Pretty Instinct (8 page)

“We’ll get some more, Bubs, I promise,” I croak out in an unattractive morning voice. “And good morning to you too.”

He bounds over, grabbing my hand to drag me from the warmth of my bed. “Cannon and I are making breakfast!”

Hurriedly checking my wardrobe for any possible malfunctions, I run frantic fingers through my hair and subtly dig the gunk from my eyes. “I smell that. Whatcha guys making?”

“Cannon, what are we making?” he asks, causing me to snicker.

Cannon turns to us, grin in place, from his post at the small range. Where I’m sure I look like Helga the Undead, Cannon looks better than any breakfast, his hair damp, making it appear almost black, barefoot and wearing only jeans…
again
. He owns shirts, I know he does, I’ve seen him actually wear them, so what the hell is with the constant bare chest?

“What
are
we making, Conner? You know.”

My spine stiffens, hands instantly balling into fists. What’s his game, teasing Bubs? I open my mouth to ask him exactly that when Conner snaps his fingers. “Breakfast sandwiches!”

Cannon winks. “There ya have it!”

My head flicks back and forth between the two of them, jaw slack and brain melting circuits trying to comprehend what just happened.

“Anybody awake?” Bruce calls from outside, followed by a bang on the door. He refuses to sleep on the bus, always getting a hotel room. Handy, since we’re maxed out on beds.

Cannon lets him in, then heads straight back to the sizzling pan. “Morning, Bruce, you’re just in time for breakfast.”

“None for me, thanks,” he pats his belly, “I had the buffet at the hotel.” He catches my eyes and his own narrow. “What’s the matter with you, girl? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” I dismiss it. “I’m gonna go freshen up. Boys, get up if you want food!” I call, reaching up to rouse them both as I walk past their beds to the bathroom. I have no idea what time they got in, but I know they’re never too tired to miss out on food.

Shut in the bathroom, I dare a glance in the mirror. Precisely as I feared—Morning from the Crypt. I wonder if my uncle was referring to all this pageantry or if my face bore shock at Cannon and Conner’s interaction? And what the hell was with that guy? Swaggering in all sexy-like, whispered questions across pillows, cooking, challenging Conner productively, kindly? Too big for his own britches, that’s what Cannon is. You manage your way through one set and never wear a fucking shirt and all of a sudden you’re omnipotent?

By the time I’ve brushed my teeth, dug the rats out of my hair, and washed my face, I’m still no closer to contentment. It’s strange. I’m not sure if I’m impressed, repressed, or just plain jealous. I’d like to think no one deals with Conner better than me, and yet…I’ve become complacent because it’s easier to answer his questions than force him to think on things himself. It makes me feel selfish because the shortcut saves time for me; I’m ashamed of myself and a little resentful that it took Cannon mere hours to put me in check.

Well, a shit sister or not, I can’t hang out in the 2 x 2 bathroom all day, so I lift my head, fortify the practiced mask I usually wear, and head back out to the people I love most in the whole world and one newcomer who intrigues me more so than anything, ever.

True to their species…they’re having a food fight.

I should probably be mad, the thought of clean-up exhausting me already, but it’s impossible. Conner is downright squealing, Jarrett is ducking under the table, bumping his head, and Rhett—
Rhett is laughing
!

I watch in silence, my heart bursting at the seams, for what feels like minutes. Cannon’s the first to notice me. His eyes enlarge guiltily as they connect with mine. “Busted,” he mumbles out the side of his mouth. “Cease fire, I repeat, cease fire.”

The other four culprits come out from under tables, attempt to wipe their faces, and slowly turn to find me, all wearing smug grins of culpability.

“Jarrett started it!” Conner points, folding first.

“Damn, Con,” he pinches him on the arm, “way to rat me out. She hadn’t even asked yet!”

A blob of ketchup drips off Rhett’s chin, pieces of egg fall from Conner’s hair, and my uncle is licking jelly off his hand.

This is why I do it, Mr. Soul-Searching Questions.

At the thought, I steal a peek at Cannon, the foreigner who is rapidly finding his way into the rhythm of the band, our family, amazingly aware and filling gaps I, for one, hadn’t realized existed. An unnamable twinkle in his focused gaze back at me says he knows exactly what just flashed through my mind.

It’s profound, a little eerie, and probably more my own wishful thinking than actual, but I swear I feel the ease of a “connection” creep up my body in a comforting heat.

