by Lucy Score
Cassidy
“I don’t need a chauffeur,” I argued.
We’d deposited Scarlett on Grumpy Gibson’s couch for the night. Neither of us wanted to deliver a drunk Scarlett home to her perpetually drunk daddy. She needed someone who could help out should she decide to barf all over herself or talk her out of drawing a hopscotch board in the middle of Main Street…again.
Gibson, the oldest Bodine, drew the short straw…again.
Bowie crossed his arms. “You know the rules, Cass.”
“Callie Kendall disappeared four years ago, Bow. I think we can rule it an isolated incident.”
“Get in the car, trouble,” he said, pushing me down the sidewalk.
I argued, just so he’d give me another little shove. I wasn’t proud of it. Being this hangdog needy-in-love wasn’t who I’d expected to grow up to be. But love was love, and there wasn’t much point in fighting it.
“Don’t make me pick you up and put you in the car,” he threatened.
A really big, needy part of me wanted him to do exactly that. But I was no giggling schemer looking for some manipulated physicality. No, I was in this for the long haul. I wanted the white dress with Bowie standing at the end of the aisle looking at me like I was the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Bowie,” I said with a yawn. “I’ve been carrying pepper spray since I was twelve and taking self-defense classes since I was eight.”
“I don’t care how prepared you think you are. I’m driving your ass home.”
Always the gentleman.
“I’m not telling you how prepared I am,” I said sweetly. “I’m telling you what I’ll do to you if you try to pick me up and cart me to your car.”
It was the wrong thing to say. I was tired and still a teensy bit drunk. That was my excuse for forgetting that Bowie was a Bodine. Competition and rebellion ran in his blood. His great-granddad Jedidiah Bodine had cornered the bootlegging market in West Virginia and most of Maryland. That drive to face a challenge and stomp it into the ground still ran strong in Ol’ Jedidiah’s kin even generations later.
In one swift move, Bowie tossed me over his shoulder and, whistling a happy little tune, strolled toward his SUV. The sidewalk swam under me as my stomach’s contents sloshed dangerously.
“Bowie!” Not above causing a scene, I hammered my fists against his back. I drew the line at kicking the love of my life in the balls, which is what I would have done to any other man who thought he could manhandle me.
He slapped me on my ass and made me squawk. My body went rigid. Bowie Bodine was carrying me like my 5’8” frame was child-sized. And he’d touched my ass. I was torn between being delighted and appalled.
“Bowie Bodine, you put me down right now or I’ll make you regret this for the rest of your life!”
“Cassidy Ann Tucker, you’re not walking home all by your lonesome. You know that. Now be a good girl and get in the damn car.” He set me down on the sidewalk and opened the passenger side door.
Dizzy, I stumbled, and he caught me against his chest.
We’d touched before. One-armed hugs and high fives. Hair ruffles and headlocks. He’d been tossing me off of docks since I could swim. But this. This full-frontal, chest-to-chest contact was frying my circuits. I was in over my head. Every inch of him was warm and hard against me. The moonlight highlighted the clench in his jaw, and I wondered if I’d gone and pissed him off.
It hit me then in a blinding flash of understanding. Nineteen wasn’t adult enough to handle all of Bowie Bodine.
“Get in the car, Cass,” he said quietly.
I did as I was told, not eager to find out exactly what he’d do if I took off running in the direction of my house.
My pulse was galloping like a runaway pony when I settled into my seat. Ten inches of console separated us. I buckled my seatbelt with shaky hands. I’d dated. I’d had sex. But I was starting to realize that none of that life experience had prepared me for him. He wasn’t a boy. He wouldn’t be playing games. And I was just a kid still playing them.
I wasn’t ready for Bowie Bodine.
If I was the crying type, I’d be sobbing into my sleeve right now. Instead I stewed as my hopes and dreams for the summer popped like bubbles.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gruffly.
My world was rocked. I wasn’t the confident, experienced grown-up I’d been peacocking around pretending to be.
