Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (18 page)

Patsy handed me a beer and the three of us moved to the grassy slope beyond the water’s edge. Clive couldn’t stop talking. Between giggles, Patsy and I acted intrigued at his analysis of the distorted psychedelic blues roots of heavy metal.

A light blinked across the river signaling an anchored boat in the distance. Patsy asked, “Do you think Axel Rose would still look hot in spandex if he was doing step-aerobics?”

“Patsy,” Clive said. “Axel Rose doesn’t wear spandex, he wears leather.”

She closed her eyes. “He’d look hot just marching up and down.”

A pesky irritation that started behind my knees brought me to my feet. “I bet he’d elevate his step-platform to show off his ass,” I said, swatting at my legs, bare ankles and the night air.

“I’ve never seen hooch have that effect,” Clive said.

“I’m being eaten alive, and I have a soggy bottom.”

“Raz, calm down, smoking weed doesn’t have any bladder control side effects. You were sitting on wet ground.”

“Maybe you got chiggers,” Clive said.

“Chigger? I’m not dancing the chigger. I’m busy killing what’s biting me.”

Patsy went all serious. “If you have em,’ you’ll need to use medicinal soap to remove them, and just to be safe, wash your clothes.”

“Preparation H,” Clive said. “It’s the only way to stop the itch.”

“That’s disgusting.” I suspected mosquito bites and guessed the chigger scare was a bunch of southern hooey, but neither one of them cracked a smile that I could see. I’d seen these two bump knees and share flirty touches when passing the lighter. If they wanted to be alone, their tactic had worked.

Weaving through the back garden path, I brushed against grassy mounds of sea oats and bumped into another McCoy. “Mitch.”

“Hey you, I was just comin’ to see what trouble y’all are causin,” he teased in his throaty accent.

“I have a potentially fatal case of chigger bites, and a soggy bottom.”

“Now that sounds serious. I’ve seen many a case of chiggers, even experienced the little devils myself. Those bites require immediate, expert attention.”

Mitch was a natural flirt, very cute and still driving with a permit. A combination of wine coolers and “local stuff,” weakened my normally sensible judgment, and I flirted back. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Mitch played along. “Go on, let’s hear it.”

“If you get two cold drinks, I’ll address my chigger situation, get into a dry pair of pants, and meet you on the porch in five minutes to hear your medical advice.” 

He held the back door for me. “Darlin’,” he said, “you have yourself a bargain.”

The antique cottage kitchen table was an overflow of elbows. Rolling dice pinged across the planked pecan slats, and when they stopped rolling, a ricochet of hoots and heckles erupted, shouting variations of the words, “Drink up.”

Mitch and I parted ways. Before I went upstairs, a threesome huddled against the kitchen sink caught my attention. Macy, Bridget, and Nash stood in a tight circle, and I poked my head between shoulders to see what they were doing.

“I’ll give you one,” Nash told Macy, “as long as you don’t tell Katie Lee.” Opening his hand, he held a fistful of assorted pills. “Do, you want a blue, pink or white one?”

She poked at them in his palm and asked, “Which is the best?”

I stepped into the circle. “Macy, you don’t know what he’s giving you?”

Nash’s voice sank into a slippery whisper, “They’ll just give her a nice buzzin’ feeling is all.”

“What are they?” Bridget asked. 

Checking behind his back, Nash lowered his voice. “The blue is Mr. Happy, the pink is Ms. Silly, and the white is I-can’t-remember-what-happened.”

Before Bridget or I could protest, Macy said, “I’ll try Mr. Happy,” and slipped the blue pill into her mouth, using saliva as a wash.

“You realize you could die tonight,” I said, wondering if I should give her the Heimlich before Mr. Happy dissolved.

Nash pushed the pills back in his pocket. “She’s not gonna die.”

From behind, Katie Lee clutched Macy’s wrist and gently pulled her out of the group. “Stewart told me, he thinks you’re a doll.”

“I want you to tell me exactly what he said,” Macy instructed Katie Lee, and the two moved away to privately discuss Stewart Hayes.

Bridget followed them with her eyes, and her face wore an unsettled grimace. I scratched behind my knees thinking I’d missed something. Maybe she’d wanted Mr. Happy for herself, which reminded me of Mitch. “Gotta get out of these pants,” I blurted.

“Sounds promising,” Nash mouthed.

Moving away from the sink, I heard Bridget tell him, “I guess it’s just you and me.”

