Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  Duane and I had just arrived; Jess was due any minute, as was Hank. That meant I only had a few minutes with Duane to discuss the topic of our coworker.

  My twin gave his head a subtle shake and searched my expression. “Not much,” he said finally, not disguising his irritation, like the answer was obvious and he didn’t like being forced to vocalize it.

  “She talks to you.” I leaned forward, not wanting to yell over the music.

  “Yeah. But not much.”

  “Come on, y’all work on stuff together all the time. Surely, she must’ve talked about herself.”

  “We’re not sharing our feelings, Beau. We’re working on cars. I know she’s left-handed, she prefers right-handed tools, she’s mean to strangers, and she seems to be able to engineer car parts from scratch.”

  “Fine. You don’t know much, and you don’t ask. But have you noticed—” I glanced around the bar quickly, to make sure no one was looking, before motioning to my forearm.

  His eyes followed the movement, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “What?”

  “Her arms.”

  “What about her arms?”

  “She has scars along the interior of her forearms.”

  Duane stared at me for a beat, blinking once before asking, “So?”

  “They’re self-inflicted.”

  That got his attention. Duane’s eyes widened and darted to my arm again, as though he might find wounds there.

  Patty arrived while Duane and I traded stares, dropping off our beers and giving me a wink—which I answered with a polite smile. She soon rushed away, called to another table.

  Duane leaned forward, ignoring his beer. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I don’t see how they could be anything else. They’re tidy. An inch long, about a quarter of an inch apart. They look like they’ve been made with a razor or a sharp knife.”

  Duane’s eyes flared at the word razor and I knew what—or rather, who—he was thinking about. Razor Dennings, the Iron Wraith’s president, had earned his name by cutting on people.

  I quickly shook my head, but Duane spoke before I could. “Are you sure she didn’t get them from someone else?”

  “I guess she might’ve, but they follow the classic pattern of cutting.”

  “Classic pattern of cutting?” he sputtered, rearing back. “What are you? An expert on self-harm?”

  “Don’t be a dummy. I googled it after I spotted the scars on her arm. And when she saw me looking, she covered it real fast.”

  “Huh.” Duane crossed his arms on the table, his expression thoughtful, then asked doubtfully, “Then . . . she’s crazy?”

  I grunted. “Just ’cause she cut herself doesn’t make her crazy.”

  “Really? Sane people cut themselves?”

  “Define sane.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You wrecked your mint-condition Road Runner last year at the dirt races. On purpose. Are you sane?”

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, Beauford.” Duane rolled his eyes, glancing toward the bar. “I’m just saying, she doesn’t seem crazy.”

  “Oh yeah? How do crazy people seem?”

  His eyes cut to mine and his expression intensified. “Out of it, I guess. Out of touch. Messy. Emotional. She’s not messy at all. Have you noticed she’s been reorganizing the entire garage? Everything has a place. It’s nice. And, emotional? No. Other than hollering at you yesterday, she doesn’t seem to have any emotions at all.”

  “Face it, Duane. We’re not acquainted with anyone who has a mental illness. At least, not that we know of.”

  “Not unless you count our father.” Duane’s jaw ticked, his eyelids drooping to half-mast. “He’s definitely messy, out of touch, emotional.”

  “His mental illness is called being an asshole.”

  “I think that actually is a mental illness, if you want to get technical. Called narcissism, or narcissistic personality syndrome, or being a sociopath. Ashley’s friend knows. Isn’t she a psychiatrist?”

  “Which one?”

  “Sandra, I think? The redhead. From Texas. The one that made Cletus cry last year before Momma died.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right.” I filed that piece of information away, just in case I needed to ask questions about Shelly, how we should deal with her, make sure we didn’t do something to accidentally push her off the deep end.

  “Besides, Shelly doesn’t remind me of Darrell. She’s not . . . bad. She’s just really rude.” I chuckled a little, realizing—very reluctantly—that on some level I enjoyed her rudeness. I liked her clever comebacks.

