Whiskey Lullaby

by Stevie J. Cole

  “Meg, come on. He can’t be that bad.” He can’t be...

  Meg shifted in the seat, leaning over the console. I took my eyes off the road for a split second to glance at her. Yep, she was giving me an evil eye. “No, Hannah Blake. No! Don’t even let that boy be a second thought.”

  Too late.

  “He has tattoos, and dimples,” she said as though that alone was enough to sentence him to hell. “And he knows he’s good looking. And my God, you know just from looking at him he screws everything—”

  I tapped my hands on the steering wheel. “All I said was he’s cute…”

  “And that’s how it all starts. That’s how you end up with a stray. Oh, look, it’s cute. Then you end up with it shitting and pissing all over the carpet with worms hanging out of its asshole.”

  “Wow…” I glanced at her. “Worms. Really, Meg?”

  “Hannah, he hangs out with Trevor Davis and he was screwing or”—her hands waved through the air like she was driving away a terrible smell—“doing something with Britney Swinson the first time I met him. A week or so later, it was Jody Banks.”

  “Oh, so there was more than one weak moment with Trevor?” I lifted a brow, choosing to ignore the entire Britney and Jody comment.

  “Jesus, yes. See, do you want to be in my shoes, drunk dialing some random hot guy just to get your rocks off?”

  “Oh, I think there’s more to it than that, Meg.”

  “Oh, don’t you even.” She jabbed a finger in my shoulder. “I am not into Trevor. He’s full of shit.”

  “Okay.” I slowed down to turn, thinking about how badly she was in denial. I knew she was. She knew she was.

  She settled back against the seat. “I’m saving you heartache, possibly some incurable disease.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to date him.” I pulled into the gravel drive.

  “That boy doesn’t date girls. He sleeps with them—dirty sleeps with them.”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  I put the car in park and opened my door. The interior light buzzed on and Meg shielded her eyes. “God, that’s so bright.”

  “You know you’re not driving, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She threw her door open and stumbled out, hiccuping as I rounded the car.

  “You’re going to throw up, aren’t you?”

  “No, I only had like five drinks.” She hiccuped again.

  I nodded. She was going to puke everywhere. She always did when she hiccuped.

  I placed my arm around her shoulder and helped her up the porch steps and inside. The entire time up to my room, Meg kept complaining about how bad Noah and Trevor were. I just agreed, all the while, in the back of my head I was thinking about how pretty Noah Greyson’s voice was and wondering if he sang to the girls he slept with.

  9

  Noah

  The sun wasn’t even up all the way. The damn crickets were still chirping in the field, and there was not enough coffee in the world to keep me awake after only two hours of sleep. As I stepped out of my truck, I hoped that application I’d put in at Sherwin Williams came through, because that up with the rooster bullshit was for the birds.

  The metal door to John’s workshop swung open and he strutted out with a gait a little reminiscent of John Wayne. He even had a cowboy hat on, which I expected him to tip at any second. “Good mornin’, Noah,” he said.

  “Mornin’.”

  The bang from the screen door of the house caught John’s attention, his gaze straying over my shoulder. “Aren’t you just bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” He smiled. “Noah, this is my son, Bo. Bo, Noah.”

  A teenage boy begrudgingly stomped passed us through the grass, grunting something that sounded like a “hey” before he disappeared inside the workshop.

  “He’s not a morning person.”

  “I get it.”

  “You’ll both be thankful we got an early start come noon when that sun’s beating down on you like the devil beats his wife.”

  I forced a smile, not certain whether I was supposed to laugh or not. I was never too sure how to act around a preacher. Bo stepped out of the shop with an edger slung over his shoulder, and he headed straight toward the sprawling field in front of their house.

  “Welp”—John hitched his Wrangler’s around his waist—“best be getting to it. I’m going to spread out some hay in the back field. How about you get on the John Deer and mow the land?” He pointed to a green tractor parked underneath one of the oak trees.

