by Penny Reid
“For the fairies,” she said.
“Do fairies eat fried chicken?” I asked dubiously, my mouth watering as I catalogued the contents of the plate. Fried chicken, lima beans in butter, bacon collard greens, mashed potatoes with gravy.
“I have questions. Has your father been bothering you?”
I shook my head.
“Of course. Everyone eats fried chicken,” my momma said, wiping her hands on a dark blue and white gingham apron, covering the food with tin foil. “Simone, you carry the food, and Roscoe will carry the milk and chocolate cake. Leave it under the box and remember to put the sandbag back on top. That fried chicken is for fairies, not raccoons. And I’ll bring the blanket.”
“When was the first time he made contact with you?”
Something about the tone of her voice grabbed my attention, like the question was an official one, and I chanced a quick glance at her.
“Why’re you so interested in Darrell Winston?” I found myself asking.
She was close enough that I could see her freckles had faded. They were still there, faint against the brown topaz of her complexion.
Also, she was breathtaking.
Now that I’d allowed myself to look again, I couldn’t stop.
Her face appeared longer, her cheekbones more defined, as were the lines of her graceful jaw and the point of her chin. She looked a bit like that poster Simone’s sister Daniella always had hanging up in her room, where the model was smiling and wearing big, gold hoop earrings, curls framing her face in a way that reminded me of a lion’s mane.
Gorgeous.
She was taller than I remembered, and definitely had more curves than I remembered, too. When we were fifteen, Simone had told me she always wanted to look like a boy. I’d asked her what the heck she was talking about, because I didn’t think she looked anything like a boy.
She glanced down at herself, at her small frame beneath the white T-shirt and green cargo pants she wore. I knew she was wearing kid-size ten, because she kept complaining about it. The pants had a hole at the knee.
“Flat chest, for one. If I had big boobs, they would affect my aerodynamics.”
I rolled my eyes, careful not to let her see. Yeah, she wasn’t buxom by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d loved everything about the way she looked. She was prettier than any other girl I knew, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I wanted to tell her that, but if I did she’d torture me by singing “It’s a Small World After All” for who knows how long. So I kept my mouth shut.
Girls were confusing.
Presently, gritting my teeth and frustrated with myself for noticing current Simone’s new shape, I decided I could definitely get away with describing her as buxom. I’d noticed last night when we’d hugged, but I’d immediately pushed the awareness away. Not so easy now that she filled my vision.
Time had been especially kind to Simone Payton.
Knowing I’d pay for this indulgence later, I grew restless at her silence and turned from her.
Descending the steps quickly, I walked around the back of the house, calling over my shoulder, “See you later.”
I would not see her later.
Billy and Simone’s sister Daniella were engaged, and so I’d probably see Simone at the wedding—if they even had a family wedding—but I doubted there’d be many events between our two families celebrating the joy of the union.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved Daisy and Trevor Payton. Trevor Payton had been more of a father to me than my own. But I wasn’t the only one who thought the impending marriage between Daniella Payton and my brother was based on what could be gained by an alliance rather than deep affection.
Daisy seemed resigned to it.
The one time I’d run into Trevor while grocery shopping, we’d gone out for coffee to catch up and, while at the diner, he’d sighed like he was exhaling a world of worries.
“I love my daughter, and I have an affection for your brother, I do. But I don’t think they love each other.” Trevor sounded sad and his gaze lost focus as it moved to a spot over my shoulder. “I told your brother as much when he came by to ask our permission.”
I snorted my disbelief. “I can’t believe Daniella was okay with that.”
“She wasn’t. When she found out, she was fit to be tied.” Trevor gave me a faint grin and chuckled a little. “But you know how your brother is. And Daisy appreciated the gesture, as did I.”
What he meant was, Billy was old-fashioned. This was likely because we’d been raised by our momma and our Grandma Oliver. Well, I wasn’t raised by Grandma, as I was young when she died, but the rest of my siblings were. And Grandma Oliver had been a stickler for etiquette and good manners.
