Evie cut the water off and yanked a towel down from the rack to dry off. "I know. Believe me. I know. Anything else?"
"Yeah, you need to hurry it up. I left your mom behind the bar."
Evie wrapped the old brown towel around her body and jerked the shower curtain open.
"Yes, ma'am. I know Bev could've kicked my ass. Yes, I'm glad my mom bailed me out. And yes, I know I need to hurry up," Evie said, not bothering to control her volume.
Cheri didn't even try to look apologetic. She strolled into the connected bedroom and plopped down on the bed. "Good. Now that you're through thinking about that asshole, you can get dressed and get back to work." Cheri's lips stretched over her pearlies in a huge grin.
Evie blew out a breath and turned to look at the clothes her friend had laid out on the twin bed. "Where's the rest?"
"You’re looking at it." The expression on Cheri's face wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Olympian who’d won the gold medal.
Evie regarded her in silence, ready to take her best friend from gold to bronze. The clothes, if that's what you could call them, would barely cover a Barbie-doll, let alone a full-grown woman. Hot pink tank top. Jeans cut so low she'd be lucky if her ass didn't hang out.
"What? This is my cutest outfit."
Evie had one of those moments that felt like it stretched from seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. Cheri was her best friend. End of story. But their taste in clothing was Victoria's Secret and Betty White different.
Maybe she could blow dry her beer-soaked clothes?
"Oh hell no, I know what you’re thinking. You are going to put this outfit on right now," Cheri said, rising from the bed.
The halter-top would cover her stomach, and her scar, but put her boobs on major display. "I can't wear that. It's been years since I've worn anything that sexy." Evie trembled and inwardly cursed.
"You listen here. I am sick of watching you hide beneath ugly clothes two sizes too big." Cheri crowded Evie's personal space down to about two inches.
Evie sucked in a breath and gripped the towel tight enough to crush it into a Kleenex. Fear bubbled in her stomach.
"I've stood by for as long as I can, but dammit, you’ve been hiding for two years." Cheri grabbed her ice-cold hands.
Evie's chest tightened and she pulled away. Jagged shards of memory from her last night with Marcus sliced through her, still sharp enough to cut deep.
"I'm the one who found you. I took you to the hospital. I thought you were going to die." Cheri's words stumbled out in rough stops and starts.
Sobs built in Evie’s chest. She swallowed, but her throat just squeezed tighter. She remembered. She wasn’t conscious when Cheri took her to the hospital, but her friend’s soft voice was what had pulled her back from the darkness. Part of her had not wanted to come back.
"You didn't die, you survived. You survived and started over, but you’re still letting him win."
Evie broke. Her legs gave out and she crumpled to the floor. The sobs broke free and she buried her face in her hands. She knew it was true, that she was still dangling from Marcus's puppet strings like a bad replica of Pinocchio. Well, Evie was tired of impersonating herself. Tired of being too scared to draw attention to dress like someone her age. Too scared to let anyone get close. Too scared to do anything.
Cheri dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her friend, and for a long moment, the two of them sat there crying together.
“Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?" Evie leaned back and wiped her tears.
Cheri grabbed her hand, "Nothing is wrong. I wouldn’t expect you to be normal after what happened. But you gotta quit acting like a wimp.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.” Evie sniffed and wiped her running nose with the corner of her towel.
Cheri snorted. “Sure.”
Evie had introduced Cheri to the MRG early on, right after her family had started putting the militia group back together.
And her no-shit-no-service attitude was one of the main reasons Evie had asked her. That and the fact that Cheri had family along the river who helped them hide any one from Mercy that the sheriff or Marcus targeted.
“I’m talking about respect. Are you going to keep letting everyone run over you?”
Evie sniffed, rubbed her nose. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Apparently I’m not part of the club anymore.”
Cheri jumped to her feet, paced out of the tiny bedroom, over to the MRG table and kicked it. “I knew they were up to something. What happened?”