***

With everyone pitching in, we’re able to get the bus back to pre-explosion condition in no time, leaving the rest of the afternoon wide open.

“We could practice some more,” Cannon offers buoyantly, his fingers twitching. I think it’s legit how enthusiastic he is to master his role in the band, seemingly dedicated already, but Rhett…not so much.

“Not today,” Rhett grumbles on his way back to bed, wiping the last bits of ketchup from his face. “I’m sleeping. It’s the exact same song list anyway. I think all of you should go explore the city and leave me in peace and quiet.”

“That is a
great
idea!” Conner takes off running to the back, getting his shoes, I’m sure.

“Well, I guess that settles that.” I get up, throwing a scowl in Rhett’s direction. “Looks like we’re going out, guys. Gimme ten to get ready.”

“Ready!” Conner appears, proudly holding up his wrist, armed with the Bubcuff.

“I need a second to get ready, Bubs, k?”

“I have a better idea,” my uncle cuts in. “I’ll take Conner with me, see if we can’t find some new fish somewhere. The rest of you go have some fun.”

“I am so down with that plan.” Jarrett grins, rubbing his hands together. “Lead me to the tables!”

Groaning, I roll my eyes, not at all interested in gambling the afternoon away, and a tad apprehensive about Conner out and about in Vegas without me. “That’s okay, Uncle Bruce. I can take Conner to a show or something,” I offer casually as I pull out something to wear.

“I’m going to get fish with Uncle Bruce, Bethy. Okay, bye!” Conner calls out, already pushing our dear uncle out the door.

Alrighty then, no show.

I dart after them, yelling out the door. “I’ll have my phone on me! Stay right with him, Conner! Call me if you need anything!”

My uncle waves back with his hand like “yeah, yeah” and I watch them hail a cab, sending up a silent prayer that everything goes well
and
they find a fish store.

“They’ll be fine, Mama Bear.” Jarrett tugs on my shoulder. “Come on, let’s live a little!”

I’m not sure I know how to do that, and I’m positive I don’t want to be initiated Jarrett-style. “Cannon, anything you feel like doing?” I ask, crossing my fingers that he has something other than gambling and showgirls on his mind. “Do you need to get stuff? Maybe a phone?”

He glances between Jarrett and me, indecision riddling his face. I can smell the gears grinding. He can’t decide whether to say yes to my idea and spoil Jarrett’s fun, stomping all over “Pledge of the Penises,” or not.

“Why don’t we head out and play it by ear?” he suggests.
Ah, very nicely done, Switzerland.

Fine by me. I have no idea if he has a toothbrush or if his family has issued an APB, but I tried. My deed here is done. If he’s not worried about it, neither am I. Except for the toothbrush part, which actually does concern me because the thought of him having busted ass breath inhibits my fantasies of him giving me mouth to mouth.

“Don’t you, uh, need a toothbrush? Deodorant?” I shuffle back to my pile of clothes, acting to head into the bathroom to change, but really barely moving, ears perked up waiting for the answer.

“Had both in my bag, thankfully.”

My dreams are safe. And sanitary.

“Okay then.” I shrug and retreat to change.

“Good thing, yo,” I hear Jarrett say through the door, “I can’t have my wingman funking up the place!”

“You’re all funking up the place! Get the hell out!” Rhett barks. He’s a pitiful drinker, always has been, completely unable to man a hangover.

We all scurry around like frightened mice, trying not to make a peep, escaping the bus as fast as possible. And not even a half hour later, I find myself staring blankly, bored, at a life sucking slot machine.

How do people sit for hours at these things? Slot machines have to be the most mind-numbing, monotonous hunks of junk ever invented. It’s probably more exciting if you take bigger risks than milking a twenty in a penny machine, but I’ve had all the excitement one girl can stand.

“Easy there, daredevil.” Cannon’s silky whisper fanning my ear gives new meaning to excitement. “You’re gonna set off all the bells and whistles if you’re not careful. Sixteen cents a push, damn.”

“I’m holding my own.” I turn my head ever so slightly back to him. He was telling the truth earlier—he definitely has hygiene products with him—he’s mere inches from me and all I smell is fresh man.

“
That
, I’d bet on every time.” He winks, leaning over me and pushing the max bet button before I can stop him.

