Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  No. But I do.

  “I know.” I nodded quickly, trailing after her—along with her dogs—as we all moved into the kitchen.

  She filled their water bowls while I filled their kibble dishes and I felt her frowning at me from across the room.

  “Unless . . .”

  I glanced up, finding her watching me with a squinty stare. “What?”

  “Do you want to have sex?” Shelly asked, carrying the water bowls where I stood next to the dog food.

  I reared back an inch. “Pardon?”

  She set the water on the ground. “We should have sex.”

  “Is that so?” I reached for her hand, bringing it to my lips, trying for charming even as my mind was working overtime to figure out how we’d arrived here.

  “Yes.” Shelly sounded so matter-of-fact about it, that her other hand reaching for my belt buckle caught me off guard.

  “Shelly—”

  She stole a kiss, and with it my breath, then said, “Kiss me.”

  I moved my grip to her shoulders, enjoying the feel of her skin too much. “You’ve been through a lot. I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

  “No big deal. It’s just sex. It’ll be fun.” She’d made quick work of unbuckling my belt and had already moved to the button of my fly before I caught her hands.

  Holding them until she gave me her eyes, my stomach sunk to my feet. What the hell has gotten into her?

  “It’s a big deal to me.”

  Her gaze searched mine, the muscle at her jaw jumping. “Is it a big deal because sex is a big deal? Or because it’s me?”

  I hesitated, because this question sounded like a trap.

  A woman trap.

  The most perilous of all traps.

  I could answer honestly, and say both. Sex was a big deal for me and I hadn’t been with anyone since high school, because I wanted to know. I wanted to be certain. I wanted assurances and promises.

  And sex with her, with Shelly, was also a big deal. Because it just was. She was a big deal to me.

  My life was overflowing with uncertainty at present. Almost two weeks ago, I’d stood on the edge of this cliff and wondered what was below. Now I’d jumped, and I was falling, and I needed to know she would be there when I hit the bottom.

  In the end, I took too long to answer. And she took my silence as an answer of its own.

  Shelly snatched her hands away and turned, pacing away from me.

  “Can we—can we take the day off?” I asked, taking a step over the dog bowls and following her. “Can you give yourself some time to sort through what happened yesterday?”

  She shook her head and crossed her arms. “No. I need to know why you’re here.”

  I wracked my brain, trying to figure out what that might mean, and guessed, “I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I know you’re not hurt. I can see you.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  She mumbled something that sounded like, “You don’t need anything from me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not a refrigerator.” She turned halfway, giving me her profile but not looking at me.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Those refrigerators, the ones you fixed up and donated, the first week I worked at the shop.”

  I shook my head, unable to follow her train of thought. “I don’t think of you like a refrigerator.”

  “Then stop making me feel like one.”

  “I don’t understand, what—”

  “I don’t want a babysitter. I want—” She turned abruptly, cutting herself off and pacing further away from me, toward her room.

  Instinct had me reaching for her arm, bringing her into my embrace before she could get too far. She let me hold her, but she made no move to hold me back.

  “Shelly. I don’t want to be your babysitter. But I’m not leaving you. Not until I know you’re okay.”

  “Then you’ll leave me,” she said against my chest, her tone dull. “Like a refrigerator.”

  “Honey—”

  “Please.” She pushed out of my hold, turning her back on me and walking into her room, calling over her shoulder just before shutting her bedroom door, “Leave me alone.”

  I stared at her closed door for a long while, debating what to do. Then I sat on her couch and opened up one of her blue-spined books. It was one our momma—Bethany—had made us read, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. I selected it because it was one of the only ones I recognized and I remembered liking the adventure parts.

  But worry nagged at me.

  Dr. West had said that Shelly wouldn’t self-harm after therapy, but what if she did? What if she already had?

  Other thoughts, more selfish ones, also plagued me. What if she’s cured?

  No. Not cured.

  It was my understanding that people were never cured of OCD. But what if she’s in remission?

  What if she could touch people now? Where did that leave us? Would she go back to Chicago? She was a world famous artist. Why in tarnation would she stay in nowhere Tennessee?

  She wouldn’t. She won’t.

  I thought back to seeing her angel sculptures for the first time, how she’d talked about what Mr. Tanner might do with the Quonset hut.

  “When I go . . .” Not if. When.

  Nothing was keeping her here.

  The worrying became too loud for me to focus on the book, so I set it aside and walked to Shelly’s door, knocking softly.

  “What?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “To have sex?”

  I rolled my eyes, shaking my head at this infuriating woman. “No. To check on you.”

  She didn’t respond, and at first I thought she wasn’t going to. But then I heard her footsteps approach rapidly just before the door swung open. I stepped back at the sight of her, dishonorable thoughts assailing me like thieves. She was in a white T-shirt and nothing else.

  Shelly was so right. I wanted her.

  Essential. Madness. Need. All consuming.

  Fire burned in my lungs as my blood rushed south.

