Sultry with a Twist

by Macy Beckett

  “Never happening, man.” The tank shook his head and laughed.

  “A few shots of tequila turn a no into a yes real fast.” Tom elbowed the tall man. “Besides, the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree. If she’s anything like her drunk whore of a mama, I’ll be tappin’ that fat ass three ways from Tuesd—”

  “Hey, asshole!” Luke marched close enough to make out Tom’s acne scars. He grabbed a handful of the man’s plaid, button-down shirt and slammed him hard against the corn dog trailer’s tin wall. As much as he’d love to sucker punch the prick, that was how sissies fought. Luke wanted the satisfaction of beating Tom senseless like a man, fair and square.

  “What the fu—” The jerk’s brows lowered, and the smell of stale beer rushed Luke’s face as all the wind left Tom’s lungs. Then he recovered enough to ask, “Luke Gallagher?”

  “That’s right.” He released his grip and backed up a pace. “We’re gonna go over there”—pointing to a freshly mown field used for overflow parking—“and I’m gonna put my foot so far up your ass, you’ll taste leather for a month.”

  Tom held two palms forward in preemptive surrender. “Dude, what the hell?”

  Snatching Tom’s elbow, Luke towed him toward the fight zone. “You won’t touch June! Don’t even look at her, you hear me?” He spun around and grabbed Tom’s cheeks in a vise between his fingers and thumb, driving his point home. “You won’t be talkin’ shit about her when I’m done with you.”

  Before Luke could take another step, Tom’s buddies bum-rushed him, grabbing his arms and dragging him backward, while their friend wriggled free. But these meddling jerks weren’t trying to break up the fight—they intended to hold him, so Tom could have a free go. Luke yanked his arms, but the tank holding him tightened his grip, digging steely fingers into his biceps, and the tall one was stronger than he looked. Tom took his time straightening his shirt, emboldened by this new turn of events. With a cocky grin, he glanced at the crowd beginning to draw.

  “You want some-a-this?” The pansy swept his hands along his own body. “I got somethin’ for your punk ass, Gallagher.” Then he made a fist and pulled back, winding up like a baseball pitcher to deliver an epic blow to Luke’s face.

  In a flash, Luke leaned into the guys behind him and hoisted his legs off the ground. Kicking out with all his strength, he landed the heels of his heavy work boots right into Tom’s gut. The bastard bent at the waist, making a cartoonish “oof” noise while his eyes went so wide they nearly popped out.

  As Tom crumpled to his knees and started retching half-digested beer onto the grass, Luke threw his head to the side, clocking the tank in the bottom lip with his skull. The guy’s grip slackened just enough for Luke to wrench one arm free and use it for an uppercut to the kidney. Without wasting a second, he turned to the tall man, but not quickly enough to avoid the fist that caught him under the jaw.

  Luke’s head snapped back, his ball cap flew off, and he saw a flash of light as bolts of pain shot up his temples like bottle rockets. The tall guy gasped and drew his fist to his chest, cradling it in pain, and Luke took full advantage, twisting his upper body for maximum impact and punching the fool in the belly. Unlike his opponent, Luke knew to hit the soft parts—it did just as much damage without the risk of breaking a hand. Luke glanced up at the tank and lunged, barely missing a jab intended for his nose. The guy’s hand connected with a spectator’s cheek, and then a few new bodies joined the brawl as the stranger’s friends jumped in.

  The sounds of cussing, grunts, and flesh smacking flesh filled the tight space. Luke ducked his head and backed away from the chaos. He’d accomplished his goal of shutting Tom down and had no interest in recreational ass-whooping. He was too old for that shit. Scanning the ground for his ball cap, he spotted it beneath someone’s sneaker, halfway between a patch of mud and a puddle of vomit. To hell with it, he had three more at home.

  As he strolled back to the Baptist tent, Luke glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see a body fly into a Porta-John. It teetered over, and dozens of men scurried away, as if the plastic walls had loosed a herd of bulls.