“Nothin’s wrong,” I lied.
“Liar.”
“Just tired,” I said, staring out the window.
“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If it was something that needed fixin’?”
Oh, holy damn hell. I couldn’t stand him being sweet to me right now. Not when I’d gone and realized I had a hell of a lot more growing up to do.
“It’s not your job to be fixin’ things for me, Bow,” I pointed out.
He reached out and took my hand, and I got a hell of a lot closer to bawling. “So you know, if there’s anything that needs fixin’ you come to me. Got it?”
I stared out the windshield, refusing to meet his gaze.
He squeezed my hand until I nodded. “Got it.”
He let go of my hand and drove me the four blocks to my parents’ house in silence. I sulked, and Bowie did whatever he usually did in his head.
My perfect southern gentleman put the SUV in park and turned off the engine. He was walking me to the door whether I liked it or not. We walked up the brick sidewalk to the house. It was a wide, white two-story with tall columns. “I live in the White House,” I’d told Scarlett when I met her on the first day of kindergarten. It was about three times the size of Scarlett’s house. And what went on within my walls was a hell of a lot different than Scarlett’s. Sometimes I felt guilty that I had so much. That my parents were so good, normal.
Bowie shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans when we reached the door.
I sighed. Just because I was devastated and all didn’t mean I shouldn’t thank the man for giving up his evening to come to my rescue again. I reached into my own pocket and pulled out the ten-dollar bill I’d stashed there about thirty seconds after making the bet with Bowie.
“Thanks for being there. As usual.” I leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. A kiss good-bye to my fantasy that this summer would be the summer Bowie realized he was mine.
His hands were out of his pockets and on my waist, and I was jumping out of my skin like a bullfrog hopping for the pond. He was probably only holding me up in case I went unsteady again.
I slapped the money to his chest and gave him a little push back.
“Keep it,” he told me.
“I always pay my debts.”
He took the bill, folded it neatly, and without taking his eyes off of mine slid it into the neck of my shirt and under the bra strap.
“Keep it, Cass.”
I’d lost the power of speech. And apparently all major motor skills because when I stepped back, I tripped over the antique dang watering can my mother kept full of pussy willow branches next to the door. I caught myself with my palms against the painted brick.
“You all right there?”
I could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Peachy.” I made a grab for the door handle.
“Cass?”
He stopped me with just my name.
“Yeah?”
“Glad to have you home.”
4
Cassidy
It was too hot for a bonfire, but you couldn’t have a lake-front party in Bootleg without one. It added to the “rustic ambiance” as Blaine—not Blake—the cute summertimer from the other night pointed out. It also kept the dang mosquitos from eating us alive.
Blaine was in town for the month staying with his family in one of the big houses on the dog-leg end of the lake. He was a junior at one of the lesser known Ivy League colleges studying economics. And he was currently dancing up on me like we were in some nightclub with dark corners and $15 beers.
; I wasn’t particularly into it seeing as how I’d spotted Bowie wander by a minute ago. But Blake—I mean Blaine—was going to be my palate cleanser. I was going to make out with this whale logoed polo-wearing cutie and get Bowie Bodine out of my head.
“Tell me more about your fraternity, honey,” I purred, not giving a flying crap about Kappa Papa Whatever.
While his hands wandered my waist and midriff, Blaine launched into another story about his fraternity brothers. I tried not to notice when Bowie wandered by again, beer in hand. But his gray eyes met mine and held. I felt more from that contact than I did from Blaine’s soft, smooth palms brushing my bare skin.
The bonfire flickered behind him, the music played all around us while our friends and neighbors drank and danced. All I saw was Bowie.
It wasn’t fair.
Side-by-side, poor Blaine didn’t stand a chance. Bowie was wearing a beloved t-shirt that molded to his chest. His jeans were slung low on his hips. He had on leather flip-flops and a battered ball cap.
