For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2)

by Selena Laurence

  MIKE IS pouting like a six-year-old as we drive in the darkness, bouncing along the dirt roads back to the ranch. He’s in the passenger’s seat, head thrown back against the headrest, mouth clamped shut, and boot tapping in the floorboards impatiently.

  "Watch those fucking dips, man," he mutters as I hop us over a pothole. "Since you gave away all your damn money, I know you can’t afford to buy me a new suspension."

  "Give me a break. I swear to God, this is a truck, Mike. A huge motherfucking truck. You’d have to haul through a dip six feet deep before you’d hurt the suspension on this thing. It was made to work. You treat it like it’s some sort of Italian sports car."

  He snorts and turns to look out the side window. After a moment of silence, he tells me, "I’m not trying to get in her pants."

  "Really? ‘Cause it sure as hell looked that way with you two practically on top of each other at that table in the darkest corner of The Bronco. You were sniffing her hair, for Christ’s sake."

  "Shut the fuck up! I was not."

  I can’t help but smile. It feels good to get him all riled up. Maybe I’m taking my frustrations out on him, but he’s done enough things to piss me off in the last twenty years that he deserves it.

  "You were, dude. I saw it with my own eyes. Speaking of, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you giving googly eyes to a chick before. It was like you were a cat and she was covered in catnip. You looked stoned just from sitting with her."

  I see the smallest hint of a smile play around the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t want to admit it, but I’m right.

  "Okay, so she is hot, but I swear I’m not trying to get in her pants. It’s not like that."

  "Tell me what it is like then, because from what I hear, you’re risking your nuts even talking to her."

  He sighs and adjusts the vents in the cab, fiddling with the temperature control and directing most of the air in the truck at himself. "First of all, she’s twenty-three, so it’s not like I’m hanging around with jailbait. And yeah, I know all about her old man. She doesn’t live with her parents. She teaches at the elementary school, has her own place. The mighty reverend doesn’t get to decide who she’s friends with." I can hear the defiance in his voice. Mike’s nothing if not defiant.

  I shudder to think how far he might take this and what the fallout could be. I briefly wonder if the reverend has a private hotline to God and could damn Mike—and me by association—to Hell. My head starts to ache at the idea.

  "You still haven’t told me the part about not trying to get in her pants," I remind him.

  "She wants to perform," he blurts out. "She’s got a voice like… Well, I know it’s really sappy to say, but like an angel. And she wants to make it in country music. She didn’t know who I was, but once I heard her sing at The Bronco one night, I told her. She’s got what it takes, and I want to help her, you know? Maybe, I don’t know, produce an album for her or something."

  "No shit? You really want to take on producing? A country album?"

  "Yeah, I was thinking…" He pauses and glances over at me as if he can’t quite decide whether to trust me or not.

  "You were thinking what?" I prompt.

  "I was thinking maybe I’d play guitar on it too. I mean, with the right arrangements, we could do something bluesy, with crossover appeal. Taylor Swift’s made the transition from country to pop like cake, and a girl like Jenny, with her looks and her pipes? I think she could hit it big in country and alt rock."

  As I listen to his confession, I’m stunned. It’s like pod people have invaded Mike’s body. He’s actually thinking about—and with—something other than his dick. But it is about music, and that’s the one thing that can bring him out of his self-indulgent, hedonistic cave. Maybe the combination of a hot-as-hell blond preacher’s daughter and music is what Mike’s needed for years.

  "Wow. I’d never have guessed, dude. You’re full of all sorts of surprises these days."

  It’s pretty dark in the cab of the truck, but my guess is that he’s rolling his eyes.

  "You and Joss never thought I could do anything except play guitar and fuck," he mutters.

  "’Cause that’s all you’ve done for ten years!" I exclaim as we pull into the parking lot for the ranch.

  He sighs and doesn’t move to exit the truck, so I turn off the ignition and sit with him in the dark.

