Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  I studied her, holding my breath, feeling like my life and heart were balanced on the edge of a knife.

  “Why no?” I whispered.

  Her head swayed a little, and she blinked, and I saw she was real drunk. I cursed. Guilt had me gritting my teeth and shaking my head at myself. I was drunk, too. But I wasn’t as drunk as she was.

  “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Still no.”

  “Roscoe.”

  I swallowed reflexively, gathered a bracing breath, and lifted my eyes to hers. Once more I was tangled up in her, by how beautiful she was. Her eyes were gentle now, patient, like she sensed I needed a minute to reacquaint myself, or steady myself.

  “You know, I have a lot of questions . . .” she started, pulling me out of my thoughts, tilting her head to the side as her attention moved over me. “Starting with, why were you so rude yesterday?”

  I considered her, thinking back to yesterday, and nodded. “I was. I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Anything else you’re sorry for?”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth again, but this time—despite the enduring ache in my chest—it was to stop a smile.

  “Hmm.” I stroked my chin, trying to mimic the way my brother Cletus might do it, forcing levity I hoped I’d soon feel. “Let’s see.”

  “Do you need some paper? Or a pen?” Simone made like she was going to reach for her bag. “Maybe you want to make a list. I don’t know if I have enough paper for everything, but maybe for the first hundred or so things.”

  Now I did smile, and I caught my bottom lip with my teeth to keep it from growing too wide. A moment later I frowned, remembering the worst part.

  I swallowed a lump in my throat, her words like a punch in the stomach. “Let’s get you home. I’ll call Billy. He’ll drive us.” I stood, offering her my hand.

  “No. Never.” She didn’t seem to be speaking to me, but rather to a conversation going on in her head.

  “Come on.” I shook my hand, gesturing for her to take it. “Tomorrow, when you’re sober, we’ll talk.” And I’d make a romantic declaration, not take the chickenshit, coward way out and try to pry answers from her while we were drunk.

  “The answer will still be no,” she said, loudly.

  I winced, my hand dropping.

  “I’ll never love anyone that way.” Simone frowned at me, then at the hand at my side. “Especially not you.”

  Simone examined me, her teasing smile becoming something else. She looked like she wanted to say something, or ask something, but I wanted—needed—to distract myself from the hurtful recollections.

  So I asked, “What happened today?”

  Her grin immediately dissolved, as did her good humor.

  She glanced to her right, studying the glass of clear liquid on the bar. “It’s nothing I wish to discuss.”

  “Are you going to file a report?”

  Her eyes came back to mine, and it was easy to see she was confused. “What business is that of yours?” She sounded honestly curious and—since I’d known her so well once upon a time—I also detected a faint hint of bitterness.

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of behavior.”

  Her eyes narrowed, like she was inspecting me. “Who did Ashley tell? Just you?”

  “Just our family.”

  “She’s not going to tell my parents? Or my grandpa? Or my Aunt Dolly? Or Deputy Boone? Or Sheriff James? Or Jackson?”

  Her questions surprised me. “You mean you’re not going to tell them?”

  “No. I’m not,” she said firmly. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s no big deal.”

  “Are you kidding? That man, he—” I didn’t know what to call it, no word seemed adequate, so I settled on, “You shouldn’t have to put up with being harassed.”

  The side of her mouth lifted. She was looking at me like I was cute. I was used to this, folks—women especially—looking at me like I was cute. Hell, Charlotte had just called me cute. It never bothered me.

  But from Simone, it pissed me off.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” she said. Perhaps she sensed my mood shift.

  She picked up her drink, took a gulp, and set it back down, keeping her eyes on me the whole time.

  Seeing she really didn’t wish to discuss Officer Strickland, and knowing I had no right to push the issue, I nodded, speaking through clenched teeth, “Fine. What are you—”

  “Billy and Daniella are getting married,” she blurted, her eyes dropping to where our knees were touching, one of mine between hers, one of hers between mine. Her voice lowered, “We might be seeing more of each other, after the wedding.”