Blaine was wearing pink-checkered shorts and a turquoise polo with the collar popped. He wore his sunglasses backward on his head. He hadn’t asked me a single question about myself. Instead, he’d told me his entire privileged, entitled life’s story.
But Bowie knew me. Bowie who was staring at me with something like disappointment on his handsome face. Why was he here? Why was he focusing in on me? Did my sudden decision to give up my crush on him throw up some kind of flag?
This wasn’t me. Using one guy to get over another. Ugh. I was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way. By feeling feelings.
I wasn’t really sure how to fall out of love with someone, but I’d figure it out. It probably involved a lot of crying and punching stuff and maybe some ice cream. Sooner or later, Bowie would be nothing but a neighbor to me.
I closed my hands over Blaine’s as they skated ever closer to the underside of my breasts. “I’m gonna go get another beer,” I fibbed. “I’ll see you around.”
“Don’t be long,” he said in a teasing whisper.
I turned away from him, away from Bowie, and made my way through the throng of summer fun-havers.
“Where ya headed, Cass?” Scarlett called after me. She was kicked back on a tailgate, entertaining a handful of eligible summertimer bachelors.
I waved, rather than answering and veered away toward the woods. I needed darkness and solitude.
“What in the hell am I doing?” I cursed myself as I stepped onto the path that skirted the lakefront.
“Interrupting my reading.”
My big sister, June, was perched on a fallen log on the edge of the festivities. She was wearing a headlight and reading The Wall Street Journal.
“Juney, we didn’t bring your ass to the bonfire so you could treat it like a library,” I reminded her.
She looked up, blinding me with her LED forehead.
“I socialized for exactly ten minutes,” she said.
Scarlett and I dragged June out for forced socializing twice a month when I was home from college. Otherwise my brainiac sister would never leave the comfort and quiet of our parents’ house. It was an unspoken deal, I’d socialize Juney if she’d help me pass my math requirements. Neither one of us enjoyed it, but we both recognized the necessity.
“Exactly ten minutes?” I asked.
“I set a timer,” June said, folding her paper. “Are we leaving?” My usually unemotional sister looked hopeful.
“Soon,” I promised. The desire to party had evaporated. I wanted to go curl up on the couch while June watched SportsCenter and I forgot that I was a lovesick pup.
“How much longer? I’ll set my timer,” June decided.
“Give me five minutes, and we’ll head out.”
Without a word, June pulled out her phone, set a timer, and went back to her newspaper.
I sighed, wondering if June would ever pull herself out of her head long enough to connect with someone. Then I remembered my own situation. Juney was safer in her own head. Her heart would stay intact.
I slunk off down the path into the trees where I could mourn my teenage love and lament my inadequacies in peace. I could smell the lake, hear the night breeze ruffling the leaves above my head. The summer night wrapped me up in it like a humid, buggy hug.
“I need to get over him,” I whispered into the dark.
“Get over who?” Scarlett demanded, scaring the bejeezus out of me.
“How can you sneak up on people in those boots?” I asked, deflecting.
Scarlett looked down at her pretty stitched cowboy boots. With her long hair and tight denim shorts that showed off tan legs, she was every country musician’s wet dream.
“Your mopin’ was drowning everything else out,” she said. “What’s goin’ on? You look like you’re at a funeral, not a party.”
I hadn’t the first clue how to explain to Scarlett what I was feeling. My attraction to her brother was the realest thing I knew, and one moment of standing a little too close, of catching a glimpse of what being with Bowie would be like, and I was scared shitless that I’d never be enough for him.
It was too much, too real. If the miracle of miracles occurred and he kissed me or pledged his undying love to me, I’d die on the spot. Disintegrate into star dust. I was still a kid, a girl with a teenage crush that I might not survive. And I might not grow up into the woman that Bowie Bodine wanted.
“Just a headache,” I lied. “I think I’m going to take Juney home. She’s hit her quota of fun. Will you be okay with your brothers here?”
Scarlett and I always watched out for each other. Which is why she was giving me the squint eye right now.
