Stupid Love

by Cindy Miles

  “You bringin’ sexy back or what?” another yelled, and pointed at me. “With all that!”

  Drunk girls. Fucking perfect. I pulled ahead, then backed up to the Jeep’s front. Swinging out of the cab, I pulled my hat down over my brow and my eyes moved to the one girl who’d jumped down, and the light brushed her face.

  It was her. The girl from the concert. I didn’t know why I recognized her so thoroughly and so fast, but I did. She leaned against the hood, long legs covered by tight faded jeans, boots, and a leather jacket. Long dark hair hung loose over her shoulders. Arms crossed over her chest. In the dark I couldn’t tell what color her eyes were—only that she studied me with them. And beneath that leather jacket I knew she had a partial ink sleeve that ended just above her elbow.

  “Took you long enough to get here,” she said. But she was grinning. “Thought we were gonna have to start walking.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, I got here as fast as I could,” I said, wondering if she’d recognized me. She had a pretty decent Louisiana accent. New Orleans, maybe? Kind of hard to miss, and so was the obnoxious attitude. Damn, I’d just pulled into the garage back in Killian when I’d gotten her call, and I’d made it back in less than thirty minutes. But by the way the dimples were sinking into her cheeks without her really smiling, I figured she was just joking around. Or flirting. Or both. A dangerous arsenal for a Cajun.

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” she said, and then she did smile. It was lazy, easy, and I hate to admit it—beautiful as hell.

  “Damn, so am I!” yelled one of the girls from the roll bar. “That ass is fine as mess!”

  “Brie, your boobs are hanging out!” another one shouted.

  “Shut up, Sugar!” The girls burst out laughing.

  “I’m Memory,” the dimpled inked one said, ignoring her friends. She stuck her hand out for me to shake it. I did, and long slender fingers wrapped around my larger ones. Her grip was solid, but not too much. A firm girl’s grip. Soft but confident. She looked like she could hold her own.

  “Jace,” I offered her my name, then nodded toward the tow. “Guess I’d better get to work.

  “Oh my God, Memory,” one yelled. “Please let him get to work! I gotta pee!”

  “Just go over there!” another said. “Jesus, Claire. Don’t be such a baby!”

  “I can’t! I’m too drunk,” the one called Claire whined. “I might step on a snaaake!” she shrieked. “Memory, help me!”

  I’d bent over to release the wench when Memory came close and bent down, tipped my hat back and looked me in the eye. Blue eyes. That’s what she had. Large, distinct blue eyes enhanced by the smoky dark makeup she wore. Black brows arched; she tilted her head, examining me thoroughly and for what reason, I didn’t know. “Hold on, Peeshwank!” she called out to her friend. Peeshwank? What the hell was that? “Take it easy on her,” Memory said to me in that feathery, accented voice. Softer now, not obnoxious. She leaned closer. “She likes a slow hand.”

  “Jesus Lord my God! Thibodeaux’s puttin’ the moves on the tow truck guy!” a girl yelled. They all started whistling and squealing and laughing, their voices cutting through the still night air, and the whole while I just stared back at Memory as though I couldn’t damn well help myself. A guy would have to be blind not to notice how striking she was. But in the end, drunk killed it for me.

  Memory Thibodeaux—I was right, definitely Louisiana, definitely Cajun—grinned, wiggled her brows, and rose. “Thanks, Jace from The Land of Tow Trucks and Chivalry,” she drawled, then joined Claire, who had to pee, and they walked off across the road and up a ways. I shook my head and got to work. The others were now hanging over the roll bar watching me, stumbling over the lyrics to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

  Drunk girls. Singing some of the most difficult lyrics known to man.

  At least they had good taste in music.

  I again shook my head and kept working the wench. I knew what it was like to be in party mode. I’d been in it a while myself. But I’d seen too many wrecks since then. I had enough keg parties under my belt to last me a lifetime. People did stupid shit when they drank. Unfortunately, driving was one of them. I’d lost the appetite for keggers a long time ago. Already been there, done that. Had my ass thrown in the can for it, too. I was done with it.

  “Hey, Jace,” one of the girls from the roll bar called down. I threw a quick glance over my shoulder at her. “You from around here?”

  Memory and her friend wandered back toward me, and I stood. “Nope. Now you girls are going to have to get down while I wench the Jeep.”

