by Reid, Penny
“I got a message on my phone this morning from Boone. You know how Tricia, Kip, and Elena were arraigned on Saturday? Well, it’s a good thing Alex cleared out your father’s bank accounts and transferred the money back into your momma’s renovation accounts.”
“Why’s that?”
Cletus blinked a few times at his plate of pancakes and reached for his coffee, it was obvious something weighty was on his mind. “It looks like Kip was going to use it to post bail. He, Elena, and Tricia are all maxed out, their bank accounts empty due to the farm stay initial investment. Now they either have to take out a loan or sit in prison until trial.”
A weird kind of warmth, I assumed it was vengeful righteousness and satisfaction, burned within me. I caught Cletus sizing me up, presumably checking to see what I thought of this latest development.
I gave him a tight smile and shrugged. “I guess that’s too bad for them. Shouldn’t go around trying to murder people—or chickens—if you don’t want to go to jail.”
His lips tugged to one side. “Seems pretty straightforward to me. But there’s something else.”
“What’s that?” I added just another teaspoon of sugar to my coffee, then stirred. For some reason, I was in the mood for sweet coffee today.
“Tricia is claiming that she hit Diane over the head at Old Man Blount’s and dragged her to the bee boxes. She’s saying she did it all herself.”
“Why would she do that?” This information did not sit well with me. Elena needed to be held accountable for the part she played.
“Looks like Tricia is trying to take the fall for Deb and Elena, spare them prison time related to the attack on your momma, the chickens, and the bee boxes.”
“Can’t we go to the police and tell them the truth? Stop her from confessing?”
“We can try, but I doubt they’ll do anything about it. Boone said they don’t have any evidence that Deb was involved at all—other than telling Tricia about Nancy’s gossip—and nothing that links Elena to the bee boxes. I think they’re going to take Tricia’s guilty plea and move on.”
“It’s not right.”
“No, it’s not.” Cletus nodded. “But we can make sure justice is served in other ways.”
I narrowed my eyes on him. “You mean us taking revenge.”
Now he shrugged, painting on an expression of innocence. “I mean, if that’s what you want to do, who am I to argue?”
A short snort of disbelieving laughter burst from my lips. “Yeah. Right. Okay. I guess you’re rubbing off on me because that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”
He smiled, but then tried to hide it behind a sip of coffee and by clearing his throat. “Anyway, we don’t have to decide anything right now. Best to marinate in it for a bit. I’ll be off work by four. Do you want to come over to the homestead for dinner? Or should I bring you something?”
“I’ll make dinner.” I chewed on my lip, deciding to contemplate Cletus rather than the awful people who’d made this last month hell. We’d have our revenge, one way or the other, sooner or later. Of that I was certain.
Moving on to more agreeable matters, I considered the (handsome as he was clever) man in front of me. I wondered why Cletus, who obviously loved me, had consented to spend the night at my house but would not sleep with me in my bed.
Well, actually, that wasn’t quite true.
Cletus had slept—just slept—with me the entirety of Friday night after all the chaos. But every night since, he’d stayed in my bed until I fell asleep, and then moved to the guest room until sunrise. I wasn’t frustrated about it, per se. I understood why he persisted in his carefulness and nobility, given all that had transpired. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t counting down the hours until he made a move.
“Do you need me to pick anything up?” he asked, his attention on the plate of pancakes. I got the sense he was avoiding eye contact or trying to distract himself from the direction of his thoughts.
“I think I have everything I need. Momma stopped by yesterday afternoon with groceries while Ashley and Shelly were over. Oh, and get this, she brought me a book by that Instagram guru she’s using.” I shook my head. “I just don’t understand her. If she wants help, why not seek out a professional? Why go to a social media celebrity?”
Cletus’s gaze moved over my head, thoughtful as he picked up his coffee cup, took a slow sip, set it down, and finally said, “Fundamentally, there are ten types of two types of people in the world.”
I lifted an eyebrow, tilting my head to the side. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You know, when folks say, ‘There’s two types of people in the world, X and Y,’ and fill in the blank with an either-or statement. Like, there’s two types of people in the world, those that like blueberries and those who are serial killers—that kind of thing.”
I smiled. “Yes. I’ve heard those before.”
“Well, fundamentally, there are only ten types of two-types-of-people lists. There are two types of people based on active ability, whether a person can or can’t do something. There are two types of people based on innate competence, whether a person is naturally one way or another. There are two types of people based on preferences, liking one thing more than another. There are two types of people based on some innate factor not having to do with ability, being born one way or another; for example, looking one way or another. There are two types of people based on experience, either a person has done or experienced a thing or they haven’t. There are two types of people—”
“What’s your point?”
“Well, I was getting to that.” He sent me a grumpy, harassed look, clearing his throat. “There are two types of people, those that have a particular desire and those that don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Your momma and your daddy have both made mistakes, big ones, mean ones, hurtful ones. But what makes them fundamentally different is that your momma—even being blind to the nature, depth, and breadth of her own failings—knows she has flaws.”
“That’s . . . true.”
