I nodded and beamed. He handed me a bottle of beer without charging me for it. If he could, I’d bet Leroy wouldn’t charge anyone for anything, ever. But I guess you just can’t run a business that way.
Me and Hattie clutched our cold beer bottles and moved on from the bar to the dance floor. The band plucked along to some country tune when I caught Garret and Rusty making their grand entrance. Nearly everyone in the place knew my brother and the idiot he’d walked in with. In a town of four hundred people, everyone knew everyone. But Maldoon’s was a midway where all the folks from three different counties—Yell, Logan, and Pope, probably more if someone took a census—came out to have a good time. Garret might as well have been hung on the wall as a decoration. I don’t think the women would mind.
I waved at my brother and snarled at Rusty when he puckered his lips and kissed the air in my direction. Garret was good-looking. Like our daddy. Thank the Lord he didn’t act like him. Wouldn’t know what I’d do if I only got to see Garret on Christmas and random weekends. They shared the same rough and handsome face, dark blue eyes, and a thick, manly jawline. It was because of this ladies flocked to him in droves. But I knew my brother. He wasn’t any closer to getting hitched than I was of winning the Nobel Prize. It took a few minutes, but Garret finally broke free from the horde of drunken women pawing at him and worked his way over to me.
“Hey, birthday girl. Leroy got you started?” Garret said, nodding at my half-empty beer.
I smiled and chugged the rest down my gullet to finish it off. I shook my empty bottle and swallowed the mouthful of beer I had stored in my cheeks.
A stupid grin spread across Rusty’s face and he headed off to the bar, yelling over his shoulder, “Ya’ need another’n.” Hattie followed behind him swinging her girthy hips.
“That damn redneck boy’s gonna be the death o’ me,” I said to myself, watching him walk away.
“He loves you, ya’ know,” Garret said.
“Yeah, ‘bout as much as he loves his truck and his dog.” I was starting to sound like a poor-me country song.
“Eh, Lynnie, he ain’t just yankin’ your chain. You got his heart.” Garret made it sound like a joke, but I knew by his voice he wasn’t kidding.
“Come on now.” I looked at him with eyes that said I’d punch him good if he was lying.
He poked me in the chest. “And you know in there somewhere you love him just as much. Ain’t nobody hate someone so much that didn’t love ’em first.” It wasn’t often Garret got to be a deep-thinker, even if he did use the word “ain’t.”
For one second, Garret had me believing that Rusty Kemp was actually in love with me. He’d been pestering me for years, but I’d always figured he was just being a fool. Everything he did made me want to pull my hair out. He was always breaking my toys, eating my lunch, pulling my hair, even before I got smart and started kicking dirt at him. If anyone knew Rusty, it was my brother, so he’d be the first to know if Rusty was in love. Garret had never said anything before about it. Maybe Rusty finally confessed, or Garret finally told me, or he was full of shit. Oh, hell. Either way it was Rusty Kemp—there was no way I’d ever bed that man. Ever. I caught a mental image of Rusty and I together and my body winced with disgust.
“Here you are, my lady,” Rusty said, trying to mask his accent with a British one, as he handed me a shot glass filled to the rim with brown liquid. Whiskey, from the smell of it. Rusty had a few more tucked in his big hands, but Hattie handed a shot to Garret.
The four of us raised our miniature glasses in the air. “Happy Birthday, Lynnie,” they said together and flipped the glasses bottom-up.
I did the same and the spicy fluid hit my tongue. A hot poker on my throat, I was right—it was whiskey. I shuddered and smacked my lips. Before I knew it, Rusty was handing me another glass filled with the same spicy brown nectar of stupidity.
“This one’s to you from me. Happy birthday, Lynn.” Rusty grinned at me. He’d cleaned his face, washed his hair too from the look of it, and knocked the stink of fresh tar off him. For the first time in something like fifteen years, I didn’t want to spit in his eye. A twinkling blue, like clear water at sunrise.
I wished then that Garret had kept his damn mouth shut. I didn’t wanna think about Rusty’s eyes. I didn’t want to wonder if he loved me, if Garret had been telling the truth. And I damn sure didn’t want to get drunk enough to sleep with him.
