“If you don’t mind,” Beau answered.
“No,” she said quickly. “Not at all. Sir Simon. I mean, Beau Simon. I’ll ah…I’ll bring you out a jug right away.”
“Thanks. And sweetie? If Logan Forest is inside, you wanna ask him to join us?”
She scooted over and swung open the gate to let them onto the patio without going inside first. It was hot, so there weren’t a lot of customers out there, but the few that were—a family of four and a few couples scattered about—eyed him with interest and a few grabbed cell phones.
Tucker nodded to a table in the corner, one that offered shade from the pagoda above, and Beau followed his brother over, making sure his back was to the patrons.
“This looks good,” Tucker said as he slid into the chair and glanced around. “Our backs are covered and we can keep an eye out on the teen invasion back there. Plus if we have to make a run for it, the bikes are close.”
“Relax, Tuck. It’s not LA.”
“You say that now.”
The door from inside The Grill swung open and Beau nodded at Logan Forest as he strode through, carrying a mug of beer. He was followed by Shane Gallagher, and the two men slid into the seats across from them, quick introductions following suit.
“How’s the bike?” Logan asked.
“Runs like a charm.” Beau settled back into his chair. “The design is perfect. Thanks for that.”
“Good to hear,” Logan replied. “Shane here, worked on it and his touch is legendary.”
“So, you boys playing in this celebrity tournament?” Beau asked.
“Damn right,” Shane answered with a grin. “Our hockey team has entered.”
The door slammed open again and they all glanced over.
“Shit,” Logan muttered. “This isn’t gonna be good.”
An obviously pissed off Betty Jo Barker marched across the patio, until she reached their table. She carefully placed two large jugs of beer in the center and straightened, hands on her hips as she glared at Beau.
Her hair was in a ponytail, swinging back and forth, and Beau’s eyes followed the curve of her cheek down to the pulse that beat erratically at her neck.
“Seriously?” she snapped. “You’re back in town for less than five minutes and manage to turn a perfectly capable woman into a babbling mess of girlie parts whose mouth and brain no longer function?”
Damn she looked fierce.
She looked at all of them in disgust and then turned around and marched her pretty little butt back into The Grill, where the door, once more, banged hard behind her.
“That’s gotta be some kind of record,” Logan said. “Even for Betty Jo.”
“Shit, Beau. What the hell did you do to piss her off? You just got here,” Shane said shaking his head.
Beau looked at the guys and shrugged. It’s not as if he had some magical insight into the workings of Betty Jo’s mind.
Tucker reached for the pitcher and proceeded to pour himself and Beau a mug. “So, I’m guessing that’s the infamous Betty Jo Barker. She looks different from the magazine pictures I’ve seen.”
“That’s because she’s got clothes on,” Logan replied dryly.
It was a light comment, but Beau didn’t much care for it.
“I guess,” Tucker said. “And if I’m reading the signals right, she’s not exactly a fan of yours.”
“No shit,” Logan said darkly. “And if you want to keep all your parts intact, I suggest you stay the hell out of her way. She’s been a total bitch lately and no one seems to know how to handle her.”
Tucker took a good long drink from his mug, wiped foam from the corner of his mouth and grinned at his brother. “I think this is gonna be a fun little road trip, brother. Glad you invited me along.”
Beau didn’t say a word, because he had no intention of staying out of Betty’s way. He took a sip of cold draft and smiled.
No intention at all.
Chapter Thirteen
IT WAS FRIDAY night. Well over twenty-four hours since Betty had seen Beau at The Grill.
And she was still pissed off. Her body literally hummed with repressed anger.
The kicker? She didn’t know what to do about it. In the past she would have lost herself in a handful of pills and washed them down with vodka. But the whole new leaf thing wasn’t exactly conducive to that sort of behavior.
So how’s that working out? She asked herself.
Her anger had come from nowhere and on so many levels didn’t even make sense. But that was Betty Jo. Nothing about her made sense.
Nothing.
“Do you know how identical triplets are formed?” she asked.
Her buddy Matt Hawkins lifted his head from the sofa—their butts were parked in the Barker front room—and frowned.
“Are you on drugs?”
“I wish,” she said. “But no.” She sat up. “Triplets, identical triplets, happen when one single egg divides into two eggs.”
“That would be twins.”
“I know. But then one of the eggs splits again. Almost like an afterthought. A bad egg.” She shook her head. “That’s me. That’s always been me. The bad egg.”
“I don’t believe you,” Matt said.
“It’s true.”
“No, I believe your scientific explanation. I tutored you in biology, remember? I don’t believe you’re not high. Because you sure as hell sound like you smoked one.”
Betty tossed a pillow and Matt ducked just in time. “What the hell am I going to do?”
“About what? The movie? Or your bad egg complex?”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
He smiled. “I can’t help it.” Matt paused. “Look, do you think you have the chops to do this movie? Or is it just a pipe dream?”