  Staring at her, trying to figure out where she was going with this, I hoped to God she wasn’t going to call me her brother again. If she called me her brother again, I was liable to do something crazy, like kiss her to prove a point.

  My eyes moved to her mouth and a different memory, a much better one, one I hadn’t allowed myself to think about for years, surfaced.

  “It’s time for another pact.” Simone handed me my fishing pole, she’d just put a worm on the end. I was grateful because I hated hooking the worm. I’d always felt badly for them.

  Poor worms.

  But I did like to fish.

  “Okay.” I tossed my line into the lake, placing my elbows on my knees. “Shoot.”

  “If neither of us have been kissed by the end of this year, we have to kiss each other.”

  I found myself grinning, my attention still on her mouth.

  Her lips were soft, I knew that much. When she kissed she did so with her whole body, wanting to be close, wrapped together, like she needed to hold on. If I licked my bottom lip—I drew it between my teeth, swept my tongue over it—I could almost taste hers.

  I sensed Simone tense and my stare darted to hers.

  She was blushing, and she was gaping. Her eyes were wide, like I’d done something surprising, shocking even. Her attention flicked to a spot over my head and she blinked.

  Giving her a questioning glance, I turned, checking to see who might be eavesdropping—in a town like Green Valley, you could usually bet on someone “accidentally” overhearing—and found Ashley and Cletus at the bar right behind me.

  I straightened, and they jumped, looking everywhere but at me in a way that made me suspicious and them appear incredibly guilty.

  “Do you mind?” I asked, incredulous.

  Ashley gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, real quick—”

  “For the record, I mind,” Cletus sniffed, looking down his nose.

  My sister ignored our brother. “We just wanted to stop over and invite y’all back to the table, after you’re finished with . . .” Her blue eyes moved between us, her smile growing by the second. “Well, when you’re finished. No rush.”

  Looping her arm through his, she pulled Cletus back in the direction of the booth. I tracked them as they went. That’s when I noticed my entire family looking at us, at Simone and me. They waved cheerfully at both of us. Jennifer had her hands folded beneath her chin, her eyes dreamy; and Beau gave me a thumbs-up with a small nod.

  I covered my face and rubbed my forehead.

  Good Lord.

  It was my fault, approaching Simone at Genie’s. Granted, I didn’t plan on engaging her in discussion or remembering the first time we’d kissed, but I certainly didn’t want an audience.

  Simone’s laughter had me peeking between my fingers. Her eyes were still on the booth where everyone was sitting, and she was making faces, crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out. Beau was making faces back. They used to do this often, across my momma’s dinner table, when we were kids.

  But we weren’t kids now.

  A spike of impatience had me grinding my teeth. I was trying here, I really was. I was struggling against a current I’d swam with for ten years, pushing her from my mind so I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.

  Here, now, just mo
ments ago, I’d been making progress. I was beginning to think that if I wanted a future with anyone, I needed to put Simone in my past once and for all. Which meant I needed to stop avoiding her, giving her memory so much power. In much the same way I’d confronted being abandoned in Hawk’s Field, I needed to confront having my heart broken by Simone.

  Standing, I pulled out a twenty, left it on the bar next to her drink, and reached for her hand. “All right, let’s go.”

  Simone did a double take, looking between me and the money. “It’s just tonic water.”

  “Then Genie will appreciate the tip.”

  I pulled Simone past the bar, out the door, and into the parking lot, part of me surprised she allowed it, another part of me determined to figure this out.

  The sooner I could speak to her without feeling that ache, the hollow, constant heartbreak, the sooner I could compartmentalize memories of her in the past and those made in the future, the sooner I’d finally be able to move on and place the specter of her where she belonged.

  Chapter Seven

  “Ghosts don't haunt people--their memories do.”

  Alexandra Bracken, Never Fade

  *Simone*

  Okay.

