Pretty Shameless, page 9
part #2 of Deputy Laney Briggs Series
“Oh, God no. Have you been sneaking into Dad’s liquor cabinet again?” I asked, appalled at the overzealous woman.
She flapped her pale, sun-splotched arms in my face. “Ain’t a mother allowed to be happy for her daughter?”
The tone had sounded more patronizing to me. I had a sinking feeling that the wheels had been set in motion for this lunch date ages ago. My mother and I were used to battling it out. Normally we both came to a draw, but being older now and deciding I needed to outlive the woman I bit my tongue; I knew I’d never come out on top where she was concerned.
I pulled a tight smile and took the damn cake. “I want a corner piece.”
She chucked me on the chin. “That’s my girl. Taking it like a true Briggs.”
After I dropped the cake on the table, I plopped down in a seat smack-dab across from the beer cooler. I was in a mood, and watching my father rooting around the inside of the cooler without even having the decency to offer me up a cold one made me want to stick a needle in my eye.
The beer cracked, I heard it fizz, and then he took a sip.
“You’re in for a treat, Laney,” he said, wiping the remains of beer froth from his chin. “Ruth here has invited Rowdy over for lunch.”
In moments like these I had adapted a self-coping mechanism: beer. And the only one within reach was Dad’s. I snatched the beer out of his hand and chugged back half the can in one quick gulp. Somebody just shoot me now. Rowdy was the only tattoo artist in town—and I use the word “artist” very loosely. Rowdy wasn’t much of a straight shooter in life, or with a tattoo gun. And it was pretty awkward that he’d branded my bare ass with Gunner’s name when I was eighteen. Apparently my mother had never received the memo that Rowdy had already spent enough time with his face in my butt crack that in different circumstances would constitute him having gotten to second base. This was going to be one grueling lunch date.
I slammed the empty beer can on the table. “Oh! Come on, Mom. Rowdy?” I barked through a hiccup. “That’s the best you could scrounge up?”
A pair of beady eyes settled on me. It was crazy how still at my age the woman could cause me to mess my pants. I squared my shoulders and stepped into the ring, giving her my best go-to-hell look, but it didn’t phase her one bit. She had the nerves of a professional bull rider.
Her mouth pinched together. “Snap out of it, young lady. At your age, he’s the best I could find that’s still single, unless you don’t mind going after a married man.” Her eyes grew narrow as she leaned in close to me. “And if that’s the case, I know of a few shaky marriages at church.”
“Mom! Gunner and I aren’t broken up.”
“Y’all never stick. And, hon, you can’t hold a torch for that asshole your whole damn life!”
Okay, first round went to the crazy woman perched at the head of the table. I slumped down in my chair and pitied the soul that crossed that bitch’s path. Damn, I was sweating more than a choirboy in a porn shop in anticipation of our dinner guest. Finally, my father decided to join in on the power struggle.
“Now, Laney,” he said, nursing another beer, “don’t listen to anything she says.” He cut his eyes over at my mother’s sourpuss face. “If you apologize to Gunner, and I mean really say you’re sorry, I’m sure he’ll take you back.”
I swear my eyes almost popped out and landed on the table.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I gave my father a questioning look. “We aren’t on the outs. He’s just been working a case out in El Paso, well up until yesterday that is.”
“Well, you musta done something to make him think somewhere else, or somebody else, would be better.” My dad cracked the tab on another beer, then took a long draw before finishing his train of thought. “I mean, the boy was pretty torn up on the phone a couple of minutes ago when we chatted.”
If Gunner knew better, he’d stay clear of our bed tonight, because I was gonna strangle him. Talking to my dad? Shit, was the man brazen.
“Floyd, butt out,” my mother scolded him. “No one cares about your opinion.”
“I pay the bills around here and can say whatever I damn well please,” he growled, then slapped his hands down on the tabletop, sloshing beer all over the white lace tablecloth. My mother let out a bitter laugh.
“Yeah”—she tossed her head back—“you and worker’s comp.”
I might be going out on a limb here, but it looked like there was trouble in paradise. My father sat back down, all the while never letting his eyes drift from my mother’s squished-up face. He muttered, “We all have our reasons,” then quietly retreated to his beer.