  "Yeah, I know you’re right. Even since my mom, well… I don’t know. I sort of figured I’d end up just like her, so I wanted to get every last drop out of what little bit of life I had left."

  Mike’s mom killed herself when we were sixteen. I’ve never asked why she did it. He’s never told me, but I have always suspected that it played into his recklessness—the sex, the booze, the drugs. He may not be an addict yet, but he’s been heading that way for a lot of years, and coming to live on the very dry Double A Ranch has been the best thing for his tendencies.

  "So why now?" I ask, curious. "Why did you decide to do something other than get the best out of life now?"

  He clears his throat, the sounds reverberating around the truck’s interior. "I don’t know, man. You and Tammy falling apart, the band breaking up, all the shit that went down with Joss… I guess I started to think that getting laid and always being the center of the party wasn’t actually getting the most out of life. There are things I miss now, and surprisingly it isn’t the groupies and the parties. I miss being with my buddies. I miss seeing you and Tammy together. I miss making good music."

  I hear more than see him shrug. I nod, his words tumbling through my mind. "I wish like hell I knew how to fix all that, dude. Right now, I’m just trying to have a life—you know, one day at a time. But if you say this girl’s got what it takes to make it, then I believe you. Let me know how I can help."

  "You want to play drums for Jenny when I back her at a performance at The Bronco in a couple of weeks?"

  "Seriously? You’re going to get on stage with her? What if someone recognizes you? I mean, someone here is going to realize who we are eventually."

  "I don’t give a shit anymore. I’ve got to live, man. And so do you. I know you’re still sorting through what happened with Tammy, but you can’t hide out here forever, Walsh. I’m not sure what happens next, but change is coming, brotha’, and we can’t turn the winds of change."

  I snort. "And you said you needed a lyricist."

  He laughs, and so do I, and the moment is over, thank God. Getting all girly with Mike is something I can only handle in small doses.

  Tammy

  IT’S MY first day at my new "job" and I’m nervous as hell. I know Walsh is going to be surprised to see me here, and when he finds out I’m going to be here two meals a day every day but Sundays, he’s going to freak. But I really can’t believe he’d think that he could tell me it’s over and expect me just to go away on command. After fourteen years? Really? I shake my head as I pull up to the employee parking lot behind the ranch house.

  I hop out of the red rental car thinking maybe I’d better return it soon and just buy myself something appropriate for life in the boonies—a four-wheel drive, but not a truck. My Mercedes SUV is parked at my house back in Portland, but I don’t want to stand out driving it around here. I need a Texas version of that. I decide that I’ll ask Leanne what she’d recommend. She’ll probably wonder how I can pay for it, but maybe I’ll just say that I have a little family money.

  Walsh and I haven’t even discussed the fact that he gave me his share of the money from the dissolution of the band. I have no intention of keeping it, but buying a car won’t put a dent in it, so I don’t worry about that. I’ve been very frugal since we split up, and I was due some money from the band for a severance package, so I’ll buy the car and call it even.

  I walk into the kitchen and find Leanne standing at the stove while a dark-complexioned man in a cowboy hat, a plaid shirt, and Wranglers stands behind her, arms around her waist, whispering in her ear. It’s intimate, and I stop in the doorway, u
nsure whether to back right out or do something noisy so they know I’m there. Just as I turn around to tiptoe away, Leanne’s head jerks up and she swats at the man, who backs up, chuckling.

  "Hi, Tammy. Come on in. This one here was just trying to sweet talk his way into an early serving of stew. But he knows I’m not going to give it to him."

  "She’s hard as nails, my woman," the guy says, smiling as he puts his hand out to me. "Ronny Silva, and you’re definitely Tammy."

  I shake his hand, which is warm and rough in that way men’s hands are when they do work in their yards and their houses—or I suppose on ranches as well.

  "No one’s ever called me possibly Tammy, so I guess so." I smile at him because he’s got such a handsome, open face it’s hard not to.

  "I’m Walsh’s sponsor," he says as he motions for me to sit at the kitchen table.

