by Shirley Jump
Vegetable oil
One warning: don't try to mix drinking beer with frying beer at the same time. I once had a hell of an accident doing that and ... Well, let's just say my performance was a little subpar for a while. So stay sober for now, then chug-a-lug when you're done.
Heat 1-2 inches of oil in a heavy saucepan until it reaches 350 degrees. Or if you're like me and wouldn't know a freakin' candy thermometer if your doctor brought it out at the annual physical, just improvise. The oil's ready when it sizzles like hell if you drop some batter in there. Easy, right?
In a pie plate (see Ma, I did pay attention to something other than the girls in home ec) mix the flour, salt and pepper. Add in the beer—from half the bottle to all of it, depending on how thick you want your batter to be. Dip the fish into the batter, then put the filets into the oil.
Yeah, that was hard, wasn't it? Feeling worn out? Grab a cold brewski. Don't worry, you got time. The fish will take five minutes on each side to get golden brown. You could down at least two in that time. Maybe three, if you work fast.
Drain the fish on some paper towels if you want to pretend you care what you're doing to your arteries, then eat.
Beer in your bottle and beer in your food. It doesn't get much better than that, my friend.
Chapter Four
"I told you, Kenny, I'm not going in there."
"Yeah, yeah. But you were hungover when you said it."
"I'm serious. I'm done drinking. I'm done with women for at least a month."
Kenny drew in a sharp breath. "Be careful what you say out loud, buddy. It's bachelor blasphemy."
Travis paused on the bottom step and gripped the wrought iron railing. It was Sunday night and they'd just left the gym after a particularly humiliating game of racquetball, made worse by the purse-sized bump on Travis's head that kept aching, like a reminder of past sins. To be standing here, outside Slim Pickin's bar, was the height of stupidity, considering his resolve that morning. But like an addict seeking that regular high, Travis had followed Kenny here.
Every Sunday, they came to Slim Pickin's. Monday was Mortie's Place. Tuesday, another bar, Wednesday sometimes another visit to Slim Pickin's, then a fourth on Thursday, until the weekend came and Brian or Lou or someone else would chip in for a case and fire up his grill. As regular as clockwork, as if he were standing on the assembly line for early liver disease.
Travis turned to Kenny. "Don't you think it's time we grew up?"
Kenny blinked. "Uh ... why?"
"Because we're in our late twenties; thirty is just around the corner, and we're still acting like we scored a fake ID and a case of Coors."
"And your problem with that is ... what?"
"I have a job. I can't be doing this every night."
Kenny climbed back down the two steps and laid a hand on Travis's arm. "Travis, you and I convince people to buy beverages for a living. That's not a job. It's like being Gopher on Love Boat."
"Exactly. And why do you think I haven't been promoted? Or tried really hard to get a new job? You know how I hate working for Larry."
Kenny shrugged. "Because you figured out a cake-walk job with a decent salary is the smartest thing you ever fell into?"
"No. Because I come in bleary-eyed and with a headache more often than not. This isn't the life I planned on, Kenny."
His friend turned his head right, then left, peering down the empty sidewalk. "Well, I don't know whose life you think you've got, pal, because you're the only Travis Campbell I see in front of me."
"That I don't know." Travis let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "But I intend to find out."
"Dude, you're not making any sense. First you want to quit drinking. Then you start talking crazy about giving up women. Now you don't even know who you are? Have you been hit on the head recently by falling debris? We can sue for that you know."
"No, I haven't. I was, however, hit by a hell of a purse."
"Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Maybe it knocked a few brain cells loose." Kenny draped an arm over Travis's shoulder and tugged him up the last step and into the entrance. "And I have the perfect solution for lost brain cells."
"What?"
"Why lose some more, of course. It's what beer does best."
Meredith sat on a corner stool at Slim Pickin's, an untouched margarita on the rocks before her, and drew in a breath. This was a crazy plan. The kind they put on women-in-jeopardy movies. "She should have known better," the announcer would say as the opening credits rolled, "than to go looking for trouble."
