Hosed

by Pippa Grant

  I’m no dummy, but I was a welder before I joined the department. I’ve never darkened a hall of higher learning. I was too busy busting my ass to help my parents put food on the table right out of high school to have the time, or the money, to go to college.

  Most days, that doesn’t bother me much. I love being a firefighter and I’m proud of the sacrifices I made so that my younger brothers could have choices I didn’t have. But sometimes, I wish I’d had more opportunity to stretch my brain and people to talk to who know more about the world outside of Happy Cat.

  “I assume you want the chicken sandwich,” Jace says from behind me. He’s dialed down the bitter, but his voice still makes me flinch as I shift my attention his way. “And a side of fries, as usual,” he continues.

  I frown. “Am I that predictable?”

  Jace sighs through his nose in response, making me frown harder.

  “No, thank you,” I say, rolling my shoulders back. Here I am wishing for something more, but sticking to old patterns and habits too. “I’ll have the buffalo wing salad with ranch instead of blue cheese dressing and an order of fried okra on the side.”

  “The okra’s not in yet,” Jace says flatly. “But I’ve got fried squash blossoms. They’re good.”

  “I’ll take those. And cobbler for dessert, whatever’s freshest.” I point a finger his way as inspiration strikes. “Two orders, please. Send the first order over now. To the brunette at table three.”

  Brows shooting up, Jace glances over my shoulder. “Ruthie May?”

  I frown. “No. The other brunette. The cute one who’s not old enough to be my mother.”

  His brows creep even higher, and the prickly-ass attitude disappears completely. “Cassie Sunderwell?” Jace whistles low, shifting his attention back to me. “Trying to mend fences?”

  “What? Why? You mean because of the fire? There wasn’t any water damage. And even if there had been, that’s hardly my fault.”

  “No, I don’t mean the fire,” Jace says in a tone that implies I must have already had a few too many. “I mean she hates you. Or she hated you in high school, anyway.”

  My frown becomes a full-fledged scowl. “What? No, she didn’t. Cassie and I were friends.”

  Jace snorts.

  “We were,” I insist. “We had English together.”

  Our English project was the highlight of the last semester of my senior year. I looked forward to the afternoons we spent rehearsing our scene from Romeo and Juliet every day, a bright spot in my busy studying, working, keeping-a-younger-sibling-from-killing-himself-until-my-parents-got-home life.

  Until we were cast opposite each other, I’d assumed Cassie was shy—she didn’t speak up much in class—but that wasn’t the case at all. She was smart and confident and, once she opened up a little, really funny.

  God, she made me laugh. And kissing her was weirdly nice too, even though it was just pretend for the play and she seemed so young back then it was hard to believe she was actually sixteen. With her hair always in a ponytail, big glasses, and oversized clothing, she looked about twelve.

  At eighteen, that’d made me a little uncomfortable about our mini make-out scene, but still…there was something there. Something that made me sad when the scene was over, even though we got an A.

  “You might’ve had English together, but you didn’t have anything else together,” my brother tells me.

  He’s not making any sense. “We got close,” I insist quietly. “We did a project together my senior year. She was so smart they put her in senior English when she was only a sophomore, remember?”

  My brother rolls his eyes. “Yes, I remember. I was a sophomore then too, dude. My friends knew her friends and I was there at the softball end-of-season keg party when she got drunk and told everyone who would listen that she hated Ryan O’Dell like festering wart-boils.”

  I wince. “Festering wart-boils?”

  “No one likes festering wart-boils.”

  “Clearly.” My shoulders slump. “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Jace says, his expression softening. “But whatever. Who cares? Everyone knows the Sunderwell girls are a little out there.”

  “Do they?” I ask, my jaw going tight. “Don’t you ever get tired of what ‘everyone in this town’ knows? Don’t you ever just want to jump out of the damned Happy Cat mentality and think for yourself?”

