by Macy Beckett
Luke nodded at the industrial-sized, walk-in refrigerator and the adjoining freezer. “So this is where Trish freezes Trey’s beer mugs.”
Opening the heavy refrigerator door, June laughed and walked inside to check the sangria that had been marinating since Saturday night. The cool air made her shiver. “From what I hear, she freezes a lot of guys’ mugs, if you catch my drift.” June typically didn’t judge, but she liked Trey and didn’t want to see him hurt. Not emotionally, anyway. June had already banged him up physically.
“Huh. I’d’ve never guessed it.” He cleared away a stack of old pizza boxes and hopped up to sit on the counter. “What’re you doing in there?”
“Checking my sangria.” She flipped open the cooler’s lid, dipped the ladle inside, and poured a sample into her plastic cup.
“That sounds naughty.”
“You would think so.” She took a small sip and swirled the cool wine over her tongue, considering the citrus flavor, the sweetness. The fruit juices had mingled nicely, especially the berries, but she preferred a bit more tang. “Look in that cabinet and hand me a can of pineapple juice.” She pointed above Luke’s head. “I don’t usually take shortcuts like this, but there’s not enough time to do it right.”
After he handed it over, she popped the lid and poured it into the cooler, then stirred the whole batch. The next sip was just right, or at least as good as it would get using Burl’s cheap house Shiraz and frozen fruit.
“Can I ask you something?” Luke said, examining her again, but with less severity.
“Sure. Hey, try this.” June extended her cup, and Luke wrinkled his lips in suspicion.
“It looks like a frou-frou, girly drink.”
“I promise you won’t grow boobs. But even if you did, just imagine how much fun you’d have with your new toys.”
He scooted off the counter and joined her, peering into the cup like it might contain one of those spring-loaded, foam snakes that popped out of novelty prank cans. “What’s in it?”
“Let’s see.” She ticked off an itemized list on her fingers. “Eye of newt, toe of frog, scale of dragon, hair of dog. Oh, and ginger ale.” She palmed the hard contours of his chest and gave a playful push, but it didn’t budge him, and she lingered there a moment, enjoying the thrill that charged her fingertips. “Basically, it’s fruit, wine, and a little brandy. Don’t be such a baby.”
She moved forward, advancing slowly until Luke’s breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair framing her forehead. She took his warm, rough hand and curled it around the drink, peering into his widened eyes and stroking the soft, furry skin of his forearm. It felt so good to touch him again, like stepping into the sun’s heated embrace after a long, frigid winter. Since their kiss yesterday, he’d stayed well out of reach, and she’d felt the abrupt loss like a blanket ripped away on an icy morning.
The scents of shaving cream, soap, and Luke mingled together and dizzied her mind. He glanced at her mouth and swallowed, his tanned throat bobbing visibly above his white T-shirt collar. When his tongue darted between his lips, June’s blood boiled and rushed through her veins. She rose onto her toes, lifting her face to meet his, hungry for the taste of his mouth. Just one taste…
“Junebug,” he whispered and closed his eyes. Then he shook his head and stepped back, gently tugging free of her grasp and restoring the boundary he’d set yesterday. “No.”
The air left her lungs in a whoosh, and she sank back onto her heels, trying to conceal the heat of embarrassment flushing her cheeks. Luke was a shadowboxer, guarding his heart and delivering a sucker punch right to June’s sternum. Willing her pulse to slow, she cleared her throat and knelt beside her batch of sangria. She recalled Pastor McMahon’s words: Love never quits, never abandons…but replaying them in her mind didn’t ease the sting of rejection.
“Try the drink.” She stirred the mixture absently, watching apple and orange slices bob to the surface. “I think you’ll like it, if you give it a chance.” She was talking about more than just the wine, and he probably knew it.
Though facing away, she heard him drain the cup. “It’s good,” he said softly. “Just not right for me.”
Luke’s own veiled message brought moisture to her eyes, and she spoke in a rush, before her throat thickened any further. “What did you want to ask me?”
“Why do you do this?” When she glanced up in alarm, he added, “The alcohol, I mean.”
