as your private litter box for the night.”
“Yeah, well, the plumbing’s held up so far. But the litter box is going to come in mighty handy for your brother, who’s standing on the deck.”
Emmy shot straight up in the bed. “My brother? Which one?”
“Says his name is Joe Wayne Fuller.”
The edge of a groan seeped out. “Oh good Lord.”
“He’s wearing a black woman’s T-shirt—”
Oooo, that could be good news. “Is she with him?” She hadn’t realized she’d fisted the sheet in her hand until it relaxed.
“Who?”
“The black woman, because it’s probably my friend Shirley, and—”
“A black woman isn’t with him.” There he goes getting snippy. “He’s wearing a woman’s black T-shirt, an orange thong and cowboy boots...nothing else. And he’s beating on the door to the deck, saying I need to let him in to get some clothes.”
Emmy plopped back into her pillow, pressing a finger and thumb against her eyes. “Let me talk to him.”
“I’m not opening this door.” She could visualize Sol shaking that stubborn, shaggy head of his. “He looks crazy.”
“Is he drunk?”
Sol’s voice grew louder. “Are you drunk?”
“Not no more. But I wished to hell I was,” came the reply, slightly muffled, but she’d recognize that drawl anywhere.
“Listen, tell her me and this friend was having a little fun.” Emmy strained to hear her brother’s story. “But her husband came home and I hauled ass out of there and I got the wrong clothes and no money and I had to sneak all the way across town in the dark half-nekkid and I need some damn clothes!”
A loud smack told her he’d hit the glass door.
“So there you have it.” Sol again. “Straight from the crazy-ass’s mouth.”
“You could use a few lessons in anatomy.” She’d left herself wide open for another one of those been there, done that quips, so she hurried on. “Look...would you mind letting him in long enough to grab some clothes? And maybe loan him a few dollars? I’ll pay you back when you get home.” God, she hated asking him for a favor. But when it came to her brothers, she’d grovel if she had to. Besides, she owed Joey. He was the one she’d let down the most. Well, him and Mama. Always Mama. “Joey’s harmless. Even when he’s drunk, he’s a lovable drunk.”
She heard the door slide open and drew an easier breath.
“Thanks, man.” Joey’s voice kicked up a notch. “Thanks, EmmyLou. Love you.”
“Okay. He’s in,” Sol growled, and the sexy sound caused a flutter in her belly. “You can go back to sleep.”
“Sol...um... I’m sorry about this.” Emmy chewed her bottom lip. “But...thanks. I owe you.”
“Yes, you do.” He didn’t sound like he was kidding. “Hey, by the way, do you know if there’s any meat tenderizer in the house?”
Emmy’s brain stuttered at the abrupt change in topic. Sheesh! People said she had strange thought processes! “I...don’t...know. But if you buy your steaks at Campbell’s Meat Market—it’s only a couple blocks away—you won’t need tenderizer.”
“Oh man!” Emmy heard the shock in Joey’s voice. “What happened to y—”
“Okay, EmmyLou. Thanks. G’night.”
The phone went dead, and for a brief moment, emptiness surrounded her bed before the familiar voice chided her. “Why would you buy such a big house? You’re probably never going to get married now. All your friends married a long time ago.
“Boys are so much easier than girls. If you ever get pregnant, pray for a boy. Of course, it’s getting too late for you to have any children now.”
“Shut up, Mama.”
Emmy folded the pillow around her head as if that would silence the voice.
“Your brother’s down there with no money and probably no place to stay except with one of his no-account friends. He needs help, missy, and you more than anyone else owe him...”
Emmy threw the pillow on the floor and climbed out of bed. It was a nine-hour drive to Gulf Shores. Probably more like ten with stops to gas up and stretch.
“We’re not gonna stay, but we’ll need a few things.”
Bentley drew a long sigh as she pulled the overnight bag from her closet.
* * *
“...YOUR LEG?” JOE WAYNE finished his sentence, wishing he hadn’t as he watched the guy’s face turn the color of a pomegranate.
“Shark bit it off while I was surfing.” He leaned down and scratched a red welt on his foot.
“No shit? Hot damn!” Joe Wayne had always admired surfers. They looked so cool, riding waves like bull riders of the sea. He’d never been able to keep his balance on one of the suckers. Probably because the only time the urge hit him to try was after he’d had a few. “You still surf? You one of those guys they show on TV who suck it up and go ahead and do everything they did before?”
“Nope. Shark might be wanting dessert.” The houseguest pounded his fist on the cuff above his prosthesis before performing an about-face and heading toward the front of the house. “Get some clothes on, will you? You look like a damn fool.”
Joe Wayne followed him toward the front as far as the family suite. Then he let the guy go on ahead to the living area...or, more probably, the bar, where he’d surely been when Joe Wayne showed up. Joe Wayne was ready for another drink or two himself, but getting rid of this string between his legs was the first priority. How did women stand the things?
He punched the code in, fumbling the keys out of the container. When it opened, he let himself into the large set of rooms, sighing at the mess he and Ramona had left when they’d vacated and moved to her house. His intentions had been to come back and clean it up. But he hadn’t found the time yet to work it into his schedule. Not that his schedule was full—he had zero gigs this week—but cleaning house wasn’t his thing.
A pile of his dirty clothes still lay in the bottom of the closet where he’d left them. Dirty had never smelled so good. He slipped out of his boots—damn, his feet were tired—and into a pair of his jeans and his own T-shirt. And thank God he’d left his guitar here...a precaution after Ramona had picked it up one night and threatened to smash it across his head if he didn’t fix her another drink. Damn mean woman when she was drunk. But then, he’d never seen her totally sober, either.
All the way to the beach house, he’d pondered how he could retrieve Patsy and the rest of his stuff without getting his ass whipped.
No stroke of genius had hit him yet. Maybe what’s-his-name would have
