A Beardy Bonus: Winston Brother Series Book #8

by Reid, Penny

  I stared at Mrs. Cooper. Aghast. The woman must’ve been seventy-five years old if she was a day and I just could not believe what I was hearing.

  She didn’t seem to notice my shock.

  “It’s so beautiful. Big. Long. Curves up a little, exactly like it should. But not scary big, like Isaac Sylvester’s.” Samantha shivered a little, like it was a bad thing. But then she shivered again, like it was good thing. “I’ll tell you about him too, if you want.”

  The woman next to me shifted in her seat before saying, “Tells us more about Billy. How does he like it? Missionary or . . .?”

  “Taking notes, Alison?” Annabelle Cooper laughed.

  The brunette shrugged. “What if I am?”

  Annabelle Cooper guffawed. Meanwhile, I had the sudden urge to dump Alison Beverton’s tea over her head.

  Before I could unpack these feelings, Samantha answered, “He likes everything. He’ll do whatever you want. I mean it. And he’s equally good at all positions. I always orgasmed before he did. Always. Usually twice. One time, I talked him into—”

  “Okay, okay. That’s enough.” Debbie Lee lifted her hands and shook them around her face. She then reached for her napkin and waved it frantically at her neck. “I’m sorry. But, I don’t think I can hear another word. I’m burning up.”

  Samantha winked at Annabelle Cooper. “This Billy talk too hot for you?”

  “I still don’t think we should be—”

  Debbie Lee was cut off again. This time by Karen Smith (who Tammy McClure said was the town gossip). “The thing about Billy Winston is that he’s the whole package. He’s definitely husband material.” She said these words pragmatically, as though they were an acknowledged fact.

  I grit my teeth to keep from snarking back, As opposed to what? Handkerchief material?

  The other ladies, however, didn’t seem to have a problem with Karen’s statement, all responding in a chorus,

  “That’s for damn sure.”

  “I wish he’d notice my Karrie.”

  “Yeah, but those brothers.”

  “True. True.”

  I spoke up without thinking, riding a wave of indignance. “What’s wrong with his brothers?”

  “I agree with her. His brothers are cute little things. Give them time. They might surprise you once they’re men,” Annabelle said, smiling knowingly.

  Karen Smith picked up her teacup. “They might improve, with time. But you marry Billy, then you got the rest of his family to deal with. He is very devoted to his family.”

  “That just means he’ll be devoted to his own children and wife as well,” Alison argued, leaning to one side to address Karen Smith.

  “I don’t know.” Karen made a thoughtful face. “He’s sacrificed a lot for his momma, his brothers. Seems like you marry him, you’re marrying them, too. And they’ll always come first over your own family.”

  That didn’t sound bad to me. In fact, an instant family sounded like a bonus, especially the Win—ABORT, ABORT!! YOU SHOULDN’T BE HAVING THESE THOUGHTS, CLAIRE! ABORT!

  “Anyway, y’all want to hear something funny?” Samantha sat forward again. “Y’all remember that guy I dated from New York? The Wallstreet one? Before I met my Charles? Well, I used to pretend he was Billy all the time.” She laughed, seemingly thinking this was hilarious. “No lie. But don’t worry, the fantasy didn’t last too long. He couldn’t keep up the ruse, if you know what I mean. It’s like, I’d really have to be in possession of a good imagination. That’s honestly why we broke up.”

  Debbie Lee made a sound of distress. “Can we talk about something else? That poor man.”

  “Who? Wallstreet guy? Don’t feel sorry for him. I know his current girlfriend and she gives him three blowjobs a week. He’s happy.”

  “Not your ex, Samantha. Billy Winston. I feel sorry for Billy.” Debbie sighed, folding and refolding her napkin, her hands unsteady.

  “What? Why?” Samantha looked nonplussed, tossing her long, shiny dark hair over one shoulder.

  “You keep objectifying him and he is such a nice guy,” Debbie Lee fretted, looking around to the others in the room as though to appeal to their decency. But no one was looking at her, finding their teacups more interesting.

  “I’m not saying he’s not a nice guy, Debbie. I’m saying he’s fantastic in bed.” Samantha huffed. “Plus, how does one live in a town with a Billy Winston and not objectify the Billy Winston?”