The smell of expensive whiskey filled my nose as Rusty held the glass closer to my lips. I rolled my eyes and snatched it, spilling a few drops. Normally I’d have licked it off, but I let it sit out of spite. The three of them clapped and cheered when I parted my lips and let the liquid fire fill my mouth.
“A’ight, that’s enough for now,” I yelled over the bluesy bass guitar plucking on stage.
I had to shake my head over and over till the three of them stopped egging me on for more alcohol. I knew my limit, knew I needed to slow it down even if it was just for a minute.
The band started a new song. I didn’t recognize the singer, or the band, as anyone I’d seen play at Maldoon’s before. Leroy was good about bringing in folks who were just starting out. The singer’s voice, a deep rumble, matched the heavy bass and slow beat of the song. I wasn’t much of a dancer, especially to slow songs, but Hattie dragged me to the dance floor. I looked back to the spot we’d been standing to find Rusty and Garret had disappeared into the crowd. I’d never cared much where Rusty went or what he did. Until Garret opened his big fat mouth.
Hattie and I danced together as best as two girls can without turning too many heads. The man on stage sang his heart out. His grumbly voice was a perfect fit for the song. The lyrics I could understand were mostly about being lost, losing God maybe. And being stuck in the night. Wasn’t exactly what you normally hear in a bar in the middle of nowhere, but I liked it. After being stuck in a place that hadn’t changed much in twenty years, anything new was welcome.
Rusty was suddenly at my right, a silly grin plastered on his face, and two fresh shots tucked into one of his hands. I tried to fight it, shook my head to tell him no, but Hattie pushed and Rusty handed it to me anyway. He clinked his glass against mine and flung his shot back. I sighed. It didn’t burn quite as much that time.
“My twenty-first birthday ain’t gonna be half as fun if I drink this much before I’m even legal,” I said with a loud drunken giggle.
Rusty only grinned and produced another shot he’d been hiding in his other hand. I grumbled and whined, but me and him repeated the same clanking and drinking routine. My cheeks tingled and my eyes were getting heavy.
The music picked up to a banjo-picking tune. Even though I actually liked that particular brand of old country, I let Hattie pull me away from the dance floor and Rusty, back to the bar to see Leroy. Rusty followed behind like a puppy dog—or was he the shit? I looked around for Garret. He’s probably off wooing some poor girl, I thought to myself. My big brother wasn’t looking for a wife, but he was still a man and he damn sure wasn’t dead.
Hattie and Rusty sat on either side of me at the bar. I was four shots in and though it wasn’t my first rodeo, I wasn’t exactly a seasoned drinker. I asked Leroy for a glass of water. He laughed, shook his head, but got it anyway. I drank it up in a few hefty guzzles.
Rusty ordered another round for the three of us and a basket of chips to help soak it up. “Don’t want you gettin’ sick on yourself now, kid,” he said with a wink.
“I can hold my own,” I slurred. He was right to get some food in me. After four shots and a beer, I’d started to not care so much about all those years I’d wanted to toss Rusty Kemp off a bridge.
“Hm,” he scoffed, lips turned up at the corners. “Drink your drink.”
Hattie leaned against me, the two of us sang along to an old Cash song playing on the jukebox while the band took a break. Rusty watched us, holding back a gri
n that looked painful.
“Hey, Leroy, can you get us some beers and a few more whiskeys?” Rusty shouted over the music.
“Well, Mr. Kemp, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk.”
A smile crooked the side of his mouth. “Well, Miss Russell, I’d say it’s your birthday so might as well get drunk on me.”
Before I could stop myself, I tucked my blonde hair behind my ear and bit my lip. Damn it, Lynnie, knock that shit off. Hiding my embarrassment, I looked at anything but Rusty Kemp, who was staring a hole into the side of my head. Why did Garret have to go and tell me about Rusty? I could have gone my whole life without knowing. I’d done well to come up with that boy and not have killed him twice over by now. Let alone fall in love. In a town like Havana, the dating pool was small, very small, and Rusty Kemp was a good catch. I won’t lie about that. He was handsome and honest and responsible and had a good job, and despite what Mama said, I was not, absolutely not in love with Rusty Kemp.
“What are y’all up to?” Garret slid in between Rusty and me, saving me from making eye contact with the one man I swore on my life I would never see naked.
