“What should I call you handsome fellas?” Fisher asked as she pressed hands to the small of her back and stretched. “Besides my saviors?” The Georgia accent had the
“Nick and Albert,” I answered promptly before Michael could let slip our real ones. I wasn’t positive that he would have, but hedging my bets was a longtime habit. “You can call the kid Al.” Beside me Michael made an almost inaudible snort to let me know he had caught the Einstein reference.
Turning back, I took the car back out onto the road. She looked genuinely pregnant, but not being precisely an expert in the field, I kept a sharp eye on the rearview mirror. “We’re headed toward Waycross. We can drop you off there.” Can and would; a philanthropist such as I had to have his limits. The sarcasm sounded the same in my head as it would have out . . . sharp and edgy. I didn’t like risk where Michael was involved, and thanks to the past, I wasn’t wild about the unexpected. What was setting up camp in my backseat definitely qualified as one, maybe both.
“Waycross is fine. It’s a little one-horse town, one and a half at the most.” She smiled and patted the mound of her stomach. “Just like me. Horse and a half, right here.”
“What . . . mmm.” Michael cleared his throat, the redness in his ears fading to a pale pink. “What are you doing out here? All by yourself, I mean.”
“Oh, honey, y’all wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” She must have slipped off her shoes as up popped two feet on the console between my seat and Michael’s. The toenails were painted to match her fingernails, a pearlescent rose. Wiggling her toes, she asked Michael, “Albert, would you be a doll and rub my feet? They haven’t been the same since Junior here hit his seventh month.”
The flush was back and it spread to the rest of Michael’s face with the speed of a wildfire. Frozen, his eyes darted from the feet to me and then back again. I had to admit, even slightly swollen they were very pretty feet. Snorting, I took a hand off the wheel to grab his and place it on a foot. “You heard the lady, Big Al. Get to work.”
If I’d seen anything more amusing than a profoundly pregnant woman flirting with my brother, I couldn’t think of it offhand. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me from giving Miss Fisher Lee a good, hard verbal shove. “Go on with your story, Fisher.” I gifted her with an encouraging and completely insincere grin over my shoulder. It made my teeth hurt. “We’re interested. Goddamn interested. Couldn’t be more interested if we tried.”
Michael was touching the pink and ivory feet with acutely cautious fingers. For all the force he was using he might have been massaging a creation formed from the most delicate of blown glass. I’ve heard the old cliché before . . . a thousand times at least. But now was the first time I had felt it as opposed to only hearing it. Clichés make us cringe for a reason, and it isn’t from the banal repetition. It is the unbearable truth of them. I watched Michael touch smooth skin with a normal embarrassment and a not-so-normal wariness, and I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wasn’t scared simply because she was a gorgeous, if rather round, girl. He was afraid he might accidentally hurt her. I’d seen his control over the past week and it was unshakable, but with that kind of power, how could you not have the occasional doubt slither through your mind? If a foot rub could help him overcome that, then I was all for it.
“Aren’t you sweet? Taking such a concern.” Unlike mine, Fisher’s sincerity was bona fide or at least it seemed to be from her good-natured tone. “Good guys like you make up for dirtbags like my boyfriend. Albert, honey, you can rub a little harder. I’m tougher than I look.”
I heard Michael’s convulsive swallow as loudly as if it had come from my own throat, but he obeyed and increased the pressure. The contented sigh that ruffled my hair from the backseat indicated he had hit the spot. “It’s the usual sad, sad story,” she said with a carefree air that was belied by a faintly bitter undertone. “Cocky guy, stupid girl. Junior doesn’t have a chance. With his parents, the poor kid will probably have to repeat preschool three times.” There was another sigh, this one much less content. “Can’t say I didn’t make my bed, though, and whining won’t change a thing. We had one last big fight and I told him to stop the car and let me out. Great guy that he is, he did. Took off and didn’t even look back.”
Pink nails flicked through Michael’s hair. “You get a girlfriend, sweetie; you treat her real nice, okay?”
On that note Michael’s blush progressed to full-blown, spontaneous human combustion and he hurriedly finished with the massage, “I’m not sure a girlfriend is the best idea for me.”
