Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel (31 page)

“It’s been a decade since the last assessment, and with the revitalization of downtown everyone’s businesses are worth more. It’s a good sign for owners and the city.”

“Cottonbloom does not need revitalizing. It’s perfectly fine.”

“You’re more than welcome to voice your opinion at the next council meeting, Ms. Leora.” Regan concentrated on the order form. “Let’s see … the pillows will be ready in a week or so. I’ll call you.”

While Regan finished with Ms. Leora, Monroe retreated to Regan’s office, moved a pile of fabric samples off an armchair to the desk, and plopped down. The screen of her phone didn’t show any missed calls or texts. Her confusion and worry was skidding into angry territory. She got that men didn’t usually call after a one-night stand, but that’s not what they’d had, was it? Too much had been said. It had been too intense.

The front door bell tinkled and a few seconds later Regan walked in and went straight to a wooden filing cabinet. “I closed up a little early. There are no more appointments on the books and it’s too hot for much foot traffic.” She pulled out a bottle of Black Label Jack and two glasses.

“Is that filed with the
J
s or
W
s?”

“The
M
s for ‘Medicinal.’” Regan flashed a smile and waggled her eyebrows. This was her real smile, not the one she used to trot out for pageants or during her job as mayor.

“I really shouldn’t.”

“You have to. You can’t let a friend drink alone.” Regan’s voice was teasing as she poured.

Monroe stared at the glass filled with an inch of brown liquor. Hadn’t she been as closed off as Cade in her own ways? She pushed the glass back toward Regan. “Actually, I don’t drink.”

“Since when?” Regan took a sip, her lips curled slightly, her eyes on Monroe.

“Since forever.”

Regan put her glass on the desk in slow motion. “You’ve never turned down a beer or glass of wine.”

“No, and I don’t know why I didn’t.” Monroe tipped back in the chair, focusing on the pocked ceiling tiles. “That was a lie. I never turned down a drink because I didn’t want anyone to guess the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“I don’t drink because Mother’s an alcoholic. I’ve spent years holding full bottles of beer and glasses of wine so no one would ask any questions.” Monroe raised her head to gauge Regan’s reaction. A pensive seriousness settled a frown on her face.

“So it’s more than her going out and having fun?”

“Much more. Has been since we were kids. I tried to talk her into a rehab in Jackson, but she’s afraid of the gossip.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not a thing. Mother drinks to escape, but you can never escape yourself.”

Regan twirled the glass, uncertainty in the movement, hurt feelings in her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me? Lord knows, I’m the last person who would judge you on your mother’s behavior.”

Monroe sighed. “Habit. Shame. You’re my best friend, Regan, but for too long the secret’s felt too big to face and if I’d told you … Please don’t be upset. It seems like the longer you keep a secret, the harder it is to talk about.”

Regan turned her face to the far wall, but seemed to be looking beyond it. “That I can understand.” She turned back. “I could help.”

“I don’t need help. I’m just tired of pretending.”

“I can’t believe you fooled me for so long.” Regan shook her head and raised her glass to her lips but stopped an inch short. “Do you mind if I have a drink?”

“Of course I don’t. Drink up.”

The tension between them eased, and Monroe relaxed into the chair, feeling lighter than she had since Cade had run out of her bed. They spent the next few hours talking about everything and nothing. Celebrity gossip, their crazy families, Cottonbloom politics, Sawyer Fournette’s idiocy, Cade Fournette’s foolishness.

Monroe ended up on the floor, her feet propped up on the chair with fabric samples over her bare legs like a blanket, an AC vent blasting in her direction. Regan had kicked off her heels and sat with her legs hanging over the side of her leather armchair.

Monroe covered her face with her hands, her fear surfacing. “I think I was Cade’s booty call. The one man I—”

Her heart accelerated. Cade Fournette was the one man she could love. Might already love. Maybe had loved forever.

“You know what we should do?”

Monroe recognized the zealous enthusiasm in Regan’s voice. It was the same tone she’d used to talk Monroe into skinny-dipping in the neighborhood public pool at midnight and into buying fake IDs and into spending five excruciating minutes kissing Kit Wannamaker in a closet in ninth grade. None of those endeavors had turned out well. She and Regan had gotten caught in the pool and with the fake IDs, and Kit had come out of the closet the next year—literally.