We were in the cereal aisle and I’d just put granola in my shopping cart. I’d have to sneak it into the house and hide it. All of my siblings were granola fanatics.
“Has Daniella mentioned when the wedding will be?” I asked, hoping Trevor had more information than Billy had shared with us. At least Billy had told the Paytons in person. We’d found out about the engagement by reading about it in the paper.
Trevor shrugged in a way that seemed frustrated and helpless, not a look I was used to seeing on Trevor Payton. “She says they haven’t decided.”
“Wait, Roscoe. Wait.” I felt Simone’s hand close over my arm, the warmth of it cutting through to my consciousness and banishing my recollections.
I stopped.
She came around in front of me, her hand still on my forearm, and searched my gaze. “What are you doing later? As in, later today?”
“Why?” I asked quietly, taking another look at her, and why not? The damage had already been done. This Simone, as she was now, would forever be branded in my mind.
She shifted on her feet, her hand falling away as her eyes held mine. A small, tentative smile curved her lips, drawing my attention to her mouth.
“It’s been a while. And, you know, I’ll technically be your sister soon.”
My . . . sister?
My heart gave a sluggish, aching lurch as my chest filled with fire.
Oh. Hell. No.
“And I thought maybe—”
I walked around her again, my lungs so tight, every breath painful as I marched away.
“Roscoe Orwell Winston,” she called to my departing back, frustration seeping into her voice. “You are a rude ass.” But she didn’t follow this time.
I cleared my mind, marched to my car, slipped inside, and drove away. I would text Drew when I made it to Cades Cove. He would understand.
But try as I might, I couldn’t stop conjuring this new image of Simone, or the exasperation lacing the cadence of her lovely voice.
She thought I was an ass? Good.
I’d much rather her think of me as an ass than as a brother.
Chapter Five
“It is easy to love people in memory; the hard thing is to love them when they are there in front of you.”
John Updike, My Father's Tears and Other Stories
*Simone*
Moodiness was my sister’s modus operandi. Moodiness and grudges. No one held a grudge like my sister Daniella.
Well, no one except maybe Cletus Winston.
But that was a different story.
My brother’s temperament was on the opposite end of the spectrum; Poe had often been described as robotic, too literal and logical for his own good. He didn’t have a spiteful bone in his body, having too much curiosity for spite.
If someone treated him poorly, he was likely to spend all afternoon questioning that person until he reached the root of their motivations. Above all else, he sought to understand.
I considered myself a mixture of both my siblings, with a dash of Simply-Simone-Spice thrown in. Which meant I was rarely moody.
Unfortunately, today was one of those rare days.
After Roscoe had left me yesterday, standing on the side of his family’s house as he drove away, I’d shaken off his rudenes
s and spent the rest of the day troubleshooting how best to crack the man’s seemingly impenetrable shell of dumbassery.
I also tried to reconcile this new Roscoe—tall, fierce, hot, dumbass—with the sensitive, sweet boy I’d known growing up, and with the boy who’d ditched me for greener pastures when we were teenagers. I endeavored to channel my inner Poe: what could possibly be the root of Roscoe’s rudeness?
Root of Roscoe’s rudeness . . . say that three times real fast.
“Root of Roscoe’s rudeness. Root of Roscoe’s rudeness. Root of Roscoe’s rudeness,” I muttered under my breath, listening to how the words morphed and changed until they sounded funny.
The Saturday morning and afternoon rush had finally died down and my shift was almost over. Thank goodness. My feet hurt and my brain hurt and I hadn’t been able to shake off my foul mood all day. I attributed this mood to Roscoe being a dumbass by a factor of three.
Firstly, Roscoe shouldn’t be able to affect my mood. I didn’t know him anymore. I’d gotten over the dissolution of that friendship years ago. I’d even burned items that reminded me of him, tossing pictures and mementoes into a campfire in our backyard. He’d been exorcised from my life. Done.
