“I thought you said I couldn’t miss it,” I said without turning around. “I don’t require an escort. You should go take care of your important plans.”
“And miss this show? Not a snowball’s chance, Loafers.”
Right. Fuck my life. Again.
I stepped through the little stand of trees bordering the right edge of the lot and spotted a little white house on the other side. The front yard was mostly driveway, paved in the same cracked, dingy color as the parking lot next door, and the building itself looked like a child’s drawing of a house—two big awning-topped windows flanking the front door, and a steeply peaked roof with a single window above. It looked remarkably like the house where I’d grown up, though with a lot less grass and a lot more palm trees.
A beefy giant of a human sitting on the stoop with his boots propped on the railing jumped to his feet when he saw us coming and extended a hand. “Hey. You must be Mason! I’m Beale. Ah… Beale Goodman. Big Rafe’s my dad. Nice to meet you.”
I found myself smiling just a little, because it was impossible not to when the guy was flashing me a bright grin and a pair of big, innocent blue eyes. “Same to you. I need—”
“We’re not here for chitchat, Beale. Loafers isn’t staying.” Fenn stepped around me, grabbing my wrist before I could shake Beale’s hand and towing me up the stairs behind him. “Rafe out back?”
“We?” I snorted, grabbing my arm away. “There’s nowehere.”
“No, wait! You can’t go in, Fenn!” Beale moved to block the door. “Dad’s talking secret mayor business in the living room! He and Gloria kicked me out.”
“Yeah? Well, his othersecret mayor businesshas finally come home to roost—” He pointed at me. “—so I don’t give a shit if Rafe’s on the phone with the queen of England or God Almighty, he can damn well deal with his mess.”
“Excuse me.” I folded my arms over my chest. “First off, who are you calling a mess?I’mnot the one who looks like a freakin’ serial killer. Second, my conversation with Mr. Goodman is none of your damn business.”
“A serial killer,” Beale repeated, looking back and forth between us. “What?”
“Fenn gives off a vibe,” I explained, somewhat defensive.
“Ohhh.” Beale nodded. “Fenn’s intense. But his aura is really white, you know? Pure but protective. Kind of like Marjorie, this mama cat I rescued, who growls anytime you come near her kits, even though they’re over a year old and plenty capable of taking care of themselves. Fenn’s more afraid of you than you are of him.”
Fenn narrowed his eyes and jabbed his cousin in the chest. “You. Shut. Your. Fool. Mouth.”
“See?” Beale smiled beatifically. “Hesoundsall ‘Grrrr.’But he wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, Fenn?”
“Oh, I’ll hurtyou,” Fenn assured him. “I’ll hurt you bad. When you least—”
“You know, you might be right,” I interrupted. “Fenn reallyislike a cat. Misanthropic. Nonspecifically bitchy. Peeing on everything… metaphorically speaking, I’m fairly sure.”
Fenn folded his arms over his chest, mirroring my pose, and stared me down with eyes a hundred times bluer and more intense than his cousin’s. “What color is Loafers’ aura?”
“Loafers?” Beale lifted one eyebrow. “You mean Mason?”
Fenn ignored him. “Bet it’s brown, ’cause he’s full of sh… oes.” He snickered to himself, like toilet humor was the height of comedy.
“You,” I bit out. “Are achild. A very annoying child.” To Beale I said, “Is there any way I can see Mr. Goodman, please? It’s extremely important.”
Beale hesitated, and Fenn grabbed my wrist again, before I could evade him. “Come on while Beale’s busythinking.”
He towed me into the house—a typical layout, with two rooms in the front, two in the back, and a staircase in the middle—and directed me into the boxy yellow living room off to the left, where a broad-shouldered man with a shock of dark hair and a voice that managed to be cajoling and demanding at the same time stood by a bookcase with a phone to his ear.
“Marvin! Marvin, you need to standfirm. Remember what we discussed? It’s the Whispering Key Labor DayExtravaganza! We spareno expense, understand? I don’t care what the nodcocks at the bank say.”
A redhead in a blue, floral dress with a wide lace collar and bows at the neck and waist jumped up from the sofa as soon as she spotted us.
“Fenn!” she scolded. She braced her hands on her bony hips, which set her reading glasses swinging from the chain around her neck. “You can’t just walk in here! You know your uncle uses this room to make phone calls since he doesn’t get any reception in the office.”
“I know, but I—” He paused and gave a little gasp, clutching his hand to his chest. “Gloria, have you done something different to your hair? It’smajestic.”
She patted her unnaturally tight curls, which were topped by yet another bow, and frowned. “Why, not a thing. I’ve been having Joanne do it this way since I saw Reba McEntire wearing it back in 1987.”
“Reba never wore it as well as you’re wearing ittoday,” Fenn said in a tone of hushed awe that made me laugh… and then cover it with a cough. Fenn shot me a look that was part amusement, part warning.
