by Bijou Hunter
“Tatum and I plan to have six kids,” I tell Cricket, upping the number a drunk Tatum and I agreed to.
“No,” my sister says immediately. “We need the same number.”
“No, we don’t. Besides, you got twins. I’m not having twins. You already won, so shut the fuck up.”
“I did win, didn’t I?” she says and takes Tatum’s hand again. “Six is too many. You’ll want to stick to three tops.”
“That’s up to my pain tolerance, isn’t it?”
“You’d think so, but no.”
“Are you seriously considering having another one?” I ask Cricket and steal away Tatum’s hand. “Even though, you haven’t lost the weight from the mini-twins.”
My sister’s dark eyes narrow something ugly for my benefit, but I only chuckle at my fat comment. Tatum leans back against me, and my laughter fades. She’s gone from lost little girl to having my brain—and by extension my dick—wrapped around her finger.
“I always wanted to be a mom,” Tatum says, grinning at Cricket. “Have you always wanted to be an aunt?”
My sister glances at me and then sighs. “I really don’t want six. Pregnancy is the worst.”
“Then don’t have six,” Tatum suggests before saying something completely insane. “You don’t have to copy Chipper with everything. Just be happy with what you have.”
Snorting, Poet throws his head back and laughs. The kids don’t know why he’s laughing, but they make the same move with their heads and fake laugh because he’s a superstar in their eyes.
Cricket grudgingly smiles. “You’ve done well, stranger from a strange thong-less land. I approve of this coupling. Feel free to spread for my baby brother.”
“Thank you. Would you like a video of the spreading?”
“No. Well, maybe.”
Shaking my head, I would never give my sister ammunition to mess with me. “Not happening.”
“We’ll see,” Tatum says and smiles back at me. “Did I do good?”
“You did wonder-fucking-fully.”
“Are you fucking sure?” she asks, flinching at the sound of the big scary “F” word coming from her mouth.
Leaning her farther back on the couch, I kiss her as deeply as I can without my tongue choking her. She moans against me, and Cricket gags before skedaddling right the fuck out of the room. I smile at my sister’s retreat, but Tatum is the one I’m most impressed by.
TATUM
Keeping up with Cricket and Chipper’s banter is a million times harder than doing the same with Murphy and Minnow. Again, I thrive with children. Adults intimidate me so much more, but I hold my own as well as possible while Cricket gives me the protective sister routine.
Once Bianca Bella announces lunch is ready, everyone moves to the dining room on the other side of the kitchen. I’m not particularly hungry, despite skipping breakfast. I’ve read depression can lead to a loss of appetite, and I ought to keep up my strength. My mom didn’t want to eat during the last weeks of her life, but she forced down food to ensure she was strong for as long as possible.
Chipper and I sit at the end of the table with Poet and the mini-twins at the other end. Bianca Bella carries containers filled with food into the room where Cricket sets out plates.
“You should have us over soon for dinner,” Cricket says to Chipper. “Invite Candy and Hayes and the angel, so they can see how domesticated you’ve become.”
The OG twins share a wicked little smile, and Chipper nods. “I think I will. I’ve been meaning to use the brick oven.” He turns to me and smiles. “We could make homemade pizza.”
“What’s wrong with the frozen kind?”
“Once you make a pizza in a brick oven, you’ll never want it any other way.”
Smiling at the way he murmurs each word, I’m seduced by the simplest gestures. The expensive oven or homemade restaurant-style food doesn’t impress me. I’m perfectly happy eating macaroni and cheese rather than this Greek pasta salad with ingredients I can’t name. When I watched HGTV with Mom, we always said the over-the-top living was interesting, but we’d never fit in. I still believe that even though Chipper and his family don’t act anything like the rich folks I’d watched over the years.
“Ever have moonshine?” Chipper asks after everyone begins to eat.
“Of course not.”
“You’re missing out. Poet’s step-great-granddaddy or something to that effect makes stellar homemade booze. I have some back at my house that you need to try. Peach Pussy Punch is what he calls it.”
