Hot in Hellcat Canyon

by Julie Anne Long

  They sat for a moment of shy silence, sipping. Britt had forgotten how delicious margaritas were. They’d sucked half of their glasses down before anyone spoke.

  “So are we going to talk about the elephant in the room? Initials J and T?” Casey wanted to know.

  “Him?” Britt snorted. “I don’t care about him.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Casey soothed.

  “He can do anyone or anything he wants. We were just having a little fun. S’over now.”

  “Of course you were! Of course it is!”

  “He can, in fact, fuck himself.” Wow, two sips in and her psyche was liberated.

  “He probably can!” Casey encouraged. “Speaking of which, I’m just going to come right out and ask it,” Casey said finally. “You don’t have to answer . . . you can tell me to mind my own beeswax and I swear on everything I hold dear that I won’t tell a soul . . . but was he good? Be honest.”

  Britt took another hearty gulp. She wanted to be mean, not honest.

  “Okay. Think of the best thing you ever saw . . . ever tasted . . . ever did . . .”

  “Yeah?” Casey encouraged breathlessly.

  “. . . ever felt . . . ever smelled . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “And multiply it by a million.”

  They let that assertion ring alone for a moment.

  “Daaaaamn,” Casey whispered.

  Alas, apparently alcohol ultimately was truth serum.

  “But I don’t care about him at all!” Britt added hurriedly.

  “Of course you don’t,” Casey soothed. “And can I tell you something, Britt? He kind of scares me.”

  Britt gave a short laugh. “Gosh, I didn’t think anything scared you, Casey. You know, he’s actually a lovely person. Who has a great laugh and wears reading glasses and looks like a fallen angel when he sleeps.”

  Britt blinked. That was some florid blather. That margarita was a fast worker.

  Casey was apparently arrested by the tipsy poetry of this, because her eyes went dreamy.

  She took another sip. She was beginning to think Casey was right about getting drunk. Feelings were for the birds! She would feel her feelings later!

  “I have to confess, I like my guys big and dumb and sweet. And hot. Not look-­into-­the-­sun hot, though. I’m more comfortable when I can manage them. Which is why Truck was my type.”

  “Was . . . or is?” Britt teased slyly.

  Casey actually slowly blushed. And looked faintly distressed.

  So Britt didn’t bug her about that anymore.

  She took another sip. They were quiet a moment. The big yellow dog panted companionably under the table. And licked Britt’s ankle, and she giggled.

  “Is it hard to talk about J. T.?” Casey sounded tentative. “Sorry if it is. It just seems like you need to.”

  “Honestly, I don’t even know how to talk about how I feel right now. You saw those photos. And you saw what happened at the Misty Cat when Rebecca Corday walked in the first time. Half the town did.”

  “It was like the only giraffe at the zoo finally got a mate.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for that.”

  “You’re prettier than she is.”

  Britt snorted.

  “As pretty. In a different way. Pretty without needing to wax or trim a thing.”

  This was about the highest compliment Casey could give a person, and Britt was quite touched.

  “You’re pretty, too,” Britt told her.

  “I know,” Casey said placidly. “And you know, I get afraid of things, Britt. I do. I get afraid I won’t find anyone to settle down with and have kids before it’s too late. Because that hasn’t quite worked out for me. I get afraid something will happen to my house, like a big tree falling on it. But I went to Greta at the New Age store and she told me how to feng shui the place for protection.”

  “Can’t hurt!”

  “That’s what I said!” Casey said.

  They sipped a moment in silent solidarity.

  “Do you remember that fight I had in the street with Kayla? About Truck,” Casey ventured.

  “Casey, I think you have to assume that fight has passed into legend. They’ll probably start teaching it in school around here, along with Sutter’s Mill and Fort Sumter.”

