past the ballooning anxiety in my throat. I was never anxious, so it took me a minute to adjust to the sensation.

“You’ve seen my temper. You know what I’m like when I lose it. I blackout. I don’t remember. Do you honestly think I should have children?”

Billy’s smirk mellowed into a sad-looking smile. “We all have Darrell in us, Cletus. I look just like him, so does Ashley. You think I like what I see when I look in the mirror? I hate it. But I’m not cutting off my face because I share it with our father. Your decision to not have a family, because you’re afraid of losing your temper like he did when we were kids—it’s admirable, but it’s also stupid.”

“And if I—”

“No.” Billy brought his palm down on the table, hitting it with a forceful
whack
. “Stop making excuses for being a coward. You want Jennifer in your life?”

“Yes,” I responded with more than my voice, the answer shaking my very foundation, coming from deep within me, from the same place I’d buried the rage along with my passion.

“Then you reevaluate your priorities, including your fears. You be better and braver. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

“So what do I do?”

My brother studied me for a long moment, his brow pulled together as he stewed in my situation.

Finally, he sighed and suggested, “How about you lay it all out? Tell her everything.”

I blinked once, slowly, then glared at my brother. “I don’t like that advice. That’s seriously shitty advice.”

He lifted an eyebrow at me. “It’s your advice. It’s what you’ve been telling me to do with,” his eyes dropped and he took a breath before continuing, “with Scarlet.”

Billy stared unseeingly at his half-eaten hamburger. He hardly ever said her name:
Scarlet
.
She’d been born Scarlet, and when they were together she was Scarlet. But when she’d returned to town at nineteen, engaged to Ben McClure, she had changed her name to Claire.

“It’s still shitty advice. I have no idea of knowing what’s in her head. What if she rejects me?” My words pulled a small smile from him. Even so, I added, “I hope you didn’t take it.”

He shook his head. “She’d have to agree to talk to me first.”

I examined my brother. “You and I might be sharing a boat.”

“Yeah, but your boat is newer.”

“This is true.” Frowning, I grabbed a cold French fry and made it bloody with ketchup. “The question is, how do I get out of this boat?”

“. . .[N]o varnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you put on, the more the grain will express itself.”

― Charles Dickens,
Great Expectations

~Jennifer~

“I know you’re
going through this silly phase of rebellion, and I understand wanting to try out the fashion fads, but could you please dress for work tomorrow? We have that photographer coming by the bakery and a Skype call with Jacqueline about the meeting in New York.”

My mother, looking harassed, threw herself into the chair across from me, slapping her notebook down on the counter and opening it to an earmarked page.

It was Friday, eleven days after my first kiss. My life would now be measured in days since my first kiss, because that’s how dually amazing and devastating it had been.

I hadn’t yet picked up my bananas from the store, and I had a long evening of special orders ahead of me. I was tired because I hadn’t been sleeping much.

I missed Cletus and I didn’t know how to stop missing him. Kissing him had been a mistake, a terrible mistake. Even before the kiss my feelings for him had grown tangled. I’d wanted to be with him all the time, talk to him about nonsense, listen to his ideas, likes, and troubles, and share mine.

Not helping matters: his body, and face, and voice, and eyes.

Crap.

Throwing myself into work only helped marginally, but I didn’t really have a choice. Fall was a busy time of the year for weddings in the Valley. Everyone wanted their photographs staged against the canvas of autumn colors.

“Jennifer? Did you hear me?”

Shaking myself from my musings, I nodded. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll make sure I’m in costume tomorrow.” I made a mental note to set my alarm for thirty minutes earlier.

I’d been wearing comfortable clothes on a more regular basis since my date with Billy, both around town and to work. At present I was in a new pair of jeans and a T-shirt one of my pen pals from Germany had sent some years ago. I’d used it as a sleep shirt until just last week. This was the second time I’d worn it during the day or in public.

A fact that irked my mother to no end.

“Costume?” she asked, the sharpness of the word snagging my attention.

I glanced up from the wedding cake I was decorating—white fondant with yellow, purple, and red leaf accents—and met my mother’s glare.

“Yes. Costume.”

She made a sound similar to a huff, but it also had elements of a snort. “What are you talking about?”

“I just meant I’ll wear one of the yellow dresses, and I’ll do my hair and such.”

Her mouth fell open. “Are you telling me you think of your everyday clothes as a costume?”

I set down the tiny rolling pin I’d been using for the fondant on the counter and stared at my mother. We were alone and I was tired. And I was agitated. Therefore, I didn’t think twice about my response.

