3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

“Uh-oh,” I said. “He looks wasted.”

  Josh fell against his car, then yanked the back door open. “Hey!” he hollered into the car. He fell into the backseat, his usual stiff movements now loose limbed. It took him three tries to close the door. The first time his hand slipped off the handle, the second time his leg was in the way. On the third attempt, he finally managed to get the door shut properly.

  He stuck his head between the front seats, putting a hand atop each seat to support himself. “There were boobies everywhere!”

  “Boobies?” I repeated, shooting him a stern look. “Seriously?”

  Josh ignored me. “When you pay them money, the girls will dance at your table and bump up against you and you can see their boobies up close!”

  I looked at Nick. He was fighting a grin.

  “But you can’t touch them,” Josh said, holding up his hands as if to demonstrate, “or the bouncers will throw you out!”

  “I take it you learned that the hard way,” I sniped. “Really, Josh. You’re what, thirty? You act like this was the first time you’ve seen breasts.”

  “It was!” Josh cried. “I’m a virgin!”

  Nick lost the fight with the grin. “A virgin, huh? That explains so much.”

  “It certainly does.” I turned back to Josh. “Did you get some good photos and video of Fischer?”

  He gave an exaggerated nod, then lurched forward and made an odd sound. Urp.

  Nick leaped out of the driver’s seat, opened the back door, and pulled Josh across the seat and out the door again just in time for Josh to empty his stomach onto the parking lot.

  “Lovely.” I turned my head away, but unfortunately it didn’t drown out the retching noise. Thank goodness he’d only had drinks and hadn’t joined us at the buffet.

  Several minutes later, when we were convinced Josh had completely emptied his stomach and perhaps even coughed up part of a spleen, Nick helped him back into the backseat, sliding the seat belt across him and clicking it in place. Josh promptly wriggled until the belt loosened a bit. He lay down across the seat. “Night-night.”

  Nick climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned to me. “What now? Should we head back to Dallas or get a hotel room?”

  I wasn’t sure I was up for a three and a half hour drive back to Dallas. After sitting most of the evening, first in the car and then in the casino, my butt was asleep and my back was sore. But I wasn’t sure a hotel was a good idea, either. I didn’t have a toothbrush or makeup with me, let alone a clean pair of panties to put on in the morning. But I did have a spare toothbrush and panties at my parents’ house, which was only an hour and a half drive away. Besides, my mother had been begging me to come for a visit.

  “We can stay the night with my parents,” I said. “Head west. I’ll show you where to turn.”

  I hoped my mother had taken her estrogen pill today. Seeing Nick might send her into another hot flash.

  Josh snored in the backseat as Nick ditched the wig, I ditched my hat and mask, and we headed out toward Nacogdoches.

  “What’re you going to do with your winnings?” Nick asked. “Buy yourself some diamond earrings? Put a hot tub on your patio? Maybe take a vacation in Hawaii?”

  “Nope, nope, and nope.” I told him I planned to donate the funds to the animal welfare group that was taking care of Buchmeyer’s chickens. “And maybe call a handyman out to fix my creaky stair.”

  Nick eyed me for a moment, a soft smile playing about his lips. “You and that chicken had something real special, didn’t you?”

  The low-gas warning light came on. Nick pulled into a Texaco station and filled the car.

  Josh raised his head. “Are we there yet?” He put his head back down and was asleep again before I could answer.

  Gassed up now, we turned down the highway that led to my hometown. As we approached the northern outskirts of Nacogdoches, the lights of a roadside honky-tonk shined up ahead. Judging from the number of pickups in the parking lot, the joint was jumping tonight.

  When we reached the entrance of the gravel parking lot, Nick turned in, raising a cloud of dust behind us. “I want to celebrate,” he said. “Let’s go scoot our boots.”

  I wasn’t wearing boots. Besides the sequined tank top, I was still dressed in my suit pants and business loafers. But properly dressed or not, Tara Holloway was no party pooper.