“Flirtin’ with your sister,” Rusty joked and took a swig of beer.
Garret held up two fingers to Leroy. “Good to see nothin’ changes ’round here.” He looked over my head and winked at Hattie.
“Shut your mouth, Garret Llewellyn. Ain’t nothing of the sort,” I grumbled.
“Why you smiling like a dead pig in sunshine?”
I glared at him. I knew well enough what I was doing. And why I was smiling. And I couldn’t stop it no matter how hard I tried. Garret winked at me, crinkling the corner of his eye. If he were Robert Redford—which was a close comparison—Rusty was Paul Newman. More than just the classic duo, Rusty shared the same broad chin, which was usually covered in sandy scruff. An angled nose he’d grown into eventually, shiny now under the lights and sticky sweat.
Leroy slid two fresh beers across the bar to Garret. “Thanks, old man,” he said with a nod. “Come on, girl, you’re looking like you’re ready for a dance.” Garret handed Hattie a beer behind my back and slid his arm around her shoulder. “You be good, Lynn.” He kissed me on the top of my head. “Take care of our girl, son.” And flicked the back of Rusty’s hat with a single finger, sending it flopping over his forehead. That stupid brother of mine hustled Hattie off to the dance floor before I could argue with him.
Damn it.
My heart leapt. Forty horses galloped through my stomach. Why, Garret? Leroy finally set my potato chips down in front of me alongside my millionth shot of whiskey and an icy beer. Nervous sweat dripped down my back. I needed something to cool me off. I swallowed hard—a foamy lump of beer shoved through to my gut.
“Thank ya, old man,” I repeated my brother, and Leroy winked at me—less charming than Garret’s.
Rusty raised his glass. “To Lynnie on her twentieth birthday.” Our eyes locked and I blushed red. “What’re you blushing for?” he asked like he didn’t already know. Like Garret hadn’t let him know he’d spilled the beans.
“Just hot is all,” I said, my nose growing five inches. I clinked my glass with his and let the liquid set fire to my gullet.
Mama’s voice wouldn’t leave my head. She’d never said those exact words before, but it was her voice telling me to give it up and admit I’d been lying to myself all these years. Maybe she’d been right, that old, rode-hard woman who couldn’t find love herself—that didn’t drive off on eighteen wheels.
Rusty Kemp, all dressed up in his least-faded Levi’s and off-white Stetson, could’ve had his pick of girls. Garret had a line of them to choose from. But there he sat, staring a hole in the side of my head as if he hadn’t ever seen me boot and rally—not a pretty sight—in this very establishment. Or eat a pan of cornbread to myself, or shovel chicken shit in my daddy’s hand-me-down jeans, or any other disgusting thing we got into coming up together.
Whiskey flushed my cheeks. Sweat dripped down the back of my knees. Rusty Kemp, I couldn’t hardly think his name without bringing up memories of some stupid, annoying, rat-faced thing he’d done. Rusty was an ornery little shit if I ever saw one, but damned if I wasn’t starting to not mind that so much sitting there letting him look at me.
I ain’t nothin’ if I ain’t a sucker for a good-lookin’ cowboy, my nana used to say. Nana wasn’t wrong, not about much anyway. I’d always thought he was a two-tailed pig, but as it was turning out, he was just a dumbass boy in a big ol’ man-body.
I’d never been nervous around that man in my life, but there I was shaking in my boots, blushing red at the thought of what could be. Courage finally convinced me to look at him. His eyes shifted toward the dance floor and he swigged his beer as if he hadn’t just got caught staring.
Sweat shined on his forehead, a workingman’s sweat. Hair-pulling, lunch-stealing, shithead extraordinaire aside, there were worse choices than Rusty Kemp out there. One day I’d get out of Havana where the dating pool was bigger, filled with people I hadn’t seen crap their pants on a baseball field. But until I made that happen, Rusty wasn’t going away.
I had a choice to make. Ignore Rusty’s mostly typical bullshit, act like Garret hadn’t said what he did, and continue to pretend I didn’t like Rusty, or actually consider the possibility of him and me in a romantic-type situation.