  Jace’s gaze darkens again, but he doesn’t respond right away. His focus slides to the table behind me, lingering for a long moment, before coming back to rest on my face. “I’ll get the cobbler, but you take it over to her yourself. Look into her eyes while you do it and be honest with yourself about what you see. That’s part of the trouble with this town too, you know.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, shocked to get this many words in a row out of Jace, especially when he’s in a foul mood.

  “What ‘everyone knows.’” His lips twist in a smirk. “The person in the mirror is part of that too, isn’t it? People in this town like to tell you who you are. Makes thinking for yourself harder than it sounds.”

  I nod slowly, impressed. And hopeful. Maybe my little brother isn’t going to stay chained to a woman who treats him like shit for the rest of his life. Maybe he’s going to break out of the mold this town poured him into the day he got arrested for racing dirt bikes through the golf course freshman year and forge a new path for himself.

  Reaching out, I clap a hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

  Jace rolls his eyes. “You want the cobbler or not?”

  I glance over my shoulder to see Cassie laughing with her co-workers, her eyes dancing in a free, easy way they didn’t when we were alone together this morning, and my chest tightens.

  I turn back to Jace. “No cobbler.”

  “She might like cobbler.” He shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”

  I push my beer back across the bar toward him and slide off my stool. “Nah, not tonight, little brother. See you later.”

  “No dinner? I can get it wrapped to go.”

  I shake my head as I head toward the rear exit, down the hall by the supply closet, determined not to attract Cassie’s attention while she’s enjoying herself. I want to know what I did wrong so I can make it right, but I’m not going to put her on the spot in public.

  I am, however, going to prove to her that I’m not a bad guy and that we should be friends again. We’re neighbors, after all. For now.

  With one last glance at her table, and that smile that makes me want to know Cassie again more than I want sleep after a double shift, I head for home.

  There, I find George chasing a vibrator—turned on, no pun intended—around my screened-in porch. After making sure he’s not going to accidentally electrocute himself if he bites through the outer case, I make a batch of vegetable quesadillas and contemplate the mysteries of the universe with a cold beer and a copy of my high school yearbook spread open on the kitchen table. But staring at Cassie’s sixteen-year-old face doesn’t offer any answers. Not to why she apparently hated me then, or to why it matters so much that I get to know her again now.

  Whatever I did, I want to clear the air. I want to fix it.

  But I can’t fix it if she won’t talk to me.

  I point my last quesadilla triangle at George, who’s lounging on the couch in the other room, petulantly eating grapes because I refused to make him popcorn. “I need a plan, George. What I really need is a plan.”

  Five

  Cassie

  * * *

  Because of Savannah’s schedule filming Savannah Sunshine when we were kids, we usually spent five months a year in California before coming home for most of the school year. Life in Happy Cat was our parents’ way of inserting as much normalcy into our lives as possible. We had tutors to keep us on track while Savannah was on set, of course, but most of her work was done between May and September.

  I didn’t do Georgia summers until high school, after her show ended its run.

 
Wednesday is one more reminder why I choose not to do Georgia summers now. I’m wilting like a plump sunflower and stealing ice chips from Sunshine Toys’ sno-cone stand at the farmers’ market in Sunshine Square to keep from passing out in the heat.

  The square was named for Savannah’s TV show. Not her sex toy factory. And that should really be the full name of the square, because it’s how all the locals refer to it now. Sunshine Square, named for the Savannah Sunshine TV show, not for…you know.

  Even Ruthie May makes the distinction, and she’s the proudest local employee Savannah has. She’s explaining it to an out-of-towner who came by for the weekly market right now, as a matter of fact.

  “Oh, yes. Savannah Sunshine is a local. She’s done so much good for our community, and we’re so proud of everything she’s accomplished. Sno-cone? Savannah insists we hand them out for free. It’s just common decency in this dadgum heat.”

  “We have mango-lime, strawberry surprise, and cherry,” Olivia adds. She’s positively glowing in the late afternoon humidity. I don’t know if it’s her aura cleansing ritual or what, but if it weren’t for that paper fan she’s waving on her face, I wouldn’t believe she’s even noticed the heat. She’s fresh as the morning dew in her adorable short jean shorts, bangles on both wrists, big sunglasses that hide half her face, and a sun hat over her blond braids.