After hooking the ladle over the edge of the cooler, she closed the lid. Another shiver danced over her flesh, and she stepped out of the fridge and then shut the thick, metal door behind her. “Burl’s donating half the proceeds today. The more I sell, the more—”
“No. I mean why’d you choose this line of work? The way you talk about your bar—Luquos this and Luquos that—it’s like religion to you. I know you said you liked bartending better than psychology, but considering what happened to your parents…” He trailed off, his tone growing apologetic, almost backpedaling. “I know the rumors aren’t true, but still.”
“Do you know the rumors aren’t true?” June grabbed her hips and took a defensive stance. Of all the people in this town talking shit—oops, sugar—about her mama and daddy, she hadn’t expected hearing this from her best friend. “The accident was just that—an accident. I’ve seen their death certificates.”
“Hey,” he held his palm forward in an obvious attempt at damage control. “I’m not trying to say—”
“You ever seen a Texas death certificate?”
Luke mirrored her pose and shook his head.
“There’s a little box,” she said as she demonstrated with her hands, “that asks if alcohol caused the death. And you know what it says on both their forms?” Without giving him a chance to reply, she spat, “It says no!”
“Jesus, Junebug, I believe you. I’m just sayin’—”
“Why would I follow in their sinful footsteps? Is that what you’re just sayin’?”
“No…well, kind of, but I wouldn’t put it that way. It’s just, with your grandma and how she raised you, and with all the talk about your folks…Ah, shit.” He waved a hand dismissively and then raked it through his shaggy, brown hair. “I’m makin’ a mess of this.” After a heavy sigh, he reached for her fingers and then pulled back, seeming to think better of it. “Look. We both know what the name Gallagher means around here. Both my parents were trash, and there’s no point trying to deny it. I don’t care what people think, but at the same time, I…” Shaking his head, he went silent.
“You do care,” she answered for him, feeling her anger soften. “A little.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “So, it made me wonder why you’d go into the bar business, all things considered.”
When he put it that way, the question didn’t seem so offensive. Perhaps she’d overreacted. She relaxed her posture, slipping her hands into her back pockets. “Well, first of all, I’m good at it. Everyone needs to feel like they’re good at something. Look at you—building houses and running a charity.”
“Nonprofit.”
“Whatever. Using your hands to create a home, that’s your talent. Maybe I’ll never build a house or be a legendary cook like Grammy, but you know what? When people get married in Austin, they come see me before they visit the florist or the bakery. Because they know I’ll come up with a special drink for their wedding that people won’t stop talking about for years. You know how that makes me feel?”
Luke nodded, a sympathetic grin curving the edges of his mouth. “I can imagine.”
“And you gotta love the magic of a good drink. There’s power in alcohol—it boosts your confidence, helps you relax, makes you more affectionate—and I like harnessing that power. Show me something else, well, something legal, that can do all those things.” Luke started to reply, but she cut him off with one important clarification. “But I don’t condone getting wasted, and I can’t stand sloppy drunks. That’s one of the reasons I’m passionate about Luquos. It’s a class
y place for people to enjoy one or two cocktails, not some pit stop along the bar crawl.”
“Yeah.” His gaze flickered away, and he studied the staffing schedule taped to the cabinet near his head. He trailed his index finger down the spreadsheet, but he didn’t seem to read the words printed there. “I can tell it means a lot to you.” A fog settled over him, shifting the mood once again. Abruptly, he turned and brushed his hands together as if preparing for hard work. “Well, that answers my question. What needs to go? That cooler, right?”
Like a kick to the head, June realized what had been eating Luke. It was Luquos—the common denominator in his changing moods. She’d mentioned it while digging for cups behind the bar, and again, just now, resulting in a Jekyll and Snide reaction. “Uh-huh. And two kegs, plus ten gallons of hard iced tea. There’s a dolly behind the door.” She wanted to ask why he resented her dream, but he’d only deny it. Could he fear losing her when she returned home? That didn’t make sense, because Austin was only a six-hour drive.
“Hey, did you hear me?”
“Hmm?”
Luke had the refrigerator door open, and he pointed to an army of shiny kegs lining the inside wall. “Coors or Bud?”
“Bud.”
