Beauty and the Mustache (31 page)

I’d always heard and used
the term
silence filled the
room
,
but I don’t
think I’d ever experienced the sensation of silence actually
filling a room until that moment. The silence filled the room until
I thought the walls might buckle under the pressure of
it.

Billy’s mouth opened and
closed, his mind obviously having difficulty grasping the
situation. I imagined we all wore similar expressions.

Drew continued. “She also
set up an S-corp with the two of us as co-owners. She transferred
all her savings and investment accounts—the inheritance from your
grandparents—into the company, then removed herself as a partner.
The only account she’s kept in her name is the checking account
with the local bank in town where her paycheck is deposited from
the library.”

“
Why…why would she do
that?” Beau’s words were choked, confused.

“
She said at the time that
she was afraid your father would somehow clean her out in the
divorce. She wanted to put everything in my name, transfer all the
assets, until the divorce was over.”

“
She must’ve known she was
dying.” Cletus’ voice—steady and neutral—surprised me. Of my
brothers, he seemed to be absorbing this news and seeing the
situation with the most clarity. “If it was about the divorce, she
would have asked one of us to help. She didn’t want us to know she
was sick. She didn’t want us to be put in a bad position when she
died.”

Again, silence filled the room. It was the
silence associated with seven brains working hard to understand the
motivations of a dying woman.

Drew’s eyes flickered to
mine; he appeared to be bracing himself and his gaze was guarded
like he expected me to be angry at this revelation.

But I wasn’t angry. At
first, I was astonished. Then, as the puzzle pieces came together,
I felt relieved.

Because if any one of
us—my brothers or me—had been placed in Drew’s position, we would
have been targeted by my father. He would have thrown everything in
his arsenal of manipulation at us. I was not angry with Drew, but I
certainly did not envy him. My father was not a good
man.

I crossed to where he was
still leaning against the arm of the couch. He stood as I
approached, his arms falling to his sides, his expression
cautious.

I stopped far enough from
Drew to give him his space. “Have you met him before?
Darrell?”

“
Yes. Once.” His gaze was
watchful, like he didn’t know what to expect from me, but he was
bracing himself for the worst.

My eyes lowered to his
chest and I watched it rise and fall several times before I spoke
again. “I’m worried for you, Drew.”

“
Don’t be.”

I lifted my eyes to his,
held them. “He’ll make your life hell when he finds
out.”

He returned my sentiment
with a small and rueful smile. “He’ll try and he’ll
fail.”

“
Please let me know how I
can help you.”

Drew gave me a subtle
shake of his head, his eyes growing both hard and heated. “I told
you before, I don’t need anything from you.”

I flinched, rocked back on my feet, but Drew
caught my hand and held me in place.

Just then, though I
couldn’t see him, I heard Billy’s voice say, “I agree. I don’t like
being kept in the dark, but…man, Drew, you’re in for a huge shit
storm when Darrell arrives. All hell is fixin’ to break loose. You
got to let us know if we can help.”

“
Someone get that man a
beer or a whiskey,” Jethro said, and the room erupted in
tension-breaking laughter.

“
Or both!” Beau smacked
Drew on the back and walked toward the kitchen, presumably to get
the whiskey and beer.

The loud chatter of the
Winston boys eclipsed the stunned rigidity. My brothers began
discussing the full meaning behind all the planning my mother had
done and Drew’s part in it.

Meanwhile, in the midst of
their conversation yet completely separate from it, Drew and I
regarded each other. He still clasped my hand, staying any
potential retreat.

At length he said quietly,
“I mean it, Ash. I know your life isn’t here. I know your place and
your people are in Chicago.”

I nodded, pressing my lips
together in an
I-get-it
smile, because I understood him perfectly on this
point. But when I tugged against his hold, he didn’t release
me.

“
Drew.”

“
Yes?”

“
Let me go.”

He hesitated, his eyes
moving over my face. “Not yet.”

I scrunched my nose at him,
not trying to hide my irritation, and huffed, “I thought you
didn’t
need
anything from me.”

“
Yeah….” His hand
tightened before he released me. I heard him mumble, “But that
doesn’t mean I don’t want something,” just as Beau approached and
handed us both a whiskey.

“
i like my body when it is with your body.
”

―
e. e.
cummings

I had to
butcher the roosters.

Well, I didn’t
have
to butcher the
roosters, but someone had to, and I’d promised my mother that I’d
do it.

I’d butchered plenty of
animals before, when I was growing up. We used to keep goats,
rabbits, chickens, and ducks. We didn’t keep geese because they’re
partial to biting. Plus, they’re nasty, ill-tempered
bastards.

Three days had passed
since I’d called Darrell Winston. We’d heard nothing from him, and
everyone was on edge.

My time in Tennessee was
growing short; the seasons were changing, and soon I would be back
in my apartment, back to my job and my life. Even my brothers
seemed to sense my impending departure.

Jethro asked for my
address in the city. Roscoe and I consulted a calendar, trying to
find a date in December when he could visit over the winter break.
Cletus and the twins suggested a road trip to junk yards in
Chicago, hopeful that they’d be able to discover a treasure trove
of rusted classic cars that could be hauled back to
Tennessee.

My mother was now sleeping
most of the time, so visits from her friends at the library and the
minister were usually brief, or we’d make an excuse. When she was
awake, she was hazy and her speech was slow. I could feel her
drifting away, disappearing. A growing part of me recognized that I
had no control over the situation.

But another part, stubborn and willful,
struggled against the slippery hours, wanting time to stand
still.