  I wasn’t finished looking my fill—not by a long shot—but my brain gave me a swift kick, sending my gaze to hers. Two beats, thoughts scattered, no wits.

  She glared at me. Then she lifted her arms, wrists out, continuing to glare. “See? No cuts. You can leave.”

  In the next moment, she’d shut the door in my face.

  Shit.

  Which one of us was the refrigerator now?

  * * *

  “You’re drunk.”

  I glanced up, or I tried to. I couldn’t quite manage lifting both eyes, so I peered at my youngest brother through one eye. One eye was better than no eye.

  “Hello, Roscoe.” I gave him a wave and ended up spilling bourbon all over my pant leg.

  He put something on my shoulders, it might’ve been a blanket, and sat next to me on the porch steps. “It’s cold out here.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is.”

  I nodded, but once I started I couldn’t stop. Nodding.

  Then my brother asked, “Why are you drunk?”

  “I think I just fucked things up with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  Roscoe cocked an eyebrow at me, grinning, and opened his hand. “Pass the bottle.”

  I chuckled and handed it over. My youngest brother took a swig, hissing in through his mouth with the initial burn.

  Saturday night. At home. Drunk. Instead of having awesome wild sex with Shelly Sullivan.

  Beau Winston, everybody!

  “So, what happened?”

  “She wanted to have sex with me and I turned her down.”

  “That was stupid.”

  “Yeah.” I scratched my chest, laughing. It felt good to laugh.

  Sighing, I took another swig, and stared out over the dried-up wildflower fields. I’d been cold when I left her, but it didn’t have much to do with th
e temperature outside.

  “Wait a minute, I thought you were celibate?” Roscoe’s question cut into my contemplations.

  I slid my eyes to my brother, surprised he knew this information but too drunk to care. “I am. Or, I have been since that thing in high school with Andrea Poole.”

  “What thing in high school?”

  “Andrea thought she was pregnant.”

  “Whoa. I didn’t know that.” Roscoe seemed to require a moment to recover from this news, reaching for the bottle in my hand and taking a drink. “Was she?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “You decided to become celibate? Because of a pregnancy scare?”

  “Wasn’t because of the pregnancy scare.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I asked her to marry me when I thought she was having my baby, and she . . .”

  “She what?”

  I huffed a laugh. “She acted like it would be the worst thing to happen to her in the world. Like marrying me would be the end of her life. She said she’d give the baby up for adoption, or that she’d raise it on her own, rather than marry me. She wanted me to sign my rights away,” I tried to snap my fingers for emphasis but couldn’t manage it, “and didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “To be fair, getting married at sixteen ain’t a picnic. And having a baby at sixteen even less.”

  “No. No, I agree with that. But I thought—see, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to get married, it was that she didn’t want me.” I rubbed my chest. “I’m good enough to fuck around with, but I’ve never been good enough for anything else.”

  I was drunk, so very, very drunk. Hence, I didn’t realize I’d spoken these last thoughts out loud until the silence surrounding us became deafening.

  I knew Roscoe was staring at me, so I managed a small smile and shrugged. “Andrea married a fella in the Navy a year later, after graduation. They live in Galveston now and have four kids.”

  “You . . . loved her?”

  “I thought I did, at the time. But now I think sex confused things, you know? It made me see things that weren’t there, attribute stuff to her that was lacking, including how she felt about me.”

  It occurred to me in the genius-state unique to intoxication that the things I’d admired about Andrea Poole were the same things I’d admired about Darlene. She seemed to be driven, smart, capable. And she seemed to like me a whole lot. Until she didn’t.

  I continued, only mildly slurring my words, “She had the outward appearance of being good, quality, having loyalty, but maybe none of the real stuff beneath.” I didn’t know if I was talking about Andrea or Darlene. Maybe both.

  “How do you know?”

  “What?” I blinked clumsily, having difficulty moving my eyelids in unison.

  “How do you know whether a woman has substance? Whether her feelings for you go as deep as your feelings for her?”

  I couldn’t make out his expression very well, everything was looking fuzzy, so I didn’t gauge my response based on what he was hoping to hear. Brief flashes of what real love looked like paraded through my mind, of Ashley and how her heart revolved around Drew. Of Sienna and how when Jethro was in the room, she was always aware of him, and he of her. She was a Hollywood star, used to being the center of attention, but we never saw that when he was near her.

  Or of how Duane softened the minute Jessica’s name was mentioned, and how he’d put her dreams first showed how much he loved her.

  And then I knew how to know whether a person’s feelings ran deep.

  So I was flat-out honest. “She makes you a priority.”

  For better or for worse, I’d never been a woman’s priority.

  Roscoe was quiet, unmoving for a long time. I glanced at my brother, he was clearly lost to his own thoughts. Or memories.

  I shook my head, it felt almost too heavy to lift. “I must be really drunk.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m talking about this shit.”

  He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You’re not very Beau-like right now.”

  “Fuck Beau. He’s pathetic.”