  “That’s why his sister is leaving,” Karen Smith announced.

  “What? Ashley? She’s leaving?” Annabelle Cooper frowned at the town gossip.

  “Yep.” Karen Smith nodded. “I overheard her telling Daisy Payton that she’s planning to go away to college. Far away. Have you seen how those high school boys carry on around her? Jackson James is the worst, and his daddy got so mad. Sheriff James is the good sort. Anyway, she’s tired of it, you can tell. Daisy is here somewhere, talking to Janet James over by the punch I think. You can ask her.”

  Samantha nodded. “I can see that. Ashley is just so crazy beautiful.”

  Again, the ladies all agreed in a chorus,

  “She is stunning.”

  “I wish I had her eyebrows.”

  “She won that Miss. Tennessee pageant for good reason. So gorgeous. And smart, too.”

  “Well, there you go.” Debbie Lee gave Samantha a hard look over her teacup, and then took a dainty sip.

  “There I go, what?” Samantha snapped, her blue eyes narrowing.

  “There you go. Ashley Winston is leaving ‘cause of how those boys at school keep talking and carrying on.” Debbie Lee set her teacup down on her saucer with a loud clink. “You shouldn’t be talking about Billy either.”

  “Now you see here, Debbie Lee. I like sex a lot and I will not be shamed for it. We are a sex positive household.”

  “I’m not shaming you for liking sex, Samantha. I am shaming you for objectifying Billy Winston. I mean the poor man isn’t here to defend himself!”

  “Defend himself from what? From me saying he’s a great lover?” Samantha scoffed, her nose wrinkling in a way that made her beautiful face look adorable. “I’m sure he would thank me. We are still friends, you know.”

  “It’s just not appropriate to talk about someone else in that way,” Debbie stood, picking up her teacup and lifting her chin.

  “Well, why the hell not?” Samantha also stood, picking up her teacup too, like it was sword and they were about to duel. “I’m singing his praises, ain’t I? I mean, we all sit here and talk about how that Sylvester girl shouldn’t be in beauty pageants at her age and her momma is a dragon lady. I can’t say something nice about Billy Winston’s magnificent rooster without being henpecked? Gawd!”

  “Ladies, ladies. Please settle down.” Annabelle Cooper’s hands lift, fingers covered in diamonds sending sparkles and rainbows all over the room, her voice rising by the barest of degrees. “No use getting your feathers ruffled, Debbie. If you don’t like the talk, no one is forcing you to listen.”

  “Fine. Then I won’t.” Debbie strolled toward the door, her head held high, and I had the sudden notion that I should follow her.

  You shouldn’t be here!

  “I think I will go find Daisy Payton,” Debbie said, having finally reached the door.

  I told my legs to work, I told myself to stand up, I told myself to leave. Billy Winston is none of your business. LEAVE!

  “At least I can count on her for decent conversation,” Debbie Lee quipped. And with that, she opened the door and strolled out.

  Get up, Scarlet. Get up. Get up. Go. . . go. I didn’t go. The warning voice in my head was weaker than the curiosity devils on my shoulders.

  “Will someone else get that?” Annabelle Cooper asked the room, waited until the Courteney Cox look-alike shut the door, and then—grinning—turned to face Samantha again. “Now, what can you tell us about Isaac Sylvester?”

  **END BONUS SCENE**

  Extra Scene: A Winston Chri
stmas (Ashley and Drew)

  Author’s note: This scene takes place directly after the action of Beauty and the Mustache, and was originally included in my December 2014 newsletter.

  * * *

  “What are you reading, Cletus?”

  “An article about the convergence of age of consent laws worldwide.”

  Jethro glanced up from his knitting, his eyes flickered to mine, then back to Cletus. “What?”

  “Consent laws,” Cletus repeated, a little slower this time and a little louder, like Jethro were hard of hearing; and then again, “Consent laaaaaaws.”

  “I heard what you said, dummy. I just don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jethro grumbled back, moving his attention back to his work in progress. It was a gray hat, 100 percent merino wool yarn. I’d fondled it earlier when he wasn’t looking.

  I had a bit of yarn envy. That’s right, I was coveting my brother’s yarn.