  I’ve never been a fan of Neanderthal or gladiator displays. They’re weird, a la pep rallies in high school, where you sit daydreaming about your science fair experiment while the cheerleaders act manic. Meanwhile, you’re just happy you got out of English because the quiz was supposed to be on Romeo and Juliet, and you hate those melodramatic a-holes and you’re glad they died because they were self-involved poor listeners. But, you’re also irritated and sad that they died for some reason and you can’t figure out why.

  The comparison here—between pep rallies and Neanderthal/gladiator displays—is the amount of frenzied emotion involved. I do not have that much energy to spare. I hoard my energy for things that matter to me. Therefore, I can’t bring myself to get excited about something so transitory and, usually, pointless.

  Nope.

  Plus, most people—men or women or other—can’t get away with barking orders or making demands. They just can’t.

  Like . . . Calm down, Kenneth. I read the memo. Why are you shouting?

  You know what I mean? It’s not that I experience a visceral reaction against taking loud orders. There’s no part of me that hates it.

  Like . . . Dude, why? Why are you so hyped up? Relax.

  However, I will admit that sometimes, in rare instances—unlike pep rallies, which never make sense—being a bossypants is done so skillfully, it’s a thing of beauty. I find myself wanting to be bossed and amped.

  Like . . . Dude, yes! Let’s get serious about this thing.

  Roscoe was doing a beautiful job of being bossy at present. Taking me by the hand, pulling me off my stool, leading me out of the bar, through the door, across the parking lot to his truck. He was taking charge of the situation, and I approved.

  But I also must point out that in order to arrive at this admirable crest of bossitude, he’d laid the groundwork while we were sitting inside. This wasn’t a sudden or random take-charge moment.

  Exhibit A: The quiet, soulful way he’d studied the scar on the back of my hand. Goodness. I’d remembered Roscoe being sensitive, not soulful. When had that happened?

  Exhibit B: How he’d immediately apologized for his behavior on Friday instead of arguing with me. Everyone makes mistakes, but so few take responsibility for their mistakes. Big yes to people who don’t dodge or try to explain away their bad behavior. It’s alluring. Almost as alluring as theories. But I digress.

  Exhibit C: The way our lower halves tangled, his knees bumping lightly against mine, our legs fitting together like two puzzle pieces. And how strong his thighs were. The boy had nice thighs, nicely shaped, good femur length. A++

  Exhibit D: How he looked at my mouth while biting and sucking on his bottom lip. That whole business had scattered my wits.

  Heinrich Rohrer, take the wheel.

  And, while you’re driving Heinrich, please tell me what that whole lip-sucking-eye-smolder thing was about.

  Studying Roscoe’s back as he pulled me along, my first guess was that Roscoe had been flirting with me. I mostly dismissed this guess right away. I’d witnessed Roscoe with Charlotte just moments prior, and his reluctant interactions with me were night and day different to how he gleefully got his flirt on with Charlotte Mitchell.

  No. He hadn’t been flirting with me.

  But still, something was going on, something my Simone-senses hadn’t picked up prior to tonight, likely because he’d avoided me like I avoided Shakespearean tragedies. The man hadn’t looked me in the eye for a decade.

  Stopping at the passenger side of his truck, he opened the door and I looked at him, catching his eye. He stilled, his gaze adopting an arrested quality, like he was a little lost, or I’d caught him off guard.

  Huh.

  Dropping my eyes to the asphalt of the parking lot, I slipped into the front seat, marinating in this fascinating development as a whisper of a hunch formed in my mind.

  Does . . . does Roscoe have a crush on me?

  Like my first guess, I tried to immediately dismiss this notion, but it lingered. So I argued with myself, no one has a crush for ten years. No one. That would be weird and troubling. That’s stalker, needs-to-get-professional-help, please-don’t-lock-me-in-your-basement-with-your-taxidermy-collection level kind of stuff.

  Right?