  Roscoe punched me in the shoulder, which, in my tipsiness, had me falling to the side on the porch. “Don’t talk about my favorite brother that way.”

  That made me laugh. And then I kept on laughing, unable to stop. “I’m so screwed.”

  “What?”

  “I think I’m in love with her.” I was talking while laughing hysterically, gasping for breath.

  “What did you say?” He kicked me lightly with his toe. “I can barely understand the words coming out of your mouth.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, and kept on laughing.

  It felt good.

  To not care.

  To be honest.

  To be numb.

  24

  “If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?”

  ― Albert Einstein

  * * *

  *Beau*

  It took me an unknown period of time to figure out where I was and then an unknown period of time after that to figure out that I was hungover. Somehow I was in my bed. I didn’t know how it had occurred, but there I was.

  I was also going to die from this hangover. Or have a really shitty day. One or the other.

  “Beau.”

  I groaned, because what other choice did I have?

  “Beau.”

  “I don’t want any.”

  One of my brothers, I didn’t know which one, chuckled. Or it might’ve been Satan.

  “Beau, wake up.”

  “Have you no mercy?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  It was Roscoe, I was sure of it. I didn’t know why he was in my room, talking to me, pretending he was capable of thought, but I was sure it was him.

  “About what?” Managing to pry open my eyelids a sliver, I discovered his location. He was standing at the foot of my bed.

  “About your problem.”

  “Shh!”

  He wasn’t talking loudly, but he was talking too loud.

  “Sorry,” he continued on a whisper, “I have a solution to your problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “The beautiful woman.”

  “Excuse me?” I pressed the base of my palms into my eye sockets to keep my eyes in their sockets.

  “Are you listening?”

  I peeked at him. “Do I have a choice?”

  “This is what you should do.” Roscoe began pacing, and his pacing hurt my head. I closed my eyes as he continued, “The next time you see her, be aloof. Pretend you don’t see her at all. That drives them crazy. Then when she comes over to you—’cause if she wanted you before, she still does—don’t even mention the last time you saw her. Compliment something she’s wearing, like her earrings, and then—”

  “What in tarnation are you going on about?” I opened one eye to glare at him, and even that felt like tiny knives stabbing my retina.

  “The lady. The beautiful woman you’re in love with.” His eyebrows hovered, perched over his widened gaze. “The one who wanted to have sex with you, but you—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I swung my arm out, holding up a hand between us as my forehead fell into the other one.

  It came back.

  It all came flooding back, a rush of frustration, anger, remorse, and misery. My head throbbed with it. And with the worst hangover of my life.

  “Beau?”

  “I love you, Roscoe, but you’re an idiot when it comes to women.”

  * * *

  Silver lining: a hangover gave me something to do—sleep—and a reason to avoid my family. However, since I’d slept all day Sunday, I slept fitfully that night.

  Yep. That’s why I slept fitfully. Not because of anything else.

  My plan had been to loiter in the morning, drink some coffee, read the newspaper. But the sight of Cletus walking
around with his yoga matt was enough to propel me out of the house. Cletus before his yoga was like most people before their coffee.

  “Happy Halloween, handsome.” Ashley stopped me on my way out; she was holding a box of pastries. “See what I did there? With the alliteration?”

  “What you got in there?”

  She held the box away. “Oh no, pumpkin head. These are for Sienna. Jennifer Sylvester made these just for her. And I’m bringing them over as a favor to Jethro.”

  “Ashley,” I placed my hand over my heart, “I’m sure Sienna wouldn’t mind sparing just one.”

  “Are you kidding? You want me to give you food meant for a pregnant lady?” She smacked my hand away. “You think I have a death wish?” Fast as lightning, she gave me a kiss on my cheek and then rushed past before I could snag the box. “Maybe if you’re real nice, I’ll bring you some carrots and blue cheese.”

  I made a face at her back and then proceeded to the GTO, taking some comfort in the consistency of my car.

  Maybe I wasn’t to be with a woman.

  Maybe the healthiest and longest-lasting relationship in my life would be with my car.

  I could do worse.

  Then I thought of Shelly, standing in her doorway wearing nothing but a T-shirt, glaring at me with those devastating eyes.

  Damn.

  I spent the drive to work attempting to figure out what I could do to get back in her good graces. Don’t make any refrigerator jokes. I also added to the list, ignore Roscoe’s shitty advice as I claimed the parking spot next to hers.

  With my heart in my throat, I left the safety of my GTO, wishing I’d brought her flowers. But then I didn’t, reminding myself that she probably hated flowers. I could have brought her more potholders, but that felt unoriginal.

  When I entered the garage, I spotted her toward the back, washing something in the sink. Making a beeline for her, it was on the tip of my tongue to remind her what Dr. West had said about washing tools, but then I saw she was rinsing off a greasy carburetor and I bit back the comment.

  “Morning,” she said, cold as ice.

  I sighed, gritting my teeth, studying her back. “You’re still mad.”