  Nick grabbed his cowboy hat from the dash and we climbed out of the car, making our way under the Christmas lights that were strung from the metal roof of the prefab building to a nearby oak tree. The sign on the side of the building indicated the place was currently called the Bar None, but in earlier incarnations it had been known as Uncle Rowdy’s, Junior’s Gin Joint, and Nasty Nellie’s. I’d drunk my first beer here. Tasted like bull piss. My brother happily took it off my hands and bought me a margarita instead.

  Nick handed a ten-dollar bill to the man at the door to pay our cover charge and we headed inside. Despite the fact that the place bore a new name outside, the inside hadn’t changed much over the years, if at all. The same band graced the stage, performing the same songs they’d played thousands of times. The same scarred wooden tables sat scattered haphazardly around the room, the same mismatched chairs surrounding them. The same mechanical bull stood in the corner. The same rednecks and roughnecks milled about. The place smelled the same, too. A mix of beer and sawdust, like the cage of an alcoholic hamster.

  Nick and I found a table near the bar and staked our claim.

  “What are you in the mood for?” he asked.

  If we were in Dallas, I’d order an appletini. But place an order like that here and you were likely to get your ass kicked. “Margarita, on the rocks with salt,” I said, ordering the most exotic drink the place offered.

  As Nick stood at the bar, the horrendous wig now gone, several women glanced appreciatively his way. Who could blame them? A tall woman in tight jeans with breasts nearly tumbling out of her halter top sidled up to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear. He gave her a smile, but shook his head. He said something I couldn’t make out and jerked his head my way. The woman looked me over, quirked her brows to indicate she wasn’t much impressed, and walked away.

  Skank.

  Nick returned with our drinks. I sipped at my margarita. Not bad.

  Nick took a pull at his beer. “I can’t wait to see those photos,” he said. “Fischer’s going to shit a brick.”

  I ran my finger around the rim of my glass, collecting large grains of salt. “What do you think will happen?”

  “Gambling and ogling titties?” Nick said. “At worst, we’ll put an end to his good times. At best, the guy will be seen for the fraud he is and removed from his position as pastor.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Eight Seconds to Qualify

  A young guy who appeared barely old enough to drink climbed onto the mechanical bull in the corner. His friends gathered round the makeshift pen, urging him on, while the operator handed him a clipboard and a pen. A full release and waiver, no doubt. You break your neck, don’t blame us.

  We watched as the operator started the bull. It began to move up and down slowly, regularly, hardly more than a person would experience on a trail ride. The boy motioned with his hand for the operator to up the pace. The bull now bucked in an irregular rhythm, turning first one direction then the other. The kid made a decent showing, hanging on for a good five seconds before losing his balance and being thrown to the padded mat on the floor.

  Nick turned to me. “You ever ride a mechanical bull?”

  “Hell no.”

  He cocked his head. “I thought you were fearless.”

  “I am,” I lied. “I just don’t invite trouble.” My thigh bore the wide, pink scar from my recent adventures in cockfighting. I didn’t want to take on another animal, real or otherwise.

  “Give it a try,” Nick said, his eyes narrowed at me in challenge.

  “Nope.” I took another sip of my drink.
r />   “I dare you,” Nick said.

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “I double dog dare you,” Nick said.

  “Yeaaah, no.” I shook my head.

  Nick leaned toward me, his face only inches from mine. “I triple dog dare you.”

  Just like the young boy in the beloved movie A Christmas Story who was dared by his friends to lick a frozen flagpole, I knew that backing down in the face of a triple dog dare would forever brand me as a wuss. “A triple dog dare? Well, now, that changes everything. You’re on.”

  I downed the rest of my drink, mustered up my courage, and stood from the table. Nick followed me over to the bull, even paid the cost of my ride and intertwined his fingers to form a step for me to boost myself onto the automated beast.

  After signing the waiver, I closed my eyes in quick prayer, grabbed the rope with both hands, and tried to relax. I’d attended enough rodeos to know that the best way to stay on a bull or bronc was to become one with the animal, to go with its flow.

