CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Brook Lynn’s Famous Cheesy Chicken Spaghetti
Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma Population 7,413 7,416 Drive Slow and See Our City, Drive Fast and See Our Jail
BROOK LYNN DILLON was not a fan of mornings. Or afternoons. Or evenings. When a girl reached a certain level of exhaustion, every time of day sucked.
She’d bypassed that certain level, oh, about seven years ago when, at the tender age of eighteen, she’d begun working at Rhinestone Cowgirl. Despite what every tourist passing through town assumed, the RC wasn’t a strip club, thank you very much, but an up-and-coming jewelry store.
Her five-hour shift always kicked off at the butt crack of dawn, or as her mom used to say, before the rooster crows. Afterward she had sixty short minutes for a little R and R—the Reading and Reviewing of any new past-due notices—before working a ten-hour shift at Two Farms, the only “fine dining experience” within a fifty-mile radius. The description came directly from the owner, never mind that his idea of fine dining was using shiitake mushrooms in the beef Stroganoff instead of regular ones.
Today wouldn’t have been so bad if her sister had completed her own shift at Two Farms, but halfway to the finish line, Jessie Kay had taken off without saying goodbye, and Brook Lynn was forced to take over her tables to save both their jobs. At least her sister left a note in her locker.
Don’t stay in tonight. Go out and get drunk. Or, you know, at least pretend to be drunk. Your prudish ways are ruining our good name! XO JK
Brook Lynn had never hustled so hard for less reward. Her back and feet ached, and she wanted to go home and fall into some sort of coma even more than she wanted to win this week’s lottery. Fifteen million and counting!
But here she was. Her best friend, Kenna, had called to tell her Jessie Kay had taken her own advice and gotten trashed, partying hard at the Glass house, acting as if the male attendees were going to die if she didn’t give them a little mouth to mouth.
When Jessie Kay had a few too many “party favors,” she became very...popular. A good-time girl. Brook Lynn, Miss Responsible, had never been a good-time anything. Too many worries balanced on her shoulders.
Tonight’s worry? Tomorrow’s possible front-page headline of the Strawberry Daily: Former Beauty Queen Turned Slacker Fails to Control Her Whoremones—Again.
Not on my watch!
Brook Lynn stepped out of her car, a one-wheel-in-the-grave beater she’d named Rusty. Like a vacuum, her pores opened up and sucked the stiflingly hot air straight into her body, and not even the sweet, addictive scent of wild strawberries and magnolias made it better. She wiped a sudden sheen of sweat from her brow and marched up the dilapidated porch steps, her gaze sweeping over one of the largest homes in the parish. A hundred-year-old farmhouse in need of brand-new everything. White paint had chipped away, revealing rotten siding. Multiple wood slats had come loose, and the seal on several of the windows had broken, allowing moisture to pool between the panels.
Not altogether beautiful, but the fifty-two-acre spread had come with a greenhouse, a small dairy, two barns, a work shed, vegetable gardens and wild strawberry patches, all surrounded by hand-set stone walls.
Harlow Glass recently lost her family’s sprawling estate, and Lincoln West, a newcomer in town, had snapped it up. He was obviously more tech savvy than manual laborish, considering he’d done no actual work that Brook Lynn could see. Which made sense, she supposed. He’d just moved from Oklahoma City to enjoy good ole country living in Strawberry Valley, and it was common knowledge that big, bad city boys spent the bulk of their time sleeping around, coiffing their hair and posting pictures of food on the internet.
Brook Lynn had interacted with the guy on more than one occasion, and shockingly enough, she’d come to admire his dry wit and puffed-up ego. He loved to brag about his own magnificence, but the hint of humor in his tone always saved him from falling over the edge into obnoxious.
Have you ever seen a body this perfect? No. And you never will, Brook Lynn. The good Lord has an A game, and I’m proof.
For a guy who spent all day behind a computer, he certainly was buff. And because she hadn’t seen a body as perfect as his, she hadn’t been able to rebuke him. But then, she had yet to meet his two roommates. Maybe they were hotter.
Problem was, West’s friends kept to themselves. Not once had she seen them in town. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Jessie Kay, who had a habit of looking for love in all the wrong places. She had not only met the two other newcomers to Strawberry Valley—she’d also already slept with one. Beck...something. Gossip claimed he was a player of players and had totally worked his way through the over-twenty-and-under-forty female population in the city before moving here, looking for fresh lady meat.
The other guy... Jase was his name, she thought. Less was known about him. To her knowledge, he hadn’t hooked up with a Strawberry Valley resident, though there had been a sighting or two and plenty of interest. Older women whispered he was “hunkalicious” while younger girls giggled nervously behind trembling hands.
A cacophony of voices seeped through the cracks around the front door. Brook Lynn wiped the dust from the upper panel of glass and peeked inside...and oh...crap. She hadn’t expected so many guests. At least thirty people congregated in the living room, drinking beer, talking and laughing, and there were indications of others in the hallway and kitchen. Most were in their mid-to-late twenties, so Jessie Kay had gone to school with them—and the rumor mill about her actions this evening had likely already started spinning. These people wouldn’t turn a blind eye to the fight to come, either.
And there would be a sister-versus-sister fight. Jessie Kay always resisted her own rescue.
Brook Lynn reached up and switched her inner ear implants to silent. The devices were a couple of years old but still deemed experimental, used to treat cases of hyperacusis as severe as hers—hearing everyday noises at such a blaring volume, it sometimes felt as if acid had been poured inside her ears. They allowed her to experience a sublime state of deafness whenever she desired. Which she did. Often.
Without bothering to knock, she stepped inside the house. Through a thick haze of cigar smoke, she saw the home’s interior hadn’t had any work done, either, and was in even more desperate need of refurbishment. Wallpaper had yellowed with age and peeled at the corners. The white shag carpet was stained and threadbare in places. In complete contrast, the furniture scattered throughout looked brand-new, flawless.
Finding no sign of Jessie Kay, she moved deeper into the house, reading lips along the way. A skill she’d honed over the years.
“—would never have guessed he was such a citidiot,” the recently divorced Charlene Burns was saying. “But after tonight’s antics?”
Citidiot.