There was no sugarcoating it. My father felt he’d been dealt the short end of the stick by getting strapped with a daughter. And not only did he see Gunner as the son he never had, but he knew there was no chance in hell he would’ve ever had a son like Gunner.
“So have you found that half-wit cousin of yours yet?” my mother asked while taking a sip of her iced tea. “I heard he’s been painting the town red with Redbud.”
Again Danny Redbud’s party was being dragged into the thick of things. What the hell was so fucking special about that damn barbecue? Even though now, after having my little chat with Wyatt, I knew about Redbud’s extracurricular sexcapades, I still couldn’t understand why all the folks in town were hung up on some damn rumors swirling around one of his numerous city fund-raiser barbecues. All the murders and kinky sex had happened in Lubbock, not in Pistol Rock. Just another lead I’d need to follow up on after I secured Wyatt a one-way ticket out of jail.
I licked my lips. “I checked for him at Locked and Loaded. We sort of hit a bump in the road.” Personally I wasn’t ready to spill my guts to mommy dearest. Not like her finding out that Wyatt was holed up in a Lubbock jail would help anyone involved now.
My mother raised an eyebrow. “And who would this ‘we’ be referring to?”
Here’s my chance to really stick it to her. “Me and Gunner.”
That caused her to erupt into a series of coughs and hacks.
“You filled Gunner in on Wyatt’s predicament?”
“Really, Mother, what Wyatt did isn’t any secret. And Gunner kind of already knew about Wyatt’s ‘little predicament.’”
She leaned over the table so as to make sure our eyes met and lowered her voice to barely a whisper. “What the hell was Gunner Wilson doing at Locked and Loaded with you?”
My lips began to slowly shape into a wicked, malicious smile. It was funny how I had expected this lunch was going to be something terribly awful, but there I was actually starting to enjoy myself.
“Do you really want me to answer that, Mom?” I said, standing up from the table.
“You have no shame,” she cried in her quaky, outraged voice, pointing at me with her cigarette in her trembling hand.
“I know. You must be so ashamed of me,” I replied and then snatched a chicken wing from the platter on the table.
“Thanks for lunch, Mom.”
“What are you doing? Are you leaving?”
“I’m not sticking around for this,” I said as I walked out of the kitchen.
I was pushing open the front door when I heard my mother’s voice squawk, derailing my escape. “Laney, you call me if you hear anything about Wyatt.”
“Will do,” I shouted back. Although she’d probably get a line from Detective Cavanaugh first. Then, before I beat feet to the cruiser, I asked about the one thing that’d been nagging me since I left county lockup. “Wyatt only has Granddad’s pocketknife, right? I mean, he didn’t collect them or anything.”
She pulled a cigarette from the pack in her lap and plopped it between her lips. A lighter flicked, and the cigarette began to bob as she spoke, “How the hell should I know. Not like I kept track of everything my old man dibbed out to all the grandkids before he croaked.”
Thanks, I mouthed and stepped outside.
Chapter Eight
I left my parent’s house and headed across town, completely wiped out from dealing with their craziness. The sheriff’s station crept above the horizon a little after one, and as soon as I walked through the door, I fell into the seat behind my desk and chucked my straw cowboy hat on top of some files in dire need of attention. Elroy had left a Post-it note stuck to my computer screen detailing his whereabouts. He’d been called out to Bristol Mills, the local whorehouse, by Kenny Perkins. Perkins owned the joint, which supplied whores to the mayor and other high officials in town—a place I was determined to shut down when I got my hands on the right evidence—but from Elroy’s chicken scratch it seemed one of Kenny’s girls had punched him in the face. And Kenny being a low-down scumbag filed assault charges, making Elroy have to head out there and do a write up. The past hour I’d spent at my parents was looking peachier by the minute. No way in hell did I want to be the deputy on call talking down Kenny’s boney ass. Done that shit before. And it ain’t pleasant.
