by Tegan Maher
I was enjoying the wind and the feel of the bike when we pulled into the ball-field parking lot and was really warming up to the idea. It would be nice to ride beside Hunter. And to be in control of that throttle. Just the idea made my heart speed up.
Even though we were early, the lot was about half full. Folks around Keyhole were serious about their football regardless of whether it was Pop Warner or the Falcons. Our high-school games were always a main even on Fridays and if UGA was playing, forget getting a seat at any sports bar around.
We latched the helmets to the bike then went in search of Shelby. She and Cody were setting up a canopy over some picnic tables.
"I think he's good for her," I said, taking Hunter's hand as we crossed the field.
"I think they're good for each other," he said.
"Yeah, if it weren't for him, she'd never show up for lessons now that she's got full use of her magic." I shook my head. "She worries me because she doesn't take it seriously."
"Seventeen year olds rarely take anything seriously, honey."
I sighed. We'd had this discussion several times and each time I ended up feeling like I was blowing things out of proportion. "It's not like she’s blowing off a math quiz," I grumbled.
He just squeezed my hand instead of saying anything since we'd arrived at the tables. "Need any help?" I asked them.
Cody was pulling out some equipment and setting it on the picnic tables and Shelby was arranging the cooler and Solo cups. "Nope," Cody said. "I think we've got it."
Kids started trickling in, and before I knew it, it was game time. Cody gave the kids a great pep talk then sent them in for the coin toss after a huddle that ended in “To the Max!” I tilted my head, curious. Cody said, “We always end the huddle that way. First it started as a sort of hats-off to Max, then it became the team mantra—do everything to the max. Today it was a little of both.”
That was really sweet and I wondered again at the differences in the Max I knew personally and the man I was learning he’d been.
I'm a people watcher by nature, and I was scanning the crowd, enjoying all the different emotions, when Kyle Malcolm crossed my field of vision trailing behind Daddy Dearest and wearing full pads. I elbowed Hunter and motioned toward him with my head.
"What?" he asked.
I'd forgotten he hadn't had the pleasure of meeting Chet yet, so I pointed him out. He was charging across the field with a full head of steam.
Hunter pulled in a deep breath, then released it. "What did the kid get suspended for? Bullying?"
"Yeah, and poor sportsmanship. He was heckling and refused to stop."
He stood but I put a hand on his arm. "You're doing the same thing I do with Shelby. This is going to be a learning experience for Cody, and in the eyes of this crowd, this is his space. He has control of it. Respect him and let him try to handle it before you step in."
"He's only seventeen."
"I know. But just let him try, okay?"
Had I been thinking, I would have realized I was trying to keep a lid on the wrong person.
Shelby was sitting facing out on the picnic bench, her elbows braced on the table behind her. I saw the exact moment she caught sight of Chet because she wriggled her fingers like Liberace warming up. I puffed out my cheeks, then released the breath as Chet stormed unwittingly toward his doom.
My little sister was truly scary sometimes. Flynn witches are notoriously powerful—and I do mean notorious, but that's a great story for another time—but Shelby got an even healthier boost of juice than the rest of us.
After my go-round with Chet at the restaurant, I was willing to let Shel have a go at him. I was confident now that she wouldn't do any damage or confirm the community’s suspicions about us, so watching him get a second helping would be an extra cherry on a great day.
Cody was focusing on the coin toss, so he didn't catch sight of him until everything went silent and all eyes turned toward Chet.
Oh goody. He was going to get a public dressing-down one way or the other. My day just got better. I opened the channel in my mind that linked me to Shelby, and knocked politely. It's rude to just barge into somebody's melon.
She glanced over at me and raised a brow.
Don't be too obvious. We have a captive audience. And give Cody a chance to handle it himself first.
She rolled her eyes.
Pretty sure I know better than to stand up and heave lightning bolts up his butt. Gimme some credit, sister.