It was also a tone Monroe was unable to deny. Anyway, one of Regan’s harebrained schemes might distract her from thinking about Cade. “Dare I ask?”

Regan was up and riffling through a box in the corner of her cramped, messy office. She came up with two cans of spray paint and an evil smile. “We should have a little fun, and what’s more fun than showing the Fournettes up?”

Regan had finished off her drink and the one she’d poured for Monroe and at least two more. While she was far from sloppy drunk, her thought process was obviously impaired. She slipped on her heels, but her shirt was untucked over her pencil skirt and her French twist had come half-untwisted.

Monroe caught her arm before she could get the front door unlocked. “This is a terrible idea.”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“You’re tipsy with two cans of spray paint. Nothing good can come from that combination.”

Regan made a
phish
ing sound and got the door open. Darkness had fallen while they’d talked. Monroe debated a moment before running to catch up with Regan. At the very least, Monroe would keep Regan from doing something dangerous.

They crept toward the footbridge that led to the Louisiana side. It was a popular place for graffiti. “How’re you going to reach the side of the bridge?”

“We’re not painting the bridge.” Regan crossed over.

Streetlights reflected off the newly painted yellow wall. Regan pulled the cap off one of the cans and shook it. Monroe grabbed her arm. “Are you serious?”

Regan answered by drawing an enormous letter
T
on the wall, red rivulets trailing down like blood. Monroe looked around, waiting for someone to pop out, point their finger and yell,
Aha!
While not dangerous, what Regan was doing was certainly foolish and not mayoral in the least.

Monroe tried again. “You’re going to regret this in the morning.”

Regan continued with her message. She dropped her spent can and took the one hanging uselessly in Monroe’s hand. When Regan was finished, they stood back to take in the wall in all its glory. Written in huge block letters was “Tomatoes Rule, Crayfish Drool. Labor Day.”

“I’ll have to admit, the red on yellow is a standout combination,” Monroe said.

The whine of a siren sliced through the humid air. Adrenaline rushed her body, and she took off at a run back across the footbridge. Unfortunately, Regan couldn’t keep up in her heels and tight skirt. A spotlight caught her halfway across the grassy common area on the Mississippi side. Still mostly in the dark, Monroe could have made the corner of the buildings and ducked back into Regan’s studio, but she couldn’t leave Regan hanging.

Monroe walked back over to where Regan was talking with the Cottonbloom Parish sheriff, her hip jutted out and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Wayne, it wasn’t me,” Regan said as sweet as pecan pie.

“Then why do you have a big red paint streak on your cheek?” The fortyish-year-old veteran officer pointed with the pen he was using to make notations on an electronic tablet.

Regan gave herself away by rubbing even more paint across her cheek with stained fingers. Wayne turned to Monroe, tutting. “You’re part of this, too, Monroe? Have you ladies been drinking?”

The threat of a ticket or worse had Monroe shifting and chewing on her lip. “I don’t suppose you’d let us loose and we’ll make sure the wall is repainted as soon as possible?”

“Repainted?” Regan put her arm around Wayne’s shoulders and turned him toward the wall. “I think it looks fabulous. What do you think, Wayne?”

“A work of art,” he said with a hint of amusement as he made more notations. “Look, I need to give Commissioner Fournette a call and see how he wants to handle the situation. That is town property, you know.” Wayne slipped into the driver’s seat of his squad car.

Regan groaned. “If it’s up to Sawyer, he’ll have us sent off to the state penitentiary for defacing his perfect little wall.”

Monroe looked over at Regan’s message. If she weren’t on the cusp of getting in trouble, she might have laughed. As it was, her stomach was in the middle of a performance of
Riverdance
.

Wayne came strolling back over, readjusting the gun belt that hung low on his narrow hips. “Well, ladies, you’re going to have to come down to the station with me.” The Cottonbloom, Louisiana, police department was responsible for the entire parish, while Cottonbloom, Mississippi, had its own small police department.

Wayne opened the back door of the squad car and gestured them inside while reading them their rights. The moment took on the farcical quality of a
Cops
episode.

“Sawyer didn’t demand you cuff us?” Regan held out her wrists.

Wayne didn’t answer. The history between the two elected officials was a story people loved to dredge up and discuss over coffee or cocktails. Regan plopped down on the bench seat and scooted to the far side, staring out the side window.