“Stop talking about booze,” Bianca Bella complains from the other end of the table. “I’m looking for compliments on my cooking. Your approval is all I have to keep me sane.”
“Loneliness is a tough cross to bear, isn’t it?” Chipper taunts, smirking in a nasty way.
I’d think he was a jerk if not for the smiling reactions of Bianca Bella and Cricket.
“I’ve never eaten this before,” I say, needing Bianca Bella to like me in the way I did with popular girls in school. “It’s really good.”
“Thank you for saying so. I don’t get nearly enough appreciation from these peons.”
Bianca Bella takes her plate, walks to our side of the table, and sits down. “I need more doting. What do you like best and what would you change? If you’re a keeper, I’ll need to know what to feed you when you visit.”
“I’m easy to please with food. I like American standards like burgers, pasta, sandwiches. Nothing fancy.”
“We were that way growing up,” Cricket says, wiping her mouth. “Bianca Bella helped us expand our palate. Now I eat highfalutin crap and even olives. Bianca Bella’s caused fucking bedlam, but I can’t deny her creativity opened my eyes to the world.”
Bianca Bella smiles widely. “You’re so ravishing when you compliment me.”
“And you’re never more flawless than when you mention my beauty,” Cricket replies.
Sharing their smiles, Chipper adds, “Can I say that you two are never more gorgeous than when in your full-fledged vain insane mode?”
I watch them all grinning at their weirdness before catching Poet rolling his eyes. He smiles at me. “I grew up around fricking snarky chatterbugs. You’ll get used to it.”
“Do I have to listen when they talk like that?”
“Yes,” Cricket says immediately. “We occasionally have tests, so you’ll need to be able to answer questions. If it helps, Poet always fails his so...” She finishes by waving her hand.
Chipper leans closer and whispers, “No penalties for failing.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Cricket says. “There are always penalties. Like you’ll eat the last of a casserole that’s been sitting in the fridge for a week, and the corners are hard as fuck. Think you can handle that, tough girl?”
“Are you kidding?” I balk. “That’s what I ate during an average week. You rich kids sure are spoiled.”
Cricket laughs. “We really are. Chip’s the worst of us. Aren’t you, Mister Wilburn?”
“Very much so, Miss Wilburn.”
“I prefer Mistress Bayer.”
“Then get married, and I’ll call you that.”
“Then I’d be Missus Bayer, and Mistress sounds sexier.”
“You can call yourself whatever you want,” Bianca Bella says. “A piece of paper from the state won’t change anything.”
Poet glances at Cricket who shrugs. “We can get married next week. We shouldn’t steal Chip’s thunder now that he’s met sweet, down-to-earth Tatum.”
“Don’t use me or my hot Breezy to distract from your fear of marriage.”
“I don’t fear marriage. I just happen to think the government knows too much about me already. Telling them I’m hooked on this fine piece of ass over here doesn’t help anyone except the G-men in the federal government.”
“You sound like Dad,” Chipper says, and his sister instantly follows with a “thank you.”
Chipper shakes his head. “Yeah, but Dad
married Mom. If he didn’t care about a paper trail, why should you?”
“Ha!” Bianca Bella hoots. “Nailed you with your own logic. I do love when that happens.”
“Fine, whatever, you’re right,” Cricket cries, standing up and throwing her arms in the air. “I’m wrong. The world is flat. There is no gravity. Adding nuts to a salad isn’t insane. Life’s gone to the shits. Are you fucking happy?”
“Yes,” Chipper says and takes my hand. “I’ve never been happier.”
“Your happiness is a little nauseating, to be honest,” Cricket says, returning to her seat.
“Now you know how I felt years ago when you brought home the dirty biker.”
“Without me,” Poet mutters, “you wouldn’t have access to your stash of moonshine.”
“Or these two,” Chipper says, gesturing toward the mini-twins. “That’s why my sister ought to make things official, dirty biker.”