  Leanne appears with the coffee pot and pours us each a cup before she sits down too. Ronny reaches over and places his hand on hers while he talks to me. It’s such an unconscious gesture that I nearly cry from remembering what it felt like to be that in sync with another person—with Walsh.

  "I might have heard a thing or two about you over the last six months." Ronny reaches for his coffee cup with his free hand and takes a sip.

  I cringe on the inside and probably grimace on the outside. "That can’t have given you a very positive impression of me."

  "Well, luckily for you, I don’t form impressions of people unless I’ve met them myself. And a girl as pretty as you will have a hard time creating a bad impression with this old man." He winks at me, and Leanne rolls her eyes.

  "Stop flirting with the waitstaff," she chides.

  He scoffs. "She ain’t the waitstaff any more than you’re the cook. But I do want to know how she’s going to fix things with my boy."

  Just like that, the friendly banter is over, and Ronny looks at me over the rim of his coffee cup, one eyebrow cocked.

  I fidget a bit in my chair, the jeans and t-shirt I’m wearing now seems far too thin to protect me from the eagle-eyed gaze that’s wandering over my face.

  "Ronny," Leanne admonishes. "Sponsor or not, their relationship is their business."

  "Oh?" he asks, turning his sharp look on his wife. "Is that why you hired her to work here? Found her a place to live in town? Made sure she had a way to stay while she breaks down Walsh’s resistance?"

  Oh shit.

  Leanne’s chin tips up and a fire enters her eyes. I can see how this small woman handled having a bingeing alcoholic for a husband as well as how she handles all of the recovering men who come through her doors every day now.

  "I gave her an opportunity to recover her life the exact same way you give all these men an opportunity to recover theirs. I don’t pry into what that recovery process looks like. That’s her business."

  "All right, querida. All right," he says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "I wasn’t trying to rile you up." He turns to me. "I just wanted you to know that he’s been working hard, and he’s got what it takes to make it. Not everyone does. Just go easy on him, huh? I know you’re both hurting. I don’t want to see either of you get hurt more on my watch."

  I nod, respecting his concern for Walsh even if it makes me feel a little like the Wicked Witch of Portland.

  Leanne waves a dishtowel at him. "Get out of my kitchen now or there won’t be any lunch for your men."

  "I’m going, I’m going." He laughs as he leans in before she can stop him and gives her a hard kiss on the lips.

  I see her body sort of soften for a moment, the way my heart always does when Walsh kisses me—the way it used to when Walsh kissed me. Ronny tips his hat at me and saunters out singing De Colores, a song we used to sing in Spanish class when I was in school.

  "He doesn’t mean to be so harsh," Leanne tells me as she moves back to the stove and stirs the stew. She lays the spoon down next to the stovetop and turns to face me. "We get a lot of men through here. Some hardly cause a ripple, they come—they work, they leave, almost like ghosts. We try to help them, but a lot of times, they’ve damaged themselves to a point where not much can be done. We give them a safe place, good food, hard work, sunshine, and we hope that it helps them in some way, no matter how small."

  She begins taking plates and other dishes out of the cabinets as she talks. "Then there’s another kind of man who comes through—the guys who could go either way. They participate, interact, seem to enjoy the time here, but you’re never sure if they’re listening—really listening—to what they’re being told. Those guys are our maybes."

  She now has stacks of plates, bowls and glasses set out on the kitchen table, and she moves on to a large drawer where she keeps silverware. "But there’s one other kind of guy who comes here, Tammy. I’ve only ever seen two or three of them in all the years we’ve been doing this. They’re the guys who never should have been alcoholics in the first place. The guys who are beautiful souls.

  "You can see it the moment you meet them. They aren’t damaged the way the others are. There’s something inside them that’s unblemished by all this—the drinking, the addiction, the ugliness. Those guys can make it. They can leave here and be amazing people, do amazing things. My husband’s never given up on an alcoholic, but there’s something different about a guy like Walsh. Ronny feels like he’s been given the task to protect that special thing inside Walsh. He’s not trying to make you feel bad, hon. He just cares so much about getting Walsh well."