  A few people gathered around, mostly men.

  “Twenty bucks says she falls off in under three seconds,” a man said to Nick.

  Nick looked my way and shot me a wink. I was on a roll tonight. Nick just might win this bet. He turned back to the man, opened his wallet, and laid a twenty on the wooden rail surrounding the bullpen. “You’re on.”

  “Ready?” the operator asked.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.

  I took a deep breath as the bull kicked on and began to dip forward. I leaned back in response, rolling forward as it reversed its motion. It was a bit like riding a teeter-totter. Of course the last time I’d been on a seesaw I’d been seven years old. A girl can forget a lot in twenty years.

  Nick raised his white hat over his head and shouted, “Ride ’em, Tara!”

  Encouraged both by Nick and my success thus far, I let go of the rope with my left hand and raised it above my head, pro rodeo style. “Crank it up!” I hollered to the operator.

  The guy tipped his hat, called out, “You asked for it!,” and turned the machine up higher.

  The bull began to shift from left to right, then back again, sometimes faking one direction, then doing a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn in the other. While the operator eyed his stopwatch, I hung on, trying not to anticipate the bull’s moves lest I be wrong and lose my delicate balance, letting myself rock and roll with the haywire actions of the machine.

  I tried to count as the bull spun, and bucked, and gyrated under me.

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  Three.

  I felt like one of those inflatable figures that waved in the wind, bending first one direction then another as the bull maneuvered chaotically under me. I stayed on only by the grace of God.

  Clang! Clang! The operator rang the cowbell that hung from a post nearby. “You got your eight seconds!”

  The crowd cheered. All but the guy who’d placed the bet with Nick, that is.

  “Woo-hoo!” Nick hollered, waving his hat in circles over his head before pocketing the twenty bucks he’d just won.

  Eight seconds was the benchmark for qualifying in an actual rodeo and it was more than enough for me. I motioned for the operator to turn the machine off. It slowed and rocked to a stop. When I slid off the bull, Nick entered the ring and gave me a high five.

  I looked up and poked a finger into his chest. “Your turn, buddy.”

  “Uh-oh.” He grimaced. “I should’ve thought this through first.”

  I took his hat and his spot at the rail.

  Nick signed the release and swung his long leg over the bull, shifting a bit as he settled himself. I watched as the bull began bucking. Nick moved with the bull, rhythmically undulating, his chest rising up and falling back, his back arching, his pelvis moving back and thrusting forward. Damn if it wasn’t one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen a man do. The motion had me wondering how it would be to have him riding me, whether the expertise he showed riding this beast translated to the bedroom.

  The crowd whooped and hollered as the intensity and action ratcheted up, yet Nick held on like a pro on the rodeo circuit. When his eight seconds were up, Nick kept right on going. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to show me up or show off for me, but I didn’t much care. I was having a hell of a time just watching him ride.

  “Shee-it,” said the cowboy next to me, taking a drag from the cigarette in his hand. “That boy’s got some talent, too.” He turned to me. “You two are a matched set.”

  When the bull failed to throw Nick after thirty seconds, the crowd turned on Nick and began to root for the bull. There is such a thing as being too good at something.

  When the bull executed five quick circles in a row, Nick began to tilt precariously to the outside and had trouble righting himself against the centrifugal force. The bull continued to spin, and Nick was eventually thrown clear. He somehow managed to land on his feet, but he was bent over, momentum carrying him forward. He staggered as he tried to right himself, moving closer and closer to the edge of the bullpen until he collided facefirst with the wooden rail.

  A sympathetic “Oooh!” came up from the fickle crowd, which was on Nick’s side once again.

  I ran into the ring and over to him. He stood, his hand over his nose, a trickle of blood running down his bristly cheek. A drop fell from his chin onto his shirt.

  The woman in the halter top appeared with a stack of napkins and handed them to Nick. “Much obliged, ma’am,” he said.

