Confederates Don't Wear Couture (20 page)

 

“Right now he's probably slow dancing

With a . . . brunette tramp

And she's probably getting frisky.”

 

Okay, so I know the lyric is “bleached-blond,” but somehow “brunette” just popped out.

 

“Right now, he's probably buying

Her some fruity little drink

'Cause she can't shoot whiskey.”

 

As if I had somehow conjured him out of thin air, Garrett stepped into the bar. How had he found me?

 

“Right now, he's probably up behind her

With a pool stick

Showing her how to shoot a combo

And he don't know.”

 

By this point the entire bar had stopped what they were doing, and they were watching me, swaying and shouting. The whole room was blurry, except for Garrett. He was the only clear figure in a sea of whirling faces. I tried my best to shut him out and sing.

 

“I dug my key into the side

Of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive

Carved my name into his leather seats

I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights

Slashed a hole in all four tires . . .”

 

I took a deep breath, looked right at Garrett and sang:

 

“Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats.”

 

I finished the song, closing my eyes and trying to pour everything I was feeling into the timeless words of Carrie Underwood. The bar erupted into applause, people shouting and stamping and chanting my name. I didn't care about any of that. I couldn't think about anything but Garrett. I handed the mike to the pudgy man and made my way back to the bar.

“Woo-wee!” the man with the mike hollered. “Let's give it up for little Miss Libby!” The bar exploded into cheers again. “Careful not to burn down the bar, girl! You've got some smokin'-hot pipes!”

I nodded and smiled halfheartedly at the guy, while I looked around for my soda. It had disappeared. Dev and Duane were at the end of the bar, making goo-goo eyes at each other.

A female bartender in her forties with frosted hair approached me. “Can I get you somethin'?”

“Whiskey.” I mean, that was what one drank in these situations, right? Isn't that what Carrie Underwood had said?

Garrett appeared behind me.

“ID, hon?” the bartender asked, arching a perfectly stenciled eyebrow that framed her crescent of lavender eye shadow.

“Shirley Temple. Straight up. No, on the rocks,” I amended. Garrett slid onto the barstool next to me. “Make it a double.”

“Sure thing.” She narrowed her lavender eyes at Garrett, as if she recognized when a man had done a girl wrong, and went to fix my drink.

“Hittin' the hooch pretty hard there, huh?” Garrett nodded at the bartender, who was plopping maraschino cherries into my glass. “Did I just hear you order a whiskey?”

“Maybe.”

The bartender slid me my pink glass, and I took a long swig.

“That was quite the . . . um . . .”—Garrett swallowed noisily—“spirited rendition of ‘Before He Cheats.'”

“Mmmm.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I really,
really
empathize with Carrie Underwood. So I sang it with feeling.”

“That you . . . that you did.” He nodded.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“Google Maps search of every bar in a ten-mile radius. And I have GPS on my phone.” He waved it in my face.

“Good for you,” I said sarcastically. “Good for you.”

“Yeah . . .” He looked at me searchingly. “Libby . . . are you . . . are you okay?”

“Oh, me?” I laughed hollowly. “I'm good. Really good. Good in the sense that I'm doing great, and I'm a good person.
I'm
a
good
person, Garrett.”

“I know you are,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Libby, what's going on?”

“I need to find Dev.” I stood up abruptly. I couldn't talk to him. I couldn't even look at him anymore.

“Uh—okay,” he said. “I'll be right here!” he called after my retreating back.

I hopped off my barstool and stalked over to tap Dev on the shoulder.

“You rang?” Dev turned around, after winking at Duane.

“We need to go,” I said. “Garrett's here.”

“WHAT?!” Dev exploded. “How DARE he?! How dare he come on our turf! I mean, hello, this is practically
our place!
”

“Whatever, let's just go,” I mumbled, glancing nervously at Garrett. “I just want to go.”

“Oh, we're going all right.” He swept off the barstool. “Duane, you feel free to call me.”

Dev and I pushed our way out of the bar, Duane waving sadly goodbye.

“Libby!” I heard Garrett call. “Libby! Hey, Libby! Where are you going?”