  I nod, because I get it. Get what they see in Walsh. He’s always had that something special. It’s why people are drawn to him—Joss, me, Mike, Colin, and nearly every kid we knew in high school. We all wanted to be near Walsh. I used to go to bed at night thinking how incredibly lucky I was to be the one he’d chosen. Until the day I let my fears get the best of me and threw it all away—threw him away. I give myself a mental shake. That won’t get me anywhere. I’ve got to stay in the present, where I have a goal—to get Walsh to see that we still belong together.

  "I understand. I do. Walsh is a really special guy, and no one wants him to get through this more than I do. I want him to be healthy and strong and ready to start his life again. I promise I won’t do anything to jeopardize that."

  Leanne smiles at me warmly and rubs a hand up and down my arm. "I know you won’t, hon. We just have to prove to Ronny you won’t and it’ll all be fine. Now, let’s get things ready. Those men will be here in thirty minutes and they’ll be hungrier than a herd of goats."

  I can’t help but laugh at her country-isms, and I spend the next half hour smiling while she shows me exactly how to set up a meal for a dozen or more hungry, dusty recovering alcoholics.

  THE GUYS come in through the kitchen and go to the dining room to put up their hats up before they sit down to eat. I’m hiding in the walk-in pantry, too scared to go out there and face Walsh’s disapproval. What seemed like a great idea yesterday—and hell, even ten minutes ago—now seems like a disaster in the making. What was I thinking? Maybe if I sneak out the back door, no one will be the wiser and I can come up with another way to be near to Walsh.

  "No backing out now," Leanne quips from across the kitchen as I walk back in and load up a tray with stacks of tortillas and a huge vat of stew.

  "It’s that obvious, huh?" I ask.

  "You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t nervous about all of this. But you’re going to go on out there and show him you’ll do whatever you have to for him. Including serve a bunch of part-time cowboys their lunches."

  I take a deep breath and push it out of my chest as I push the doubts out of my head. "Okay. I’m ready."

  "Good girl," she says before she gently sends me through the door to the dining room.

  Walsh

  I’VE JUST come in from a morning in the holding pens branding calves. Poor little things—it hurts them, and they make those moaning cow noises when the brand hits their skin. I make the other guys do that part. I can’t bring myself to press tha
t hot metal into their soft skin. Instead, I help hold them still, soothing them however I can, and herd them back out to the bigger pen once the deed is done.

  The good thing is that the job requires your complete attention, and you’re out there with a bunch of other guys, so you can’t get all reflective or caught up in your own shit. I’ve managed to avoid thinking about one of my two vices, because today is all Tammy. I don’t know if she’s still in town, and I’m trying really damn hard not to care. I’ve told myself over and over since last night that I did what I needed to, and it was for her sake as much as mine. She needs to let go of this—of us—and start a new life for herself. Just like I’m doing.

  Unfortunately, it’s difficult to convince myself of all that when she’s standing right fucking in front of me holding a big tray of food. Wait—Tammy is standing in front of me holding a tray of food? I freeze as I’m hanging my baseball cap on the hooks Leanne provided in the dining room.

  "Excuse me," she says sweetly. "I need to set this down so you all can start lunch."

  I realize that I’m standing there staring at her. She’s so matter-of-fact in her request that, before I can even process it, I’ve stepped out of the way and she’s sashayed on by, placing the food on the sideboard while the rest of the guys in the room all follow her with their eyes, clearing their throats and falling silent as she moves around.

  After she sets the tray down, she turns to find everyone looking expectantly at her. Mike has his eyes on the floor, shaking his head and chuckling quietly. I step closer to him and jab him in the side with my elbow. He yelps and then breaks down into peals of laughter. All the guys look at the two of us like we’re insane, and Tammy scowls. Then, with timing to rival the best performers, Leanne comes bustling in with another big platter of food. She talks as she sets it down and fusses over the placement of all the items on the sideboard.