I knew two things in that moment. I could never go back to pretending I didn’t—in some backassward, slap-me-in-the-morning way—like Rusty, and I was piss-ass drunk. Whether it was lucky for me or not, so was Rusty. Maybe he needed it for courage. Maybe I did too. Two drunks full of bad decisions.
“You hot?” I said without thinking. Sweat dripped from under the rim of his hat.
He looked at me with glassy blue eyes and swiped a hand down his stubbled jaw. “Got the whiskey sweats.” A lazy grin tugged one side of his mouth.
I looked away from him, took a drink of my beer. “Wanna go outside and cool off?” And said something really stupid, regretting the invite the instant it left my bumbling lips.
He took a second to answer. Long enough I thought maybe Garret had lied. “You bet,” he croaked, half choking on his beer, and jumped off the stool.
By the hand, he dragged me out the front doors. I thought about fighting him, changing my mind and running back to Garret—who I thought deserved a kick in the shin—but I didn’t. My hand in his, I followed Rusty out the old barn doors and to his truck parked out in the lot.
Dirt kicked up off our boot heels, shuffling awkwardly to his old Chevy. The damn thing had about four different shades of primer on it from him and my brother running into stuff all tanked up, but she ran like a champ.
Rusty leaned against the tailgate, looking up at the stars. “Better,” he said, drawing up a deep breath and letting it out slow. He smelled like whiskey. A smell that would soon enough come through his sweat. Redneck cologne I couldn’t get enough of.
A country girl till the bitter end, I couldn’t wait to get out of this godforsaken town. Get out and see the world and all it had to offer. There was still nothing better than the smell of an old truck, a fresh dip, and whiskey on a man. Like my mama that way, I guess.
We stood out in the night, leaning against his truck, staring at our own feet, for a whole five minutes before either one of us said anything again.
“Nice night, eh?” I rolled my eyes at my own damn self. It was bad enough I was outside looking at the stars with the likes of Rusty Kemp. I didn’t have to be an awkward mess on top.
“Yup. Beautiful,” Rusty said, staring at the tips of his boots.
“You all right, boy?” I asked, just as I would have before Garret told me what he had.
He sucked his teeth, the Rusty sign of deep thinking. “Why you out here with me?” he asked, still staring at his feet.
I shrugged, sh
aking off the truth. “It’s a nice night.” I knew that was a lie, but there was nothing else I wanted to say out loud.
“Com’on now, Lynnie. I know you better’n’at. You don’t go anywhere with the likes of me. Shit, you ain’t looked at me twice unless you was trying to take aim.” He lifted his hat and ruffled a hand through sweat-damp hair.
I stood up straight and looked him in the eye. “Maybe ’at’s ’cause you’re a pig, Rusty Kemp. Treat me like the lady I am and maybe it’d be different.” I poked his chest.
He blew air through his lips. “You ain’t a lady. I watched you drink whiskey like a man and more than just tonight. I seen you change an alternator in your prom dress. You are a lady ’bout as much as you’re a cat, Lynnie Russell.” He laughed his stupid little boy laugh that I’d hated for years.
“Do you love me?” If I hadn’t been drunk, I’d’ve never said it.
He stopped laughing and swallowed hard. “You really askin’?” His eyes went back down to his boots.
I didn’t know if I wanted to know the God’s honest truth. Or, even if Rusty would actually tell me the truth. Instead of making up my drunk mind right then, I changed the subject.
“You wanna go out to the lake?” I ducked under his head to look him in the eye.
Rusty looked up at me from under the brim of his hat with big eyes. “You really askin’?” he repeated.
A sly grin pushed my lips together. “You bet.” I was really asking; that was for certain. Was I sure heading out to the lake, drunk, in the middle of the night was a good idea? Nope. Not one little bit.
Rusty didn’t say a word before he had my door open, me in, and the old truck roaring. Like he knew if given long enough to think about it I’d have changed my mind. We were sliding out of the dirt parking lot before I could decide not to tear off into the night with my brother’s best friend. A boy I’d known since I was old enough to start knowing people.
At damn near midnight, drunker than Cooter Brown, and coming from Maldoon’s, there was only one thing folks did out at the lake. Well, two, really. I was only planning on doing one of those. As long as Rusty didn’t pump me up with whiskey until I forgot I’d hated him that morning, I’d be all right.
And the Creek Don't Rise Page 2
