Beard With Me: Winston Brothers

by Penny Reid

  Second, he hadn’t brought his guitar out to the campsite yet. Instead, he taught me what he called music theory. I’d filled half a sheet music book with his assignments, notes he and I had sung out loud without a guitar. He sang a single note, I matched it, and then we harmonized so I could get it in my head.

  Oh, yeah, Billy could sing. He’d failed to mention that. And his voice was, in a word, heaven. The first few times we’d harmonized, I felt like the top of my head was on fire—good fire, not bad fire—with the joy of it. Unfortunately, he refused to sing any songs with me, only the individual notes for the benefit of my music assignments.

  Anyway, we’d moved on to chords yesterday, and today he had me pairing bass and treble clef, chords and melody, based on certain criteria he’d said was important. Keys he’d called them.

  Third—and this honestly was the biggest, strangest piece of the puzzle—I hadn’t meant to sleep in his room Friday or Saturday night, but I did. He’d talked me into it both times, and please don’t ask me how. He just did.

  Friday night, he’d come across Cletus and I behind the house, at the end of our discussion. The next thing I knew, Billy had Cletus acting as lookout as he snuck me inside. Billy escorted me to the bathroom so I could take a shower and told me to give him my clothes so they could be washed. Cletus patrolled the hall while Billy did my laundry. I still wasn’t over the fact that Billy Winston had done my laundry. He’d probably had to touch my underwear! Ack!

  But what could I do? I was already in the bathroom, naked, horrified that I’d just handed over dirty underwear. I showered, changed into the pajamas he’d left on the counter, and let him guide me back to his room. There, wordlessly, he changed my bandage, and then turned off the light, leaving me alone to go shower himself. Meanwhile, I was still mentally stuck on the laundry.

  I’d been determined to sleep at the campsite on Saturday night. I’d even joked with him about how he was so good at tricking me, and I’d been especially resolute since Billy had folded my clean clothes—including my underwear AND BRA!—and left them on the end of the bed before I woke up Saturday morning. But again, that night Billy talked me into sleeping in his room. This time he won me over by suggesting we review a few things on the guitar, which was conveniently at the house.

  He did not go over anything on the guitar.

  Instead, he made me more hot chocolate with four marshmallows, and we talked about shared memories until late. Apparently, when I was five, his momma made a seven-year-old Billy pretend to be my husband in a game of house. I did not remember this, but he insisted it was true. When I continued to doubt, he left and returned less than five minutes later with a photo album.

  Inside was a picture of us—I was five, he was seven—and he was holding two naked baby dolls, looking as broody as ever. Meanwhile, five-year-old me was beaming, my arm around his waist, my head on his upper arm, and my hair in neat pigtails. Suddenly, it all came flooding back.

  “Your momma did my hair,” I said, touching the photo with wonder. Mrs. Winston had come to one of the Wraith picnics and, upon spotting me running around like a feral animal, took me inside and gave me a bath. “She sang the please and thank you song, and then brushed and braided my hair.”

  “She still sings that song to us, when we neglect our manners.” Billy was kneeling in front of me while I stared at the photo of my clean face and tidy hair.

  I laughed, grabbing a handful of unbraided hair and bringing it over my shoulder. As far as I knew, this was the only photo of me from that age. My momma had no baby pictures, no kid pictures either. Swallowing some muddled emotion, I mentally shoved the spikey feelings away. I wasn’t going to cry. That would be silly.

  Gathering myself, I said cheerfully, “Do you know, I started giving myself a bath every other day and saying please and thank you after that. Your momma said princesses take baths every other day and must have impeccable manners. So I tried to do both.”

  Grinning, he sat back on the floor, bringing his knees up to rest his elbows upon. “That sounds like something she’d say. But that would never work with Ash.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Ash never wanted to be a princess.”

  “Huh. I thought all little girls wanted to be princesses.” Or maybe it’s just the ones who don’t have any hope of being a princess who want it.