  She sighed. “Well, I’m not proud of that. My mama tried to raise a lady. And I do know how to behave. But Kayla started it. You know what she said? ‘You’re never going to find someone.’ Kayla and I go way back to when we were little girls. She really knows how to hurt me. It’s funny, because I think that’s her biggest worry, too—­that she won’t find anybody. And that’s how we ended up fighting. Anyway, if I have any sort of credo it’s this: I always fight back.”

  Britt was uncertain about the wisdom of this credo.

  “You’re not a believer in passive resistance? Turning the other cheek?” she tried.

  “Oh, you mean like Gandhi and all that? The thing is, passively resisting Kayla would have gotten me snatched bald-­headed that day. Turning the other cheek would have gotten that one slapped, too. Sometimes you just have to wade on in there and flail a bit and hope for the best,” she said placidly, and tipped the pitcher into Britt’s margarita glass.

  Britt took a healthy sip. “This is the best margarita I’ve ever had.” The more she drank, the easier it went down, too. Casey wobbled to her feet and pressed the button on the blender to ensure they wouldn’t run out.

  She wondered if Casey’s last sentence ought to be her philosophy, too: wade on in there and flail a bit.

  “If you’re going to fight, you might as well try to win, right?” Casey settled into the chair opposite her and clinked her glass against hers. “Even if it isn’t pretty. And if you can’t win, sometimes revenge is sweet.”

  “But knowing when you can’t win is part of it all, too, probably. Or when not fighting is kind of the only way you can win.”

  Casey was quiet a moment.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said finally, gently.

  Which was the first time Britt realized that everyone really did believe she’d lost J. T. forever.

  She supposed it was touching that everybody cared.

  It was a peculiar emotional position to occupy. To know that when the truth of it settled in for good, that when he was gone and stayed gone, or was underfoot in Hellcat Canyon alongside Rebecca Corday, that the townspeople had her back, like a lot of busybody feather pillows.

  “You’re so smart, Britt,” Casey said suddenly. “You’re the bomb, you really are. I always wanted to be your friend, but I didn’t think I was smart enough. I felt shy.”

  “You were shy? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that. I was shy. I always admired how bold you are, Casey. You’re so cool.”

  They had clearly already reached the affectionate phase of inebriation. They beamed at each other.

  Casey linked her fingers into a little hammock and propped her chin on them and gazed at her.

  “What is Rebecca Corday like?”

  “Shurprisingly . . .” Britt mused, then stopped, surprised that she’d already lost control of her s’s. “She’s kind of a bitch.”

  “I knew it,” Casey said with calm satisfaction. “Probably because she’s hungry all the time. More margarita?”

  “Hit me,” Britt said.

  Casey had to work the next day, but she claimed hangovers made her move more slowly and only improved the precision of her haircuts. So they drank about two entire pitchers, all told, before they decided they ought to get Britt to the bus stop before the buses stopped running.

  Britt pointed at things all the way to the bus stop and narrated as if they were on a nature walk.

  “The stars are so beautiful. They remind me of J. T.”

  “That tree is so beauti
ful. It reminds me of J. T.”

  “The night shmells so nice. So does J. T.”

  “The whole wide world reminds me of J. T.”

  They arrived at the bus stop.

  “There’s fucking Rebecca Corday on the bus bench,” Britt said darkly. “She reminds me of J. T.”

  Casey was surprisingly patient through all of this.

  Together they paused to stare at their mutual nemesis.

  This bench featured the ad of Rebecca Corday clutching a purse, leaping with the unbridled joy of being beautiful, wealthy, doable, ubiquitous, and probably currently within touching range, if not doing range, of J. T. McCord.

  “She looks like a bunny like that, don’t you think, Casey? Holding that purse, getting ready to jump?”

  Casey tipped her head. “I don’t see it.”

  Britt fished about in her purse and came out with the heavy-­duty Sharpie she used to letter signs for Gary.

  “Here, let me show you.”

  She looked about to make sure no cars were coming.