“Okay. Let’s load up and get the hell outta here. The sooner we get to the fairgrounds, the sooner that ‘magical’ Bud”—he made sarcastic air quotes—“can transform me into a brave, relaxed, lovable saint.”
***
When Luke turned twenty-one, his friends had taken him out for a night of carousing, the standard rite of passage for any guy that age. They’d done Grape Granstaff shots all night long until he’d passed out in the bar bathroom, and then he’d spent the next twenty-four hours spewing like a geyser. To this day, the scent of Grape Pucker turned his stomach and gave him the dry heaves.
He was beginning to feel the same disdain for the reek of stewed tomatoes, chili powder, and scorched cow.
He’d suffered the last few hours in assembly line hell, and before that, roasted right along with the giant slab of beef on the rotisserie. Since most of the church members were busy scouring the crowd for souls to save, he was the only man in the tent, and apparently, possession of a penis qualified him for grill duty. Even worse, old Ms. Bicknocker had made him tuck his hair under a shower cap while basting and braising, so the fire’s heat had soaked into his body and traveled right to his head, where the plastic trapped it inside. He’d felt like a giant condom.
And sweet Jesus, the preaching. Those little church ladies thumped a mean Bible. Praise the Almighty for Trey. He hadn’t done a lick of work, but Luke was glad for the company of someone who didn’t want to dunk him in water and scrub away his sins. Luke preferred his sins intact, thank you kindly.
He glanced at his buddy, who’d kicked back on a folding chair in the shade with his bad leg resting on a crate of paper plates. Trey held a sandwich between his palms and shook his head in awe, gazing at the bread lovingly like he was about to plunge his face between a woman’s thighs, instead of his supper. He sank into the bun and groaned with pleasure.
“Hey, man,” Luke said. “You and that sandwich want a little privacy?”
“God day-uum, that’s hot!” Trey slapped his cast, leaving behind a brown, greasy handprint. “But tastier than a motherfu—” He shut his pie hole when Ms. Bicknocker whipped her head around and pruned her mouth in disgust.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am.” Removing his straw cowboy hat, Trey dipped his head and smiled in contrition, bringing out those deceptively innocent dimples. “I’ll repent later. Promise.” Then he added a little wink, and the stodgy broad blushed and went back to dishing out plates.
“You make me sick, you know that?” If Luke was ever reincarnated, he hoped to come back with a pair of get-out-of-jail-free cards built into his cheeks.
Trey ignored him, returning his full attention to the lover between his hands, and Luke tossed his steel serving tongs aside, figuring he’d earned a few minutes of rest. He reached up, stretching his aching back, and thought of poor Pru. As much as he hated being here, he was glad she wasn’t on her feet all day.
After collapsing onto the grass beside Trey’s chair, Luke pulled on his ball cap, leaned back on his elbows, and watched the Miss Sultry County contestants parade by in sparkly, rhinestone-studded pageant gowns that probably outweighed the girls wearing them. No doubt heading to the stage on the other side of the field, they hitched up their skirts and teetered across the muddy terrain, bits of loose straw sticking to their high heels. Seemed like a lot of trouble to go through for a shot at a cheap sash and a silly crown.
The blaring, amplified twang of a steel guitar came to an end as the live band wrapped up a song and took five, and now Luke could hear the distant screams coming from the Tilt-A-Whirl. If he peered at an angle, he could just make out the Ferris wheel’s twinkling lights circling above the treetops.
Come take a break, June had said earlier. Let’s go on some rides. The Ferris wheel!
Luke wanted a ride, all right, but not here at the fair. His favorite attraction had soft curves and wide, brown eyes that burned everywhere they touched. But no safety bar could keep him from free-falling if he succumbed to that quick thrill. He knew a few minutes inside June’s funhouse would leave him with whiplash—shaken, hurt, and, in the end, alone.
Saying no to her sucked so hard he had a hickey on his soul, but it wasn’t fair to lead her on when he didn’t have anything to offer. He only wished she weren’t so sweet to him. It’d be a whole lot easier rejecting her advances that way. Rolling to the side, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the crumpled, withered bluebell she’d given him with breakfast.