BESIDES A BOTTLE OF MIDOL and some bandages, the medicine cabinet in the upstairs hallway was as worthless as Geraldo Rivera in Al Capone’s vault. Desperate for something to stop the itch, I moved into the master bath and locked the door behind me. One of the light bulbs above the vanity burned out when I flicked the switch. Under the soft glow of the remaining two, I dropped my pants. Swollen red bumps mapped my continental divide. Fleshy sensitive places; under my knees, on my hipbone and just above the crack of Gibraltar had been ravished. I held an antibiotic cream in my right hand and Preparation H in my left. Deciding which to use, I heard the master bedroom door shut, and the click of the lock.

At first I couldn’t hear voices, only party noise pulsing from the first floor and I wondered if I’d been mistaken. Pressing my ear to the door seam, I heard a zipper open and the clank of a belt buckle.
Crap, someone was fooling around in the Brown’s bed.
Shuffling to the toilet, I lowered the lid and took a seat. One-word exclamations and an impressive orchestra of moans complemented the bang of the headboard.
I couldn’t exactly sneak out without being spotted, could I?
My only choice was to wait this one out. Wondering how long they’d be, I checked my watch and busied myself by rubbing both creams on my bites.

Six minutes passed before silence. I hoped there wouldn’t be an encore. In my head I chanted,
leave, leave, leave
. My concentration must have been off. Someone jiggled the door handle.

“It’s stuck,” said a voice I recognized.

“Duh,” I mouthed from inside the locked door.

“I know this house,” Nash said. “The locks are an easy pick with my pen knife.”

“Maybe someone is in there?” the female voice said.

“Someone probably locked themselves out.”

Shit, shit, shit.
If Nash found me, I’d be labeled as the pervy-listen-in-er, and I panicked, looking for a place to hide. There was the shower, but that was a stupid idea. Everyone looks in the shower. I checked the cabinets under the sink, but there was no room between the towels and toiletries. My options were climbing out the window onto the roof or hiding in the oversized wicker laundry hamper. Counting on the party to drown out any noises I made, I removed three pairs of Mrs. Brown’s khakis, her button down Liz Claiborne, towels, and Mr. Brown’s black undershirt and matching bikini’s.

In the basket, I wore the soiled clothes and the lid like a floppy summer hat. The bathroom latch clicked, and the female voice said, “So you think I could have a territory and get a commission.”

I held my breath.

“Can’t make guarantees. I’ll need to talk to the boss.”

In a sultry purr, Bridget said, “You know I’ll make it worth it for you. It’ll be our secret.”

The conversation I’d overhead doused my happy buzzed state. As the sinks ran and the toilet flushed, I waited in the basket until I was positive they’d both left. The blood in my feet and in my ass had stopped circulating, those bits had gone numb. Cracking the lid open, I could see the Brown’s rumpled comforter beyond the bathroom door. As I walked into the bedroom, voices from the staircase startled me, so I dropped to my knees. Intending to shimmy under the bed, something hard and square lodged into my knee. I picked up a silver butane lighter and ran my fingers over an engraving, NW. What an ass.

Resting at the foot of the Brown’s bed, I wondered if there were any studies linking local stuff to hearing distortion? I wanted to be wrong about what I’d overheard.

A glint of light from the hallway streaked across the king size bed, and a gold loop earring stuck out from a pillow. I picked up the snakehead clasp. Katie Lee only wore silver jewelry. Bridget and Katie Lee were pals. Nash hooked up with Bridget. Katie Lee adored Nash. I didn’t like killing bugs, but given a choice I’d squash one of the hard shelled palmetto bugs we found in our dorm, under my toes, before breaking Katie Lee’s heart.

I DIDN’T WANT TO BE PRIVY to any other intimate information, so I rushed to change my pants. Walking down the stairs, I took a deep breath and pondered when I should tell Katie Lee. Now or when the party ended?

Making a scene wasn’t my style but I didn’t know if I could stomach seeing Nash and Bridget. The open basement door blocked my path through the hallway. Light glowed around it. The clicking of a ping-pong ball and poker chips echoed up the basement stairs. I edged around the open door and squeezed through a group of bodies. “Pardon me,” I said, but before I was able to push past, a purple sleeve grabbed my arm and pulled.

Billy Ray was dressed like plum chutney and his breath had fermented. “Razzle, come here and give me a hug,” he said and blasted me with an air puff of whisky.