  She reminded me of Duane in a lot of ways, but to an extreme degree. Honest, clever, with zero patience for bullshit. But Duane shook peoples’ hands, and knew when to keep his opinions to himself, neither of which Shelly had seemed to master.

  “She doesn’t remind me of him either.” Duane’s mouth twisted to the side, he seemed to be thinking matters over. “I’m guessing you haven’t talked to Cletus yet?”

  “No. Not really. Not about this.” I motioned to my arm, then grabbed my beer, taking several gulps until it was gone.

  I was still unsettled by Cletus’s declaration about he and Shelly being suited. I couldn’t figure out why his interest in the woman tormented, but it did. It rankled. And not grasping why Cletus’s designs on Shelly bothered me, I’d been even more irritated.

  “I don’t think Cletus knows about the cutting. If he knew, he’d be meddling.” Duane sighed. “Also, Jethro said something about Cletus being sweet on Shelly, but I don’t think that’s true either.”

  This last part had me sitting straighter. “What did Jethro say?”

  “Like I said, I think Jethro is full of it. And I don’t think Shelly is crazy either, if that’s the point of this conversation.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Then what? What are you proposing? Are you afraid she’s going to hurt somebody?”

  “Not somebody.” I shook my head, a knot of dissatisfaction in my stomach, because I wasn’t sure what I was proposing, or why I was bringing this up. I wasn’t a gossip, and usually I was good at minding my own business.

  But I couldn’t, not this time.

  “What are you worried about?”

  “I guess I’m worried—” that she’s still hurting herself.

  “That she’s a danger to herself?” Duane guessed correctly.

  “I don’t know,” I hedged, looking over Duane’s head as I searched for Patty. We needed another round. In my searching, I saw both Hank and Jess hovering by the door. “They’re here.”

  Duane glanced over his shoulder while I lifted my hand in the air until they saw us.

  Rushing to finish the conversation before they made it to the table, I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “But I know what I saw, and how she won’t touch anyone, won’t even shake hands with people. Plus she’s all by herself here, isn’t she? Her brother is in Chicago. Shouldn’t someone be keeping an eye on her? Checking on her?”

  Duane gave me a once over. “I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why do you care?”

  I glared at my brother.

  He shook his head at me. “You can’t go around saving everybody, Beau.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Because I’m leaving soon—”

  “Yes, Duane. I know you’re leaving. You never shut up about it.”

  “—I won’t be here to talk sense into you. If I didn’t keep you grounded, you’d be giving folks the shirt off your back and the boxers off your ass. Remember what Grandma Oliver used to say: don’t set yourself on fire trying to keep other people warm.”

  I snorted, rolling my eyes.

  “You’re too damn nice.”

  “Only because you’re too damn mean.”

  He tilted his head side to side, like he was thinking on my words. “Yeah. Maybe. I guess that means, when I go, you’ll have
to learn how to say no. ’Cause I won’t be around to do it for you.”

  “Don’t you fret, I won’t count on you for anything.” I pasted on a convincing smile just as Jess and Hank made it to the table, feeling Duane’s scowl on the side of my face the whole time.

  “How’d you score a booth?” Hank slid in next to me, craning his neck, presumably to find Patty so he could place an order.

  Duane stood, a grin in place as he greeted Jess and motioned for her to slide into the booth first. She whispered something in his ear. He laughed, his sour mood and my nasty words forgotten. They kissed. Held hands. Sat real close.

  Ugh.

  They were nauseating.

  I needed another beer. As my eyes did a sweep of the bar, I stopped short, doing a double take, and then stared.

  Shelly Sullivan had just walked in.

  10

  “Enough about my beauty,” Buttercup said. “Everybody always talks about how beautiful I am. I’ve got a mind, Westley. Talk about that.”

  ― William Goldman, The Princess Bride

  * * *

  *Beau*

  My heart lodged in my throat, obstructing my ability to breathe. Or think.