Evie filled her in on her conversation with her mother, holding her hurt in by a thread. “Basically, everyone would rather take the money than hold to the cause.”
“No. You’re not going to let them.” Cheri pulled Evie up and grabbed her shoulders. “You let this happen and you might as well have never left Marcus. Except this time you won’t be the only one in his pocket—we’ll all be there.”
“What choice do I have?” Evie wanted to scream. Shout. But she was too tired. If her own mother was willing to turn her back on her, what was the point?
“You are stronger than this. Think. You can find a solution.” Cheri said.
“What can I do? Marcus threatened to kill my mom if I prevent this deal from going through…not to mention the fact that my mom just kicked me out. He runs this town! How am I supposed to fix anything?”
“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. But you have to want to believe in yourself. You need to put on your big girl panties.” Cheri glanced in the bathroom, at the granny-panties hanging over the edge of the bathtub.
“I know.” Evie let her head fall into her hand.
Cheri picked the red thong off the bed and dangled it in front of Evie like bait. “The woman who wears this is in control of her life. The woman who wears those,” Cheri pointed to Evie’s beer-soaked undergarments and shuddered, “might as well move into Magnolia Nursing Home.”
Evie snatched the thong from Cheri’s fingertips and stood. Her veins heated with something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Something she’d pushed to the back shelf in her mind. Something that felt a lot like confidence.
“You’re right. I can fix this.” Evie forced the words out, her voice still husky with emotion.
Cheri gave her a hug. “That’s right. With my help. And after you kick some major ass, I expect to be promoted to VP.” She headed to the door. “I’ll leave you to it, El Presidente.” With that, she left and closed the door softly behind her. Evie dropped the towel. She stepped into the red satin thong, one foot at a time, and slid the panties up, savoring the feel of the sexy material. She’d worn cotton so long she’d forgotten the pure sin of satin on skin. The matching bra with its front closure went on next, followed by the low-slung jeans.
She turned then and strode to her meeting table. The original MRG had carved those letters into the wood many years ago. Before she was born, back when C.W. was a young man.
Evie lovingly traced the worn grooves in the lacquered cedar. This was her family now. This was her life. It was time to take it in both hands.
Evie squared her shoulders, went back to the bed, and pulled on the tiny pink top. Yes, it was time to lay all her old fears to rest and live up to the Videl family name.
First order of business: kick Marcus’s offer to the curb, no matter what resistance she faced from her mother or anyone else, and then kick his ass if he had a problem with that. No more missus-nice-gal.
Was she physically strong? No. Brutal? Maybe. Cunning? Absolutely.
Forget Kill Bill. It was time to kill Marcus.
Chapter 8
Hunter grabbed his cane and approached the table surrounded by MRG. No one rose or acknowledged him with more than a nod. They all looked to one man for guidance. C.W. Videl.
Hunter realized two things. The people at the table weren’t all Grandpas. In fact, a few of them were closer to his age. And a few of them weren’t men.
“Well, well. If it ain�
�t Evie’s very own Houdini. Get tired of the disappearin’ act, boy?” C.W.’s voice came out deep and scratchy, like he’d swallowed a bucket of rusty nails for supper.
“Yep.”
“What’s wrong, boy? Couldn’t handle the military?” Another man, this one with long grey hair and a handle bar mustache to rival Sam Elliot’s, asked the question.
“Not the military, old man. Just a haji bullet.”
“And what, you decided to come home crying? Trying to pull disability, right?” Mustache added.
C.W. had a dip in his mouth, and he looked liable to spit it at Hunter any minute.
Hunter kept his expression blank. The comments didn’t bother him. He knew they were a test. “I don’t need disability to handle my shit. But he sounds like he’s speaking from experience.” Hunter turned back to Mustache. “You must know your way around the system pretty good.”
Mustache stood, his face turning dark red. Hunter let his gaze drop briefly to the MRG label on his shirt before lifting it to meet the man’s gaze once more.
“What’re you sayin’ boy?”
