by Jessi Kirby
“Actually, I think we do.” Rusty sat back against the booth and looked up at her with the kind of smile that could probably make most girls say yes to anything. “We were thinkin’ we might need a couple of shots to go along with these.”
Shana tilted her head at him like the answer was no. “What about Hell Week? You guys aren’t supposed to be drinkin’ heavy right now.”
“It’s to toast to her brother.” He motioned at me, then looked back up at her, very serious. It was shameless, but something Finn probably would have appreciated. “C’mon. For Honor.”
Shana glanced at me, mulling it over before she turned back to Rusty. “Fine. Just don’t tell coach it was me that knocked you off the wagon. And keep it low key. I can’t afford to get in trouble over you, okay?”
We both nodded.
“What do you want, then?”
Rusty gave the question over to me. “Honor? What’re we drinkin’?”
Another one of his dares. I should’ve never, ever said anything about being all grown up. It was the exact type of thing he wouldn’t let me live down. Fine then. I pretended to think about it, like I actually knew something about what I might like to drink. “Hmm . . .”
Rusty watched me, entertained, and Shana waited.
“Tequila,” I said finally, with conviction. No matter that I’d never actually drunk tequila. It was the first booze that popped into my head, mostly because I’d heard enough songs to know it was something people took shots of.
Shana arched an eyebrow at Rusty, and he shrugged. “The girl means business. Make it two. And a couple more Buds to go with.”
“Oh good lord,” Shana said, shaking her head. “I can already see what kind of night this one’s gonna be. I’ll be right back.”
She turned again and headed for the bar, and I watched the cowboys watch her hips sway as she walked by. Then something she’d said came back to me. “You’re s’posed to be in Hell Week right now?” Rusty rubbed his forehead but didn’t answer. “Are you?”
“I guess so.” He lifted his beer and took a long drink, then set it down in a way that said he was done with that question. He wasn’t playing anymore, then. Shana just didn’t know it yet. “So, Honor, tell me somethin’. You a big tequila fan these days?”
“Oh come on. I had to order something. You used Finn to call me out on that.” Really, I’d regretted it as soon as I’d said it. The only hard alcohol I’d ever drunk was some peach schnapps that Lilah got once, and that was pretty nasty. Other than that, it was a beer here and there, but not because it tasted good. That was just what you walked around a party with. I picked mine up and took a big gulp. Since we were in a bar and all.
“That’s fine,” Rusty said. “I just didn’t know you could handle the hard stuff.” He raised his bottle casually for another sip.
“I should be able to. Why wouldn’t I? It can’t be that bad, right?”
“Nah, it’s not that bad.” He sat back with a wide grin and watched Shana, who was weaving her way back to us, tray held high above her head.
When she got to the table, she took two more beers off the tray first, then set down in front of me what looked way bigger than I thought a shot glass should be. “It’s a double,” she said. “On the house.”
This was gonna be bad. “Thank you.” I smiled up at her, trying not to look scared of it. I slid it closer to me, spilling some on my hand. Oh god. I could smell it from far away.
Rusty took his and turned to Shana with a smile as she set down a dish of limes. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Burgers’ll be up soon, okay? Enjoy.” She hustled off to tend to the bar, which was now filling up with cowboys, mostly older guys milling around in boots and palm-leaf hats.
Rusty looked at me like he was working hard to keep a straight face, then he licked the back of his hand and picked up the salt shaker.
“What are you doing?”
He sprinkled salt over the wet spot. “I’m takin’ this shot. Salt?”
Apparently this was how you took a shot of tequila. With salt. I stuck my hand out.
He grinned. “Did you want me to lick it for you?”
“Ew. No.” I pulled my hand back and licked it myself. “This is weird. Are you messin’ with me?”
“No,” he said, sprinkling salt on my hand. “You lick the salt, take the shot, then suck on one of these.” He put a lime wedge between the thumb and forefinger of my salted hand, then slid the shot over to my free hand. “Pick your glass up now.”