“Cassidy Ann, what is going on with you?” she demanded.
“There you are.” Blaine appeared on the trail behind Scarlett. The way he was listing in his spiffy boat shoes, he’d had a shot or two of the ‘shine. We Bootleggers liked to test out our moonshine recipes on the summertimers before the Shine On. Were we the only little town in the country that rang in Black Friday with a moonshine tasting and drunken Christmas tree decorating? Probably.
“I’m sorry, Blake, was it?” Scarlett asked sweetly. “Me and Cassidy are havin’ ourselves a private conversation right now. How about y’all come back later.”
Blaine snorted. “You’re so country. Wait, excuse me. Y’all are so country.”
Oh boy. It was nice knowing you, Blaine.
Scarlett put her hands on her hips, and I sidled my way between them. My sheriff father wouldn’t appreciate it if I allowed my best friend to commit a homicide within town limits.
“Now, listen here, you entitled shithead,” Scarlett began.
Blaine peered around me at Scarlett.
“What’s your friend’s problem?” he muttered with scorn.
“Nobody has a problem,” I said calmly. “Scarlett, why don’t you go collect June for me while I say goodnight to Blake—”
“Blaine,” he corrected me with a frown.
Shit. Blaine wasn’t used to girls forgetting his name. But here in Bootleg Summertime, the Blaine/Blakes were a dime a dozen. Cute boys teemed the lake and swarmed the town all summer long.
“Blaine,” I repeated through clenched teeth.
“I thought we were going to spend some time getting to know each other.” He pouted and jabbed a finger into my neck. Depth perception was often the first thing to go with Hester Jenkins’ blueberry ‘shine. She’d perfected the recipe at seventeen and won Best Amateur Moonshine in the state three years running, entered under her mom’s name, of course.
“Well, now, honey,” I punched up the southern charm and went with “honey” to avoid any more name mix-ups. “Unfortunately, I’ve got myself a real bad headache. So you’re gonna have to excuse me. But I’m sure I can introduce you,” I offered. Misty Lynn was around. She’d be happy to take him off my hands.
He grinned at me with one eye closed, and I knew he hadn’t heard a damn word I’d sugared up for him.<
br />
“C’mon,” he slurred, taking me by the wrist. “Let’s go for a little swim.”
To be clear, at no point was I in any danger. My dad had made sure that June and I spoke self-defense like a second language. We were fluent in it. If Blaine had meant me any harm, well, that poor boy wouldn’t have been able to find his balls after I was done with him.
He was just drunk and a little stupid. Thinking that he was being charming, that dumbass tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Like Bowie had three nights ago. Only I wasn’t amused this time. Or turned on.
“I’m not going swimming,” I told him curtly, hoping that my frosty tone would be the only weapon I’d need to yield.
We were back on the fringes of the party with me grunting at every step he clumsily trod. If he dropped me on my face, I was going to kick his ass.
“Who wants to swim?” Blaine hollered. His summertimer friends raised their beers and hooted.
“Put me down,” I said in no uncertain terms.
He spun me around in a dizzying circle.
“Knock it off, Blaine!”
“Put her down. Now.”
5
Cassidy
Bowie’s voice snapped like a whip. And a voyeuristic crowd materialized around us.
“Ooooh. Local boy doesn’t like it when we take his toy,” Blaine taunted. His cronies snickered.
I kneed him in the gut, and his friends laughed harder when Blaine chucked me off his shoulder as he doubled over.
I hit the ground hard on my hip and hand.
But before I could pop up and slap the crap out of him, Bowie was on him.
He grabbed Blaine by the stupid shirt collar and hauled him up on his toes. “When a girl tells you to stop touching her, you do it. Understand?”
Blaine didn’t answer fast enough, and Bowie gave him a good, hard shake.
“What’s your problem, man?” Blaine shoved uselessly at Bowie’s hands.
“My problem is you put your hands where they weren’t wanted,” Bowie said. His voice was quiet, scary.