  The whir of the weed eater cranked up, silencing the crickets

  “Alright,” I said, and then he walked off. That was it. Mow the land. Simple enough.

  ______

  Not so simple enough. Hours later, that sun and the humidity was about to kill me. If you’ve never had the pleasure of mowing through Alabama grass that’s four feet high, you don’t understand the insane number of mosquitos that come out to feast on fresh blood. Sweat trickled over my brow, down my neck and back. I turned the tractor around. At least the grass clippings shooting up from the blade disturbed the swarm of gnats buzzing in front of my face.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was sizzling on my skin. When I got to the gravel drive, I cut the engine, grabbed the crumpled bottle of water from my back pocket, and gulped half of it down in one swig. Damn Alabama summers are brutal.

  “Hey, Noah!” Bo called, holding up the edger. “Wanna trade?” His face was red, his shirt soaked through with sweat. I didn’t really want to, but I felt bad for him. He was just a scrawny kid.

  “Sure.”

  He crossed the field and handed the edger to me. “Thanks, man.”

  By the time I passed through to the old pasture with the weed eater, Bo was already making his way back toward me.

  My arms were blazing red from the overdose of sun, and the one thing I refused to have was a damn farmer’s tan. I dropped the edger to the ground and peeled my sweat-soaked shirt off, tucking it into the back of my jeans.

  Plawck. Plawck. Plawck. Something wet and hot splattered my chest. I didn’t have to look down to know what it was. The overwhelming stench of manure wafted up, making my stomach twist. Shit was all over me...

  “I’m sorry,” Bo said, but he was laughing. Hell, I couldn’t blame him. “I didn’t see that cow patty.” Like that makes it any better. He hopped off the lawnmower and motioned me across the field. “We can go hose you off.”

  “Yeah.” I tossed my head back. “Something…”

  I followed him toward the house, swearing beneath my breath. That had to be an omen, I thought. Shit’s always a bad omen.

  Bo was still chuckling to himself when he ducked behind the azalea bushes to turn on the tap to the hose. Just as he emerged from the bushes with the hose aimed, John stepped out of the back door. “You boys need some…” John took one look at me before bending over in a laughing fit. “Well, son, you done gone and got yourself in a whole mess of dung, haven’t you?”

  I wanted to groan, but I swallowed that urge back and smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  “I was about to hose him off,” Bo said.

  “That water’s too cold, plus won’t do much for that stench.” John’s nose wrinkled a little. “Why don’t you just come on in and wash up.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, motioning for Bo to squirt me with the hose.

  “Aw, fiddlesticks,” John said. “Come on, I’ll fetch you some clean clothes of mine.” He glanced at the field before checking his watch. “It’s already gone half eleven. Might as well just get cleaned up and go on home for the day.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely, besides, you don’t want that dung getting all over the seats in your truck.”

  “Alright, I appreciate it sir.”

  He clapped his hand over my shoulder before showing me up the back steps and straight into the kitchen. I always noticed the inside of people’s houses. I guess, maybe everybody does. But I always did because it usually made me realize just
how poor I’d grown up. The inside of the kitchen was clean, with the aroma of freshly baked bread lingering in the air. On the counter was a tray of sandwiches. The Lord’s Prayer was hung by the breakfast table that had a vase of artificial daisies on it. Sounds like the American Dream, doesn’t it? A Southern-Baptist preacher and his lovely family...

  “Bathroom’s up the stairs,” John said, pointing to a set of stairs peeking out from the hall. “Last door on your right. I’ll leave you some clothes outside the door.”

  “Thanks.” I started toward the stairs.

  “And help yourself to a sandwich after you get washed up.” John pointed at the tray before grabbing a sandwich and cramming most of it inside his mouth.

  “Thanks,” I said again before climbing the steps. Nice people always made me feel uncomfortable. To this day I don’t know why, I guess I just always assumed their kindness was out of pity. And I hated for anyone to pity me.