“I’m saying only weak, pansy-ass men live off the American tax dollar. And I bet you get your blue check every month.”
Mustache kicked his chair back, sending it crashing to the floor. Before he could take a step toward Hunter, C.W. grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Hold on, Lafoy. That boy’s messing with you.” C.W. spit into the Styrofoam cup in his hand and turned back to Hunter. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to let you know I’m back. For good. And I have every intention of seeing your granddaughter.” Hunter knew C.W. from childhood. He knew the man could sniff out a lie from another town. Hunter’s best shot was honesty. Or at least part of it. He wasn’t home for good, but he would be dating Evie again. And soon.
“Well, now, any of us can ‘see’ her.” C.W. said.
A smattering of low laughter spread across the group. Hunter tensed, and then forced himself to relax. Play his cards right. “I want to date her. I’m just letting you know, out of respect.”
“And hoping I’ll mind my own business and stay out of your way?” C.W.’s tone was sharp and blunt.
“Yes. After my injury, I realized how stupid I’ve been. And how much she means to me.” Somehow, the words weren’t as bitter the second time around. They rang with honesty. An honesty he would never be ready to face.
C.W. squinted at him, and Hunter fought the urge to hold his breath. Remember, this is just a game.
The old man spit in his cup, and said, “Close calls make you realize a lot of things.”
“Cyprene Willis Videl. I knew I’d find you here.”
Hunter turned and stopped cold. Mrs. Trudy Van Meter. She’d been matriarch of the First Southern Methodist Church of Mercy for as long as Hunter could remember.
“Trudy, what the hell’re you doin’ here?” C.W. stood, his voice a few octaves higher than it had been one minute before. His face had gone a little pale, besides.
“Oralee Bates called me. Said she’d seen you flirting with some hussy.” Mrs. Trudy plopped her fists on her generous pale-pink clad hips. Her blazer and skirt were pressed stiffer than Hunter’s dress blues. An American flag pin sparkled on her lapel. Her short white-grey hair was sprayed into submission.
Another man from the table spoke. This one was smaller than the rest. Scraggly. His Carhartt jacket was torn in a few places. “What’s it to ya, lady?”
Mrs. Trudy’s already straight spine stiffened and Hunter could swear he heard wood crack. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Cyprene and I are dating. And he made promises.”
“How the hell would Oralee know what I was doing in here unless she was here too?” C.W. resembled the proverbial boy with his hand caught in a cookie jar. Only the boy had a long grey beard and the cookie jar had alcohol in it.
“Never you mind that. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Her tone was so sharp Hunter took a step back. He’d learned from an early age to respect his elders. But that didn’t mean he had to stand close to a grenade in the form of Trudy Van Meter.
The people closest to where she stood had the same idea and cleared out.
Hunter tipped his head. “C.W.”
C.W. didn’t take his gaze from his lady. And Hunter didn’t blame him. The look in her gaze screamed kill shot and C.W. was her target.
“Now, Trudy. I was just having some fun with the boys. I ain’t broke no promises.” C.W.’s rough voice disappeared, replaced by the smooth, dulcet tones of a Southern gentleman doing just a touch of begging.
Hunter didn’t need to stay around to see the fall-out. He headed out onto the screened-in porch and straight into the summer heat. Darkness permeated the night, but the dingy yellow lights hanging from the ceiling provided enough illumination for him to see metal folding chairs and scuffed up wood tables. The exact place Evie had ran from him earlier this night.
In a normal place, several weeks of rain might take the heat down a few degrees. Not in Mercy. The Mississippi Delta didn’t play around. She reached a hot hand down a man’s throat and ripped the air right out.
He’d been on missions in the desert for the majority of the past five years. The temperature in those places could burn your skin in thirty minutes flat, melt the pads off your fingers if you grabbed a metal door handle without gloves. It didn’t hold a candle to the South’s deadly concoction of heat and humidity.
A few die-hard smokers littered the porch, standing far enough apart so the air circling down from the fan stood a chance at reaching them. Mosquitos battled the wire mesh of the screen for entrance to the flesh-fest.