“I know I can do it. Jesus, Matt. It’s like the main character, Eden, was written for me.”
She is me.
Betty had finally broken down and read the script the night before after coming home from The Grill in a foul mood. The script was where she’d left it, there on the front porch, and she grabbed it on her way into the house. Nearly two hours later, Gramps had found her sitting at the kitchen table, crying.
Crying because it was so damn, good. So achingly, beautiful it hurt.
Crying because she wanted it so badly.
Crying because there was no way in hell she could work with Beau Simon and since it was his movie, his script, she knew that she could never accept the role.
“Well, the answer seems pretty simple to me. Do the fucking movie.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t?” Matt glared at her. “Or won’t?” He took a swig from the bottle of whiskey he’d brought over and this time when he offered it to her, Betty grabbed it and took a long gulp.
Fire burned down her throat, a familiar sensation as the whiskey rolled over her taste buds. It was Canadian Whiskey, Forty Creek, and damn smooth.
She hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in about a month and as she let her head fall back onto the sofa, she wondered why she’d ever thought it was a good idea to quit drinking.
Of course, Matt Hawkins and drinking pretty much went hand in hand. The guy had his own demons to deal with and drank way too much. The two of them together were a scary combination. Bobbi called them the toxic twins.
Betty hadn’t seen Matt in about a month, so it wasn’t surprising that she’d had no trouble staying away from booze with him out of the picture. He’d been out of town—she had no idea where he’d gone—and had come home a few hours earlier.
Matt had been a friend since high school, as misunderstood and miserable as she was.
“Won’t,” she answered through gritted teeth. “You know what he did to me.”
“I know that the two of you got caught having sex by that dick-head director, Bentley. I know that Bentley fired your ass because you were giving away something that he wanted, namely the zone between your legs.”
She made a face. “Technica
lly I wasn’t fired. I just wouldn’t sleep with Bentley and after he caught me with Beau, it was impossible to work with him. I left, but he told everyone that he fired me.”
“Apples and oranges, baby.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that Beau Simon cost me that role. He knew Bentley was on his way over. He wanted Bentley to find us together to prove a point.”
“To prove what? That you were easy? That you liked sex?” Matt laughed. “I hate to break it to you Bets, but everyone knows you like sex. You’ve been going at it like the Queen Bunny for years.”
“I don’t,” she whispered, feeling that hole inside her expand a little more.
“Don’t what?”
A long moment passed. Was she really going to say this out loud?
“I don’t like having sex. Not really. I can’t even remember the last time I had an orgasm.”
Liar. The last time her mind and body had been in sync…the last time she’d felt alive, had been with Beau. But those instances had been few and far between.
“Sometimes,” she sighed and shook her head. “God, Matt, sometimes the guy is done and I don’t even know it. I’m so disconnected…so fucked up. Sex is just a way to…”
“A way to what?” Matt stared at her for so long, she looked away, uncomfortable.
“I keep thinking that I’ll connect with someone, you know? That someone out there can fill this hole inside me.” She closed her eyes. “They never just want to hold me. God, it would be so nice to just be held.”
“I cuddle you,” Matt said softly, his fingers brushing away the hair from her forehead.
She felt his lips on her cheek and it only made the sadness inside her tighter. Meaner. She wished Matt was enough.
“It’s not the same,” she said.
“I know.” He rolled back and kicked at the pillow now on the floor. “I think you should do the movie. Make it yours and throw Beau Simon a big fuck you.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not?”
She grabbed the whiskey from him once more and took another long draw. “Because with Beau, everything is different. I can’t explain it.”
“When you were with him…was he like the others?”
Betty stilled, not liking where the conversation was headed. “What do you mean?”
“Was he a disconnect? Or a connect?”
Betty’s heart began to pound. He’d been a connect. A definite, hard, exhilarating, connect.
And look what it had gotten her.
“That’s what I thought.” Matt finished off the whiskey and set the bottle down carefully. “You’re afraid of him.”
“I’m not afraid of Beau Simon. I can’t stand Beau Simon.”
But Matt paid no attention to anything she said. “I get that he hurt you, but honestly, Betty, that’s in the past and you’ve got to get over it. You want this part? Take it. Own it. And use him this time. Use this gift he’s giving you to show all those assholes that you have what it takes. That you’re not a fuck up. That you have real talent and most of all…that you deserve something good.”
For a long time she stared out the window at the last rays of sunlight falling into the night sky. She glanced at the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. At her friend Matt, whose pain rolled off him in waves.
At the family photos on the table beside the sofa—smiling faces of three identical girls with their father and mother.
Looking at those photos, Betty couldn’t help but think that she’d been happy once. Maybe.
“If I do this…I can’t let him…” God, she could barely get her thoughts out. “Beau needs to know I’m hands off. I don’t trust him.”
I don’t trust myself.
Matt got to his feet, all six feet four inches of brawny good looks. Hawkins looked like a biker, a bad boy with a dark side, but only Betty knew it was a carefully cultivated image that Matt hid behind.