  Presently, we were sitting in Momma’s house, gathered around the fireplace; a roaring fire providing warmth and the cozy sounds of winter. Billy was strumming his acoustic guitar in the corner, absentmindedly picking out the main melody to Canon in D.

  Jethro and I were sitting on the couch knitting, Roscoe between us. Roscoe was scrolling through the online knitting and crochet pattern website Ravelry, looking for scarf patterns (for himself, obviously); he wanted either Jethro or I to knit him something. We both suggested he learn how to do it for himself.

  Duane and Beau were in the club chairs playing chess and frowning at each other. And Cletus was in the rocking chair by the fire, an unlit pipe in his mouth; he was ensconced in a velvet smoking jacket, thick orange hand-knit socks, brown corduroy pants, reading The Economist. He was absolutely ridiculous.

  It would have been an idyllic scene except every fifteen minutes or so an argument would break out between two of my brothers. Names were called, threats were made, dirty looks were cast across the room like fishing lures.

  So far, Billy and Jethro had arm wrestled over the last piece of apple pie.

  Duane and Beau had argued over Beau’s shirt; it was Duane’s, Beau borrowed it and had somehow spilled gravy on the front. Now Beau was wearing just an undershirt and Duane was wearing a scowl.

  Roscoe and Cletus had argued over whether or not Paul Revere’s One if by land, and two if by sea before the American Revolutionary War had to do with how the British would be arriving or Paul Revere’s personal mode of travel. Roscoe insisted it had to do with how the British would be arriving—one light if by land, two lights if by sea—and Cletus maintained that the story had been corrupted over time. That, in fact, one light for land and two lights if by sea, had nothing to do with the British at all, but rather was how Paul Revere would announce his own travel mode and plans.

  Roscoe was still sulking about losing the argument. Cletus, to everyone’s astonishment, was correct. This prompted Cletus to insist that Roscoe call him Professor. Roscoe would not.

  Now, Jethro’s last statement hung in the air and I could feel the tension mounting. I didn’t think Cletus would let Jethro get away with calling him dummy. I sensed some sort of retribution was brewing. A few minutes passed where nothing was said.

  Then, Cletus announced to the room, “Age of consent for sex.”

  Billy stopped strumming his guitar, Duane paused mid-chess move, Roscoe’s hand stilled on the iPad, and Jethro and I glanced up from our projects.

  “What?” Billy’s question was curt and confused. “What are we talking about?”

  “This article, it’s about the age of consent for sex around the world and how laws are converging.”

  “It’s eighteen in the United States.” Beau said this offhandedly, returning his attention to the chess board and the move Duane was about to make.

  “That’s not true,” Cletus said around his pipe. I noted he’d adopted a weird accent, something between German and British. He sounded ridiculous. “It’s twelve.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I blurted, my mouth falling open. “That’s . . . you just made that up.”

  “Nope. Federal law establishes the age of twelve as the minimum age of consent, while the age at which there are no restrictions for consensual sexual activities is eighteen.”

  I exchanged a glance with Billy. I imagined we wore matching expressions of confusion.

  “So . . . what does that mean?” Duane narrowed his eyes on Cletus, setting the chess piece he was about to move back on the board.

  “Well, while sex with someone twelve to seventeen is not illegal per se, it can still be open to prosecution under certain circumstances. So, that’s good news for you, Jethro.” Cletus lifted his chin toward Jethro and gave him a shit-eating grin.

  Jethro grimaced and glared daggers at Cletus; he was most definitely not smiling.

  “What?” Roscoe leaned forward, his eyes ping-ponging around the room. “What did I miss? Why is this good news for Jethro?”

  “Because when Jethro was—”

  “That’s enough! We’re not talking about this.” Jethro stood suddenly and pointed at Cletus, adding in a low voice, “We’re not talking about this.”

  “What are we not talking about?” Beau’s mouth had curved into a curious and excited smile. “What did Jethro do? Or rather, what did Jethro do and with whom?”

  At that moment, the front door opened and I glanced over my shoulder. Drew stood in the doorway, shaking snow from his jacket and wiping his boots on the mat. I set my knitting to the side and jumped up to greet him, nearly tackling him as the screen shut behind him. He wrapped one arm around my waist, catching me, while I grabbed his face with my hands and pressed a kiss to his cold lips.