  I stared at the photo again, specifically at Billy’s expression. Perhaps it was my imagination, but beneath the sour I thought I spotted a hint of his friendly smile. The curve of his lips maybe?

  “Not Ash. She hates it when our daddy calls her that.” Billy made some movement, drawing my attention back to him. His eyes were unfocused, fixed to some spot behind me. “My sister is something else, so smart. Out of all of us, I hope she’s the one to go to college and get out of here.”

  “You want your sister to leave? Why?”

  “Because . . .” he paused, inhaled deeply, his gaze cutting back to mine.

  Our eyes collided and the impact jarred my teeth. I breathed through it, telling my heart to settle down.

  “The truth?” he asked.

  I nodded wordlessly, my stomach twisting. Billy didn’t appear to notice how his direct stare affected me. Sometimes, all he had to do was look at me and I couldn’t find my words.

  “It’s not just because she’s smart, and good, and driven, and deserves every fine thing. The truth is, I want her gone, out of Green Valley, so she’ll be safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “From our father, from your father, from his men. Like it or not, ’cause she’s a girl, she’s vulnerable to a certain kind of violence, she’s at risk in a way us boys generally aren’t. Soon, they’ll want things from her they don’t want from us. But when that time comes, they won’t be able to touch her. She deserves to be protected from all that, and she will be. I’d do anything—anything—to keep her safe, even let her go.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment, and I felt certain Billy was trying to tell me something without coming right out and saying it. In the end, I didn’t ask and he didn’t clarify. We went to bed soon after, but it took me a while to fall asleep.

  Presently, on this strange Sunday afternoon, as I sat on my big log and his tall form moved about, bending here and there to gather the kindling he apparently considered precious—because why else would he have spent the last two hours collecting it?—I decided Billy Winston made no sense.

  His family was the most important thing in the world to him. Anyone who took the time to watch him or listen to him would know this. More and more, as I reflected on it, I understood why he’d wanted to ask me to leave last week. And yet here he was, helping me, sneaking me inside his house every night, insisting on it, putting them all at risk. Why would he do that?

  And, while we’re on the subject, why was he here with me now? He may have broken up with his beautiful girlfriend, but what about his friends? Family? Responsibilities? And why did he and his girlfriend break up? What in tarnation was going on?

  He must have someplace else to be, other things he’d prefer to be doing . . . Despite his denials of pity, I couldn’t think of any other reason why Billy Winston would waste so many hours here, tidying up my campsite, talking about bible verses and movies and musicians and his family and history and places he wanted to visit and things he wanted to do, and then asking me about myself, my opinions, my thoughts, my dreams.

  He feels sorry for you. That’s why he’s here. What else could it be?

  “You don’t have to stay,” I said and thought, holding the music notebook to my chest. It was still bitterly cold, but my back was to the fire, so I wasn’t frozen. I was fine.

  His frown of forceful concentration persisted, and he split his attention between me and the ground. “You want me to go?”

  “No,” I answered honestly, but also dishonestly.

  I wanted him to leave almost as much as I wanted him to stay. Not his fault, but he kept on crushing me with his laugh and looks
and conversation and disconcerting ability to talk me into sleeping in his room. After three days of being in his company near constantly, I was feeling unsteady and raw. Plus, I felt bad. He’d given up his weekend to babysit me. I didn’t need babysitting. He could go. He should go.

  “Then I’ll stay,” he said, like it was settled.

  “It’s just, I imagine you have other things you’d like to do with your weekend. You can’t spend every day with me.”

  He shook his head, his eyes dropping to the ground, probably still hunting for little sticks. “No.”

  I sat straighter at that. “No?” What sorta answer was that?

  “No,” he repeated.

  “Are you serious? There’s nothing you’d rather be doing?” My face scrunched as I inspected him. He had to be teasing me.

  “I could think of some things . . .” Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he shrugged. “You need real firewood. We should go to the woodshed and bring some back here. The wheelbarrow won’t like the terrain, but I made some canvas carrying bags with Duane over the summer. Those’ll work fine.”