“Thusly, I contend there are two types of people, those that want to be a better person and those that don’t think they need to be. Your momma, bless her heart, wants to be a better person. We may not agree with her methods for growing and changing, using the Instagram life coach and such, but at least she’s self-aware enough to have the desire. Self-improvement is not something that should ever be ridiculed, no matter how clumsy the attempt.”
“Huh.” Inspecting him, I marveled at his truly wonderful observation. “Sounds like you’ve given this some thought.”
“When you decided to maintain a relationship with your mother, I wanted to support you in your quest, but I needed to understand why you’d wish it.”
Picking up my fork, I pushed a slice of pancake around in a pool of syrup. “Well, I appreciate you making the effort.”
“If something is important to you, it’s important to me. That will always be true. But I must admit, the effort with your mother was time well spent. She . . .” His eyes moved up and to the right. “If my mother was the giving tree—you know that book, The Giving Tree?—well, if my mother was the giving tree, then your mother is a polar bear. She’s fierce in a way my mother never knew how to be. She’s protective, maybe a little overprotective at times. But there’s no doubt in my mind, if she thought someone hurt you, she’d tear them apart limb from limb. That is, if she got the chance. Your father included.”
“She’s made serious mistakes,” I said, reminding him without wanting to spell out all the ways her overprotection had been overbearing while I’d been growing up. Plus, she’d been overprotective of my father too; turning a blind eye to his abuse because she loved him.
“That’s true. She’s made mistakes, mistakes that ended up hurting you both. Absolutely. I’m not defending her, or giving her a free pass, I’m just saying, our mothers were so different. It’s fascinating. Because of their differences, they both kept us safe and also put u
s in harm’s path, just in two completely different ways.”
“It is interesting, now that you put it like that.”
“I’m grateful I took the time to know Diane better, doing so helped me understand my own mother better. I guess—” Cletus began, frowned, glanced down at the table this time, and then gave his eyes back to me. “I guess you’re rubbing off on me too, Jenn. And I can’t say I’m sorry. You make me better. Thank you.”
I felt an enormous, automatic smile claim my mouth as a delicious, tender, and—yes—happy warmth swept through me. He’s mine.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
“Oh! Before I forget.” Cletus snapped his fingers, leaning to one side and reaching into the pocket of his coat. “This is for you, from Shelly.” He slid a greeting card-sized envelope across the table.
Picking it up, I worked my finger into the flap and gently tore the envelope open. “Why didn’t she give it to me yesterday?”
Cletus scratched his jaw. “Well, see, it’s really from me, but Shelly owed me a favor, so it’s also kind of from her. You’ll see.”
Quirking an eyebrow at him, I pulled out two pieces of stiff cardboard which seemed to be protecting a photograph between them. Discarding the top piece of cardboard, I stared at the picture for several seconds before it dawned on me what I was looking at.
My gaze cut to my fiancé. “Why are you giving me a photograph of male bottoms?”
“Those aren’t just any male bottoms. Those are—” he reached over and pointed to each bottom in turn “—Billy’s, Beau’s, and Roscoe’s. And that’s mine, but you already knew that.”
I wrinkled my nose, but I also smiled, and then I laughed, turning the photograph facedown on the table. “Why are you giving me a photograph of your brother’s bare bo—oh my God!” I leaned forward, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Is this about that day? When my mom bought the cows and I flashed your brothers?”
“Well, technically, you mooned them. But yes. That’s what this is about.”
“Cletus! How—why—what—”
“Revenge,” he said, looking at me like he was confused by my confusion. “Obviously.”
“So you got Shelly to, what? I mean—” I looked at the picture again, studying it. “It looks like y’all posed for this.”
“We did. Shelly told them it was for an art project.” Cletus took a sip of his coffee. “Beau, of course, was all gung-ho. Roscoe too. Only Billy took convincing.”
I covered my face, now laughing in earnest. He also chuckled, but he sounded a shade sinister too. After a while, I tucked the photo back in the envelope and wiped at my eyes.
“I can’t believe you.”
“Do you like it?”
“You are . . . unbelievable.” I sighed happily, placing my elbow on the tabletop. My chin fell to my upturned hand. “I love you, Cletus,” I said dazedly, in a dazed daze, seeing only him and his gorgeous lips, his clever eyes, and his magnificent beard.
His focus dropped to my lips, and Cletus answered my grin with one of his own. But his voice seemed to be roughened with emotion as he said, “And I love you, quite a lot more than can be adequately expressed with words.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to show me.”
Cletus’s gaze sharpened, jumping to mine, almost harsh in its intensity. It sent a shock of something both wonderful and overwhelming from my heart to my fingertips and toes and everywhere in between. I held my breath, transfixed.
“I guess I will,” he said, and the words sounded like a promise.
But they also sounded, just a little bit, like a threat.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope of a cure.”
― Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
*Cletus*
Operation Food for the Starving Badger was a go. And for the record, I was the badger.
Tasks had been completed in order and in an orderly fashion. Events were running according to schedule. All the equipment and materials had arrived at the community center without incident and had been placed backstage behind the curtain of the cafetorium while successfully avoiding any pesky authority figures milling about—i.e. Jackson James.