  Memory leaned in the door and threw her long straight hair over her shoulder. She looked at me; her mouth tipped upward in one corner. “You want it in neutral?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yep,” I answered, and once she did it, all the girls squealed, leapt down and started laughing.

  “I like fifth gear myself,” one said. More laughter.

  I set the hooks to the frame and wenched the Jeep onto the tow. Once I had it secure, I inclined my head to the truck. “You girls hop in.”

  “Shotgun!” one called out.

  “Sorry, See-Through,” Memory said, and smiled at me. “My tow. Shotgun’s all mine, sista girl.”

  I waited by the passenger-side door while the girls all crawled in, dragging purses and laughing and swearing. Once legs and feet were safe, I slammed the door, jogged around to the driver’s side, and jumped up. I threw the truck in gear and we headed back to Killian.

  Twenty-plus miles in a truck with four intoxicated-to-some-level college girls with a penchant for Queen. Great band but long, long ride.

  “So, Jace,” one of the girls from the back asked. “What else do you do besides…tow?”

  The other girls burst out laughing, and I slid a glance at Memory, sitting beside me in the front. Head cocked, waiting for my answer. “I’m in school.” I cleared my throat. “Winston.”

  “Wabaduh-Wabaduh! Wuh! Wuh! Wuh!” all three girls chanted from the back seat. Christ.

  A sly grin lifted Memory’s mouth. “Is that so? Major?”

  I kept my gaze on the dark road ahead of me. “Criminal Justice.”

  The one named Sugar leaned forward. “Does that mean you’re gonna be a cop? Cops can be jackasses you know. Attitude.” She kind of sang that last word.

  I just glanced at her in the review mirror.

  “Hey, pull over,” Memory said. Desperation made her voice rise. “Now, please.”

  I look at her, and she’d gone pale. I quickly braked and eased onto the shoulder. I’d seen that look enough times and I didn’t want the truck smelling like puke. The second I stopped she flung her door open, hopped out, and lost it.

  “God Almighty damn, Mem!” one of them said.

  The little one with short hair climbed over the seat. “Be quiet, Sugar.” She eased out of the truck.

  I kept the engine going. Her liquor must’ve caught up with her. What the hell was she doing driving anyway? It pissed me the hell off. The gnarled vehicles I’d towed—right after the ambulances hauled off the drunk drivers and victims—damn, I’d seen too much shit, and I knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good to say anything. They were all lit like fucking Christmas trees and wouldn’t remember a word I’d said.

  “Better!” the short-haired girl said as she climbed in and over the seat. Memory followed, eased into the truck, buckled up and rested her head back. This time she didn’t throw me a sly look, or a flirty gaze. “Thanks. Sorry about that.” She slammed the door. Closed her eyes. Her voice was quiet. Unsteady. I almost felt sorry for her.

  “Yep,” was all I could say, and I pulled back onto the highway. The girls in the back laughed, snorted and squealed for miles, but Memory sat next to me with her eyes closed, not making a sound. I thought she’d fallen asleep. Several miles passed.

  “Are you always this cheerful?”

  I glanced at her. With her head resting back, she’d opened her eyes and was watching me with inte
rest. “Are you always this drunk?” I asked.

  Just like before, only one corner of her mouth tilted upward into a sly grin. She didn’t seem to get offended easily. “Sometimes drunker. Depends on the occasion.”

  Shaking my head, I clenched my teeth together and studied the road. Good-time party girl, through and through. She’d regret it one day. If she lived that long.

  Memory leaned toward me. “Are you always such a dick?”

  I kept my gaze facing forward. Apparently a guy was a dick if they didn’t come on to a girl. I wasn’t in the mood to play games with a truck-load of drunks. “Depends on the occasion,” I repeated her words back to her.

  “Memory Catherine, don’t be such a beast,” someone in the back said. “He has rescued us from your crappy ass old broken down hooptie that has stranded us a gazillion fucking times!”

  I slipped a quick glance at Memory and she was smiling at me with that crooked, dimpled, easy grin. “Yeah. Too bad I have to pay for my knight in shining armor.”