“It’s not like a piece of paper would make her worship me more than she already does.”
Cricket grins at her man. “I do worship you, don’t I, hygienic biker.”
“I do like to bathe,” Poet says and leans over to kiss her long and loud.
Turning away from their embrace, I catch Bianca Bella looking at me. “My mom is my best friend,” she says and then adds, “When we don’t hate each other. We’re very hot and cold, but when we’re hot, she and I are like the sun.”
I don’t respond, afraid a single reaction will set loose the tears always waiting inside me. Nodding, Bianca Bella reaches over and wraps my loose hair behind my ear. It’s such a gentle gesture. The kind my mother did so many times without thinking. Sharing Bianca Bella’s soft smile, I find myself hoping I can fit in with these wild people and fix my broken heart with a new family.
7—CHIPPER
I don’t know much about the stages of grief. If one of them is circling the drain, Tatum officially hit it before I picked her up today. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks, and I expected her to cry when Cricket started shit. Instead, she blossomed in my presence. Now as we head back to her house, I watch the depression returning. She no longer even smiles at my witty comments.
Poet’s sage advice returns to me, and I know what I need to do. As soon as I pull my SUV to the curb, I turn off the engine and announce, “You’re moving to my house tonight. Let’s go inside and pack your things, so you don’t need to come back here.”
Tatum doesn’t look at me or the house. She stares straightforward as words lifelessly pour out of her mouth. “You want me to live with you and to work for you. How can we ever have a real relationship when I owe you everything?”
“Then we won’t have a real relationship. You can use me to get healthy and then dump my sexy ass. Until then, let’s pack up your shit and get you set up in my guest room.”
“It seems like a mistake,” she says without conviction.
“Because you’re thinking the way normal people think, and normal people play shit safe because they know no other way. I’m not normal, though. You can’t be normal either now that you’re trapped in my gravitational pull. So scoot your pretty ass out of this car and go pack a bag.”
When she doesn’t immediately move, I climb out of the car, walk around to her side, and gently tug her from her seat.
“At my house, you’ll have two cats to pamper,” I whisper in her ear while maneuvering her toward the house. “You never even got to meet Camel Toe. She’s the one who really needs more attention, but she never took to me like Muffin Top.”
Tatum stops walking and turns to me. “I’m doing this.”
“I know.”
“It makes no sense. Nothing has since Mom died. Fuck the healthy sane choice,” she says, still uneasy when embracing my gutter language. “I feel myself sinking. I can’t give up after my mom worked so hard to prepare me. I’m doing this with you, and I’m doing it at a hundred percent, and that might scare you, but it’s what’s happening.”
“I’m not scared at all,” I say, grinning at her wide-eyed enthusiasm.
“You have no idea how I’ll be at a hundred percent,” she warns. “I don’t either.”
“I’m ready.”
“I need you to give me everything, Chipper,” she says, powerfully seizing my arms with her seemingly small hands. When she tightens her grip, I worry she might be cracking. Oddly, a crazy Tatum feels right to me. “I need a family and a job and friends. I need a reason to get out of bed besides trying to kamikaze Howler. You have to give me everything a person needs or I’ll die. Can you handle that, Chipper Wilburn?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, ready to start my life with this fair maiden. “Let’s pack your stuff, so I can move you into my place. I’m a huge fucking fan of having easy access to you at all times.”
Narrowing her gaze, Tatum mutters, “Don’t try to distract from my insanity by acting insane yourself.”
“Growing up with Cricket, I’ve learned how to play second fiddle in the insane Olympics.”
“Good. Now help me pack because I always get depressed when I’m up in the attic.”
“Who wouldn’t?” I say, taking her hand and tugging her to the front door where we’re intercepted by a middle-aged woman and her pissed dog.
“No men in the house without prior permission,” she tells Tatum.
“Ma’am,” I say, snapping my fingers in front of her face. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, I fucking hear you.”
“I just wanted to make sure because I know people of your age can sometimes not hear so well, and I wanted to be extra certain you heard me.”