  An uneasy feeling wound through me when I shut the bathroom door and started to strip out of my jeans. There was something unsettling about being naked in a preacher’s house.

  10

  Hannah

  The next morning, I woke up and left Meg basically dying in my bed while I ran the errands. When I came back from the store late that morning, the door to Daddy’s shop was opened, so I assumed he and Bo where out there with the “unfortunate soul.”

  I put the milk and orange juice in the fridge, stuffed the bread inside the wooden bread box, then went straight to my room with some Tylenol and water for Meg.

  The second the door creaked open, she groaned and rolled over. “This Pepto Bismol pink is making me more hungover.”

  “No, that’s the vodka.”

  “Ugh. Don’t even talk about vodka.”

  “Here,” I said, handing her the Tylenol and water.

  She propped herself up on her elbows. Last night’s makeup was smeared over her face like poorly applied war paint, and it looked like a few birds had made nests in her hair. “Wow,” I said, “you look lovely.”

  She swallowed the medicine, glanced across at my dresser mirror, then glared at me. “Here I am dying in your bed and you look all chipper and”—she waved her hand around before rubbing at her eye—“not dead. And it feels like I have sandpaper in my eye.”

  “It’s the fifteen coats of mascara and fibers you slept in last night.” I stepped into the hall. “I’ll grab you one of my makeup wipes.”

  Just when I reached for the bathroom door, it pulled open. Steam billowed out, and I was suddenly staring at the defined chest of a man with nothing but a damp, white towel wrapped around his waist. “Well…damn,” he said.

  Every ounce of blood drained to my feet at the slight smirk that played at Noah’s lips. Our eyes locked and my heart hammered against my ribs because what in the hell was he doing in my house, naked?

  “I…uh…” I swallowed. He subtly narrowed his eyes, probably stifling a laugh at how red my cheeks must have been. “Uh…” I watched the water trickling from his messy, damp hair. “Why are you—why are you in my house?” I blurted.

  “Ah... I’m guessing John’s your dad?” he said.

  “Yes, and”—I was still watching the droplets of water run down his face—“why are you in my house?” I repeated.

  “I’m uh…” He tugged at the towel, I guess to keep it from slipping. God, please don’t let it slip. “Helping your dad out.”

  He’s the troubled soul? Of course he is. Deep breath, Hannah. Deep, deep breath. I nodded. There was a moment of silence. A moment where we just looked at each other. I couldn’t help but think how bottomless his eyes seemed, like they were full of promises he’d never come through on—but the thought that he just may was almost enough. I’m pretty sure that’s why so many girls fell in love with him.

  “And the towel?” I pointed.

  “Well,” he finally said, “I thought it’d be rude to walk out of the bathroom naked.”

  He bent down to pick up a pile of clothes set by the door, then held them up with a grin. His lips were all I could focus on, wondering if he threaded his fingers through your hair when he kissed you. “Yeah, but why are you—”

  “Come on, country girl, don’t you know the potential hazards of working a farm?”

  Like an idiot, I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

  “Your brother ran over a pile of cow shit. Splattered it all over me.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely.”

  “Yeah, real lovely.”

  There was another awkward pause and he lifted a brow, thumbing inside the steam-filled bathroom. “Did you need something?”

  “Huh? Oh... um... just...”

  He pushed the door open all the way and stepped to the side. I quickly moved into the bathroom, snagged the pack of makeup wipes, and rushed back into the hallway, my cheeks heating.

  “Well.” He braced both arms in the doorway and dropped his chin to his chest. Every muscle tensed and popped. The myriad of tattoos that stretched over his muscular arms were hard not to stare at. “It was nice to see you again, Hannah.” He dragged out my name like a note to a sad love song. My entire body tingled. I wanted to stand there and stare at him, touch him… What the crap is wrong with me?

  “Yeah.” I swallowed. “You too.” When I turned around, the bathroom door clicked shut. The second I got back inside my room, I took a breath, wondering why in the world it had to be him that my daddy hired. Stuff like that never ended well. I felt about as ridiculous as Alice In Wonderland, just because a bottle’s not marked poison doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to drink it.