I did, and Rusty grabbed himself a lime, then raised his glass in his other hand. He actually expected me to do this. Right now. The smell of it was enough to make me wanna heave. My heart sped up. I was just gonna have to get it down as fast as I could without thinking about it. But oh, god, it was gonna be nasty.
“To Finn,” Rusty said, clinking my glass.
“To Finn,” I echoed. For a brief second I wondered what he’d think of this. Then I licked the salt off my hand, just like Rusty did, which was gross, but that was nothing compared to the nasty burn of the tequila I threw down my throat. Everything in me shivered and tried to gag it back up, but I forced it down, then jammed the lime in my mouth, hard.
“Nicely done,” Rusty said from across the table. He licked his lips and went for his beer.
I kept the lime pressed to my teeth and breathed through my nose, willing the shot to stay in my stomach, where it now swam around all warm and tingly. When I was pretty sure it was gonna stay put, I took the lime out.
“That,” I said, grabbing for my beer, “was horrible.” I took a good, long gulp that washed away the last of the burn and gave me a new appreciation for beer, then I set the half-empty bottle on the table and shook my head at Rusty. “Ugh. No tequila. Ever again.”
24
“YOU SHOULD TRY SOME MORE TEQUILA!” I yell across the table to Rusty. “IT’LL CHANGE YOUR LIFE!”
He laughs and says something I can’t hear because the music is so loud. Who cares. Wade Bowen’s up on the stage with his cute raspy twang and his guitar, and out on the dance floor everyone’s spinning and girls are flying up in the air and I’m gonna go out there too. I belong out there.
I scooch around the curve of the booth to Rusty’s side so he can hear me, then loop my arm through his and pull. “WE SHOULD DANCE! C’MON!” I twirl my finger around in the air. “BECAUSE THIS IS A REALLY GOOD SONG!”
Rusty leans away from me, laughing. “Goddamn, you’re drunk. And loud. You should maybe test out standing up first.” He nods at the couple, maybe three, empty rounds on the table.
“Whatever, I’m fine.” I take my arm back. “You’re no fun. I’m gonna go get one of those cowboys to dance with.” I go to scoot out of the booth for the guy I’ve been watching all night. He’s tall and cute and does this little move where he flips his hat off his head whenever he spins a girl. I want him to spin me and flip his hat.
Rusty grabs my arm. “Lemme finish this beer. Then we’ll dance.”
“Promise? I don’t believe you.”
“I promise.”
“Fine.” I grab his beer out of his hand and take a drink, and he just shakes his head. “What? I’m helping you. So we can dance.”
“Okay, have at it then.”
I go for another drink, and it’s kinda warm and not very good. But Rusty hits me with those green eyes of his and smiles, and that is very good. I wonder if he knows I just thought that. Oh crap, he does know. That’s why he’s still smiling. I should change the subject.
“I have a question for you,” I say, very serious, like I’ve been thinking it over forever. Because I have, actually. “Why do you—and Finn did it too. . . . Why do you guys talk about the Pala like it’s a girl? Why do guys do that with things? Do you know how dumb it sounds?”
Rusty just looks at me for a second, then cracks up. And then I do too, and I don’t even know what’s so funny except that he’s laughing and trying to catch his breath and every time he’s about to, it st
arts all over again.
“Really,” I ask through tears. “Why do you do that?”
Rusty leans back and breathes in deep, still on the edge of laughing. “Oh, goddamn, that’s funny.”
“What?” I’m about to start up with the giggles again, and I still don’t know what was funny in the first place.
“It’s not ‘the Pala,’ it’s Paula.”
“Huh?”
“Finn’s car. We named it after a girl—Paula.”
“No. You’re wrong.” I poke him in the chest for emphasis. “Pala . . . is short for Impala. Duh. Finn never knew anyone named Paula.”
Rusty crumbles into a laugh again. “That’s what you thought this whole time?”
“Yeah . . .” Is he . . . he’s laughing at me.
“No . . .” He catches his breath again. “Paula’s short for Paula Peaches. Who the car is named after.”
“Who’s that? That’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard. Who would name their kid that?”