Secondly, Roscoe did affect my mood. The fact that Roscoe affected my mood was extremely irritating, especially since I didn’t understand how it was possible.
Thirdly, the fact that I’d allowed feelings to creep into this assignment irritated me further. I needed to get close enough to Roscoe so that I could ascertain what he knew about his father’s whereabouts and report back to Nelson. Feelings about Roscoe and his rudeness should have been the last thing on my mind.
The bell chimed over the diner door, announcing the entrance of customers, and I scowled at the page of the book I hadn’t been reading. Sighing as I closed the cover, I walked out of the kitchen, glancing at the entrance to inspect the new arrivals.
I blinked my surprise, straightening, my movements faltering in my astonishment.
The new arrival was Isaac Sylvester, and he was alone, and it was a Saturday afternoon. I’d never seen him on any day other than Sunday, and always in the mornings, and always in a crowd. But right now, aside from Rebecca stocking supplies in the back room, we were alone.
His eyes moved over me, his expression stoic, his muscular form clad entirely in leather—jacket, gloves, pants, boots—and he walked like a soldier. How he conducted himself had been the first thing I’d noticed about him during our initial contact. He had an economy of movement, never turning his head if he could shift his eyes instead, never fiddling or fidgeting, holding still for long moments, like he was more statue than person.
Isaac claimed a stool at the counter and flipped over the coffee cup, tapping it with his index finger, his hard stare holding mine.
“Coffee. Please.”
So many questions . . .
I reached for the coffee, lamenting the fact that it was now three hours old and likely stale, but brought it to his cup in any case. Pouring, I let my notice flicker over him. He looked pale.
It was winter, so it’s not like I expected him to be sunbathing, but his white skin looked paler than usual, a touch of grayish green in place of his usual healthy hue.
“How are you?”
My eyes jumped to his and I did my best to mask my confusion. This was the first time he’d spoken to me aside from, Coffee. Please, and, Keep the change.
“Fine,” I lied, glancing behind him to the parking lot—because I was paranoid—and met his eyes again. “And how are you?”
He swallowed a sip of coffee, licking his lips as he placed the cup back on the counter. “Winston is at the Dragon. Arrived Friday morning. He and Razor are holed up, no one has seen either since yesterday.”
As he spoke, I reached under the counter and grabbed the salt, busying myself by unnecessarily filling saltshakers that were already mostly full. I nodded subtly to indicate I’d heard him, but said nothing, because there was nothing that needed to be said.
Razor Dennings, president of the Iron Wraiths, hadn’t left the Dragon Biker Bar—as far as we knew—for three years.
Also, there was no way we could extract Winston from the Iron Wraiths’ compound. Make no mistake, the Dragon Biker Bar was a compound, a maze on the inside, with false doors, walls, and tunnels leading to a range of hidden exits. Even if Isaac told us exactly where Winston’s quarters were and drew us a detailed map, it wouldn’t matter. The target would be long gone by the time the extraction team made it to the room.
“Something else,” he lowered his voice, his eyes forward. “I’ve been given orders to pick up Roscoe Winston.”
An unanticipated squeeze around my heart and jolt of feelings had me spilling salt on the counter.
Are you fucking kidding me right now?
Stupid feelings.
I breathed out, frustrated with my display of clumsiness.
“I have questions,” I said, cleaning up the mess with a napkin. “First of all, why Roscoe?”
“Winston wants him.”
“Are they going to hurt him?” I cursed inwardly at the slight catch to my voice and told myself lies like, I’d be concerned for anyone.
I would be concerned for anyone, so that part wasn’t a lie. The lie was that I wouldn’t be this hands-shaking, heart-racing concerned for just anyone.
Stupid dumbass Roscoe, giving me feelings and unsteady hands.
“I don’t know.” Isaac rubbed his eyes with the base of his palms. “Winston seems to think he’ll come willingly, but I’m supposed to use force if he doesn’t.”