I’d been avoiding Jackson James for years, but even more so recently, for obvious reasons. I sensed he felt badly about things with Jenn, my errant assumptions and accusations. Apparently, Jackson James was not a villain, an irritating development. The (Armadillo?) designation would have to be removed, once and for all.
Now some of y’all might be wondering why I’d chosen the backstage area of the community center’s cafetorium on a Friday night as the place and time for my seduction plan. The reason was simple: stage lighting, backdrops, and rafters for the quick appearance (or disappearance) of set pieces. Nowhere else in Green Valley could I make seduction quite a production. Well, nowhere else in Green Valley with less than five days to make it all happen.
But I digress.
Beau sat in his usual spot, eating coleslaw, and flirting with Shelly. Right on time.
Drew and Ashley were on my right, holding hands, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes, and discussing poetry, or philosophy, or some such palaver. As was typical.
Billy, my wingman for the evening who didn’t know he was my wingman, sat across from me holding court. Exactly as I’d planned.
If everyone remained focused on Billy and his unprecedented appearance at the jam session two times in the first two months of the year, then no one would notice my presence, or lack thereof. Some folks were still giving me a wide berth after the pretend fake fight with Jenn three weeks ago. She and I hadn’t been seen together in public since, and I imagined there’d be a lot of curiosity once we did step out again as a couple. But for now, tonight, they left me alone.
Furthermore, they should all follow Billy out of the cafeteria portion of the cafetorium, leaving the audience area vacant for maximum privacy during the critical moment. Excellent.
Surreptitiously surveying the crowd gathered around my older brother, I checked my watch. Half past five. The jam session would begin promptly at 6:00 PM, which meant everyone would start clearing out of the cafeteria between 5:45 and 5:50 PM. It’s time.
I looked at Shelly—who, technically, might’ve been my actual wingwoman since she was the only one privy to the plan and was responsible for emptying out the cafeteria—and gave a nod.
“You don’t look so good,” she said, like a robot.
No matter. Shelly often sounded like a robot. What mattered was she got the lines right.
“You know, I think my stomach is bothering me.” I rubbed my belly.
“That’s not good,” she said, a little twinkle in her eye even though she still sounded like a robot.
“Don’t feel good?” Ashley scrutinized me, her brow wrinkling in concern. “That’s too bad.”
“You should go home, Cletus,” Shelly said, nodding a nod eerily similar—in nodding pace and facial expression—to my somber nod.
I squinted at her. She almost smiled.
“I think I will go.” I said my lines, standing and holding my abdomen for effect. “Tell everyone in the bluegrass room I’m sorry I had to leave.”
Offering perfunctory salutations and departing regards, I left the cafeteria at exactly 5:42 PM, walked to the bathroom and washed my hands, and then strolled to the entrance just as Jenn crossed the threshold at 5:45 PM on the dot, folding her jacket over her arm.
And for the record, she was the food. Furthermore, she looked delicious. My mouth watered as my eyes devoured the sight of her dressed in a pair of black lace patterned tights, black leather boots with a spiked heel, and a body-clinging black long-sleeve dress. Her hair was long and wavy around her shoulders, and her lips were painted bright red. Fuck me.
“Hey, honey!” She threw her hand in the air and waved, skipping when she saw me, which wasn’t at all odd if you knew her well. In fact, her excitement to see me, each and every time we met,
was precious to me, just like her. Jogging over, she wrapped her arms around my neck and placed a sweet kiss on my lips, the soft curves of her pressing against the hard planes of me, and my body stirred, awoke, restless. Starving.
I inhaled deeply, holding on to the breath while we embraced, because this was not the place or the time to lift her skirt up, pin her against the wall, and have my way with her body. The place was less than fifty paces away. The time was in five minutes.
But once we’re there and the clock reads 5:50 PM, all bets are off.
After a moment, Jenn’s hands slid from my neck to my shoulders. She pulled away. Her eyes were wide with curiosity.
“Are you okay? Why are you so stiff?”
I knew she meant my chest, arms, legs, back, and the breath I held, not the disobedient part of me which had been methodically diverting blood from my brain all day long in anticipation of this very moment.
And since my brain wasn’t in full working order, I grabbed her hand, yanked her down the hall toward the door leading to the backstage area, and muttered, “Come with me.”
She said nothing as she followed, but that might’ve been because she had to jog to keep up.
Once there, I opened the door without the key, having covertly propped it open earlier. I then shut it behind us, testing to ensure it locked completely, and continued in the pitch black toward our destination. She couldn’t see, but I could. I reasoned that the darkness would heighten her delight when the full magnitude of my surprise was revealed.
“Where are we going?” she asked on a whisper, sounding excited. “Is this a surprise?”
The crowd from beyond the curtain continued their chatter, providing sound cover and homogenous background noise. Soon—in less than four minutes—it would be silent. I trusted Shelly to drive out the crowd.
We were just about to the bed, and I blinked around the floor of the stage in the dimness, searching for the button. Finding it, I set my hands on Jenn’s hip, positioned her just a foot away from the mattress, and stepped on the button.