  Damn, she had a mouth on her. All of them did, but hers was the worst. Was I ever so rowdy and immature? Hell yeah, I knew I was. I’d had the black eyes and busted lips and multiple hangovers to prove it. No matter how beautiful she was, Memory Catherine Thibodeaux just wasn’t my speed. Not that it probably mattered—to her or me. No doubt she was plenty of other guys’ speed. Every college guy’s dream, actually. Excluding me.

  Just as we passed the Killian welcome sign, the girls all began singing some random song, off-key and loud. The GPS took me straight to the address Memory had given over the phone, and by the time they’d finished two more songs I was turning down a long dirt drive not too far beyond the Killian’s Already Missing You sign. At the end of the half-mile drive sat a small, single-story whitewashed house with a wide porch that wrapped around one side. A dog leapt up and started barking as we pulled in. Beyond the house sat an old barn and a fenced-in field, along with a smaller corral. At the sound of the truck engine, a black and white paint horse came trotting out of the shadows and to the gate. A newer metal building, closer to the house, burned a yard lamp that threw light onto several big…metal things. Yard art? They looked like windcatchers, or giant wind chimes or something. Welded, hand-made. I pulled the truck close to the house and put it in park. The big horse threw back his head and whinnied. I wondered why he wasn’t stabled. Not my place to care.

  So she liked horses. And dogs. I shouldn’t care about those, either.

  The girls all piled out and started walking toward the porch. “Bye, Pace!” one called out.

  “It’s Jace, you dumbass!” another yelled, and they all started laughing. The dog was wagging his back end—he had no tail. A nice merle shepherd, I’d guessed. The girls all piled around him, petting his head before going inside.

  I jumped out of the cab, threw my hand up in a wave, then pulled my hat down over my brow and started backing the Jeep off the tow. Memory was behind me, watching. I ignored her. She wasn’t having it. Neither was I, though.

  “So Criminal Justice, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm,” she said.

  I ignored that, too, and once the Jeep was down I set the bed back in position and turned to her, hoping she’d just hand me her damn credit card and let me get the hell back to the garage. No go.

  She was tall—closer to my six-feet-two inches than most girls, and she wasn’t a stick, either. Filled out, but fit. Curvy. She wore her long black hair parted in the middle and straight. Blue eyes shone dark and glassy in the yard light’s reflection, and she challenged me with a stern look. Crossed her arms over her chest. “Why haven’t you asked what I’m studying at Winston?”

  I pushed my hat back off my forehead and sighed. “Ma’am, I’m just here to tow your truck—”

  “It was you,” she interrupted. “Back at the concert. I recognize your voice.”

  Clearly busted. “Yeah,” I replied, then said nothing more.

  “Well,” she said, and gave me that sly grin. “You didn’t sound like such a dick then.” She cocked her head. “Why were you at the concert?”

  “Picking up a tow.” I heaved another sigh. Maybe because she looked like she was really feeling shitty. Maybe because it worried me a little. It looked like she was having a hard time breathing. Apparently, though, she’d just had too much to drink. Totally toasted. And driving. None of those appealing qualities in my book. “Okay,” I started, then cleared my throat. “It’ll be a hundred and twenty. Do you want to pay for this in cash or with a card?”

  Memory narrowed those large blue eyes and mock-scowled. Her mouth still hid a smile. “Card.” From her back pocket she pulled out her Visa and handed it to me.

  From the cab of the truck I pulled the mobile credit card reader, swiped her card, and walked it back to her. I met her amused gaze. “Thank you, ma’am,” I told her, and gave a polite nod. “Have a good night.”

  With the porch light being flicked on and off, and the horse whinnying at the gate, and the dog still waiting on the front porch, Memory Thibodeaux kept her eyes fastened on me.

  “You, Jace the Tow-Truck Master,” she grinned, her accent a bit heavier. “You have a good night.”

  I shook my head and said nothing, swung up into the cab of the tow truck and pulled away.

  As I eased down the drive, back toward the highway and Killian, I glanced in my rear-view mirror.

  Memory still stood where I had left her, watching me.

  I’d put money on the table that she was grinning.

  “Shit! Memory! I’ve got practice in thirty minutes!”