  She carefully drew ears, long adorable oblong ears, one of them with a little bend, on top of Rebecca Corday’s head. She added an extravagantly fluffy tail to her butt. With a few strokes of the pen she turned the purse into a basket full of eggs. She finished it off with fuzzy freckled cheeks and whiskers and buckteeth.

  She stood back with a spokesmodel flourish. “See?”

  Casey was in awe. “Omigosh! You’re totally right! That’s so cute! I didn’t know you could draw. You’re the bomb, Britt.”

  “No, you’re the bomb!”

  “You are!”

  That went on for a while.

  “Hey, I have an idea! You have to make me a bunny, Britt.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “I have all the same parts as Rebecca, right? I have a face.”

  Britt assessed her shrewdly by the light of the streetlight. “Okay, okay! Great idea! I will. Sit down.”

  Casey sat down hard on the bench, and Britt zoomed her face in close to Casey’s to study her new canvas.

  Britt decided to start with little freckled cheeks and whiskers.

  Casey giggled.

  “Shhh,” Britt said. “Hold still. You’re wiggling. Wiggling and giggling.”

  “But I have to. That’s what they do. Bunnies wiggle.” She wiggled her nose up and down.

  They erupted into such a storm of giggles that Casey fell off the bench.

  “Whoop!” Britt seized her arm and hauled her back up onto it. “Okay, shhh, shhhh. Sheriously. Sheriously. Hold still.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  Britt went to work on drawing little oblong ears over Casey’s eyebrows. She meticulously—­especially for someone so full of margaritas—­colored in a little black nose.

  “That tickles. I might sneeze.”

  “Shhhh. Don’t. We’re almost done.”

  She finished off the whiskers. And then leaned back.

  “OH. MY. GOSH. OHMYGOSH. You are so CUTE, Casey!”

  “Yay!” Casey exulted. “Cuter than Rebecca?”

  “So much cuter. Wait—­let me finish that one whisker!”

  “No, YOU’RE cuter.” She nudged Britt so hard she was on her way off the bus bench. She flailed out for Casey, who snatched her upright just in time.

  “But Britt . . . Britt . . . I need to tell you something.”

  Casey seized Britt’s hands in hers and earnestly gripped them. Her expression was suddenly mournful and deadly earnest.

  Which was hilarious because she was now a bunny.

  “What? You can tell me anything, Casey.”

  “Okay. I want you not to feel sad. It’s just . . .” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I love your hair. But Rebecca Corday . . . has super great hair. I want to play with it. I want to braid it and blow it dry.”

  Britt laughed. “That’s okay. I think her hair is pretty, too. Know what else I hate that has really cool foofy hair? I’ll whisper it to you.”

  She leaned toward Casey and did just that, right into her ear.

  Casey sat bolt upright. She was utterly motionless a moment.

  And then a slow evil smile spread all over her face.

  “I have an idea,” Casey said.

  Britt struggled awake to the sound of her phone ringing and ringing and ringing. Whose ringtone was “White Rabbit”? When had that happened?

  She fumbled for it with some effort and slid the call to answer.

  She tried to say, “Hello.”

  It came out, “Unnh.”

  “BRITT! Oh my God, you finally answered! You alive? I was so worried! You didn’t wake up when I texted.” It was Casey, and she was whispering. Stage-­whispering. Her roommate must be home.

  “What time is it?”

  “Does it matter? It’s your day off. But yeah, it’s almost eight a.m. I have a very, very important question.”

  “Okay,” Britt managed.

  “What happened last night?”

  “Umm . . . we drank margaritas and then . . .”

  She stopped.

  It worried her very much that she didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

  “I have whiskers on my face,” Casey hissed.

  “Happens when you get older,” Britt mumbled. “Just wax them.”

  “BUNNY whiskers. And ears over my eyebrows. I have a freaking BUNNY FACE.”

  She was managing to be hysterical while whispering, which was really quite a feat.

  Britt lay as still as possible. Good God. Who was playing bongos outside at this hour?