Shit.
“When?” I tossed the salt and the napkin in the trash. “How long does he have?”
Maybe I could warn Roscoe.
Or maybe I could just show up wherever he was, that would certainly drive him out of town.
The only conclusions I’d been able to draw with any degree of certainty about Roscoe Winston were: he couldn’t stand the sight of me, didn’t like me, and was therefore avoiding me.
Why he felt this way—other than him being a dumbass—I had no idea.
The disappearing act had been distressing when I’d been sixteen. Not only did he stop coming by the diner, stop returning my calls, and never seemed to be at home when I bicycled over, he’d also changed his schedule at school and joined the football team.
This had been quietly devastating to me at the time because he switched out of our shared shop class, developing a mysterious and sudden interest in the trumpet, and therefore band class in third period.
I don’t have anything against the trumpet or band. But shop class had only been fun because of him. He let me do all the cutting and nailing. He did the measuring and gluing. Our bird houses had been a triumph of modern architecture and design. Life had been good.
Until it wasn’t.
Keeping it real, his absence in shop class wasn’t the issue, but rather an allegory for everything. I was good at solving puzzles, he was good at remembering facts. I didn’t know how to be “Simone” without “and Roscoe.”
For weeks I’d wondered what went wrong. I’d searched for clues, I’d questioned anyone who might’ve had relevant insight into the behavior patterns of teenage boys. Why had my best friend ditched me for band, football, and the girls’ volleyball team?
Oh, yeah. The girls’ volleyball team. He dated them. All of them. One right after the other, like he’d needed to fill out a punch card with their names on it in order to get a free smoothie or five dollars off his dry cleaning.
Whatever.
After a few months, I let it drop, his abandonment forever left unsolved. And that was okay. This was a character trait where I resembled my sister rather than my brother. I may have been obsessed with solving mysteries, just not about myself or about other people’s feelings regarding me.
You don’t like me? That’s cool. You do you.
Which was why I’d let Roscoe go ten years ago. Yes, I’d thrashed against it for a time
. But in the end, I wasn’t one to force my company on folks who didn’t want it.
Their loss, because I was awesome.
I’m so awesome, I’m magic.
Jazz hands.
MAGIC!
Irritatingly, I didn’t have the luxury this time of letting it go. It wasn’t about me or us. I needed Roscoe to talk to me. More than that, I needed him to trust me.
“Winston gave me two weeks to bring in Roscoe.” Isaac stared at his coffee, his expression blank, but his eyes looked tired.
Two weeks.
One important detail could be extrapolated from this information: Winston planned to stay put for at least two weeks.
“One more thing.”
I felt Isaac’s stare on me, so I lifted my head and looked out the window to the parking lot behind him. Finding it empty, I gave Isaac my eyes.
“Razor is going to the Kentucky Derby.”
My lips parted in surprise and I felt my eyebrows pull together before I could halt the expression of confusion.
“Pardon?”
Isaac’s jaw ticked, but a weak smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Kentucky Derby.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer, just looked at me. That, I had to assume, meant my guess was as good as his.
Isaac stood. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a dollar and fifty-one cents, and placed the bill and coins on the counter.
“Exact change?” That couldn’t be right. Isaac always left a twenty and the twenty was what I handed over to the ATF or the bureau.
My head was swimming. Razor was leaving the Dragon for a trip to the Kentucky Derby. Winston was in town for the next month. Roscoe was a dumbass, about to be kidnapped—or, dumbass-napped—and Isaac Sylvester had given me exact change.
“The coffee was stale,” he said, standing and turning for the door. “No tip today.”
* * *
I decided to put a tracker on Roscoe’s car.
Wait.
Hear me out.
This was a good idea, I swear.
There existed a possibility that Isaac wasn’t the only Iron Wraiths lieutenant tasked with bringing Roscoe in. If one of those other guys caught up with the youngest Winston first, I didn’t like the real possibility that Roscoe would be seriously hurt.