  She looks like a Southern belle the way she’s working that fan, and it does have the Sunshine Toys logo on it, so she might actually be a marketing genius in disguise.

  Our customers all pick the strawberry surprise, and we load them up with sno-cones before sending them down to check out the fresh corn on the cob a few booths over.

  “Really smart to theme the sno-cone flavors to match the summer lube flavors,” I tell Olivia.

  I’m working on not blushing when I say lube. The fact that my face is already emulating a sweating cherry in the heat is definitely working to my advantage at winning this battle. High-five to me. I pop another ice chunk in my mouth.

  “Oh, we didn’t just theme them,” Olivia says brightly. “We’re flavoring the sno-cones with the actual lube.”

  The ice gets caught in my throat, and Ruthie May smacks me on the back until it goes flying over our table and lands on a local farmer’s back. I wince, but the man in the overalls doesn’t seem to notice the ice already melting into his clothes, so I don’t bother to apologize.

  I have bigger problems than assault with a chunk of sno-cone.

  “What? We can’t use—” I rasp before another coughing fit hits me.

  “But we use all natural ingredients,” Olivia explains while I try to get rid of the itch clawing at my throat. “Completely edible.”

  “I thought the coconut oil would solidify on the ice, but Neil tweaked the formula so it’s working perfectly,” Ruthie May adds. “Going down real smooth.”

  “Stop,” I gasp between coughs. If any of the town prudes hear that we’re spreading Satan’s sex juice all over innocent children’s sno-cones, we’ll get investigated by the health department. I’ll have to tell Savannah about it, and she will absolutely sell the company.

  I have to do something. Stat!

  I’m bent double, hacking out my tonsils while I rack my brain, when a raccoon on a leash stops in front of our table.

  The hairs on the top of my head prickle just like the hairs on my nape stood up at the Wild Hog last night when I was failing miserably at not being oh-so-aware of Ryan sitting at the bar, looking delicious in faded jeans and a tight blue tee shirt the same pristine mountain lake shade as his eyes.

  I blame Ruthie May for that too.

  She kept whispering that he was looking at me until he left.

  “You okay, Cassie?” Ryan asks.

  “Oh my gosh, Ryan, thank the goddess you’re here,” Olivia says while I try not to cough-spit on Ryan’s shoes. Or his raccoon. “I think she needs the Heimlich.”

  Metal clinks, and an open stainless-steel water bottle appears under my nose. Two more points to Ryan for being environmentally friendly. “Here,” he says, “take a drink. George doesn’t mind sharing.”

  I’m too grateful for the water to get mad that he’s offering me his raccoon’s water. I gulp the cool liquid, spilling some down my favorite Firefly tee shirt.

  “Thank you,” I say when I’m finally able to talk without hacking up a lung.

  And that’s when I make the fatal mistake.

  I look him straight in the eye, and the raw concern in the furrow of his brows melts into one of those friendly smiles that flips my belly inside out and renders me incapable of using my tongue for speech. Though I’m pretty sure I could work up the lingual fortitude to lick several parts of him—repeatedly.

  Why does he have this effect on me? Even after being responsible for the most mortifying moment of my entire life, he still makes me swoon like I did that time Wil Wheaton told me he liked my Supergirl costume at Comic-Con.

  In California, I learned to expect that people might not be what they pretend to be on the surface. Yes, I was young, but my parents were like hawks on set, and they made sure Savannah and I knew not to trust the boys—or sometimes men—who hinted at wanting to spend time alone with us.

  But I thought Ryan, at least, was one of the good guys, and that I wouldn’t find Hollywood-level deception in Happy Cat.

  He proved me wrong.

  He proved me so wrong.

  And if the Ryan O’Dells of the world are secretly backstabbing creeps, then what hope is there for any other man?

  “Better?” he asks.

  I want to believe that honest, friendly concern is real, but I have trust issues.

  And they’re his fault.