  Luke shook his head and stroked his throbbing jaw. Leave it to June to wreak havoc from a quarter of a mile away.

  Chapter 14

  Autumn’s cool kiss teased Sultry Springs for a few fleeting days before buckling under summer’s last stand, and once again, temperatures soared into the upper nineties. With a heavy sigh, June pulled the bottom of her tank top up over her face to blot away the last hour’s worth of perspiration. She closed her eyes and imagined the cool, air-conditioned office back at church, where she’d balanced donation ledgers two days ago, and a shiver rolled down her spine. Actually, that was sweat, not a shiver. Lovely. What, exactly, had possessed her to get back on the Jenkins project?

  “Hey, Joooonbug,” Trey called from his reclining lawn chair in the shade. He held his glass in the air and shook it so the ice tinkled inside. “Can I get a refill?”

  Oh, that’s right. She’d insisted on serving as Trey’s right-hand-woman, so he could supervise the Jenkins crew, allowing Luke to spend his days on his investment property. How very thoughtful of her, not that anyone noticed. Certainly not Luke.

  For the past several days, June had tried to follow Pastor McMahon’s advice on demonstrating love: listening patiently to Luke as he detailed problems with rotted baseboards and stubborn inspectors, supporting Luke by scrubbing and painting his home, and most of all, forgiving him for the past and believing the best about him. But if anything, he’d only become more distant, declining to join her for supper and going out of his way to avoid any physical contact between them. She hadn’t expected instant results, but some little sign of progress would’ve been nice.

  When June reached out to take Trey’s glass, he yanked it back playfully. But after spending all afternoon staining the new deck, June’s shoulders ached, her skin burned, and she wasn’t in the mood to play.

  “You want that drink or not?” she snapped, rolling her shoulders to release the tension. The odds of Luke reciprocating that massage she’d given him last week were about a trillion to one.

  Trey let out a long, low whistle and tapped his fingers against his plaster cast, which had darkened to a grubby gray with dust and sweat. “I can wait.” Then he smiled and flashed those adorable dimples, and June felt like the biggest shrew alive for getting snippy with a virtual cripple…especially since she’d had a hand in his fall.

  “Sorry, I’m just cranky today.” She took his glass, and this time he released it without a fight. “Tea or Coke?”

  “You heading over to Luke’s tonight?” he asked, ignoring her question. “He’s been in a sour mood too.”

  “I noticed.” June sat down in the grass beside Trey and held his cold, wet glass to the back of her neck. “His family’s land means a lot to him. Maybe he’s getting nervous about the auction.”

  “Oh, I know he is. But that’s not what’s bugging him.” Trey picked up his clipboard and flipped through the pages. “I think he’s in love.”

  June’s stomach jumped into her throat. She wanted to believe Trey, but she knew from experience how dangerous it was to get her hopes up.

  “With,” he continued, pulling her time sheet from the stack, “a woman he thinks is too good for him. Someone unattainable.”

  “What?” June’s backbone locked. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Trey shrugged and gave a you’re-preaching-to-the-converted look. “I think you should spend more time over there. During the day. You know, before you get all hot and cranky.”

  “I can’t. My service hours have to come from charity or nonprofit work. Besides, who’ll help you out here?”

  “Karl’s an imbecile, but even he can fetch me a glass of Coke now and then.” He clicked his pen and scrawled something on her time sheet. “And lookie here. You’ve already served eighty hours over the next two weeks. Doesn’t that fulfill your requirement? I guess that frees up your days.”
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  For a few stunned seconds, June stared into Trey’s smiling blue eyes and couldn’t say a word. He was willing to falsify a court document—total forgery—so she could get closer to Luke. “Why’re you doing this? I don’t know what the penalty is, but—”

  “He’s my friend. And I’d like to see him quit acting like a dickweed.”

  “Well…” June trailed off. Could this really work? She’d just met with the judge yesterday, so she didn’t have to worry about her time sheet looking suspicious until their next appointment, and then she could claim to have left it at home. It was dishonest, illegal, and probably a bad idea. Anything for love, right? And, heck, she could make up for it working on the church newsletter at night. “Thanks, Trey! I owe you one.”