A flash of bright pink tugged his gaze to the right. When he realized what he was looking at, all the air rushed out of his lungs and the heat on the porch kicked up twenty degrees in the space of one second.
Holy hell.
Evangeline Videl. All five-feet-two inches of sex on a stick. Her shirt was like a flashing neon sign through the haze of cigarette smoke, framing her perfect breasts in a way that had his hands clenching. Her navel peeked out above low-slung jeans that hugged hips made by God himself.
Hunter’s body went on instant alert.
He gave the men around him a get-the-hell-out-or-die stare. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The smokers took one last drag, extinguished their cigarettes, and beat it back inside. Evie pushed through the screen door and stopped.
She stood on the other side of the long porch, clutching the back of a chair. The half-moon cast dingy light across the porch, tingeing everything a washed-out yellow. The sound of rushing water competed with the night crawlers’ croaking. Hunter took a moment to study her. And get his shit together.
“I fucked up.” The words tasted as bitter as a hot Afghani beer. He didn’t want to be here, working this mission and pasting on a fake smile for his ex-girlfriend. She’d been the first, and only, girl he’d ever loved. And she’d torn his heart apart by cheating on him with Marcus. He wanted to be back at his forward operating base at Camp Tajik, playing cards and planning his next operation. Away from all this baggage he’d left behind.
“The understatement of the year?” She studied him a moment and turned away, walking to the porch railing. A part of him felt the loss of her gaze and wanted it back. The other part breathed a sigh of relief. When her baby blues settled on him, he lost the ability to think.
A breeze fanned her long hair sideways, revealing the smooth skin at her waist. He remembered how soft she was all over, how his hands could span her waist as he pulled her close.
Awareness trickled through his blood, heated his veins. Frustration followed close behind. She affected him, no matter how much he wished she didn’t. Across a room. Across a country. Across a goddamn ocean.
His plans threatened to evaporate like smoke.
Hunter shook his head. No. This was just his body remembering how hot their sex had been. How right she had felt beneath him. There was nothing wrong wit
h attraction, as long as it didn’t twist into something more.
“Maybe. Maybe I’m just a little hard headed.” He moved around the tables, his leg a throbbing reminder that he hadn’t completely healed. Her gaze shot to the wounded limb, seeing more than he wanted. As much as he detested the weakness, it played into his plan.
Her blonde brows drew together. “What happened?”
Hunter stopped when he was a foot away and leaned a hip against the porch rail. “Gunshot. It was a through-and-through, but in a bad spot. I’m taking some time off to let it heal right before going back overseas.”
Her blue eyes darkened with concern, despite the mask of indifference on her face. She’d always detested violence. Or so he’d thought.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
Hunter shrugged. He wasn’t ready to talk about Shane, and besides, he couldn’t reveal classified information. “Nah. I screwed up and took a hit. It happens in combat.” Why was she acting so concerned? “Anyway, it was bad enough for them to send me home. So here I am.”
“Why come here now?” Evie said, her voice subdued, blending with the soft cadence of the river.
“I told you, for the beer.” He paused, looked out at the river, not really seeing the scenery. “No. That’s not true. I came for you.”
Evie shook her head and he could feel her disbelief. Hell, he could feel his own. He was going to have to tread carefully with his words or she would sense his insincerity.
“Hunter, you’ve been in and out of here on leave. You’ve made it a point to bring every slut in a hundred miles to parade in front of me. Why do you suddenly want me now?”
Because my CO threatened to send me to guard the French foreign minister if I didn’t get into your pants and get information. Even he knew that wouldn’t exactly put him in her good graces.
He’d thought about this woman almost every day since leaving Mercy. He’d never thought he’d return home to face her. But in the end there hadn’t been a choice. “Honestly, Evie, I don’t know. All I know is, the harder I try to forget you, the more I remember. And…the more I want you.”
Men of Mercy: The Complete Story Page 7