I intended to make as little physical contact as necessary, but his embrace was iron tight and he planted a slurpy kiss behind my ear. I snapped out of his lingering clutch and wiped my neck dry. He held tight on my other hand and asked, “Have you been hiding from me?”

Katie Lee didn’t need to worry about her cheating boyfriend because I intended to kill her for inviting Billy Ray. Why did I attract the flamboyant thirty-year old that didn’t have any friends his own age? Someone reached between us, tipped a bottle of vodka and held up a twenty.

Besides being the bootlegger for underage youth, I couldn’t figure out why Billy Ray wanted to hang out with a bunch of teenagers. When Billy Ray snagged the money, I didn’t stick around to find out. I made a note to keep him at a sticks length. If he caught me a second time, getting away might not be so easy.

The kitchen table dice game was still in play, and I moved past the overflow, intending to find Katie Lee, but not knowing what I’d say. On the dark, screened-porch, I heard footsteps. Spinning around, I nearly crashed into Mitch. He held two cold cans of beer and handed one to me. “Where have you been?”

“You’ll never guess.”

He motioned to a hammock. “Well, sit down, and give me a try.”

Swaying with the feathery wind gust, cicadas hummed a melody that encircled us. I sipped my drink. Mitch polished his off. Eliminating the headboard-knocking, bathroom hamper-hideout incident, I shared a slightly exaggerated version of being cornered by Billy Ray.

Mitch slipped his arm around me. “I’ll protect you from Billy Ray.” My heart rate quickened with a mixture of guilt and lust. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine. The warmth of his body sent tingles up my spine. Passion overpowered any sensible thoughts I could conjure up. We were in lip-lock for under a minute when his hand crept under the back of my shirt, searching for my bra hook.

“It’s a front clasp,” I mumbled, and he pulled his hand off my back. Mitch shifted his weight, and I rolled back. The hammock creaked then snapped in a flip. I landed on top of Mitch, and all hell broke loose.

A loud boom thudded as though someone threw Mrs. Brown’s skillets down the stairs. The noisy commotion from inside escalated and a steady fire of shouts and curses followed. We both searched to find our wits. I slid off Mitch. Guiltily we scrambled to our feet. He grabbed my hand, and we raced inside to see what the ruckus was about.

“Was that gunshots?”

“No Raz, no gunshots. But definitely a fight. Probably broken glass, a mirror, and a lamp or two.”

A crowd had gathered at the top of the landing that led down to the basement. Mitch and I pushed past to see for ourselves.

From the bottom step, Mitch asked, “What the hell’s going on?”

Shoe scuffs and bloodstains streaked the country-blue floral wallpaper. More disturbing, my eyes fixated on Bridget’s consoling arm that was wrapped around Katie Lee’s shoulder.

Careful to avoid the moving pile up of bodies, and swinging fists, Katie Lee yelled, “Knock it off, I’m gonna call the cops.”

Mitch and I made our way to her, shifting to stay on the perimeter of the fight. Rows of wooden wine racks filled with bottles of vintage wines and champagne lined the basement wall. Before our eyes, tangled limbs barreled backwards, toppling the racks like dominos into a pile of bonfire scrap. Katie Lee spoke in monotones. “I’m -– dead. My ass is –- deep fried.”

Billy Ray held Stewart Hayes in a neck lock. “You come back from college with a degree in asshole?”

Stewart grappled out of the hold, his face reddened. “You sound better with your mouth shut.”

“Come on,” Nash instructed Mitch and Clive, and the three moved in to break up the fight.

Broken glass, wood and wine collided in a heap. “On the plus side,” I told Katie Lee, “there’s no carpet.” I didn’t mention that red wine probably stained linoleum flooring.

Blood leaked from bruised noses, and Stewart’s shirt had split down the side seam. As the fight lost its gusto, the punching momentum slowed, but insults still raged. Katie Lee, Bridget and I stepped back, and made room for Nash. He seized Billy Ray’s arm and dragged him up the stairs.

Destructive grand finales have a way of clearing a party atmosphere. A handful of us stayed in the basement to assess the damages.

“Where’s Macy?” I asked.

Bridget smirked, “Upstairs, passed out.” She tilted her mouth to my ear, “The pill she took wasn’t Mr. Happy. It was Mr. Sleepy.”

Nash was a busy boy. He had a hand in making this a memorable evening for Macy and Bridget and unbeknownst, Katie Lee.

“Who started the fight?” I asked.

“Billy Ray,” Bridget said. “Stewart accused him of cheating.”