Don't guilt me for encouraging bad teenage-witch behavior. She knew the difference between giving Chet a well-deserved comeuppance and blowing over little old ladies with a gust of laughing gas. Though to be fair, that might be funny in a safe environment. To make it clear we had Cody’s back, we moved over to sit beside Shelby at the picnic table.
Chet steamrolled his way across the field, clutching a coffee cup in his hand and dragging his mini-me behind him. He stopped so close to Cody that the poor kid had to look up to meet his glare. "Kyle's here and ready to play," Chet growled, daring Cody to defy him.
Cody pulled himself up to his full height, which still put him a couple of inches shy of the ogre, and met Chet's gaze without stepping back. "I'm sorry, Mr. Malcolm, but Coach Wheeler removed him from the roster for a good reason, and I'm standing by that."
I was pretty sure at that point that Chet's head was gonna explode right then and there. His face was all mottled and he took a step back. They just stared at each other—Chet with rage, Cody with determination—for a couple of long seconds, then Chet did something none of us expected him to do right there in the open.
He pulled his arm back to backhand Cody. I figured for sure Shelby was gonna blast him at that point, but Hunter put a hand on her arm and shook his head.
"You stupid, disrespectful little son of a—" Cody ducked to the side just as Chet's hand would have made contact, then grabbed the bigger man's wrist and used his own momentum to throw him off balance. He landed right on his backside on the edge of the field, right where everybody could see him.
He was speechless for about a second and a half before he started ranting and raving and spewing expletives so foul I hoped he didn't kiss his mama with that mouth. Kids were staring and other coaches had made their way across the field to assist. Parents and miscellaneous bystanders had just gathered to watch a fight.
Shelby made the shut-your-mouth gesture with her hand, cutting him off mid-rant. He tried to speak again, but remained mute. For the second time in a week, he found himself silenced, which I found funny. Either we were on the same wavelength or shutting him up was a knee-jerk reaction of every person he came in contact with.
He glared at me, but I just shrugged and gave him my don't-look-at-me expression.
Shelby’s voice drifted into my head. Here's how bad he is—I only cursed him to not be able to swear.
Holy cow! The way he was silently flapping his jaws, it was a good thing she'd hit the mute button.
Out of the corner of my eye, Kyle, who was no small kid, put his shoulder down and charged toward Cody while he had his back turned. I narrowed my eyes and glanced at Shelby. She was oblivious, smiling as Chet built pressure like a volcano, so I turned my attention back toward the kid.
With a single swoosh of my finger toward his feet, I sent him ass-over-teakettle and was satisfied to see him land flat on his back. He was trying but failing to pull in a lungful of air and I figured having the breath knocked out of him was the least of what he deserved for trying to catch a man in the back.
Shelby was smiling like a cat that ate the cream, and looking at our handiwork—Cody's included.
Hunter pulled Chet up by the front of his shirt and started to Mirandize him. Chet must not have been as dumb as he looked because he figured the spell out pretty quick this time around.
He yanked his arm away and sneered. "This wouldn't even be an issue if Max Wheeler treated this like football instead of the ballet. All of that feel-good, everybody-plays crap. T
he only thing that matters is winning."
Hunter moved in again, telling him he was under arrest for assault and causing a public disturbance. I silently added on the charge of being a chronic d-bag. Chet made to push him, but was shocked yet again when Hunter dodged him and caught hold of his thumb in the process.
If you've never been in a position where somebody has ahold of you that way, let me tell you—they've got control of your whole body. Hunter pulled the hand with the thumb behind his back and yanked up, telling him to put his other hand behind him. He had to ask a couple of times, but the second time he jerked Chet’s thumb up a little higher, which got him better results.
Kyle had finally caught his breath and was pushing to his feet, so just for good measure, I wound my finger in a circle a few times in his direction so that his ankles were bound a foot or so apart. He could walk, but he wouldn't be going anywhere fast enough to do any harm.