  I tossed the makeup wipes at Meg and she lifted a curious brow. “Was that a guy in the hall?”

  “Yep.”

  “The new troubled soul?” She grinned as she pulled a wipe from the pouch and began scrubbing over her face.

  “Yep... Noah Greyson.”

  Her jaw hung open and she stopped wiping her makeup off, leaving her entire cheek pretty much black. “What?”

  “The guy in the hall was Noah. In a towel.”

  “Soooo...” she shrugged. “Is he moving in or something? Has your dad finally just lost it?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus, your dad has no idea what he’s just done.” She swiped the wipe over her face again before glancing down at it and wrinkling her nose. “He has just invited the devil into his home.”

  “Oh, for the love... Meg, you are overreacting.”

  “That’s your one-way ticket to hell. I’m telling you. He’s pretty, and a sweet talker, and he’ll make you weak, and then I’ll have to kill him, so I guess he’s really our one-way ticket to hell.”

  “So now he’s the devil?” I asked. Any man who was going to lead all of mankind to hell was going to need a good smile and dimples…

  “Maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Noah’s probably more like the Pied Piper of Panties.” She balled the face wipe in her fist, then tossed it to the floor. “God, it’s going to be Mr. Moses all over again.”

  “What?” She’s lost her mind. Mr. Moses was the one-eyed Tabby we took in when I was a kid. He was vicious and basically had a vendetta against chipmunks.

  “I know you, Hannah. You used to go around and find all the chipmunks Mr. Moses would start to eat and then just leave to die, and you’d want to fix them all up.”

  I deadpanned her. “You’re comparing Noah to the cat with the glass eye?”

  “No.” She glared at me. “The chipmunks. Noah is the chipmunk here.” Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “You like broken shit, Hannah, and that boy is broken. You can’t fix him.”

  “You don’t fix people, Meg—”

  “Well, whatever, just as long as you don’t try to fix him. You’ll end up broken in the process.”

  _______

  Meg left an hour later, begrudgingly. I told her I’d be happy to let her take my shift if she wanted and she flipped me the bird.

  After I tied my hair in a messy bun, I
grabbed the electric piano from my closet and carted it down the hall. From the hallway, I could hear the theme music to Jeopardy coming from Momma’s room. She smiled when I pushed the door open. “Hey, baby.” Her gaze fell to the keyboard and her grin deepened, her eyes glistening with tears.

  “I thought you might like some music.” I placed the piano on the dresser and she muted the television.

  “I would love to listen to some music.”

  I flipped the switch and the little red light glowed. “I’ll play your favorite,” I said, placing my fingers over the keys. The soft melody of “What A Wonderful Life” filled the room. I glanced up at the mirror and saw Momma with her eyes closed, her head slowly bobbing along with the tune. After the first line, she quietly sang the words, and my throat tightened on a silent sob.

  Growing up, I sat next to Momma at the piano while she played. When I turned six, she started sending me to lessons. She told me she enjoyed listening to me play more than she enjoyed playing herself. She’d sit in formal living room with me while I practiced. She’d listen, providing encouragement when I’d grow frustrated because I couldn’t get a chord. She’d applaud when I finished, and when I got the song down just right, she’d sit and sing the lyrics. The piano was our thing, I guess. I closed my eyes, my fingers still tapping over the keys as I listened to her sing. Even with her voice hoarse, it was still beautiful, but the longer I played and the more she sang, the words hit me. Hard.

  I fought the tears pricking my eyes. I fought the sob lodged in my throat, and when the last notes played, I took a deep breath and forced it all down because I couldn’t make her feel guilty.

  “Thank you, Hannah,” she whispered. When I turned around, she was wiping tears from her face.

  “Please don’t cry, Momma.” I went to the side of the bed and wrapped my arms around her. “Please…”

  “I never wanted to leave you and Bo.” She choked back a breath. “Not this soon.”