  The sight of her was like being sucker-punched in the stomach, slapped across the face, and receiving a sexy stroke in the groin simultaneously. Too much to sort through.

  “Holy shit.” Hank nudged my shoulder. “Who is that?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

  She was wearing a black tank top with thin straps and no bra. Maybe it was ungentlemanly of me to notice, but I noticed. Holy shit, did I notice. I think even Reverend Seymour’s wife would have noticed.

  The shirt was a little too short for her long torso, baring a sliver of toned midriff. Her hair was thick, messy, and long, cascading down her back, tumbling over her shoulders, looking like she’d just taken it out of a braid. Her blue jeans were tight and were tucked into worn, brown cowboy boots.

  Shelly hovered by the entrance, her fingers haphazardly tucked in her jeans pockets while her cold glare surveyed the interior.

  In the end, it didn’t matter that I couldn’t speak, because Duane answered Hank’s question. “That’s Shelly,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Holy shit,” Hank repeated, still sounding dazed and amazed. “You weren’t exaggerating. She’s beautiful.”

  Yeah, she was beautiful. She was also smart, clever, a brilliant mechanic. And . . . complicated. And mean.

  I shouldn’t forget mean. Super, super mean.

  I tore my eyes away and worked on putting them back in my head.

  “Holy shit is right,” Jess said unexpectedly, drawing our attention. She was twisted in the booth, leaning forward to see past Duane. “She looks like somebody, somebody famous. Who does she look like?”

  “She should be famous, looking like that.” Hank was near drooling.

  “No, I’m telling you. She looks like someone.” Jess’s gaze grew foggy and she was clearly trying to place Shelly, as though she’d seen her someplace before. “Anyway, that’s the most gorgeous lady I’ve ever seen.”

  “Then you need to look in the mirror.” Duane scowled at Jess, pushing her hair off her shoulder.

  She slid her wide eyes to my brother and gave him an incredulous look. “Honey, I know you’re hot for me, and I love that about you. But I’m not blind. That woman is—”

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Duane placed his face in front of Jessica’s, stealing a quick kiss and earning him a smile.

  “Where the hell did she come from?” Hank sat up straighter, leaning to one side, presumably to keep Shelly in his line of sight. “I mean, other than my fantasies.”

  I scoffed, sliding my teeth to the side and finding my voice. “Then go talk to her.” I couldn’t help it, the words were bitter.

  Duane squinted at me. Jess did as well.

  But Hank couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Shelly. “I think I might.”

  My brother reached forward, placing a staying hand on Hank’s wrist. “Don’t.”

  “Why?”

  Duane released Hank and looked to me for help. I shrugged, gritting my teeth, not sure if I wanted to laugh or yell. I couldn’t be bothered to do either, because my heart was racing for no reason.

  “Beau.” Without tearing his stare from Shelly as she strolled to the bar, Hank tugged on my shirtsleeve. “Introduce me.”

  Duane shook his head. “You’re making a mistake. Leave her alone.”

  “Come on now.” Hank finally turned to my brother. “No woman comes into a bar looking like that and doesn’t want some male attention.”

  “Or female attention,” Jess muttered, fiddling with her coaster.

  Duane made a strangled sound and Jess grinned. “What? I’m just saying, I agree with Hank. You dress for the job you want. And she’s dressed like she wants to have a good time. If she wanted to be inconspicuous, she’d dress inconspicuously. Right?”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t choose her body, did she? Or her hair, or eyes, or height, or face.” My comments drew all eyes to me. I wasn’t sure what my point was. “I don’t think it matters what she wears, she’s never going to be inconspicuous. Hell, she’d get hit on daily at the shop if Duane and I didn’t hide her from customers, and she just wears coveralls there.”

  Jessica studied me, quickly glancing at Shelly and then back to the table, like she was a little embarrassed. “I guess those clothes do look comfortable.”