  ***

  Two hours later, after June had stopped home to shower, change into clean work clothes, and pack Luke’s favorite lunch, she stood on the front stoop of the Hallover house and admired the brand-new door Luke had installed. Solid cherry with stained glass panels, a nice touch. She rang the doorbell three times in quick succession and let herself in.

  “Back here,” Luke called over the radio in the kitchen. “I want the estimate for the four bedrooms upstairs.” Then he went back to singing “Rock You Like a Hurricane” with the Scorpions.

  “I’m not the carpet guy.” June tossed her bag next to a power sander on the glossy granite countertop.

  With a cordless drill in one hand and a cabinet door in the other, Luke glanced up from the floor in shock. For one nearly invisible split second, June saw excitement flash in his eyes, but then his expression hardened just as quickly, and he turned back to the cabinet base. “What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be helping Trey.” He picked up a few screws and held them between his lips.

  “Well, hello to you too.” She pulled a foil-wrapped sandwich from her bag and waved it in the air. “I made your favorite. Peanut butter and molasses.”

  Luke said nothing while he drilled each screw into the hinge. From the radio, a heavy metal song she’d never heard before blared out, and the screeching guitar riffs were more pleasing to her ears than Luke’s silence. It went on and on, and June wondered if she should simply go upstairs and get to work. Then he opened and closed the cabinet door until he seemed satisfied it was level and muttered, “I already ate.” He started to elaborate, but changed his mind and moved on to the next set of hinges.

  Pulling a deep, steady breath into her lungs, June counted backward from ten to zero and reminded herself to be patient. “Okay,” she said, trying to manufacture some cheer. “I’ll just leave it here for later.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Luke said with one screw dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  June tiptoed over tools and cords to join him on the floor. She scooped up some screws and handed them to Luke one at a time. He shot her an unappreciative glance that said he’d much rather do it himself, but she insisted. “Trey didn’t need me around,” she said, “so he sent me out here.”

  “And you left him?”

  “He’s fine. I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

  “Trey shouldn’t have done that.” Luke snatched a screw from her fingers with exaggerated force. “He doesn’t have the authority.”

  “Well, he did anyway. And he fudged my time sheet, so I can spend all my days helping you around here. Won’t that be fun?” Then she flipped her hand over, slamming the silvery hardware back against the floor. “I’m going upstairs to get a first coat done in the master bedroom.” Call me when you pull the stick out of your ass. June wrangled her tongue and managed to keep that last comment to herself.

  While June spread a plastic tarp over the bare wood floor in the master bedroom, she tried to figure out what was going on inside Luke’s thick skull. Last Sunday, he’d held her close and shown more intimacy than ever before, only to push her away after their kiss. She knew he didn’t want her to stop—his body’s reaction had told her in no uncertain terms—but since then, he’d held her at an arm’s length, and a very long arm, at that. A psychology degree would’ve come in handy right about now.

  She pried the lid off the paint can and poured thick “Caribbean Sand” into a plastic tray. While June rolled the color onto the walls, she tried to dust off her memory of introductory psych for anything that might prove useful.

  June didn’t remember much about Luke’s mother, but when she’d left him behind and chosen to keep his sister, that had obviously left Luke feeling inadequate, insecure, and probably a little misogynistic. Which explained why he thought so little of himself, and maybe also clarified his wild behavior when he’d come to live with Grammy at age twelve. Luke had tested her to see if she’d shuffle him to another family. When Gram had responded with firm discipline and refused to give up on him, Luke had finally calmed down. Maybe he was testing June now to see if she’d stay in his life or run away like his mother had. June was no professional, but that made sense. If Luke was sabotaging their relationship and annoying the shit—oops, sugar—out of her because he was afraid she’d leave, then she needed to show him nothing could drive her away—a tall order considering June was leaving in less than two weeks. Maybe that was part of the problem too. Was Luke afraid to get close, knowing she’d return to Austin?