Shuffling through the paperwork on my desk, I tried to piece together a time line of events where my cousin was concerned. Not much evidence. Mostly, we’d dug up the news that Wyatt skipped bail, but that was public info; other than that, I’d nailed down Wyatt’s location…the Lubbock county jail. Gunner had to know more than he was telling. How could the Rangers not have a tag on my dipshit cousin? Somehow this whole damn case went from a fucking family embarrassment to murder charges. Eventually I’d hunt down the trail leading to my guy. I just needed to put a finger on who was pulling the strings. And damn, did I hope it was sooner than later.
When I looked up to check the time, three hours had passed since I’d secluded myself inside the station. Not in any immediate hurry to hightail it home, I clocked out and went in search of a drink and some action at the local bar. It sure beat spending an evening corralled with a pissed-off Texas Ranger.
It was a little past five when I stepped outside and walked to Rusty’s Saloon. Street lamps loomed across the two-lane stretch of blacktop in front of the local watering hole, a Depression-era, two-story brick building butted up right next to the sheriff’s station. Most mornings, Rusty Weir, owner and all-around Redneck Renaissance man, could be seen with a trash bag in tow, picking up empty bottles off the sidewalk, the leftovers of a night well spent. I glanced at my cruiser parked across the street, and headed to the bar, feeling a little itchy to get inside. All I intended to do was have Rusty hit me with the hard stuff until I felt twice as sexy and half as broke. Still, I found myself scanning the parking lot. It seemed that everyone and their dog had been itching for a good time, but as it was, the good Lord must have been smiling down on me. I could check one silver Ford pickup and one black Yukon off the list of barflies.
I wrenched open the bar door and immediately was slammed hard in the face by the musty stench of stale beer and dried cigarette butts.
“Hey there, Laney,” Rusty warmly greeted me.
I waved back. “Hey, Rusty.”
“How’s things going?”
“Going good. And you.”
“Livin’ the dream.”
Walking on in, I did a quick scan. All twelve bar stools were occupied, and parked at the rear of the long wraparound bar was, of all the damn people I didn’t want to see, one frustrated-looking boyfriend wearing a black cowboy hat. There wasn’t enough tequila in Mexico to get me through this night. He tipped his hat at me as his eyes slid up and down my body. Then he shook his head in disapproval. I watched in horror as the contours of his face hardened while he took in long, drawn-out swigs of a Lone Star before slamming the glass bottle down on the bar top. That scowl alone made me want to crawl under a rock. Then he abruptly turned around and ordered another beer.
As I weaved my way up to the bar through the dense fog, I could sense eyes burning a hole through my denim jeans. I looked over my shoulder, and crap! There, propped against the pool table, was Luke Wagner and a couple of his ranch buddies. He must’ve ridden in with one of them. It was safe to assume that by now Gunner had pieced together the lie I’d told him about my date for the evening. A slow, wicked grin slipped across Luke’s tan face as he laid the pool stick on the table. I knew that look. It’d been used on women statewide. He threw me a knee-weakening wink, and all I could do was smile and wave. Thankfully, one of his buddies hollered at him, and his attention quickly diverted back to the game.
I stopped at the edge of the bar and, yeah I’m glutton for punishment, immediately I found myself ogling Gunner nursing a beer. He’d propped a boot upon the bar kick rail, straining the tight jeans along his toned thighs. And, dadgummit, my gaze shot straight toward that lick-a-licious ass. I inhaled sharply and scoped out the rest of the bar, coming to the sorry-ass conclusion that the stool next to Gunner, which was now empty, happened to be the only vacant spot. So I made the best of my situation and moseyed over and sat down. There would be no pussyfooting. I was on a mission, a mission that would end in me getting drunk as a skunk. As I was signaling Rusty, a firm hand started to pat my thigh. I flicked the hand away. This was going to be one messy night.
“You look like you’re ready to stir up some trouble tonight,” Gunner said. He had his bullheaded-cowboy face on.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Those jeans you’ve got on are driving me crazy.” He looked me in the eye as he took a sip of beer. “Did you wear those for your date?”
That made me shuck him in the arm. “Shut up.”
I attempted again to wave down Rusty, but he was in the middle of one of his fishing stories at the other end of the bar.