  And how would that work? How could the crush possibly endure? We hadn’t seen each other, or spoken, or interacted in forever. Not that I had a ton of experience with crushes, but wouldn’t he seek me out if he was crushing? I’d done exactly that in college and grad school, putting myself in the path of the crushee, hoping to get noticed. That’s what normal people do.

  Right?

  Roscoe walked around the bed of the truck and entered through the driver’s side. Once his door was closed, he leaned his elbow on the windowsill and studied his side mirror.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, not looking at me.

  I shivered, because I was cold. “About what?”

  “Cletus and Ash, interrupting.”

  “They were fine.” I smiled at his family’s blatant eavesdropping.

  The Winstons were fun and hilarious. More precisely, all the Winston siblings Cletus and younger. I didn’t know Jethro Winston well growing up; he was so much older and he’d been a pain in the butt when we were kids, running around with the Iron Wraiths and giving his mother heartburn.

  And Billy . . . there was nothing fun or funny about Billy, but I understood why. I felt a small pang of sadness for my sister, who was vivacious and spirited. I worried for her, marrying the second eldest Winston, knowing the burdens he’d shouldered.

  We sat in silence for several seconds, maybe a full minute. Roscoe kept his eyes forward and I glanced at him in intervals. He seemed to be struggling with how to begin, or deciding what he wanted to say. He looked nervous.

  And I was cold, so I shivered again, folding my arms over my stomach and holding my arms. I wore a light sweater, but my coat was hanging up inside the bar.

  My small movement seemed to catch Roscoe’s notice and his brows drew together, studying how I was sitting.

  “You’re cold,” he said, and released a frustrated sounding breath. He turned in his seat and reached behind it.

  Pulling out a neatly folded, soft fleece blanket, he handed it to me.

  I took it and hurriedly covered myself, my teeth chattering. “Thank you.”

  He eyed me. Then he faced forward, clearing his throat.

  Rubbing my hands together beneath the blanket, I studied the pattern of the red, black, and turquoise design. “Where’d you get this blanket?”

  “Near the Grand Canyon, from a Navaho shop on the side of the road.”

  I nodded, looking at it more closely. “It’s a nice blanket.” I rubbed the material between my fingers and realized it wasn’t fleec
e. It was wool. “It’s so warm.”

  “I use it when I camp,” he said, still looking out the windshield. His voice sounded gruff.

  “Do you camp often?”

  He shrugged. “Once a week, whenever I’m home.”

  I paused, absorbing this information. He camped once a week, when he was home. Which meant he came home once a week. How had I not known this? How had we not seen each other over the past five-freaking-years?

  He’s been avoiding you.

  My heart balled up, then expanded, making me think of a once smooth piece of paper that had been crushed, and then straightened. I blinked at the lights from the bar, and at nothing in particular, irritated that any part of me—and in particular my heart—was reacting to this man at all.

  This is so messed up.

  Thank goodness I’d placed a tracker on his car. Apparently, Roscoe Winston was as adept as Carmen Sandiego at avoiding.

  Suddenly, I wanted to get this over with. I wanted to get out of the car and drive away and avoid him, too. I wouldn’t be able to do that, however. I needed to gain his trust, and you can’t gain the trust of someone you’re avoiding.

  So I cleared my throat and breathed in through my nose to cool my brain, which felt hot and aggrieved. “As I was saying, Dani and Billy are getting married. Fact. We might be seeing each other more because of it. Also fact. So I think, whatever it is that made you ditch me in high school . . .” I glanced at him, feeling grimly satisfied that he was now super still, like maybe not even breathing. “Whatever that thing was—and for the record, I have no idea what that thing was, or is—and, whatever it is, I guess you could continue keeping it to yourself, or tell me, or not. Whatever, that’s cool.”

  Dammit. I was rambling. I needed to wrap it up, because my voice was no longer steady. How can I possibly be feeling so much about this?

  I cleared my throat again. “I think we just need to forget about it and try to get along. For Dani and Billy’s sake.”

  His head gave a small series of nods. “That’s fair,” he agreed quietly, but he still wasn’t looking at me.