Even cold, those had been the best damn Mexican eggs he’d ever eaten, but when he’d gone downstairs to thank her, something had happened he couldn’t explain. He’d stood there outside the kitchen and watched her absently drying dishes while gazing out the window. She’d looked so pretty and relaxed, at home in her ponytail and little bare feet, that his breath had caught. The words he’d prepared evaporated off his tongue, just like that.
“Hey.” Trey pointed at the keepsake in Luke’s hand. “What’s that? A flower?”
Luke shoved it back in his pocket. “It’s nothing.” Before Trey had a chance to give him hell, Luke stood and peered across the main thoroughfare about thirty yards away, where June manned the Shooters tent. A few curls had come loose from her hair elastic, stirring against her cheeks with the breeze. He couldn’t hear her tinkling laugh, but he watched as she gabbed and giggled with a group of guys. Narrowing his eyes, he identified one of them as the douche she used to date in high school, Tom something-or-other. That tool had always tried getting in her pants, and it looked like he’d decided to give it another shot.
“No effing way,” he muttered. The son of a bitch was doing the lean, curling his hand around the tent pole behind June’s head and angling his body until it practically covered hers. It was universal male body language for: Back off, all you bastards, this one’s coming home with me tonight.
“Trey, stand up a minute.” From behind him, Luke heard his buddy grunt, hoist out of his chair, and limp over. “Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Take your folding chair and gimp on over there.” He pointed to the Shooter’s banner. “Hang out with June awhile and keep an eye on her.”
Trey tipped his hat back and shielded his eyes, gazing across the crowd. “Who’re those guys?”
“Some assholes from high school.” One of the men swayed in place, and Luke wondered how much they’d had to drink. “Probably tanked.”
“Looks like they’re havin’ a little rendez-booze.” Trey clapped him on the back and grinned. “Never fear, buddy. I’ll watch out for Joooonbug.”
“Thanks, man. Tell her your beer’s on me.”
“I’d already planned to.”
Luke observed Trey as the near-cripple limped across the field, folding chair in one hand and wo
oden cane in the other. A couple minutes later, he reached June’s booth, where he spoke animatedly with the group of men, waving his hands and pointing to God-knows-what. He wrapped one arm around June’s shoulders, pulling her tightly against his chest and kissing the top of her head. Luke’s gut clenched at the sight, but he knew what his friend was doing—sending a message for her admirers to back off. Then Trey lowered onto his seat and propped his leg on an empty keg that had fallen on its side. After a few minutes, the mini reunion broke up, and the guys wandered off. Luke gave Trey a thankful wave and got back to work.
Before his break ended, Luke made his way to the Porta-John encampment. He passed the dart game, smirking at the stuffed snakes and knockoff Scooby-Doo prizes that cost less than what the carnie charged for one play. When the petting zoo and pony rides came into view, he veered away, figuring he’d suffered enough foul smells for one day, and instead, paused at the fried dough stand to buy a funnel cake.
By the time Luke arrived at the “restrooms,” he’d just sucked the last bit of powdered sugar from his fingers. He took his place in line behind a few pot-bellied rednecks, wishing he could just take a leak in the woods the way God intended.
A few moments later, a nearby voice caught his attention.
“You get a load of Mae-June?”
“I’d like to shoot a load in Mae-June.”
Luke’s vision went black for a split second, and then he scanned the crowd to identify the man he was about to pummel six feet into the ground.
“Dude, I’ve got dibs on that tail. We’ve got unfinished business from senior year.” It was that wanker, Tom what’s-his-name, and he was about to freaking die. “And you know what they say—the best way to get over one woman is to get under a new one.”
That’s right, he’d heard something about Tom’s wife dumping his ass for a chick. Luke couldn’t blame her. He’d rather switch teams than join DNA with a bucktoothed dickhead like that. He left his place in line and stalked across the straw-covered mud to where Tom and two friends—one tall and lanky, the other built like a tank—huddled beside a corn dog stand. Luke’s heart pounded so hard he felt it in his teeth, and his vision tunneled, blocking out everything but his enemy’s pale face, the arrogant set of his lips, his shifty eyes.