  It took her what felt like another minute to realize the pounding was coming from inside her own head. It was the Margarita Marching Band.

  “BRITT! Are you there? Are you alive? Are you okay?” Casey was now shouting in a whisper.

  “I’m just trying to . . . I mean, we drank margaritas, Casey, we didn’t take peyote or lick any psychedelic toads, so I don’t know why you’re seeing a bunny face in the mirror. Unless you did when I wasn’t looking? Or after we got home? Wait . . . how did we get home?”

  Her clothes were still on. She ran an experimental hand over her body, and all her limbs were present and accounted for. She inhaled.

  She smelled like strawberries.

  But her head and her stomach were playing a really nasty duet.

  “I called Kayla and she took you home. No. Britt, I have SHARPIE whiskers. Black ones. I have a SHARPIE nose and eyelashes, too, and ears that sort of rise up over my eyebrows. Like a BUNNY. I. AM. A. BUNNY.”

  Silence.

  And through the sludge of her hangover the memories began to reassemble.

  “Oh . . . oh crap,” she whispered in horror. “I remember now . . . at the bus bench . . . You asked me to turn you into a bunny . . . because you thought the bunny on the bus bench was cute. And so we bunnified Rebecca Corday . . . and then . . . and then . . .”

  The silence on the other end told her Casey was remembering all of this, too, and everything else they’d done, with equal horror.

  In light of all they’d accomplished last night, every bit of it illegal, one part of it kind of dangerous, it really was kind of a miracle they’d gotten home in one piece.

  “You kept wiggling your nose when I was drawing . . . and then you fell off the bench laughing while I was working on it.” Her memory was sludgy. Forming words felt like trudging through a swamp and they were all still a little slurry.

  “Well, I guess that explains that one long whisker that zips right up to my ear. And that bruise on my hip.” Casey was sounding a little more pragmatic now.

  Britt was utterly silent. If she laughed, which she wanted to do, her head would explode.

  “Do you know what’s really weird, Britt?” Casey said this on
a hush.

  As if there was anything weirder than this.

  “What?”

  “I look really good this way.” Casey’s voice was suffused with stifled hysterical laughter. “You’re really talented.”

  Britt started to laugh, then moaned. “Don’t. Don’t laugh. Don’t make me laugh. I can’t laugh. My head hurts.”

  “Shit shit shit. I have to go to work right now. And do hair. As a BUNNY FACE.”

  “Can’t your assistant take your clients today? Or at least until you get the ink off?”

  “She’s is home with the baby. She’s taking her to the doc because she was running a little temp. I told her yesterday I’d take her clients. All the waxing and stuff.”

  Britt started laughing again and stopped when she was reminded of how much that hurt. “Good luck, Bunny Face.” She hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Gosh, how many T-­shirts do you own, now, Johnny? I think you might be working on a fetish.”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Does this country remind you of the Tennessee backwoods? Doesn’t it seem sort of inevitable that you’d wind up with simple folk again?”

  “Nope.”

  The relatively short ride back from Napa with Rebecca was deeply uncomfortable.

  He was purposely giving Rebecca deadpan one-­word answers to these barbs, which he knew was simply making her crazier.

  They were both pissy, for entirely different reasons. Rebecca had kissed him, and he’d rebuffed her, and she was seething. Their peers at the wedding had congratulated him over and over on the profundity of a beautiful wedding toast that Rebecca knew had nothing to do with her. And the whole world had seen pictures of the two of them that made their relationship look like the opposite of the icy, tense atmosphere inside the cab of his truck.

  The two of them were old hands at being awkwardly photographed. And they ought to have been reading lines or discussing the Last Call in Purgatory script.

  Instead, the silence between them was practically louder than the radio.

  Which he kept turning up and Rebecca kept turning down.

  Relief swept through him when the familiar exit signs began appearing.

  Rebecca had decided she was going to get a blow-­out before they visited the children’s hospital to film the spot. He could get rid of her for at least an hour, maybe more.