“Just keep walking.” Dev steered me forward. “Just keep walking.”

We made it to the truck. I left Garrett standing in the parking lot and sped out onto the road. Aside from the low hum of the radio, Dev and I drove back to camp in silence. Until . . .

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Dev whispered. “We are in deep, deep shit.”

There was a familiar figure in gray leaning against the fence in the parking lot.

“Oh, no,” I whispered. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no.”

Beau was standing with his arms crossed, and he did not look happy.

“We're sure none of the guns here have real bullets in them, right?” Dev asked.

“Let's hope not.”

Dev and I quietly got out of the car, like we were about to head into the principal's office. I let Willie out of the truck bed, and he bounded happily to Beau's feet. I followed slightly less joyously.

“What,” Beau said tensely, “the hell were you two
thinking?!!
”

“We were getting—oh my God, I didn't even get my coffee!” Dev cried.

“This was about
coffee?!
” Beau asked incredulously.

“It started off being about coffee,” Dev replied.

“Beau,” I said, shaking my head, “I am so, so, so—”

Another car pulled into the parking lot. “Libby!” Garrett shouted out the window as he parked.

“Things just got a little out of hand,” I said, as Garrett jogged over to join us.

“All right, what the hell is going on?” Beau asked.

“Exactly.” Garrett nodded vigorously. “What the hell is going on?!”

“Is that my shirt?” Beau asked out of the blue.

“You're wearing his shirt?” Garrett's jaw fell open.

“Is this his shirt?” I asked Dev, panicking.

“You stole my truck, my dog,
and
my shirt?” Beau asked incredulously.

“We
borrowed
your truck, your dog, and your shirt,” Dev clarified.

“Why did you borrow
his
shirt?” I hissed.

“Why did you borrow
his
shirt?” Garrett thundered.

“Because I—Wait a minute!” I whirled around to face Garrett. “
I
don't have anything to feel guilty about!”

“Why are you wearing his shirt?!” Garrett asked again.

“Maybe I have another person's shirt on my chest, but at least I . . . I don't have another
person
on my chest!” I said heatedly.

“Good one.” Dev rolled his eyes sarcastically. “Seriously, Libs, not your best.”

“What? Who? Chest? What? Who?” Garrett hooted like a confused owl.

“
I
don't have to explain
anything
to
you!
” I shouted. “GOOD NIGHT!”

Garrett took a few steps back, muttered something, and hopped back into his car.

Dev flashed me a thumbs-up. “Maybe slashing-tires time?”

“Maybe later.” I shook my head. “Beau”—I turned to him—“you, on the other hand, I have a lot of stuff to explain to you.”

“No, she doesn't,” Dev interrupted. “It was all my fault. I coerced her. At gunpoint.”

“Oh, Dev—”

“Run along, you,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “It's been quite a night. I'll take the heat.”

I squeezed his hand, and, leaving all the boys behind, I disappeared into the night.

“What the hell is this?” I tugged unsuccessfully on my bodice, trying to pull it up higher.

“It's an outfit,” Dev said, tugging it back down.

“What am I supposed to be? A common whore?”

“Exactly.” Dev nodded with satisfaction. “A wayward sister, a soiled dove, a public woman . . .”

“Um, no.” I started fiddling around, looking for a way to escape from this scarlet monstrosity. “I'm not going out dressed like a prostitute.”

“Sure you are. Stop looking for buttons and hooks—you can't get in or out of that thing without my help.” He had a point. It was so tight, he might as well have sewn it onto my body. Which, come to think of it, he actually had done in places.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked. “Why, Dev, why?”

“I wanted to let people know you're back on the market!” he exclaimed.

“Back on the market doesn't literally mean ‘for sale'!” I protested. “Also, I mean, I'm not technically back on the market. I don't think.”

“You have got to be joking.” He placed his hands on his hips. “He cheated. C-H-E-A-T-D, cheated.”

