Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (32 page)

“I don’t appreciate being treated like a sexual handmaiden.”

“You…” He scrunched his brows.  “What?”

“Look, I know we didn’t exactly establish any boundaries or guidelines before we jumped into bed, so I’ll accept that I’m partially responsible
.  But where I come from, it’s sort of an unspoken rule that when you’re sleeping with someone, you at least give them the courtesy of not sleeping with the biggest money-grubbin’, man’hoppin’ bitch in town while they’re essentially in the next room.”

He stared.  “Huh?”

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Tucker Pettigrew.  I have eyes.  And ears, come to that.”

He nodded, rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin.  “Have you been drinking?”

Had she been
… “You know what?”  Screw rational.  “Get out.”

He had the audacity to reach out, use his thumb to push her lid up away from her eye.

“Stop it.”  She used the broom to slap at his hand.  “What are you doing?”

“Checking your pupils for signs of a concussion.”  He wrestled the broom away, tossed it down.  Laying his ears back, Useless slunk into the corner.

“I’m not concussed.  Or drunk, damn you.”

“Which leaves us with crazy-assed female who’s making no sense.”

She opened her mouth.  Closed it.  And felt steam come out of her ears.  “You jerk.”  She shoved him, but he was built like a Sherman and didn’t budge.  “I
saw
you with Victoria!”

“
Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You were skulking around in my shrubs and saw me standing with Victoria on the porch.”  He made a
continue
gesture with his hand.

“Yes. 
No.” 
He made her sound ridiculous.  “You were doing more than standing on the damn porch.”

“You’re absolutely right.  I was also drinking a beer.”

Because her hands wanted to curl into claws, she shoved them into her hair.   It was bad enough that he’d done it, but ten times worse that he’d stand there and lie.  “I saw her in your bathroom, Tucker.  Naked.” 

“You… really?”

“Really? 
Really? 
That’s all you have to say?”

He scratched the back of his head.  Then, to his peril, he started to laugh.

“That’s it.  Out. 
Get out. 
I’m not telling you again.”

“Sarah.  Wait.”  Still chuckling, he grabbed her fist when she tried to hit him.  “Ouch.  Don’t kick me, damn it.  You little hellcat.”

“I’ll show you a hellcat, you bastard.”

“Sarah?”

The deep voice coming from the front of the cottage made them both freeze.  Sarah turned to find her brother Noah looming in the doorway.  His streaky chestnut hair was windblown, his perpetually sunburned nose beginning to peel.  Eyes the exact shade of green as hers took in the scene.  “Problem?”  He set the small cooler he carried at his booted feet.

“No.”  There was no point in getting his protective instincts riled.  Her brother was slow to anger but quick with his fists.  “Are those the shrimp you promised me two days ago?” she said to distract him
from the fact that Tucker was rubbing his shin.

“Took a tour over to Daufuskie,” he said in his off-hand way.  “They ended up staying over at the cottages,
made it worth my while to stick around and bring them back a day late.”  His gaze ran over the rumpled bed, the broom, and finally settled on Tucker. “You’ve got a mess in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, I was just about to clean that up.  Why don’t you put the shrimp –”

“In my refrigerator,” Tucker said, and stepped around Sarah.  “Tucker Pettigrew.  I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Her brother assessed Tucker’s level-eyed stare before shaking his outstretched hand.  “Noah Barnwell.  You want shrimp, they’ve got a nice supply down at Culpepper’s.”

“Yeah, but I’m not much of a cook, and Sarah promised to make me dinner.”

What? 

Noah looked Tucker over again.  “Really.”

“Sure,”
Sarah heard herself saying, instead of:
Are you crazy?
“Tomorrow night.  A little payback since Tucker agreed to help me out with the kids at the book club tomorrow.  He’s an author, you know, so he just loves to foster the love of reading in impressionable young minds.  Even agreed to dress in costume.”
   

Noah stared at her for a beat, then turned an assessing gaze on Tucker, who’d gon
e red in the face.  “Is that so.”

“Absolutely,” she interjected, before Tucker could make an attempt to redeem his manhood.
  “He’s a hell of a guy.  And to hear him sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider.”  She pressed a knuckle to her cheek bone.  “Brings a tear to the eye.”

“I thought you were a carpenter up North.”

“I was,” Tucker said with an evil look aimed at Sarah.

“Uh-huh.  Well.  Heard you had some trouble while I was gone,” Noah said to Sarah.

That wiped the satisfied smirk from her face.  “A little graffiti.  Nothing to worry about.”  And she could give credit where credit was due.  “Tucker helped me sand it off and touch up the paint.  You can’t even tell it was there.” 

Noah
flicked another glance at Tucker.  “Good.  I’ve got people looking for him.  For Jonas.”

“Noah –”

“Any reason to think it wasn’t him that tagged your place?”

“That was her gut
reaction,” Tucker interjected.  “And mine.  Hawbaker has to approach things a little more objectively, but off the record, he agreed.  I’m pretty sure he’s been messing with her for a while now, but this is just the most blatant.  He killed a bunch of her plants.”

“He… what?” Sarah said.

“Your flowers,” Tucker reminded her.  “They were ripped out, and not by deer. I’m willing to bet he’s responsible.”

She was, too, but she hadn’t realized that he’d already put that together.

“Okay.”  Noah inclined his head, then fixed a look on Sarah.  “There are lots of places to hide out on the water, on one of the outlying islands.  The bastard has a boat.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Bought it from a guy I know, a couple weeks ago.  Paid cash.”

Hell.  “Did you tell Will?”

“Called him from Daufuskie when I found out.  Linville so much as shows the tip of his dick at one of the marinas, I’ll hear about it.”