So, instead of sitting
inside all day and going crazy watching my momma breathe, I decided
to let my brothers take a turn so I could butcher the
roosters.

It was a solid plan. I had
the cone all set up, and the knife; I was wearing my oldest jeans,
a long-sleeved T-shirt with a tank top underneath, and work boots.
I had on the same old, black apron I used to wear for the occasion
as well as the fitted leather gloves.

Nevertheless, when the
time came for me to do the deed, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I had
that damn rooster upside down in the cone, disoriented and still,
but I just couldn’t do it.

I heaved a frustrated sigh, released the
rooster, stood, and kicked a nearby bucket. Kicking the bucket felt
really good, so I decided to punch a bundle of straw. That felt
good too, so I kept doing it.

I don’t know how long I
spent raging against the straw—maybe a minute, maybe twenty. When I
finally stopped I was red faced; my loose braid had come undone,
and my hair was wild around my shoulders. My legs, arms, and
stomach were sore from the workout.

Breathing hard, I ripped off the gloves and
placed my hands on my hips, glaring at the straw. It looked just
the same.

“
Feel better?”

My head whipped around,
searching for the origin of the voice, and found Drew standing at
the edge of the chicken yard, his thumbs in his belt loops, his
dark green T-shirt tucked into his dark green uniform pants, his
cowboy hat on, and a stern expression on his face.

He would have melted my
butter if I’d been in any mood to be butter…or to melt.

Who am I kidding? My
butter melted as soon as I saw his hat.

I was irritated—with the
roosters for crowing, with my momma for dying, with my father for
being evil incarnate, and with Drew for melting my butter when I
wasn’t in the mood to be butter…or melt.

I eyeballed him, disliking
that I noticed how exceptionally fine he looked, and I waited to
catch my breath before I responded. “Yes, I do feel better
now.”

“
What are you
doing?”

“
Well, you don’t need
Sherlock Holmes to solve that mystery.” I reached around my back to
untie my apron.

His eyes narrowed and his
mouth flattened into a hard line. “Are you upset with me about
something?”

“
Yes.”

“
What?”

“
The fact that you’re
breathing, I guess.”

Over the last three days,
Drew and I had spent plenty of time together. During all of that
time, he’d quoted Nietzsche never, he’d recited poetry not at all,
and he’d barely spoken. Even worse than that, he hadn’t touched
me—not once.

Meanwhile, there was a
wild boar of need within me; one that he’d awakened with his
quicksilver eyes, poetic words, velvet baritone, heroic deeds, and
expertly choreographed kisses.

He’d left me to drown in
want.

Drew shifted his weight,
his head tilting to the side as he regarded me. Despite the shade
and shadow provided by his hat, I could tell that he was fighting a
smile.

“
My breathing bothers
you?”

“
Sometimes.” I removed the
apron, ducked into the shed, and hung it on a nail where it
lived.

If I’d said what was on my
mind, I would have told him that his self-control bothered
me.

Or maybe it wasn’t
self-control. Maybe he’d lost interest.

Or maybe there was
something appallingly wrong with me. During this time of sorrow and
stress, I wanted to lose myself, forget about my worries, and
debate the merits of mustachioed eighteenth century philosophers,
or relive our soul scorching, pride destroying, body claiming
kiss.

Drew met me inside the
shed and blocked the door with his body. “How are you doing today,
Ash?”

“
I’m just peachy, Drew.
I’ve been trying to butcher a rooster for the last hour, and I
can’t bring myself to cut the damn cock. How’re you?” I was hot and
it was stuffy in the shed, so I pulled off my long-sleeved shirt
and draped it over one of my shoulders; this left me in my tank
top, jeans, and work boots.

He studied me, his eyes moving from the top
of my head down to my stomach, likely taking in the sight of my
wild hair, red cheeks, and sweatastic torso.

“
You just browsing, or…?”
I motioned to myself and lifted my eyebrows. I was hoping to convey
impatience rather than the fact that his perusal was most
definitely melting my butter.

“
Are you feeling
frustrated, Sugar?” He said these words softly, liltingly, like he
was speaking intimately with someone, or like he was speaking to
someone with whom he planned to be intimate. Drew reached behind
him and pushed the door. It squeaked as it closed.

My eyes flickered to the
door then back to him. He removed his hat and tossed it to the
side, and that’s when I saw intent in his eyes—clear as frosting on
a cake—and I was momentarily stunned.

Before I could get a
handle on the situation or process how to respond to it, he crossed
to me in four steps, backing me up against the cabinet in the shed,
and captured my mouth with his. My long-sleeved T-shirt fell to the
floor. I barely noticed.

I’d like to say that I
pushed him away. I’d like to say I didn’t welcome his kisses and
caresses. I’d like to say that I didn’t greedily untuck his shirt
and greedily touch every inch of his solid stomach, chest, and
back, and greedily rub against him. I’d also like to say that I
didn’t greedily moan like a hussy when he reached one hand up my
shirt, his fingers and mouth giving my breasts deliciously rough
treatment.

I’d like to say all that;
but if I did, I’d be a liar.

Because it
happened.

His hands were hot and
purposeful, and he used his body with delicious skill, rocking
against me, causing me to gasp. His fingers deftly unbuttoned my
jeans, slipped into my panties, parted me. I arched into him,
clamoring to get closer, needing his touch and the friction of our
shared embrace.

Flashes of him smiling,
playing his guitar, quoting Emily Dickenson played through my mind;
memories associated with
wanting
—wanting him, wanting this,
wanting more. I wanted to be touched by him, possessed by him,
claimed by him in a way that mirrored my desire and betrayed his
need for me.