The second cuff snicked shut on Chet as Kyle hobbled over to his dad, who growled to Hunter, "I figured for sure with goody-goody Wheeler dead, this league would toughen up a little." He spat. "Shoulda known one little ole toilet tank lid couldn't work a miracle."
I was absorbing the implications of that statement when a flash of white bulging on his bicep beneath his thin, red-and-white-checkered shirt caught my eye. I'd have never noticed it if the fabric wasn't straining because of the odd angle.
"Hold up," I said as Hunter led him off the field. I jogged to catch up, then looked closer; it was definitely a bandage.
"What'd you do to your arm, Chet?" I asked, watching his face for his reaction.
"What's it to you, you red-headed freak show?"
That earned him an extra jerk to his thumb from Hunter, which made me smile. "The lady asked you a question and I'd like an answer."
"I don't have to tell you jack," Chet said, spitting to the side. “For all it matters to you, I cut myself shaving."
"If it were on your leg, I'd believe that," I said.
He lunged at me again. Hunter had let go of his thumb, but he kept hold of the cuffs. Chet lunged so hard that he almost jerked his own shoulders out of socket.
I stepped back out of the way and let Hunter do his thing. One of the deputies was there in his squad car because his kid was playing, so Hunter escorted Chet to it.
He'd only pay a fine, but at least he wouldn't be back to ruin the game. With people like that, the public humiliation was way worse than any legal problems anyway, and he and his hellion had both gotten a good dose of that.
When we climbed back up to sit on the picnic table, a splash of white in the grass caught my eye. I grinned and pointed it out to Hunter when I realized it was Chet's coffee cup. "Looks like you have your DNA sample after all."
He bent over and gave me a peck, grinning. "Even when you're not being a witch, you still manage to be magical."
I don't know which was worse: the mushy corniness of it, or the fact that I thought it was sweet.
Cody's team lost, but by a respectable margin, which I thought was good considering they'd lost their head coach. I was also surprised to learn during the gathering after the game that many of the kids had looked to Max as a father figure.
The man was an enigma.
Chapter Twenty Three
We got home around two, just in time to get ready for Max's funeral. If you've never ridden to a funeral with the deceased sitting beside of you, I'd recommend leaving it off your bucket list. He drifted between surly and macabre, the back again.
"I hope she didn't decide to put me in no monkey suit," he said, scowling. "I hate them things. Always bindin' up anytime you try to move."
Hunter nodded. "I know. And they're stupid hot. How come women get to wear light, breezy dresses or pantsuits, but we get stuck under at least two layers of cotton and polyester when we have to dress up?"
Max nodded. "And I hope she didn't get one of them stupid caskets with the overstuffed lid," he continued to whine. "You know, the ones with the buttons in 'em that make 'em look like a headboard in a ’70s porn video?"
Seriously? "No. No, I don't know what the headboards in ’70s porn videos look like. And I don't want to know, either. And besides, what do you care what you're wearing or what your casket looks like? Need I remind you, it's not like you have to wear the suit or spend a lucid eternity in the casket, anyway?"
He huffed and turned toward Hunter. "Is she always like that? If she is, you may wanna keep lookin'. That's not gonna get any better with age."
I glared at him. "I've never actually thought about doing an exorcism, but I'm about ready to start the research."
"See, boy, that's what I'm talkin' about," Max said, motioning toward me with his thumb. "I'd be thinkin' long and hard if I was you."
"Nah, she's all right," Hunter said. I rolled my eyes; gee thanks, honey. "She's just had a lot going on lately."
I twisted toward them in my seatbelt. "Since when are you two bosom buddies? Yesterday, you referred to each other as Numbnuts and that crotchety old bast—"
"I think we're just calling a truce for today," Hunter said before I could finish.
"Fine." I faced back forward and we rode in blessed silence for a while. "Do you think the murderer's gonna show up?" I asked without thinking.
Hunter ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. "I'd think there was a good chance of it if we didn't already have him in custody."