  A laugh of disbelief tumbled out of me and I muttered, “You’re a very strange person, Billy Winston.”

  His eyes lifted, crashed into mine, held. I told myself to breathe through the collision, just like I’d been telling myself since Friday.

  “What makes me strange, Scarlet St. Claire?” he asked, and something about his voice plus his gaze set off explosions of loveliness and uneasiness in my stomach. This was also something he’d done to me all weekend, just another odd quirk about him, I supposed. I would adapt. Eventually. Maybe.

  Assuming we see each other again after today, I reminded myself, just to be on the safe side. Experience told me never to take anything for granted, especially the constancy of people.

  . . . Billy is different.

  I glowered at the sudden, stealthy thought, disliking how much I wanted it to be true.

  Pushing away the loveliness and the uneasiness and my sneaky, creeping expectations of Billy Winston, I crossed my arms. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Am I babysitting?”

  “You’re hovering. I’m fine, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” An intensely charming smile tugged at his lips, like he found something I said funny, and my face heated. His smiles in particular flustered me, especially when I’d told no joke beforehand and especially when he looked at me like he was looking now.

  Embarrassed and not understanding why, I demanded, “Then why’re you hovering?”

  “Am I hovering? I thought we were visiting,” he said, just as smooth as melted chocolate—which makes no sense, but both chocolate and Billy’s smoothness made my mouth water, so just go with it—his gaze lowering to where I held the notebook clutched to my chest.

  I realized all at once that I’d been holding it too tight. I’d crushed it. And his relaxed smoothness made me feel silly. Telling my arms to relax, I glanced down at the notebook. The cover at the corner had been crumpled. Picking at the bent cardboard, I tried to think of something to say, but my mind had gone blank except for crazy thoughts.

  How come you’re so good at talking me into doing things I’ve already decided against?

  Why are you being so nice to me? And why does it sometimes feel like you’re not being nice at all?

  Please don’t look at me like that, I can’t catch my breath when you do.

  I want you to leave and I want you to stay and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  “Scarlet.”

  I twisted my lips to the side, working to remove the chaos I was feeling from my features. “Yes?”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  Yes. That would be best, a wise voice said between my ears.

  So of course I inhaled deeply and said as calmly as I could manage, “I thought we were going to go get firewood.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “But then,” I blurted, flustered and irritated with myself for not speaking wisdom, “You should go. You can’t tell me carting firewood back and forth between your house and here is how you want to spend the last of your Thanksgiving weekend.”

  “I didn’t say it was.” He began making his way up the incline.

  “But you just said—”

  “How about we make a deal.” Billy dropped the kindling next to my little woodpile, dusting his hands off on his pants. “I’ll cart the firewood, and you sing.”

  “You want me to serenade you while we carry firewood?”

  He smiled, slow and easy as he walked to me and reached out his hand. On autopilot—because we’d done this fifty times at least over the last few days—I accepted it and allowed him to help me up.

  As soon as I was standing, his gaze moved from my hairline down to my nose, lips, and then chin, saying quietly, “I’ll take a serenade from you anytime.”

  Thunk ka-thunk. That was my heart. It had been doing the thunk ka-thunk quite a lot around him. I ignored it, because what else could I do?

  “And you’re not carrying the wood.” He tugged on my hand, pulling me out of my daze and past my tent.

  “I will too carry wood.” Struggling to find my bearings, I stumbled after him. “I can carry logs just fine.”

  “You’ll carry a log.” Billy fit his fingers between mine, pressing our palms together and grinning at me like he was waiting for me to argue and he couldn’t wait.

  Snapping my mouth shut, I glared at him.

  “Nothing to say?”

  Maintaining my glare, I walked next to him. I wasn’t being led anywhere I didn’t wish to go. Not anymore. He wasn’t talking me into anything else. I was sleeping at the campsite tonight, and that was that.