  A cold knot formed in my stomach, predicated on the realization that I hardly knew the woman. But I’d been making assumptions about Shelly Sullivan for the last several weeks based on her appearance.

  Suddenly, I was desperate for another beer. Cletus had been right all along. I needed to apologize to Shelly for how I’d treated her—how and what I’d assumed—when we’d first met, and everything that came after.

  Taking a deep breath, I shoved at Hank’s shoulder. “I’ll introduce you.”

  Jess squinted at me. “But you just said—”

  “She’s here by herself, isn’t she?” My eyes moved to Duane as I continued. “She’s all alone in this town. We’re the only people she knows.”

  A whisper of a smile tugged at Duane’s mouth and he nodded once. “I guess someone should look after her.”

  “I guess so.” I agreed as Hank stood and I skootched to the end of the booth. “Can I get y’all anything to drink?”

  “I’ll take a margarita.” Jess covered Duane’s hand with her own on the table. “You really are the nicest person, Beau.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumped, giving her a small smile and motioning for Hank to follow me. “Come on, dummy.”

  “Right behind you.” The eagerness in my friend’s voice grated.

  I kept my steps slow, instructing Hank as we walked. “Unless you want her to cut your balls off, don’t flirt. She hates it when people flirt.”

  “No wonder she hates you.” Hank chuckled.

  I gave him a flat look out of the corner of my eye, then turned my attention back to Shelly. She was already surrounded and I shook my head, feeling sorry for the poor bastards. But also feeling sorry for her. She couldn’t help what she looked like any more than I could, any more than anybody could. Here the world was piling their expectations on her. That must’ve been exhausting.

  “Also,” I continued, “don’t try to touch her or shake her hand. She doesn’t shake hands.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Huh.” Hank was quiet for a beat while he considered this information. “Good to know.”

  The band on stage finished a song and the dancers on the floor clapped, hooted, and hollered their appreciation. We passed a few people we knew. Kimmy Jones asked me to dance, as did Natalie Mason and Kelly, Naomi Winters’s niece. I teased and made promises to circle back later, citing Duane’s impending departure and wanting to spend time with my brother as my reason to beg off.

  By th
e time we made it to the bar, the band was off the stage for their break and recorded music was playing through the speakers. The noise level was greatly reduced, which meant we heard the tail end of Shelly’s interaction with Duke Boone, one of Billy’s subordinates at Payton Mills.

  Duke looked upset, but it was obviously for effect, to elicit sympathy. “You despise me, don't you?” he said, clutching his chest dramatically.

  “If I gave you any thought, I probably would,” she responded coldly and I heard Hank make a short sound of surprise.

  I wasn’t surprised by her insult. Nor was I surprised when Duke’s affected expression grew confused, then annoyed. But when Duke’s eyes dropped to Shelly’s chest and lingered, the spark of antagonism at the base of my neck took me by surprise.

  “Wow. And here I was just trying to be sociable, sweetheart,” Duke drawled, leaning closer to her.

  I pushed through Shelly’s admirers—most of whom I recognized as reasonable fellas—and stepped up next to her at the bar. They seemed to give way easily, I suspected more interested in watching Duke crash and burn than ready to throw their own hat in the ring. She was facing forward, not looking at or noticing me, not looking at Duke.

  “You are as bright as a black hole and twice as dense.” She said this under her breath, but I heard it. As did everybody else.

  Duke stiffened, looking truly offended. “Hey. Don’t let my modesty fool you.”

  “You have a lot to be modest about.”

  Hank made a strangled laughing sound, as did a number of other folks, and that’s when Duke’s face flushed red with anger.

  And that was my cue to diffuse the situation

  “Hey Shelly.” I braced for her gaze, affixing a politely disinterested expression on my face, and I was glad I did.

  Her eyes sliced to mine.

  My stomach dropped.

  My heart skipped two beats.

  As though startled by my presence, Shelly blinked once.

  She then turned completely toward me, giving Duke her back while she rested an elbow on the bar to her right. “Hi. How are you?”