  Peripherally, I heard Cletus say something like, “Come on now, Jethro. It’s nothing to be ashamed of . . .”

  “Hey, Sugar.” Drew smiled down at me with his gray eyes. “You’re warm.”

  “And you’re cold.” My attention fixed on his bluish lips and reddish nose. The weather report claimed it would get down to seventeen degrees by midnight. “Come sit by the fire and have a bourbon.” I tugged him after me toward the big recliner by the fire.

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” Jethro was saying through clenched teeth while he poured himself two fingers of whiskey. He glanced up as Drew and I approached. He nodded to Drew, but an edge of exasperation seemed to glint behind his brown eyes as Cletus spoke.

  “If you’re not ashamed, then why not let everyone know?” Cletus was also standing. He was resting an elbow against the mantle, his other hand was on his hip, the silly pipe still in his mouth, one foot on the step of the fireplace—he’d assumed the Captain Morgan pose.

  “Jethro, pour one for Drew,” I requested as we passed.

  “Now I really want to know.” Roscoe had inched to the edge of his seat. “And I’ll take one of those whiskies.”

  “Might as well make it a round, pour one for everybody,” Billy said, setting his guitar to the side and crossing to Jethro to help him pour the whiskey.

  “I’m offended no one wants my moonshine eggnog.” Cletus shook his head at the lot of us, like we were a disappointment.

  “Maybe if it didn’t taste like the ass of a skunk . . . ” Duane mumbled, then pointed a finger at Jethro. “But we’re getting off topic. Why should Jethro be happy that the age of sexual consent in the US is twelve?”

  I was helping Drew off with his jacket when this was said, and was treated to Drew’s surprised then worried expression at this statement. I stifled a laugh as Drew’s gaze sought mine out for an explanation.

  I shrugged, pressing my lips together to suppress my smile before saying, “I haven’t got the foggiest idea why Jethro is happy about the age of consent being twelve.”

  Drew lifted his gaze to Jethro, his stare probing. “Something you need to tell us, Jethro?”

  Jethro rolled his eyes, saying “Dammit, Cletus!” just before he shot back the whiskey he was holding.

  “Sexual urges are normal.” Cletus
nodded solemnly as he spoke. “When a man—or a boy—desires a woman, it’s a perfectly natural thing to—”

  “Fine! Fine, tell them. I don’t care.” Jethro threw his hands in the air, his voice rough from the whiskey. I saw that his cheeks above his beard and the bridge of his nose were now tinged the barest shade of pink. “This is so stupid . . . ”

  While Jethro raged on, I pressed Drew into the recliner and turned to go get his drink. But his hands gripped my hips, forcing me down with him and onto his lap.

  “Drew, let me go get—”

  “Stay with me,” he whispered against my neck, drawing me close, his beard tickling me.

  “I want to get you something to warm you up,” I whispered back even as I melted against him.

  “You warm me up.” His arms came around me and held me against his chest. I didn’t protest. Instead, I took one of his hands in mine and rubbed it, warming his long fingers. I loved those fingers.

  Meanwhile, Jethro was finishing his tirade, “. . . it’s not like I’m the only person, so go ahead and tell everybody.”

  “What is it?” Beau’s narrowed glare moved between Jethro and Cletus.

  “Just tell us already,” Billy demanded. “At this point it better be something good.”

  Jethro and Cletus shared a look, some silent communication, as the rest of us watched in various levels of suspense.

  Then Cletus smiled—it looked remarkably sinister—and said, “Nah . . . it’s not my secret to tell.”

  Duane and Beau growled in unison, “Come on, Cletus!”

  Jethro shook his head slowly at his younger brother, still holding his gaze, and said, “I’m going to get you back for this.”

  Cletus’s smile grew, and he shrugged happily; his smile was still sinister, but now also warmed with a teasing affection. It was the kind that only siblings and lifelong friends feel for each other. He was obviously pleased by his effective torture of his older brother.

  “Fine, I will tell you all and then I don’t want to hear a thing about it.” Jethro turned to the room and faced us, his tone hard and displeased, but also reluctantly amused.