  “That’s an awfully mean look, Scarlet.” His grin grew, his brutally attractive eyes glowing happily as he peered down at me.

  “Well, you deserve it. Always trying to tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m not arguing with you about this. I’m carrying as much wood as I want and you can take your stupid, chauvinistic opinions and shove them up your pretty-boy ass.”

  Goodness. Where had that come from?

  Billy’s steps faltered and his mouth fell open, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead. He stared at me, looking shocked as hell. And then in the next moment, he threw his head back and laughed. But he did not let go of me, instead bringing my knuckles to his chest as his deep, rumbly laughter filled the empty spaces between the trees, surrounding us.

  Crushing me.

  Yes. I was well and truly crushed as I could only watch Billy Winston laugh, desperately basking in the image of him so delighted and relaxed. I had the odd sense that his laughter also filled the empty spaces inside of me, the neglected, vacant rooms, and even a few places that felt brand-new, like he’d created them.

  All that noble honesty he carried around like a boulder abruptly lifted, revealing him. Just him. Carefree and young and happy. Someone he might’ve been if his burdens hadn’t been so heavy, his responsibilities so broad.

  It lasted only a minute, maybe two, maybe less, but I had that same sense of being caught afterward, just like when he’d revealed the story of his father and the baseball bat. Billy’s laughter had receded, but he’d spun another web while I’d been staring at him, holding his hand.

  His grin became smaller and he bit his bottom lip, his gaze dropped to my mouth. “You think I’m pretty?”

  “You know you’re pretty,” I said, oddly out of breath, rattled, needing to anchor my focus to a tree beyond him and waging war against the heat climbing up my neck to my cheeks. Oddly, my eyes stung. I blinked.

  His attention was still on me. I felt it, but I didn’t dare look at him. I couldn’t handle one of Billy Winston’s intense stares right now. He’d probably use my scattered wits to his advantage, talk me into something I shouldn’t want to do, and then I’d be kicking myself later.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice deep with concern, all trace of his earlier humor gone.
r />   I huffed, trying half-heartedly to steal my hand back from him. He didn’t let it go, instead taking my tugging as a signal to step closer, filling my vision.

  “Scarlet—”

  “Are you ever going to teach me how to play the guitar?” I closed my eyes.

  He didn’t answer right away, and I felt him hesitate, his mind work before he muttered, “It’s only been a week.”

  A quality to his voice made me think he wasn’t answering the question I’d asked, but rather he was reminding himself that it had only been a week since we’d struck the deal.

  Was that only last week? Why does it feel like so much has changed?

  Then he said, “Don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not angry.” I was muddled, my head and heart hurt, I was incredibly confused, but I wasn’t angry.

  The air shifted and I felt him move closer. A second later, the fingers of his free hand were at my ear, tucking my hair behind it, his fingertips lingering at my neck, sending wave after wave of goose bumps every which way. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t think. Every nerve in my body strained toward him and I didn’t understand it. What is happening?

  “Have you ever been kissed, Scarlet?”

  My eyes popped open at the unexpected question and so did my mouth and goodness, the way he was looking at me—at my lips—I couldn’t describe it in a thousand years. Yet I knew I’d never forget it. Especially since the next thing he did was lower his head, close his eyes, and brush his lips against mine. It was like a thousand little fireworks ignited inside me and I was certain I’d die from the overwhelming feel of it.

  Suddenly hot everywhere, a thoughtless, desperate sound left me as he leaned away, sorta like a whimper. Billy’s eyes opened, crashing and colliding and smashing into mine. Crushing me. I couldn’t read him or them, but the look made my knees feel like jello and the rest of my body burn and boil.

  And then, he was kissing me.

  His fingers were digging into my scalp and then fisting in my hair. His other arm wrapped tightly around my upper back, his hand gripping my ribs beneath my breast, crushing me to him. His body was a wall, massive and hard and unyielding. He steered clear of the cuts on my lower back, but the way he held me was rough, like he couldn’t touch me in too many places or hold me closely enough.