“What?” she growls, not enjoying my dig at her age.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. First, you’ll move out of the way. Second, we’ll pack Tatum’s shit and head out. If these two things don’t happen, I’m leaving in a huff and returning later when you’re asleep to burn down your house with you inside. Any questions, ma’am?”
The woman says nothing, giving me a dead-eyed stare.
“Bitch, are you deaf?” Tatum cries before slapping her hand over her mouth and looking at me. “You’re such a bad influence.”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m calling the police,” the woman says.
“Good. Tell the sheriff you’re hassling Chipper Wilburn from White Horse.”
I don’t know if the woman recognizes my name or just knows enough about the local politics to understand how the powers in this town are linked to those in White Horse. Possibly, she isn’t willing to start trouble over something as small as a man in her house. Who knows, but she steps out of my way and walks into the living room where I catch her lighting a cigarette. Yeah, my wonderful personality has been known to drive people to smoke, drink, and even take a hit of the reefer.
Tatum runs up the stairs, and I take several steps at a time to keep up with her. Two flights later, she unlocks the attic door and throws it open. This room was clearly decorated for the relative you just don’t want to stick around long. My grandparents in Cincinnati have a guest room that’s so fucking creepy no one sleeps at their house for more than two nights before deciding they’d rather be homeless than trapped with whatever hell lives in the too narrow closet.
“I don’t have much,” Tatum says, grabbing a blue vintage hard suitcase.
“Did you buy that in the eighties?” I ask as she dumps two drawers’ worth of clothing into the suitcase.
“It was my grandma’s.”
“So she bought in the eighties then.”
“Probably. Can you go get my stuff from the bathroom?”
“Why?” I ask immediately suspicious.
“Just do it.”
Tatum’s green-eyed gaze challenges me to tell her no. Grinning at her sudden gung-ho manic energy, I walk into the bathroom and nearly give myself a concussion on the low-as-fuck ceiling.
“This isn’t a bathroom,” I grunt.
“I know, so don’t ever think I’m not taking a
huge step up by moving in with you.”
“I kinda already knew that,” I say, leaning out to smile at her.
Tatum still wears her tough chick snarl. “But also never forget what lame poop I can endure if I have to. If you aren’t right for me, I’m not above leaving you and finding a shithole to call home. Understand?”
“Roger that, my feisty Breezy. Just one thing,” I say while dumping her beauty supplies into a grocery-bag-turned-traveling-case.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t say poop. It’s beneath you.”
“Fine. Then help me finish packing my caca, and we’ll go live in your house like two insane people without a care in the world.”
“Technically, I’m lazy and possibly a drunk and most definitely a spoiled bitch, but I don’t know that I’m full-on crazy.”
“You will be soon,” Tatum says, sounding a little unhinged while she shoves her beauty supplies into her suitcase. “That’s it. Well, I do have my most treasured mementos in my van. Otherwise, my entire life fits into this single suitcase.”
“Well, it’s also on your phone where you mom’s pictures exist.”
Tatum exhales, looking suddenly very tired again. She doesn’t speak for nearly a minute, and I don’t rush her. I’m uncertain where her head is, and I’m in no hurry anyway. Tatum is driving this crazy train.
“I’ll need to follow you in my minivan.”
Kissing the top of her head, I take the suitcase and scan the room. “I’ll try not to speed my way back, but I really don’t like Hickory Creek. It smells too much like a biker’s armpit.”
“Poet smelled fine.”
“Please don’t sniff my brother-in-law,” I moan, opening the door to return to the many, many flights of stairs. “I don’t want to have to throw down with him.”
“Do you think you could win?”
“Sure. I’d cheat, and he wouldn’t. The guy’s got too much class.”
Tatum snickers as we walk down the dark stairway and finally past the three women in the living room. They shoot us dirty looks, but I’m more interested in how this night ends rather than the unpleasant, biker’s armpit-stinking speed bumps on the way.