“Of course it’s a costume, Momma.”

“I thought you liked looking pretty?”

I paused, studying her, the stunned hurt in her eyes. I had two options, and neither struck me as very appealing. I could continue pretending like I enjoyed playing dress up every day. Or I could tell her the truth.

The last several weeks, fighting against her constant objections to my hair and clothing choices, had strained our relationship. But then, did we really have much of a relationship? My pen pals knew more about me—about my hopes and dreams—than my own mother.

I decided to tell her the truth. If I were in her shoes, I’d want the truth from my daughter. But I also wanted to be respectful, because she was my mother and she loved me, even though she didn’t really see me.

“Honestly, Momma? I don’t like those dresses, and they don’t make me feel pretty. They make me feel like a fool. They make me feel like I’m playing a part. I don’t like the color yellow and I don’t want my hair to be blonde. And that’s the truth.” I kept my tone cautiously calm because I didn’t want her to think I was insulting her choices or priorities, I wasn’t. I just wanted different for myself.
I wanted to be honest, and I wanted her to listen and understand.

My mother’s face fell, disappointment shining in her eyes. Eventually, the disappointment became hurt, then frustration. “I guess I’m sorry, then. I’m sorry I wanted better for you than I had for myself. I guess I’m sorry you don’t like all the time and energy and countless hours I’ve put into building your brand, building you up to what you are.”

“It’s not me,” I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could catch them.

“What? What did you say?”

“It’s not me. I’m not the Banana Cake Queen. I don’t like being a brand, I don’t like the attention, I don’t like having my picture taken, I don’t like serving people cake and having them gawk at me. I never wanted it. I never wanted any of it!” My voice had lifted to a shout as my confession built, one truth on top of another, one frustration bleeding into the next. I was a soda bottle that had been shaken for years, and the top had finally popped off.

She gasped, wincing as though I’d slapped her, and stared at me like I was a stranger. “Jennifer Anne Sylvester. What has gotten into you? You do not raise your voice to me.”

I swallowed the bubbling bitterness in the back of my throat. I wanted to honor my parents. I loved them. I didn’t want to disappoint them. But how was I supposed to breathe when I wasn’t even allowed to think?

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” She stood, drawing herself up, her chair scraping against the kitchen tile.

“I’m sorry I lifted my voice.” I was sorry.

She nodded, looking cautiously pacified. “And what else?”

“I’m not sorry I don’t like being the Banana Cake Queen. I feel like I’m a character in the theme park of my life, and it’s a lonely place to be. That’s the truth and you wanted to know.”

My mother stiffened, lifting her chin, and staring daggers of disillusionment at me. She picked up her notebook and clutched it to her chest.

“I have nothing to say to you if you’re going to behave this way.”

With that, she swept out of the room.

I stared at the chair where she’d sat. I stared for a long time, my chest aching with fear. I wasn’t afraid she’d disown me or toss me out. She wouldn’t. But she’d never look at me the same. I’d been an achievement she was proud of for so long, and I didn’t know where I fit in her life if I wasn’t her pride and joy.

Maybe I didn’t fit. And that thought made me cry.

Or maybe I cried because I was tired of being pathetic. Maybe I cried because I wasn’t what my momma wanted, and I wasn’t what Cletus wanted. Maybe I cried because I didn’t know who I was or what I really wanted.

My plan for last Monday had been to give Cletus the thumb drives. Unfortunately, at the time, I could only find four of the five data drives I’d hidden around the kitchen. After tearing the kitchen apart, I discovered the fifth hiding in a box of gluten-free flour. No one but me messed with the gluten-free stuff, so I decided to leave it there until . . .

Well, until such time as I crossed paths with Cletus again.

If our paths cross again.

That thought made me sad.

Regardless, last Monday I was going to give him the video copies, release him from our deal, then put my pride on the line once more and ask him out on a date. The cookies had been baked especially for the occasion. It was an old family recipe. Legend was, my grandfather Donner had wooed my grandmother with his vanilla cookies.

But Cletus didn’t want my cookies.

He wanted a sex-goddess with experience.
He wanted a sex-goddess’s cookies.

I was a fool.

Since our final
lesson
, since that life-changing kiss, just the thought of him caused heart palpitations. I suffered from late-night insomnia, reliving the moment over and over. I frequently daydreamed about him, his mouth, how he’d held me, how amazing he’d felt. I’d caught myself more times than I could count touching my lips, remembering and wishing. If I had a nickel for every time I’d thought about how fantastic the kiss had been, I’d own all the nickels in the world. Every single nickel.