“Oh, well, a little boyfriend then.” Untroubled, she fished a piece of hard candy out of her coat pocket and popped it into her mouth. “Just be sweet to whoever you end up with.”
“That’s not what I . . . Never mind.” The conversation was too close to home for Michael and he turned in the seat to face the front. It was debatable whether he would ever trust himself enough to allow the creation of a bond—sexual, romantic, or both—with a girl or woman. That same uncertainty applied to the bonds between family . . . between brothers. Eventually, when we were safe, I could look into providing him with DNA evidence proving that we were related, but that still might not do the trick. Michael had to allow himself to believe, and I wasn’t sure he was emotionally capable of that—not now; perhaps not ever.
It was not the best of thoughts and I let it wash away under the bright chatter that flowed out of Fisher like an endless stream of sticky, sweet molasses. She talked about her worthless boyfriend, her cheerleading days, her plans to go to college after the baby was born, but mostly she talked about Blossom. Blossom this and Blossom that. The dog ignored it all, even the tale of her rescuing seven children from a burning building while still wearing the blue ribbon from her last dog show. I didn’t believe any of it for a second, but it made for a good story.
It wasn’t long before we had to stop for lunch. Waycross was only twenty or so miles, but it turned out a hungry pregnant woman could be a cranky one. The honey in her voice began to turn to vinegar after she finished off the last of her candy. We ended up at yet another barbecue joint. They sprinkle the landscape of the South like a savory-smelling, greasy-fingered Milky Way. This one was lacking a purple pig out front, which was probably for the best. A repeat of that scenario might have PETA all over my ass, and my ass was fairly well booked up for the moment, although we hadn’t seen any sign of Jericho in the past two days. Then again, I really hadn’t expected to. The fastest of supernatural healers wasn’t going to shake off a bullet to the gut and a shattered leg that quickly. And I doubted he would send a team after us that he couldn’t head himself. Jericho was the hands-on type.
“Here! Stop here.” A hand pounded the back of my headrest. “I’ve heard of this place. It’s supposed to be best round these parts.”
Best round these parts . . . who could argue with that? I pulled into the parking lot that was nothing more than a patch of bald, red ground. And there we were at Annie’s Big Fat Fannie. There was a blinking neon sign in the window that let us know just how fat that fanny was. It was a simple design: glass tubing twisted into two pinkish red curves that buzzed cheerfully as we walked to the door. If Annie’s fanny was indeed as large as indicated, the food they served must be good. Inside there were mostly booths with red and yellow plastic seats and a few scattered tables. We chose a table to accommodate Junior’s girth, but I did maintain enough control of the situation to choose one that gave me a clear view of both exits.
Fisher didn’t care one way or the other. She dived headfirst into the menu as she waved one frantic hand for immediate service. By the time the waitress—obviously not Annie as the fanny was flat as a pancake—arrived, Fisher had picked out three lunch specials. Two were for her and the other was for Blossom who was still snoozing along with Godzilla in the back of the car. Michael and I put in our own orders, unmanly single servings, and a few minutes later were provided with pint-sized jars full of iced tea garnished with a frozen peach slice. Fisher ignored hers and made her way through a basket full of fried biscuits slathered with apple butter.
“Someone who can out-eat you, kid.” I kicked Michael’s ankle lightly under the table and tipped the fruit into the tea before taking a swallow. Not too bad. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Even the best of us have off days.” Clearly challenged, Michael reached for a biscuit, only to have his hand swatted away.
“Sorry, sweetie,” Fisher apologized. “It’s you or Junior, and Junior always wins.”
“I see.” He shook his fingers as if they stung. Fisher must pack quite a punch, I thought with amusement. “It’s too bad Junior hasn’t learned about sharing yet.”
“Kids, kids, come on now,” I admonished. “Play nice. I’ll get another basket.” Rising, I went to the counter to ask for more biscuits. By the time I returned, the two had come to terms and they promptly divided the new basket between them. Licking a finger, I philosophically dabbed at the three or four remaining crumbs. “What was that you said about sharing?”
Michael didn’t blink an eye at his hypocrisy. “I don’t recall.”
“Yeah. Plead the Fifth. Toss me under the bus.” The gun in my back waistband dug into my flesh and I leaned