“Let me guess,” he said, amused. “You lied about your date with Luke because you’re still pissed.”
“Dang, aren’t we observant.”
Gunner gave the pool table an appraising look, the hard lines of his face hidden beneath the brim of his hat.
“Well, if you’re still wanting a date for the evening, it might not be too late,” he said, looking over at Luke and his buds taking a round of shots and ending the frat-boy antics with a chest-slamming contest. “He just can’t seem to take his eyes off you.”
It’s the simple things in life that have always brought me joy, which explains why I found such great pleasure just thinking about ramming a boot into the arrogant man’s nut sac. Tonight, though, I chose to be the mature one and spun around on my stool. If Gunner wanted to act like an ass, well he could be an ass by himself. But he was just like fire ants in the front yard. No matter how hard you try to get rid of them, they just keep crawling back. His finger latched onto my belt loop, and he gave my jeans a teasing little tug before whirling me back around into the danger zone.
Fortunately, Rusty had wrapped up his fishing story and had now appeared behind the bar in front of us, saving me from having to hammer another nail in Gunner’s coffin. Rusty rolled up the sleeves of his flannel button-up and leaned in, his gray eyes scrutinizing both our faces.
“Laney, you look like you could use a drink,” he said, the sound of his moonshine-sauced voice, soothing and calm, a familiarity I’d grown fond of over the years.
I rolled my eyes at Gunner, then directed my attention to getting my hands on a cold one.
“A Shiner”—I plastered on a fake smile—“and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Gunner slapped a credit card down on the bar. “Put it on my tab and keep it open,” he told Rusty.
I tossed a ten on the bar top. “I can buy my own drinks.”
“Please, let me buy,” Gunner said, pushing the wadded-up bill back in my hand. “It’s the least I can do at this point.”
I looked at his pouty brown eyes and figured what the hell. “Okay. You can buy me a beer.”
“Hot damn, I just bought the hottest girl in the bar a drink,” he said, pulling out his phone. “I’ve gotta tweet this.”
“You’re such an idiot, Gunner.”
“What? I’m excited,” he said with that cool, slick smile on his face.
“And why are you so excited?” I asked, waiting for the snarky response that usually came along with that smile.
“Darling, a man buys a cute girl a drink at the start of the evening so he can give her a tour of the backseat at the end of it.”
Gulping, I pulled a tight smile and countered, “Well, you must be used to some cheap tricks.”
He threw his head back laughing, the mischievous glint in his eyes a promising dare. I’d seen that look before and it always got me to do the reverse cowgirl. Trying to save face, I gave him my best bitchy stare. It didn’t faze him. He was still hanging onto that widemouthed grin when Rusty twisted the caps on two Shiners.
“Come on, Laney.” Rusty actually cracked a smile—now there was a historical moment in Pistol Rock. “Give old Gunner a break.” He slid a beer in my hand. “Don’t you think the man’s suffered enough?”
It was frustrating and amazing how quickly the townsfolk had forgiven my bad-seed Texas Ranger. What did he have to do to make somebody other than me annoyed at him?
“See”—Gunner shrugged—“everyone thinks you’re being hardheaded.”
“You really need to take a good look in the mirror sometime.”
He smiled some more. “Let’s go find ourselves a table,” he said. “There’s some things we need to get straightened out.”
He took our beers off the bar and motioned to a table butted up against the back wall near the bathrooms. Then his arm snaked around my waist. Definitely the alcohol was already talking, because that was a pretty brazen move. I pushed back from his side, not getting that far since his arm was wrapped around my waist like the Jaws of Life. Okay, it was pointless putting up a fight. He was dead-set on marking his territory. The problem was I wasn’t too fond of placing myself in the same category as a fire hydrant.
I wiggled out of his clutches and sidestepped the table, waiting impatiently as Gunner pulled out a chair. Even though we were treading through choppy waters, he still knew how to treat a lady when he wanted to try. Our eyes clicked into an old brokenhearted county-song gaze. He slipped me a sad smile that barely reached his eyes, then rounded the table, taking a seat across the way. I pulled my beer to my lips and took a drink. Maddening how easily I buckled to his wishes.