“Thank you for that very disturbing visual.  Noah, I don’t want you
going off half-cocked and doing something stupid.”

“He’s the one who did something stupid by choosing to
mess with my sister.”  He picked up the cooler, hesitated, and then passed it off to Tucker.  “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Keep an eye on her.”

“I intend to.”

“Nice meeting you, man,” he said before Sarah could inform him that Tucker was no longer welcome to keep an eye – or any other body parts – on her ever again.  “Sarah, I’ll catch you later.”

But w
hen he’d gone, Sarah decided that she was too tired to fight with Tucker.  “You can sit that back down.  We both know I’m not making you dinner.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“Tucker –” 

“If I’m reading a book about a
social climbing arachnid to a bunch of overstimulated kids, you’re damn well making me dinner.”

“I wasn’t serious.”

“I am.  Though there’s no way in hell I’m wearing a costume.”  He hefted the cooler.  “But for dinner?  You should wear something that’s easy to take off.”

He wa
s out the screen door before Sarah had a chance to kick him again.

TUCKER
pointed the tip of the knife toward the pile of headless, mutilated corpses.

“Now what do I do?”

Sarah eyed him from her perspective at his kitchen table, and took a lazy sip of wine.  “You don’t add the shrimp until the potatoes are done.” She gestured toward the enormous pot on what Victoria had informed him was a vintage O’Keefe & Merritt stove.  The pot currently held redskins, half ears of corn, and fat chunks of sausage in a boiling broth.  “Get that big fork and poke one.”

He
was tempted to poke her.  How the hell did he know if the potatoes were done?  But he grabbed the fork, chased a potato around the pot.  And made the mistake of leaning over to frown at it when it resisted his advances.

“Problem?” she asked innocently while he
coughed, moved quickly toward the open window.

“You know damn well.”
  He wiped his streaming eyes on his sleeve.  Apparently it wasn’t enough that he’d spent the better part of two hours riding herd on nearly a dozen sugared-up pre-schoolers, had then sliced sausage and decapitated shrimp, but now she was trying to kill him.  “What the hell is in that spice stuff?  Tear gas?”

“Mustard, celery seed,
garlic, bay leaves.  Several varieties of pepper.”

“No kidding.”

When she chuckled, he turned around.  “You’ve got a mean streak, Red.”

“Bet your ass.”

Mason strolled into the kitchen.  “Hello, Sarah.  Don’t mind me.  Just wanted to let you know, Tucker, that… what happened to your eyes?”

“I was feeling sentimental.”

“Are those prawns?”  He looked with interest toward the cutting board sitting in a prominent spot on the counter. 

“No,” Tucker patently lied.

“I love prawns.”

“Go buy some.
I had to knife fight these.  They’re mine.”

“Wait.”  Mason shoved his hands into the pockets of his
pants. 
“You’re
cooking?”

“You
were just about to tell me that you were leaving.”

“Right.” He
sent Tucker a smirk, then turned toward Sarah.  “Apparently there’s some sort of activity in the park this evening –”

“Shagging.”

His open mouth snapped closed.  “I’m sorry?”

“There’s a beach music festival,” she told him.  “
And people usually end up shagging in the park.  I thought I should warn you, since someone will probably cajole you into joining in.”

Mason blinked.  Then blinked again.
 

“
Right.  Anyway,” his friend finally said, with a slightly wary glance at Sarah.  “I should be out for a number of hours.  Enjoy your… meal.”

When he’d gone, Sarah slid her gaze back toward Tucker.
  “How disappointed do you think he’ll be when he discovers that shagging is a local dance and not an open air orgy?”

“See?” Tucker pointed
with the fork.  “Mean streak.”

“How are
those potatoes?”

“Defiant.”

“We’ll give them another ten minutes.”

Tucker sat the fork aside, crossed his feet as he leaned against the counter.  “What was up with that kid today?  The little blond one
that took the other kids’ cookies.”

“Henry?  Henry is the
product of parental overindulgence.”

“He’s a brat.”

“That too.  You know.”  She ran her hand over his table, an eight foot expanse of faux wood Formica topping an abstract arrangement of chrome.  “This may be the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“
Fits the kitchen for right now.  And anyway, my ex designed it.”

“Well.”  She sipped her wine.  “There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Meaning the table.  Or me?”

“Take your pick.”

Tucker figured this was the opening she hadn’t allowed him since that morning.  “I know you think you saw –”

“Victoria’s bare breasts. 
Shining big and white as twin moons through your bathroom window.”

“Okay.”  He nodded
, ruthlessly squelched another inappropriate urge to laugh.  “She got a little wet when that storm blew in.  Her shirt was one of those silk deals, so she asked if she could use the bathroom to dry off.  I don’t have towels in the half bath down here yet, so I offered mine.”

“That’s your story?”

“That’s the truth.”

“Convenient.”

Tucker wasn’t used to explaining himself, but b
ecause he thought he understood, at least a little, he tamped down on the insult that wanted to rise.  “Come on, Sarah.  You’re smarter than that.  She must have yanked the sheet I had covering the window loose, banking on the fact that since you’d been skulking around in my damn bushes, that you might be taking an interest in what was going on.  She probably hoped you’d see her, do exactly what you did.”

He could see that one hit home.  But she wasn’t
yet ready to absolve him. “Why was she at your house?”

“I bumped
into her at the lumber yard when I was buying the wood for the swing.  She asked me what I was building, told me she could order some outdoor fabric and have a cover made.  I guess she does that kind of thing through her shop.  I said sure, whatever.  Next thing I know, she shows up to measure.”