  I cracked open one eye and looked at the frantic expression on Sugar’s face. She had her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Eyebrows nearly buried into her hairline, they were raised so high. Brown eyes all wide and bugged out. My gaze slipped over to Captain Gregg—my faithful old Australian Shepherd. A unique blue merle color, with one blue eye—which we’d determined he was blind in—and one brown, he noticed everything from his usual spot in front of the hearth. His brows lifted as he looked at me. Yep. He totally noticed, too. “Captain Gregg and I both think your ponytail is way too tight, Sugar. Your eyeballs look like they’re about to pop right out of your head.” I tried hard not to laugh, but I swear, I couldn’t help it. Even Captain Gregg seemed to be smiling, with his doggy lips curled back and his canines showing, which made it all the more hilarious. I covered my mouth, but it didn’t help. I burst out laughing.

  Sugar grabbed a pillow off my sofa and bonked me over the head. “Dammit Memory, you and Captain Gregg can kiss my ass! This is not funny! The coach is gonna make me run laps if I’m late and I feel like hell!”

  Captain Gregg lifted his head momentarily, observing.

  “That’s called a hangover dipshit,” Brie said, wandering in from one of the guest bedrooms in her T-shirt and panties. “You shouldn’t have drunk so much. You always do that and then whine and panic the next day.”

  Sugar glared at her, and I laughed harder. Captain Gregg placed his chin back onto his paws, satisfied I was not in danger. He was used to our antics.

  The girl’s had spent the night after Jace the Walking Dick had dropped us off. The scent of bacon filled the air, which meant Claire was in the kitchen making breakfast. Girl knew she could cook! My stomach growled as I breathed in the hickory scent of bacon.

  I rolled onto my side, propped my head with my hand, and looked at Sugar. “What would you have me drive you to practice with? My dad’s tractor? I could saddle up Little Joe. It’d only take us about twenty minutes—”

  “Memory!” she squealed. “I’m not riding a horse or a tractor!”

  “Jeesh, picky, picky! Why don’t you just call Crisco,” Brie suggested. “He’ll come get you.”

  It was no secret that Crisco had a weak spot for Sugar. And she did with him, as well. It was like a perpetual flirt-fest with those two. Yet they’d never hooked up. Not once in three years. Crisco was just an overall nice guy, though.
He’d gotten me out of a number of predicaments over the years.

  With a frustrated sigh, Sugar, who apparently was so flustered she hadn’t thought to call Crisco on her own to begin with, pulled out her iPhone and called. Good thing for her, he answered. Although riding through Winston’s gates on my dad’s tractor might be pretty fun.

  “Okay,” she said after a brief few words to good ole Crisco. “He’s on the way. I’m gonna meet him at the end of the lane. Dammit, I have to still get my stuff from the apartment. Shit!” She turned and bolted for the door. “Shit!”

  “Bye, Sugar Booger!” Brie and I yelled at the same time.

  She was already outside, swearing and mumbling to herself as the screen door slammed shut. She didn’t even respond. God, she was hilarious.

  “Wow,” Brie said, standing at the door, watching. “Look at her go.”

  I leapt from the sofa and joined her. Sugar was at top speed, tearing up my drive, ponytail and the hood from her sweatshirt flapping in the wind behind her. “She sure can haul ass when she wants to.”

  “She’s faster than the liquid metal man, I bet,” Brie said.

  “Faster than Quicksilver, even,” I returned.

  We both laughed. Brie was my nerd sister.

  “Breakfast, bitches!” Claire yelled out.

  We both looked at each other. “Pancake Day!” We laughed, turned from the door, and hurried for the kitchen. Claire was at the stove, wearing a Silverback’s T-shirt and a pair of panties that had Monday across the ass, spatula in hand. Beside her on the counter, a mound of bacon piled high on a plate. Beside it, a stack of pancakes. Sunday was always Pancake Day. Claire had declared it so. And since she was doing the cooking, none of us complained. We all grabbed plates from the cabinets and dug in. “Hey Claire,” I said, bumping her hip with mine. “It’s Sunday. Not Monday.”

  She looked at me, then glanced at her underpants. “Right? I swear I can’t find Sunday. So annoying.”

  “Oh my God, that is just weird,” Brie said. “Does that mean you wear one of those days twice in a week?” She laughed, and Claire threw a kitchen towel at her. “But this bacon,” Brie sighed. “My ass is growing just looking at it.” She took a bite, her eyes closed for a moment. Then they snapped open. “Rapture! Claire, you make the best Sunday breakfast but we’ll have to go for a run later.”