That was precisely what Meredith wanted, though. Trouble—and lots of it—before she had to return to Indiana. She knew it wouldn't be long before someone came looking for her. She had to hurry up and make this change happen.
If anyone tried anything, she had the box of Trojans in one pocket of her purse—best case scenario—and a small bottle of pepper spray in another pocket—Lifetime movie special scenario.
The pepper spray had worked on Mrs. Beedleman's obnoxious, overfed and too-pampered chocolate Labrador. She figured it should work on anything male lunging at her, whether it was looking for kibble or not.
She settled herself onto a stool and looked around the dimly lit sports bar. It wasn't a bad place and, being on Mass. Ave., it was close to Rebecca's. Like most bars, the wall decor was ESPN, Fox Sports and HBO Boxing. A half dozen pool tables peppered one side of the room, while a square of booths formed the perimeter of a small dance floor headquartered by a brightly lit jukebox.
It was early yet, just after seven on Sunday night, and only a few people, mostly couples, sat at the tables. Avril Lavigne's latest song began drifting from the jukebox speakers, causing a few men to groan, a couple of women to dance in their seats and one guy to plunk down a pile of quarters beside the juke and start thumbing through it for better future selections.
So far, there wasn't an eligible male in sight. Not that Meredith intended to drag the first single man she saw off to the nearest Holiday Inn, but she didn't want to wait too long. She needed a man.
And she needed him quick. Before her resolve left her as quickly as a bull escaping his spring castration.
Two men came into the bar, one short and dark-haired, with end-of-day stubble on his chin, the other tall and tanned, his hair the color of the chocolate on a KitKat bar. As the taller of the two approached the bar, she could see that his eyes were a deep, dark green, like the shadowed corners of a lush forest. Something hot quickened in her gut.
The man moved easily about the bar, as if he'd been here a hundred times before. He had a strong, taut body, not too muscular, not too thin. Clad in jeans and a fitted dark blue Henley, he looked—
Perfect.
At the other end of the smooth oak surface, a heavyset man in his early sixties lifted his glass toward the bartender. "How about another round, Bud?" The words came out slurred and slow, as if he were concentrating on getting them right.
The bartender, who didn't look a day over twenty-one, scowled at the older man. "My name isn't Bud and you're done here. The last thing I need is a drunk snoring on my bar."
The tall man left his friend's side and sauntered over to the other end, laying an elbow on the bar beside the bigger—and drunker—man. "Hey, Jim, what kind of customer service is that?" he said to the bartender.
"The kind that keeps my ass from getting sued because this guy plows into someone's living room after I serve him one too many."
"You could at least be nice about it."
The bartender shrugged and started drying glasses. "He's drunk. He won't even remember me tomorrow."
"He's still a human being."
Meredith watched the entire encounter, fascinated by the tall stranger who'd defended a drunk. How many men had she known who would do that? She'd known far more whose idea of being nice meant letting their girlfriends take the first sip off the head of a fresh draft of Bud. She hadn't met many who'd go out of their way to defend a guy who'd gone way past 0.08
percent.
The tall man slid onto the stool beside the older man, who was now rooting in the nut dish for an elusive cashew. "Hey, Mike," he said. "Whatcha doing here on a Sunday night?"
Mike looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Wife left me, Travis. Took the damned dog, too."
"She took Chester?"
Mike nodded, reached for his glass, saw it was still empty and put it back on the bar with a sigh. "I screwed up again."
"Ah, you don't need her."
He sniffled. "But I need the damned dog."
"Sitting here drinking yourself into a coma isn't going to bring Chester back."
The man heaved a sigh and clutched his beer mug like it was going to save him from drowning. "You're right."
Travis reached forward, removed the empty glass from the man's hand and pushed it away. It was an easy, gentle touch. Friendly, yet firm. "Let me call you a cab."
"You mean, go home?"
"Yeah, go home. Sleep it off and—"
"But Chester isn't there." A sob caught in Mike's throat.