  “Much obliged?” I rolled my eyes. “What is this, the old west?”

  We left the ring, heading back to our table. We sat there for a few minutes, Nick tilting his head back and holding the napkins to his nose until the bleeding stopped.

  “You think it’s broken?” I asked Nick as he wadded up the napkins.

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Boot Scootin’

  Nick went to the men’s room and cleaned himself up, returning to the table just as the band launched into their rendition of the electric slide. The chairs emptied as everyone hit the floor.

  Nick held out his hand and cocked his head in the direction of the dance floor. “Let’s go.”

  I probably should’ve resisted, but in Texas refusing to dance the electric slide was akin to refusing to say the Pledge of Allegiance. Besides, what could it hurt? It wasn’t like we’d be dancing together. Line dancing was a group activity.

  I took his hand and he led me onto the dance floor.

  We began dancing the standard moves side by side, occasionally bumping elbows as the crowd closed in around us and we were forced closer and closer together. Nick had just as much rhythm on the dance floor as he’d shown on the mechanical bull.

  It was very late by then, only an hour until closing time, and many of the patrons had left sobriety behind hours ago. While their drunken state made them less inhibited on the dance floor, it also made them far less graceful and less able to keep count or remember which direction they were headed next. A tall cowboy near the stage shuffled left when he should’ve gone right. He knocked into the woman next to him, who ricocheted off the woman next to her, who grabbed the shoulder of the man in front of her in an attempt to regain her balance. After downing untold pitchers of beer, the man could barely keep himself upright, let alone help the woman hanging on to him. His body buckled and he fell backward into her. The two of them went down hard. Without any means of escape, the tight crowd began to fall like dominos, people pushing and shoving, trying to remain on their feet but having little luck.

  It was a country-western cluster fuck.

  The crowd surged toward us like a wave. I looked around, but we were surrounded on all sides. There was no way out.

  Nick wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me tight against him. “Hang on!”

  I latched on to Nick, hanging on for dear life lest I be crushed by the human tsunami rushing our way
. He spread his legs slightly, bracing himself, swaying backward but somehow managing to stay on his feet when everyone around us fell. He held me upright, too.

  Around us, people slowly pulled themselves to their feet, most laughing, a few others angrily pushing and shoving. Someone hollered “Catfight!” We turned to see Miss Halter Top and a shorter, pudgy woman, both on their knees in the middle of the crowd, engaged in a hair-pulling, face-clawing, cheek-slapping bitch match.

  Classy.

  A few people gathered around to cheer them on, while Nick and a couple other men made their way through the crowd to pull the women apart. When the woman in the halter top realized it was Nick who’d locked his arms around her and was dragging her backward off the floor, she smiled up at him and bellowed, “Hey, cowboy! Wanna get lucky?”

  Nick deposited the drunk woman at a table with her friends and returned to me.

  I looked up at him. “Gonna take her up on that offer?”

  “Not even tempted.”

  I turned to head back to our table.

  A warm, strong hand on my forearm stopped me. “Where you going?”

  I looked up into Nick’s eyes. “Back to the table.”

  “Come on, Tara,” he pleaded. “I haven’t been dancing in forever. Stay out here with me.”

  I looked away, knowing I’d have no chance of resisting him if I kept looking into his eyes. Unfortunately, my eyes now met those of the drunk but determined woman in the too-small halter top. She’d left her table and hung strategically nearby, like a wolf circling a sheep, clearly hoping to sink her teeth into Nick. I couldn’t very well let that happen, could I? For his sake, mind you. Not mine. I looked back up at him. “Okay.”

  We danced a two-step, a lively polka, and a classic waltz, keeping a respectable distance between our bodies. Still, we were connected at three points—where my right hand rested in his left, where my left hand arced over his strong, muscular shoulder, and where his right palm cupped my hipbone.

  My body ached for more contact, but my heart ached with indecision.

  Should I keep things moving ahead with Brett?

  Or should I give Nick a chance?