“I’m pretty sure she named herself that.” Rusty takes his beer back from me and finishes it in one gulp, then smiles. “Paula Peaches . . . is one of Texas’s finest . . . actresses.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“No reason you should have.” I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
I think about it, hard, then something dawns on me. “Is she”—I look around to make sure no one’s listening and lower my voice to a whisper—“an adult actress?” I make air quotes around the word “adult.”
Rusty gives a proud nod.
“That is so dirty! You guys were just . . . dirty . . . dirty guys.”
Rusty grins like I just gave him a compliment. “Not as dirty as Paula Peaches.”
Shana walks up to the table before I can think of something clever to say back to him. “You two need another round?” She looks at me. “You doin’ okay?” Of course I’m okay. Except I’ve been driving around in a dirty porn-star car.
“Yeesss,” I say. “I would please like another round. But something fruity this time. With peaches, maybe.”
Rusty snorts. I work to keep a straight face. Hard. Shana shakes her head and points at Rusty. “You better not get too drunk to dance. That’s the only reason I let you in here.”
She leans down and whispers to me like we’re old friends. “J.D.’s not much of a dancer, so I have to get my fix from your boy here every once in a while. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I say. “But you better take him now.” I scoot out of the booth and whisper to her this time. “Because I think we might be startin’ to get drunk soon. And right now I gotta go pee. Where’s your girls’ room?”
Shana points, and I remember I’ve been there before. “Never mind.” I smile. “I know where it is.” I start to walk away but then turn around and point at the both of them. “You two. Go dance.”
Rusty nods, and Shana winks, and as I weave my way across the dance floor to the bathroom, I decide I really, really like her. I like that she called Rusty my boy, and I wonder if she really thinks he is. ’Cuz he could be my boy, maybe. I don’t know, I never thought of it. Well, that’s not true. I thought of it when he saved us from crashing Paula, the dirty porn-star car, and when he was in his underwear in the monsoon. And then when we went swimming today and he jumped off that swing—
“Which guy are you talking about?” The voice startles me. Oh my god, was I actually talking out loud just then? I think I might’ve been. There’s a girl standing next to me holding a beer, and we’re in line for the bathroom, and she looks really interested, and I’m pointing across the room to our booth. Holy crap, I’m drunk. “Um . . . nobody,” I say quickly. “Nobody at all.”
The bathroom door opens up, and I’m so glad it’s my turn because I have to pee worse than I can ever remember. A girl comes out, then a guy trying to look all casual, and I give them a dirty look because they were probably making out in the bathroom, or worse, which is so dirty. I would never make out in a bathroom. Why’s everyone so dirty?
I take care of my business as quick as I can, then check myself over in the mirror as I wash my hands. It’s easier to see if I squeeze one eye shut, so I do, and I don’t look half-bad. I look pretty good, in fact, and that’s good, ’cuz it’s time to find my boy and go dance. Ha. My boy.
Guitar and drums rush loud at me when I open the door, and everyone on the dance floor spins crazy and wild, and Rusty and Shana are right in the middle of it. And oh my god, she was right! How did I never know he could dance like that? He spins her fast, so her hair and the towel tucked in her back pocket both swing out behind her, then he ducks under her arm and turns her around so they’re chest to chest for a second, all sexy and close, like the people on those dance shows.
I’m gonna dance with Rusty like that.
I walk out onto the dance floor and Shana sees me and waves me over, and when I get there, she puts Rusty’s hand in mine. “Here. You take over,” she says, out of breath. “I got a drink order, but he’s just gettin’ started.” She winks, then smacks both our butts before she ducks off the dance floor and I lose her in the crowd.
Rusty grins, then bends down and puts his mouth so close to my ear I can feel his breath on my neck, and it gets me all tingly inside. “You ready to dance?” he asks. I nod. Oh yes, I’m ready to dance. He stands up with his eyes shining and his hair kind of tousled, and he’s looking at me again with those eyes.
“All right. Just follow me, okay?” I nod again, and when he puts a hand on the small of my back and pulls me in close, I decide I’d follow him right into the bathroom to make out if he wanted to. It’s so wrong, I know, but I’ve had enough tequila to make it seem a little bit right. I hope for a second I didn’t just say that out loud, then decide so what if I did. I wouldn’t take it back.