"I know. I know." He put a hand on Mike's shoulder. "Listen. Get over to the animal shelter in the morning. There are a lot of animals there looking for someone who needs them. Hell, you already have the fenced-in yard." He gave Mike a grin.
Travis had a heart and a soul. Meredith hadn't expected to like the man she chose, but it was a nice bonus. Kind of like getting the free matching purse when she bought new shoes, only better.
Mike considered Travis's words for a long moment, then he nodded, his face brightening. "And if I get joint custody of Chester, he'll have a friend to play with when he comes for visitation."
Travis grinned. "Exactly." He signaled to the bartender for some coffee for Mike, then unclipped his cell phone from his belt and punched in some numbers. After a minute, he closed the phone and turned to Mike, sliding a freshly stocked bowl of nuts toward the man. "Cab's on its way. You gonna be all right tonight?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Travis. You're a great guy."
Travis chuckled and patted Mike on the shoulder. "You're drunk right now. When you're sober, you'll change your mind."
Mike opened his mouth to protest, saw Travis already had an argument ready on his lips, and reached for the mug of coffee instead.
After saying good-bye, Travis crossed back to his friend and started watching the Patriots on one of the thirty-inch screens circling the bar area.
Meredith squeezed the slice of lime into her margarita and considered Travis. Until he'd walked in, the bar had lived up to its name—Slim Pickin's. Travis, however, wasn't just gorgeous, he was nice. He seemed trustworthy, even chivalrous. Meredith didn't know a lot about cities but she did know not to choose a man based solely on looks. Ted Bundy had been kind of cute, too.
Meredith watched Travis, who kept his eye on Mike until the cab arrived a few minutes later, then screwed up her nerve. She took a long sip of the margarita. Damn. Why couldn't the tequila hit her fast, before her self-consciousness had a chance to awaken and put her whole plan at risk?
"You two guys gonna order something? Or are you just here to decorate my bar?" the bartender said to Travis and his friend.
"Two rum and cokes," the short one said, pivoting toward the bartender.
"Except leave out the rum in mine," Travis said. His friend shook his head at him, then paid Jim for the two drinks. The men turned, putting their back to the bar again. The short one's gaze roved over the room, alighting on anything female. Travis, though, kept his gaze on the pigpile of men in blue and red uniforms.
Meredith checked his left hand. No ring or evidence of one being there before. Maybe he was dating someone, which would explain his lack of interest in the women in the room.
Or maybe he was just waiting for the right woman to come along.
Meredith swallowed, then took another gulp of her margarita. Nope, no courage in the lime twist either. Just a slight buzz that made her skin feel flushed.
If she didn't move now, she'd never get past the label printed on the white sash draped across the mirror of her bedroom back home.
There was no way she was going to her grave with her greatest life achievement being "Miss Holstein."
She slid off her stool and headed over to the duo, her hand on her purse. Beneath the leather exterior, she could feel the box of Trojans. She took in a deep breath, forced a smile to her face and crossed to the one named Travis.
Travis stood there, like an oak tree, staring at the football game as if she didn't exist. He was a foot taller than her, maybe more. A whiff of his cologne teased at her nostrils. A bit of musk, a hint of pine.
And a lot of man. More man than she was used to. "Excuse me," she said.
The short guy's gaze swiveled toward her. "You looking for me?"
"Uh, no. I'd like to talk to you." She directed her words at Travis.
"I'm watching the game," he said, without looking down.
The short guy punched him in the arm. "Don't be rude, Travis. A pretty lady wants to talk to you."
"You know what I vowed five minutes ago," he muttered.
"And you know I think you're nuts," his friend muttered back. "So say hello and don't be a jackass."
Travis looked down at her. "Hello." Then his gaze went back to the television.
Cousin Henrietta, who'd been in Boston once for a wedding, had warned her that Bostonians were as rude as a litter of kittens in an ice bath. Maria, however, had proved to be the exact opposite. So had Rebecca, who, contrary to Momma's predictions, had stayed true to her sweet nature after moving to Boston when she was eleven.