In a more respectable voice and before ducking into the back, Monroe asked, “Can I use my phone to make a call?”

“Sure. Why not.”

She pulled her phone out of her back pocket. She hesitated over Cade’s name but scrolled past to
Tarwater
and hit the button.

“Monroe. Well, this is a surprise.” Pleasure warmed Andrew’s voice and Monroe cringed, knowing he probably hoped she had changed her mind about them.

“Hey, Andrew. Sorry to skip the pleasantries, but I need a favor.”

“Anything.” The earnestness in the word squeezed at her throat.

“Regan and I are in a pickle. Could you meet us at the Louisiana police station?”

A ruffling sounded over the phone as if he was already on the move. “What have you two gotten yourselves into? No, don’t say anything over the phone. I’ll be there in ten. And for God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone.”

By the time she disconnected, they were pulling up to the ugly concrete box built for function and not aesthetic purposes. At least Wayne was inclined to let them walk into the main door and not the one in back for criminals. He escorted them to the front desk.

“You’re not going to book us, are you? Andrew Tarwater is on his way. Surely this isn’t more than a misdemeanor, if that.” Monroe tried to smile.

“I have to follow protocol, but we don’t mind taking our time, do we, Gloria?”

The middle-aged black woman sitting behind the desk wore a standard brown uniform, but pink streaks in her hair matched her long bedazzled fingernails. She grinned. “I’d be happy to mosey.”

“Thanks, Gloria. How’s Emmett’s hip?” Monroe had rehabbed Gloria’s husband over the winter.

“He’s out playing golf and fishing like a twenty-year-old. And he can’t get out of his chores anymore.” She winked and they chatted a few more minutes.

A flurry of sound and movement heralded the arrival of Andrew, Sawyer, and Cade. Andrew and Sawyer argued their way up to the desk. Cade, however, was silent and shot a glare in Monroe’s direction. He looked furious.

What right did he have to be mad? Wasn’t he the one who walked out after their night of mind-blowing sex? He hadn’t called or texted. In fact, she was only spilling her guts to Regan because he’d acted like the biggest dillhole in Cottonbloom.
He
was the reason she was in trouble. Her looping logic seemed to make perfect sense, and she glared right back at him.

While Andrew pulled Wayne aside for a low conversation, Sawyer’s deep voice boomed in the small room, the level of vitriol startling. “What is wrong with you, Regan?”

“Just doing a little advertising, is all.” In contrast, Regan’s voice dripped with saccharine sweetness, although her smile had nothing to do with humor or good will.

Sawyer’s gaze roved from Regan’s messy hair to the scuffed, pointy toes of her heels before he turned to skewer Monroe. “How were you dumb enough to get pulled into Regan’s foolishness?”

Regan took two steps toward him. “You shut your mouth, Sawyer Fournette. Monroe had nothing to do with it. All she did was hold a spray can, so you can aim your petty little insults at me if it makes you feel more like a man.”

Wayne stepped away from Andrew, who gave her a thumbs-up and a wink, and leaned against the desk. No doubt the Cottonbloom police station hadn’t seen fireworks like this in forever.

“What’d she paint on the wall, Wayne?” Even though Sawyer directed his comment to the officer, his gaze never left Regan. The air around them thrummed. If Monroe didn’t know any better, she’d classify it as sexual.

Taking great relish in the drama, Wayne scrolled through his tablet, cleared his throat, and as if delivering a Shakespearean line said, “‘Tomatoes Rule, Crayfish Drool. Labor Day.’”

Now that Andrew had taken care of matters, a burst of relief bubbled out of Monroe as shaky laughter. Sawyer turned his ire back on her. “You think this is funny? Well, maybe I’ll press charges and have the two of you locked up for a night.”

Finally, Cade did something besides give her the death stare. He laid a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “Bro, seriously? You’re not putting Monroe in jail.”

Sawyer shook his hand off. “You’re going to defend her?”

“I’m going to protect her.” Cade planted his feet wider. He and Sawyer were locked in a battle that seemed to dwarf the situation.

Andrew stepped into the fray. “No charges will be filed, gentlemen. And if the ladies agree to paint over their artwork within two business days, then no harm, no foul.”