  “Yes.” My voice is all kinds of raspy and unattractive, but it doesn’t matter, because I refuse to care if I’m attractive to Ryan. “Thank you.”

  I hand him back his bottle and wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts.

  He scans me up and down, but I remind myself it’s professional firefighter Ryan making sure I’m okay, and that the fact that my skin tingles under my clothes everywhere he looks would mean nothing to him. This attraction is not a reciprocal problem.

  “That’s so sweet of you to take care of Cassie,” Olivia says. “You two are just adorable, and not just because you have complimentary auras. Which reminds me, Cassie, I need to do your birth chart this week.” She sighs dreamily. “Aren’t they adorable, Ruthie May?”

  Ruthie May perks up like a shark that’s smelled blood in the water. “Well, I reckon they are.” She shoots a look between Ryan and me, and I can already see heads twisting. The entire town can sense when Ruthie May gets her teeth sunk into a new story. She lets off gossip pheromones.

  “George is the adorable one,” I say, because the raccoon is kinda cute. When he’s not wearing anal beads and lifting penis pops out of Savannah’s trash can. “How are we doing on ice? Do we need more? I can go pick up more if we’re running short.”

  “We have plenty,” Ruthie May says without looking, so I lean over and look in the cooler.

  “Oh, we do, don’t we?”

  “And we have plenty of lu—”

  “FLAVORING!” I yell over Olivia. “We should get grape flavoring too. I love grape.”

  “But we don’t have any—”

  “Exactly. Grape flavored flavoring is important.”

  Ryan’s smiling at all of us like we’re highly amusing, albeit a little crazy. “I like lemonade on my cone,” he says.

  “Ooooh,” Ruthie May and Olivia say together.

  “I’ll text Savannah,” Olivia adds.

  “Psh,” Ruthie May replies. “Don’t bother her. We can handle this on our own. Cassie, we need you to approve lemonade-flavored lube.”

  “Approved,” I say, desperate to change the subject before my already flaming cheeks ignite with embarrassment. “Can we—”

  “Help! HELP!” a terrified young voice shrieks from the other side of the market.

  I turn to s
ee the two teen girls who just snagged sno-cones from our booth dropping to their knees on the ground beside the glass blowing booth. Ryan takes off at a run, leaving George Cooney’s leash in Olivia’s mostly-capable hands. After a beat of hesitation, I race after him, in a huffing-and-puffing, can’t-keep-up-with-fit-people kind of way.

  I don’t know exactly why I’m running, except I have this awful feeling that I need to go. I need to see what’s happened. I need to make sure everyone is okay. Maybe it’s paranoia, but between the fire at the factory and the fear that someone will find out we’re serving lubed-up sno-cones, my control issues are revved up in a major way.

  One of the teenagers—the brunette with the curly ponytail—is pawing through her mother’s purse. Her younger sister is crying. Their mother is on the ground, clutching at her throat while her cheeks turn red. She fights to pull in a breath while her eyes stream tears and a crowd gathers.

  By the time I reach the scene, Ryan’s already at the mother’s side, talking calmly to one of the girls. “Coconut,” Curly Ponytail says. “She’s allergic to coconut.”

  My lungs freeze, and a slow panic builds in my chest.

  Coconut. Coconut oil is the base ingredient in all of Savannah’s lube.

  And it was all over the sno-cones. I quickly scan the area, spotting three half-empty sno-cone sleeves in the grass not two feet away.

  Ryan grabs the mom’s purse and dumps it out beside the suffering woman. It only takes him a minute to find what he’s looking for—an Epi-Pen.

  Before I can look away, Ryan rips off the top of the needle and jabs it firmly into the woman’s thigh, hard enough for it to punch through her jeans into her skin, all while murmuring to her in a comforting way completely at odds with his assertive jabbing.

  Swallowing hard, I press a fist to my chest and ignore the woozy spinning of my head, willing myself not to pass out as I remind myself that not all needles are evil. Some needles save lives, like this one.

  Still, I’m grateful when Ryan glances over his shoulder, looking relieved to see me, and says, “Cassie, call 9-1-1.”