  Throbbing heat from June’s shoulder interrupted her musings. She reached across to massage her knotted muscles, wondering how Luke, Trey, and the rest of the crew did this stuff every day.

  And then, speak of the devil, Luke’s boots crinkled across the plastic tarp behind her. “That’s the color you picked?” From the dark tone of his voice, she could tell he wasn’t pleased.

  June swallowed her sarcastic reply and said, “Mmm-hmm” instead.

  “I don’t like it. When I flip a house, I paint everything white.”

  June tightened her grip on the paint roller before resting it against the tray. Taking a deep breath, she turned around slowly. “Remember what I said about staging? You’ll make more money if you—”

  “Screw staging. I want it white. Wait till that dries, then prime it again.” He lowered his chin and folded his arms across his chest, every bit as defiant as the broken-hearted boy who’d smashed Grammy’s figurine against the wall when he’d learned his mama wasn’t coming back to get him.

  Instead of focusing on Luke’s words, June peered right into his cool, green eyes and remembered the different ways those eyes had regarded her during the past weeks—with tenderness, warmth, and sometimes blazing hunger. This coldness wouldn’t last forever. She had to remember that. June strode forward, noticing more hesitation in Luke’s gaze with each step she took. When she moved close enough to let her breasts brush the front of his dampened T-shirt, she poked her index finger into his stone chest.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said firmly. I’m not your mother.

  Luke backed up a pace and furrowed one brow in confusion. “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “Keep pushing my buttons. I’m not turning my back on you. But this’ll be a lot more fun for both of us if you stop acting like a jerk.” Then she turned and marched back to her tray to roll the sandy color onto the white-primed wall. “And I’m keeping this shade. Deal with it.”

  “Deal with—” Luke sputtered. “This is my house!”

  “And this is free labor! So either pick up a roller, or get out of my hair.”

  For several minutes, he fell silent, and June wondered if he’d finally come to his senses. Maybe he’d close the distance between them and wrap his arms around her waist. Maybe he’d cup her cheek and apologize, then kiss her temple and beg forgiveness. She’d tell him there was nothing to forgive, and he’d sweep her into his arms, Hollywood-style, and carry her off to his bed. Well, his air mattress.

  “You’re doing it all wrong anyway,” he said. “Everyone knows you trim first, then roll out.”

  Or maybe not. Did she really think it would be that easy?

  “And,” he went on, “I didn’t ask for your help
. I don’t even want you here.”

  Either the paint fumes were too thick for her lungs, or Luke’s words had made it hard to breathe. Regardless, it wasn’t fumes that twisted her heart or turned her belly cold. She swallowed a lump the size of a peach pit and waited to speak until she knew her voice wouldn’t shake. In the smoothest motion she could manage, she lifted her paint roller and pushed it against the wall with even strokes.

  “I’m not leaving,” she repeated in a thick voice and then cleared her throat. “I want to be here. When I said I wanted to start fresh, I meant it. Even when I go back to Luquos, I want us to stay close. Six hours isn’t all that far, and we can meet up—”

  “I’ve gotta finish the cabinets.” His retreating footsteps sounded down the hallway.

  That hadn’t gone as well as she’d expected. The contrast of stark white primer against Caribbean Sand mirrored Luke’s new dual personality, and June began to feel a needle of doubt at the back of her mind. What if he was too damaged? What if Grammy was wrong and he couldn’t be taught? Or what if he simply didn’t want to learn? Taking a deep breath, June steeled herself and pushed aside discouraging thoughts. She had two weeks to do her best, and even then, she could come back to visit and hammer away at him some more. Like the pastor had said, love never quits, never abandons in a time of need.

  ***

  Two hours later, June stood back to admire her work. She’d rolled a thick first coat over the primer and trimmed the ceiling, baseboards, and corners, which meant now she could drive home and soak in a warm bath.

  She’d just finished washing her hands in the master bathroom when Luke pushed open the bedroom door. With his hands low on his hips, he stood in the doorway and surveyed the walls in silence. Raising her chin, June prepared for an angry tirade.