“That’s where I come in, babe.” He held his hand out. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Well, isn’t that barbecue kick off thing tonight?”
Betty nodded warily.
“And since Beau Simon is in town, won’t he be there?”
“I guess, but—“
“No buts.” Matt retrieved his keys from the pockets of his jeans and handed them over. “You drive. I’m pretty damn sure I’m over the legal limit and it’s a bit of a drive out to Gallagher’s place.”
“But I don’t—“
He yanked her up. “I said no buts. Let’s go to this thing and before the night is over, Beau Simon will think that you’re mine. I’ll make sure he understands that you’re off limits and that if he fucks with you, he fucks with me.”
Betty considered Matt’s words. She knew he would never lift his considerable fists to anyone who didn’t deserve it. But Beau didn’t know that.
Heck, no one in New Waterford did either. The entire town thought that Matt Hawkins was a cold hearted son-of-a-bitch, who partied too hard and would never amount to anything. They had no idea what lay beneath his hard exterior or why he was the way he was.
In their eyes he was the male version of Betty Jo. Loose. Immoral.
She bit her lip, her mind wavering. It really was kind of perfect.
“You coming?”
She glanced down at her outfit. It was as if she’d known she was going out tonight.
Black cotton tube-top. Check.
Low-rise, white skinny jeans. Check.
Belly button ring. Check.
Four inch black heels. Check.
“Let me put on some gloss,” she said as a spark of excitement rifled through her. Was she really going to do this?
Why the hell not?
For the first time in, forever, Betty Jo Barker was going to do exactly what the town expected her to do. She was going after what she wanted and to hell with the consequence. It might get messy and most likely would be dirty, but whatever.
If it came back and bit her in the butt, she’d deal with it.
Or, she’d run away.
Chapter Fourteen
“WOW. THERE REALLY is more than one?”
Beau swung his head and followed Tucker’s gaze. For a moment his insides froze, his fists tightened and he forgot to breathe. Over near the barbecue pit, some guy had his hands sitting right above the soft swell of a butt. The position wasn’t casual—the fingers splayed in such a way that told anyone looking she belonged to him.
It was a butt that looked familiar, and something hot, sort of angry, coursed through him as the man’s hand rolled down to cup those soft swells. He pulled the woman closer, murmured in her ear and that’s when Beau realized it wasn’t Betty, but the third triplet he hadn’t yet met, Bobby.
And the guy was Shane Gallagher.
Idiot.
He cleared his throat and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, because he didn’t know what the hell to do with them.
“You okay, Hollywood?”
Beau scowled at his brother. Tucker knew him too well.
“I’m fine.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Leave it,” he said, eyebrow arched.
“So, brother, tell me. Where is your triplet?”
Beau’s scowl deepened. He’d left at least a dozen messages for her and she hadn’t returned any of them. He was starting to think the whole idea of Betty Jo in his movie was a lost cause, but there had been a part of him that thought if she just took the time to read the damn script, she’d be as excited as he was.
But then, had he really expected her to? Her dislike of him was intense, to say the least. She made no bones about the fact that she could barely stand to be around him, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He’d blown it with her and she was too damn stubborn to forgive him.
“Last time I looked, I didn’t own a triplet.”
Tucker’s grin widened. “Yeah, but you want one.” And then softer. “Real bad.”
“And yet you didn’t.”
Shane Gallagher nodded their way, his hands still on his lady, as the two of them strolled through the bevy of local participants and the celebrities in attendance.
Most of the so-called, celebs playing in the tournament were in town and this barbecue—closed to the public and only open to the participants—was a kickoff and thank you from the local businesses. It was held out at Shane Gallagher’s farm. Though really, farm was an understatement.
The estate was impressive, with a large colonial home, a good many outbuildings and an expensive roster of racehorses. It was not what Beau had expected.
With his tats, penchant for leather and rumors of jail time, Gallagher looked like a biker. Coupled with the artwork he’d seen, done by none other than Gallagher himself, Beau found the guy interesting.
There was a story there. Maybe one day he’d find out what it was.
“I’m gonna grab us a couple of beers. Be back in a minute.”
Beau watched Tucker head toward the bar, which was located near the pool, and turned back just as Shane approached.
Beau shook his hand and smiled at the woman beside him. Her hair was shorter than Betty’s, a dark curtain hanging just past her chin. She wore a simple white sleeveless dress that fit like a glove, and rested several inches above her knee. Plain flat sandals adorned her feet, though her toenails were painted a funky orange and blue, the same funky colors on her fingers.
Her smile was wide—that generous Barker mouth glistening with pink gloss—her eyes wide and open.
“So, you’re Beau Simon,” she murmured, stepping out from beside Shane as she studied him intently.
“I am.”
“You look different than on the big screen.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “Yes.” And then she grinned. “You’re much hotter in person.”
Conceal Page 9