For Cletus, it had been tutoring. He’d been helping
me practice. Poor, ignorant, inexperienced Jennifer Sylvester.

I didn’t want his help. I wanted . . . Well, I wanted him. And I wanted him to want me. Me. Just as I was. I wanted us to be equals.

But that is never going to happen.

I slid to the floor and pressed my face against a kitchen towel, crying for who I wasn’t. However, a while later, when the tears finally stopped, when my head ached and my eyes were scratchy, and the pity party was officially tiresome, I heard a little voice in the back of my head.
This is pointless, Jenn. What are you actually going to do about it?

I stared at the cabinet in front of me and realized I was tired of feeling helpless. I wasn’t going to be helpless. Not anymore. I was taking control. I was going to figure things out, for myself, by myself. If I’d learned anything in the last few months, it was that I couldn’t live my life to make other people happy. So I was going to start there.

I needed to be true to myself.

By God, I was going to be true to myself!

But first, I needed to go pick up the bananas.

***

I used more
bananas in a week than most people ate in six months. Usually, I picked up the bananas Friday morning and Sunday afternoon. But on this Friday I didn’t make it to the Piggly Wiggly until near closing time.

Between the three wedding cakes, other special orders for Saturday, and my mother’s visit—and my subsequent sob fiesta—I didn’t leave the bakery until 9:30 PM and the store closed at 10:00 PM.

I threw on a black sweater over my T-shirt because it was cold. The sweater was fitted, meant to be worn over the thin material of a dress, not the thicker cotton of a T-shirt. Therefore, it was a little tight around my chest.

Jeans, black sweater, and high heels—because that’s all I had with me—I quickly parked and rushed into the store. I was so singularly focused on making it to the produce department on time that I wasn’t watching where I was going. Coming out of the long grocery aisle, I collided with a solid wall of person and would have fallen on my backside if the wall hadn’t grabbed my arms to steady me.

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t looking.” I glanced up, ready to dash past, but all thoughts of bananas fled my mind as my eyes connected with the stern visage of my older brother.

I gaped at him.

And he glared at me, some emotion I couldn’t quite read flaring behind his blue eyes.

“Isaac.” I breathed his name, my heart giving a painful leap just before falling to my feet.

“Jenn.” He hesitated, as though he wanted to say something more. But then his eyes dimmed and he released my arms. “Watch where you’re going.” Isaac glanced behind him.

He didn’t sound angry. He sounded carefully disinterested. And his apathy made my heart crack, a new kind of pain spreading through me like a shockwave.

“Hey, isn’t that your sister?”

I tore my eyes from my brother’s passive profile to the woman behind him. Tina Patterson, a stripper at the Pink Pony who worked with Hannah Townsend. But unlike Hannah, Tina was also a big fan of stirring up drama. It was well-known around town that she was frequently in the company of the Iron Wraiths.

To her left and right were two faces I didn’t recognize, but from the insignias on their leather jackets, they were also members of the motorcycle club.

“That’s your sister?” One of the men, a large, bald fella with the word
Drill
on his jacket, stepped forward and into my space. I backed away, but the man continued to advance.

I heard Tina laugh and the other man groan loudly, saying, “We don’t have time for this, Drill.”

“Just give me a minute, Catfish.” Drill placed his hand to my right on the aisle shelf, caging me in. “Hey, aren’t you the Banana Cake Queen?” His eyes moved down, then up my body.

“I’m . . . I’m Jennifer. Nice to meet you.” I stuck my hand out between us, unable to dissociate myself from ingrained good manners.

The one called Drill glanced at my hand and cracked a crooked and oddly charming smile as he slipped his palm against mine. “You are too fucking cute, Jennifer. I’d like to eat you up.”

“Oh, shit. No way.”

A new voice, one I recognized as Timothy King’s, called from down the aisle, drawing both Drill’s and my attention.

I sucked in a sharp breath and braced myself, because seeing Timothy forced my brain to move past the hurt of my brother’s indifference.

Incredibly aggressive, handsy, with a suspicious inability to hear the word “no
,
”
Timothy King was a looker. I’d never been alone with him, as I’d never had a cause to be. But he’d cornered me outside the community center one evening, placed his hands on my body, and tried to kiss me. I’d been afraid then, because it was dusk and there weren’t many people in the parking lot, and I was afraid now.