“Hey!” I look from the row of half-naked ladies to him then back again. “You lucky thing, you won! I’m up eleven dollars now. Woo hoo, make it rain!” I holler, ready for the waterfall of pennies…to
not
rain down in the tray! “Of course I get the broken one! What the hell?”

“Pay no attention to the slip of paper coming out,” his smart ass chuckles behind me, pointing to the anticlimactic dispensing of my fortune.

“Oh, yay!” I grab the slip in my hot little hands. “Let’s go cash out. I’ll split it with ya. And where’s Jarrett?” I glance around. “I’m over this place.”

Cannon rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to hide the smirk his dancing eyes share freely. “Um, he’ll meet us back at the bus later. He found alternate entertainment.”

“The waitress or the dealer?” Each girl was young, cute, and salivating over both the guys when I’d left them at the blackjack tables earlier.

“Actually, a last minute entry. Gal who took the seat beside him. I’d make a joke about third base, but that’d be too easy.” He laughs, ushering me to the cashier counter with his hand at my elbow.

I flinch at his touch and pull away from it. There are four people, only, allowed to put their hands on me, and he’s not one of them. He may do a lot more than graze my elbow in my dreams, but he’s far from earned even that inadvertent, small gesture in real life.

“I don’t get it. Third base?” I ask, breaking the palpable uneasiness.

“The seat at the end of the blackjack table is nicknamed third base. If that person doesn’t know what they’re doing, the whole table’s screwed. So I thought…third base was her seat, third base is probably where Jarrett’s at with her right now?” He lifts the left, playful brow. “Never mind, bad joke.”

“No, I get it now, good one,” I placate him with a small smile. “Okay,” I hand my ticket to the cashier then angle my body to his, “where to now?”

One hand goes to rub the back of his neck and his eyes shift down to the hideous casino carpet. “W-well,” he stammers.

I
should
make him stew in his own pot of bro-code, but he won me eleven dollars, so I’m feeling generous. “You want to go to the store now, don’t you?”

His head pops up, timid smile gracing full lips. “If you don’t mind?”

“If I minded, I wouldn’t have suggested it.
In front of Jarrett
.” I smirk at him condescendingly. “Chickenshit.”

“I know.” He puts up both hands in surrender. “I’m a pussy, but I’m a pussy who’d like my own razor, and unless we’re stopping at a laundromat soon, some skivvies and socks as well.”

“Thank you.” I take my cash and shove it in my pocket. “You’ll have to enlighten me. What the hell’s a skivvy?”

He holds the door open as we enter daylight, the sun and fresh air invigorating after my stint in casino hell. Those places have dim lighting and no clocks for a reason. The masterminds want you to forget you’re wasting away your day and life savings inside their clutches.
And
they eliminated the only fun part, the money pouring out before your very eyes? I wonder if Wayne Newton knows about this!

I wonder why I know who Wayne Newton is…

“There’s one!” He grabs my hand, my short legs barely able to keep up with his hustle to the empty taxi, his hurried grip so taut that I can’t pull away when I try.

“One what? A skivvy?” I ask, looking around, for what I still don’t know.

“No,” he snorts, “a cab, come on.”

I am coming on, bossy! You’re dragging me to on.

“Where to?” the driver asks us.

“If you happen to know what a skivvy is,” I gleam at Cannon from the corner of my eye, “someplace to buy one, please.”

“Smartass.” He bumps my knee with his own; again, I notice, but don’t flinch outright this time. “Target, Walmart, whatever’s closest.”

“Tell me already! What the hell is it?”

“Skivvies?” He stares at me questioningly. “You know, it’s another word for underwear.”

“No,” my head shakes, “no, it’s not.”

Bent over, he laughs like nobody’s listening, deep, sexy and with his whole body. If there was an instrument that made such a glorious sound, I’d learn to play it immediately. “Oh, Lizzie, I wish I could take credit for such a great word.” He wipes his eyes, shoulders still jostling with residual laughter. “How have you never heard it?”

“Because my people speak English?” I question with a clever grin, hoping dearly that it overshadows what I’m really feeling inside right now. Either I’m delirious from endorphins and all the damn touching, or he just called me
Lizzie
.

With all the variations of my name available—Liz or Mama Bear from the boys, Bethy via Conner or my mom, even my father and his
Elizabeth
—never has it been Lizzie.