Rusty spins me out, then back in, and catches me, and we’re moving across the floor, and I’m laughing because I really didn’t know he could dance like this or that I wanted to kiss him so bad. I should do it right now, while we’re dancing and I’m brave.
I try to think for a second, but I don’t have time because we twist, back to back, arm over arm, then spin again, and now his hand’s on my waist, and wow that’s good. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna kiss him the next time he pulls me in. Which should be any second, because I think I’m getting these dance steps. He throws me out again with one hand, and his other one comes out of nowhere and grabs me, pulls me around his back, and in one more twist . . . we’re right there. Chest to chest. Closer than close. I lift my chin. He looks down at me. And it’s now or never. I’m gonna kiss Rusty.
25
I’m gonna die, I know it.
Tequila was gonna be the death of me, no doubt. I lay still. Didn’t dare move or even open my eyes just yet, because if I did either one, my head might honestly explode. Or I might throw up. Or both. I just lay there instead and tried to talk my body into going back to sleep for however long it would take for this feeling to go away. This had to be what death felt like. Either that or my first tequila hangover.
I almost gagged thinking about it. I’d taken that shot, and then Shana brought another one, and then . . . well . . . it had to have gone downhill from there, because everything after that was a series of fuzzy flashes: Wade Bowen up on stage . . . empty beer bottles and shot glasses all over the table . . . Rusty dancing with Shana . . . Rusty dancing with me. Me thinking it was a good idea to kiss Rusty . . .
Oh god.
I didn’t. Did I?
I rubbed my forehead, trying to somehow pull the answer out of the haze that had settled there, but the harder I tried, the more my head pounded. Maybe my brain was trying to protect me from the answer. No matter that it hadn’t bothered to remind me the night before what a bad idea kissing Rusty would be.
I rolled over and forced my eyes open. I was back in Celia and Bru’s guest room, still in last night’s clothes, boots and all. That was the sound of Bru and Rusty’s voices dr
ifting down the hall, and the smell of bacon cooking. And that sudden watery feeling in my mouth? That was my stomach warning me I was about to pay for last night. I jumped up and ran for the bathroom, faster than I would’ve thought I could in my current state, and made it just in time. Barely.
After, I rinsed my mouth out and took a good look in the mirror. Not only did I feel like hell, I looked it too, eyes all red and puffy, wild, tangly hair. And . . . was that . . . marker on my collarbone? I leaned forward and squinted at the backward writing in the mirror. Wade B. Wow. I had Wade Bowen sign me. I didn’t know what was worse. That or the possibility I’d kissed Rusty. Or that I was gonna have to go out there and face him without knowing. Oh, god.
There was a soft knock on the door. “Honor? You all right in there, honey?” It was Celia.
“Yeah, I . . . was just about to get in the shower,” I said as brightly as I could.
“Okay. Well, I’m going into town to run a few errands. Anything you need for the rest of the trip? The Fed Ex guy dropped off that part early this morning, and Rusty says he should have you back on the road to Kyra Kelley before noon.”
“Really? That soon?” I thought I might throw up again. I knew we needed to get going, but the last thing I wanted to do today was hop back in the Pala and spend five or six uninterrupted hours with Rusty and a desert highway, even if we did make it and I got ahold of Kyra Kelley’s assistant—I reached in my skirt pocket for Ashley’s folded-up receipt with the number on it but came up empty. I patted and searched the other pockets with panicky hands. Nothing. Oh, no. No, no, no. I’d kept it on me since she gave it to me, a little piece of hope folded up in my pocket so I wouldn’t lose it. But then I lost the entire night, and now—
“I was going to pick up some snacks for you two,” Celia said through the door. “Anything else you need?”
That little piece of paper!
I strained against the fog in my memory, trying to figure out if I’d put it somewhere else—Celia’s truck, maybe, or my purse. But I hadn’t had one with me—so I slipped it into my pocket. That much I could remember.