Maybe it was just this guy. Maybe she'd chosen the wrong one.
"You know, it's too bad you're busy with the game," Meredith said, keeping her tone flip, unconcerned. "Because I was about to make you a very nice offer."
His gaze stayed riveted on the Patriots/Bears matchup as if the fate of the world hung in a piece of pigskin. "What's the offer?" the shorter one said. "If it's a drink, I'm all yours."
"Let her go, Kenny. I'm not—"
"Crazy, even if you act it," Kenny interrupted. "Don't mind him, he's grumpy."
"Maybe he's just obnoxious." Meredith started to walk toward her seat, then stopped midstep.
A man wouldn't walk away from something he wanted. He wouldn't let a little aloofness get in his way. He'd try a little harder.
And so would a city girl, Meredith decided. Small town Indiana girls gave up easily when confronted with big-city attitude. City girls told the man off.
She returned to stand in front of Travis. "Do you have something against women?"
He dropped his gaze to hers. "Not at all."
"Something against me in particular?"
This time, his gaze swept over her, slow and easy, inching down the details of her body. Meredith felt a slow burn of embarrassment creep into her cheeks.
And a slow burn of a whole other kind stirring in her gut.
"Not at all," he said.
"Then why are you being so rude?"
He blinked. "Rude? I... Well, I guess I was being rude."
"He has his reasons," his friend piped in, a grin on his face. "Stupid ones, but reasons all the same."
"Kenny, I'm having a conversation here," Travis muttered.
"But I thought you swore off—"
"Kenny," Travis said again, with more growl in his voice.
"I see a blonde I like over there anyway," Kenny said. "I'll leave you two alone. Provided I can trust you to go easy on my friend here." He gave Meredith a wink and hooked a thumb in Travis's direction.
"Go easy on him?"
Kenny's grin widened. "Don't tempt him. He's a weak man."
"Kenny, I swear I'll—"
"Leaving, leaving." Kenny waved a hand of defeat and walked away.
Travis Campbell was a man who didn't want to be tempted. Now that was exactly the kind of challenge Meredith had come to this city to find. It was even better than her original plan to find a man who was re
ady, willing and able.
A man who wasn't willing, wasn't ready but still able would force her to really act like a woman. Try out this new sexy siren persona she wanted to affect.
And help her shed the image of a girl steeped in cow manure and homespun roots once and for all.
"Can I buy you a drink?" she asked, forcing her voice not to shake as she spoke. Never before had she made a pass at a man.
Hopefully she didn't fumble it and end up overshooting the goal line. Like the guy in the blue-and-red uniform on the TV above them just had, eliciting a few frustrated groans and several curses from the male audience in the bar.
Travis turned to face her and rested his elbow on the bar. "I don't drink. Anymore."
Anymore. There was a word that invited questions. Meredith opened her mouth to ask one, then shut it again. Her objective wasn't to form a relationship here, just to... complete her education. For that, she didn't need to know what "anymore" meant.
"Meredith Shordon," she said, thrusting out her hand.
He paused, then took her hand in his and shook. He had a firm grip. Long, strong fingers.
Perfect.
"Travis Campbell."
"Nice to meet you, Travis."
"Where do you come from, Meredith Shordon?" He cocked his head and studied her. "Your alphabet contains the letter "r," so I know you aren't from here."
"Indiana."
"There are people who live in Indiana? I thought they all left after the finale of Little House on the Prairie."
She laughed. "A few of us hung on in Walnut Grove."
He released her hand. "Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Indiana."
The beauty queen reference, coupled with the word pleasure, sent another round of heat roaring through her.
Now or never. She only had so much time before she'd have to go back.
Back to Indiana. Back to being Meredith Shordon. The woman everybody knew like the back of their hands. If there was anything Meredith hated about herself, it was her conventionality. All her life, she'd fit into the little square created by Midwestern values. No lying. No cheating on her tax returns.