Max, who had been lucid longer than normal, scratched his whiskers. "Do killers really do that?"
Hunter shrugged. "Sometimes. Depends on why they killed you."
He turned on his right blinker and pulled into the parking lot of Blake's Funeral Home and Monuments—or Blake's Countertops if you pulled around to the other side of the building.
That may sound like an odd combination, but if you think about it, it's logical. After all, we had our share of deaths and kitchen remodels, but not really enough of either to make a living off of individually. And they both required marble, so it was an economical combination.
I glanced around the lot as Hunter drove to the far end of the lot. No white SUV or silver Impala.
There was a better turnout than what I thought there'd be. Lots of clients from the business, and then there were the families of kids he'd coached over the years. It kind of gave me new, if grudging, respect for him.
I turned to him. "Are you sure you want to go in there?"
He nodded but looked pale. That whole thing about ghosts being pale is a bit of a misnomer. They're translucent and have the slightest silvery shimmer, but for the most part, they look like they did in life. And right now, he looked about like what I'd expect a man getting ready to view his own body might.
"I reckon I can't look any worse than I did the last time I saw myself," he said. I couldn't argue there; the last time he'd caught sight of himself, he'd been sprawled on the floor of his shop with some of what should have been on the inside of his head knocked to the outside.
Hunter turned the truck off and as we walked toward the entrance, he pulled the legs of his pants down and twisted a little bit for a couple of steps.
"See," Max said. "They bind."
"Let's just go inside already," I said, rolling my eyes. If I had to live through another sixty seconds of male bonding over the discomforts of dress pants, they were going to get the rundown on high heels, pantyhose, and bras. I'd win that argument, girdles down.
Before Hunter had a chance to open one of the double doors, I stopped. "Max, it would probably be best if you stayed invisible to anybody but us. Folks tend to trip out a little when a man shows up for his own funeral."
Max dipped his head. "You're probably right. I'll stay out of sight."
The inside of the building had that same feeling of respectful sorrow that every funeral home had, except the Blake brothers weren't that great at being the dour-faced doormen that I'd had the misfortune of experiencing at funerals in other towns. You know—those ones who have the permanen
t look of pitiful mourning on their faces.
I know it's meant to be respectful and that jovial laughter right out of the gate wouldn't set the right tone, but I just don't understand why they have to look sad. Why not warm? A smile goes a long way when you're sad, but those hound-dog faces at most funeral homes make me want to cry even if I don't know the person very well. The only thing I can figure is they don't know where genuine empathy ends and contrived pity begins.
Now the Blake brothers—those boys know how to throw a funeral. They greet you at the door, but they shake your hand and welcome you in much the same way a Baptist preacher does on Sunday. The only difference with them is they don't hide the fact that there's always an open bottle of Jamison behind the coffee filters in the escape room.
Though to be fair, that cabinet isn't always unlocked; some funerals just don't need the inhibition-stripping effects of alcohol thrown on the flames, for various reasons.
We made our way through the receiving line, where Emily was standing beside the casket. I'd just bent down to hug her when Max swore a blue streak. "I can't believe she actually put me in a damned monkey suit."
I uttered my condolences, wishing for one of those ghost traps from Ghost Busters because I swear, if he said one thing about the casket, I would have sucked him up.
"Knock it off," a harsh voice whispered. I looked over to see Coralee with her hand on the edge of the coffin, quietly but forcefully giving Max what-for while appearing to have her last earthly conversation with his body.
She was one of the few folks with no magical gifts who could see ghosts all the time. She said it was because she didn't judge somebody by their living status. That was as good an explanation as any, I guess.
"This day ain't about you, you old goat; it's about Emily and the kids, and the other people who care about you. What do you care what she dressed that empty shell in? It's not like you're standing there now in your current state with little Max and the twins all bound up. Quit whinin'. At least she didn't pick one of those floofy, seventies-porn-style caskets for you."