“You missed an
e.
”

“Maybe I'm wrong about spelling, but I'm right about this,” he said, as he fluffed my hair. “He cheated. He lied. He's a bastard in nerd's clothing. Shut it down, Libby. Shut. It. Down.”

“I'm just saying, we haven't officially broken up yet. We should probably talk about this—”

“What's there to talk about?” Dev said, exasperated. “It's over. You don't owe him anything. Not even a conversation. Get out now, before he hurts you any more. And I refuse to let that happen.”

“Thanks, Dev.”

“Seriously.” Dev cupped my chin in his hand. “You deserve someone so much better. A good guy. Who'll treat you the way you should be treated. Who's nicer. Not to mention hotter and better dressed, but those are ancillary issues.” He waved his free hand. “I'm not going to let him hurt you again. I'm not going to let you put yourself in a position to get hurt again. Because if he does hurt you again, my vengeance will be terrible. Yea, I swear it. On the hammer of Thor.”

“‘The hammer of Thor,' huh?” I smirked.

“You betcha. I mean business.” He pinched my cheek. “Plus, I thought you'd be into the whole hooker thing! It's super historically accurate!”

“Is it?” I frowned down at the scraps of fabric Dev was trying to pass off as a dress. “Then why do I bear such a strong resemblance to Megan Fox in
Jonah Hex
?”

“No, I meant prostitutes are super accurate, obvi,” he said, rolling his eyes. “The Civil War spurred the largest prostitution boom this country has ever known! Wherever the army went, prostitutes were sure to follow!”

“True, but—”

“I mean, if it were
really
eighteen-sixty-whatever and you were following the army, you probs would have been a prostitute,” he said with a shrug.

“No way!” I protested.

“A single, unemployed teenage girl following around a bunch of soldiers?” Dev arched an eyebrow. “Riiight . . .”

“Shut up!” I smacked him. “I'm a lady.” I looked down at my outfit. “Um, appearance to the contrary . . .”

“Let's show you off,” he said, and held open the tent flap.

“I kind of hate you right now. A little bit.” I followed him out into the sun.

“Shut up, you love attention almost as much as me—you just won't admit it.” Dev patted me fondly. “And you know you look insanely hot. And thusly, we will make that rat bastard curse the day he was born.”

“Thusly?” I smiled. “My, oh my.”

“It's all part of the plan.” Dev pointed to his temple. “Crafty. Use your hotness to torture the man who done you wrong. It's a classic maneuver. One I'm a master of.”

“I don't know why I don't fight you more.”

“Because you know I always win,” he answered smugly.

“Oh, wait,” I remembered suddenly. “Do you have the—”

“Yep,” Dev answered, shoving a small fabric package at me. I took it. “What are we doing today?”

“Moving on. To the Battle of Bentonville. Four Oaks, North Carolina, I think?” I said, squinting into the sun.

After the whole truck-stealing/boyfriend-cheating debacle, Dev and I had basically been hiding out in our tent as we camped out at Bennett Place. Dev was avoiding Beau, who had been placated but was still annoyed at our grand theft auto, and I was avoiding Garrett, because even thinking about seeing his face made me feel queasy. But another battle day had rolled around, and it was time to leave our sequestered tent. Not like we were going far—Bentonville was less than two hours south—but still. Out into the sun.

A soldier walking by whistled at me.

“That's it, I'm changing.” I turned around.

“No, no, Libby, stop!” Dev grabbed my arm. “It takes too long to get you out of that. Think about how historically accurate you are! You know, the term ‘hooker' even comes from the Civil War!”

“Actually, that's a common misconception,” Beau said, as he strolled up to our tent. “General ‘Fighting Joe' Hooker did have a sizable number of female camp followers, ladies of ill-repute, known as ‘Hooker's women,' or ‘Hookers,' for short. So that would be a nice easy explanation, except the word ‘hooker' showed up a bunch of times before the war. In the
Dictionary of Americanisms
of 1859, even back in a New York police report in 1835. It might come from Corlear's Hook, a part of New York that used to be full of brothels, or an even older British slang term for thieves who used hooks to steal things. And, well, prostitutes use more of a metaphorical hook to lure in clients.”