“Don’t get your panties in a twist now, Tex.”
Jake sat back on the legs of his chair. Cards night in his parents’ basement was a monthly event. There were five of them, three school friends, one of Jake’s army buddies, and his father.
“I tried your latest dressing yesterday, Newman, on my ribs, you know the one with your pretty face on it. Have to say, it’s your best yet,” Ethan Gelderman the 5th said. Big and dark, he was a Texan down to his handmade gator cowboy boots.
“It’s the saffron, adds the punch,” Newman said, having had plenty of practice answering these comments. He was born Paul Theodore Newman to parents who’d idolized their only child from day one, and to a mother who loved his namesake just as much. He’d put up with his fair share of ridicule, it had to be said, but was easygoing enough to handle it. The ladies liked his blond curls, and the fact he was a successful businessman helped.
Buster snorted then tugged his visor lower to hide his eyes, which was a sign to all of them that he had a good hand. “You wouldn’t know the difference between a cinnamon pod and saffron, Newman.”
“They grow that stuff on trees? Ha, who knew?”
“You girls gonna lay a card while I’m still breathing?” Patrick McBride glared at the players then tweaked his faded, lucky cap. Once red, but now pink, it had the words “Number One Dad” embroidered on the front; Jake and his sister had given it to him for his birthday one year—which one was a little hazy right then, as Jake had lost count of the beers he’d consumed.
Ethan hummed a couple of bars of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” but the taunt rolled off Newman’s large shoulders as he placed a card on the table that made them all groan.
“Well now, son, you just about ruined my next mouthful of beer.”
“Never my intention, as you know, Mr. McBride. Your son, however, now annoying him should be a national pastime,” Ethan added.
“So, I’ve been back in town a day before Mom tells me you’ve been seen driving Geraldine with Branna O’Donnell seated beside you, McBride,” Newman stated.
Jake hadn’t seen Branna for a week, but the hell of it was, he’d wanted to. It was fair to say he’d shared a few kisses in his lifetime, some of them pretty good too, but that one with Branna had made him lose reason.
“We had sex five times, Newman,” he drawled. “Once on Geraldine’s hood.” Jake thought about Branna’s legs and the way they looked coming out of those cutoffs she wore. Long and lean, they’d wrap around his waist perfectly.
“Like she’d touch you, McBride,” Newman scoffed. “I call BS.”
“Aww, shucks,” Jake added, “and here I was, thinking I was totally convincing.”
“I hear she’s quite a looker?” Newman took a mouthful of his beer.
“Who is Branna O’Donnell?” Tex rolled the cigar he never lit from side to side in his mouth.
“She’s Irish, came to Howling for three years during high school and is the only girl that I know of who never made a fool of herself over Jakey boy here,” Buster filled Tex in.
“I love the Irish accent. Rolls up and down your spine, leaving you feeling hot all over.”
Jake had to agree with the Texan about that, but he wasn’t sure just any Irish accent would do it for him.
“The total female population didn’t fall at his feet. There was Lydia Southby. She hated him too.”
“Newman, Lydia Southby was sixty at the age of fifteen. She didn’t like anyone.”
Jake raised his bottle to Buster in agreement.
“Branna’s father writes those crime novels,” Patrick said.
“Not D.J. O’Donnell?”
“The very man, Tex. You a fan too?”
Tex whistled around his cigar. “Patrick, I have every one of his books and headed down to a see him and get a couple signed when his tour brought him through Dallas a few years ago.”
“She writes too.” Jake wasn’t sure why he’d said that. “Haven’t been able to find her name on anything when I searched, so must be writing under a pseudonym, I’m guessing.”
“Well, well, well, fancy our Jake doing a bit of research on his high school nemesis.”
“I like to read, and thought I’d support a local, so shoot me.” Jake flipped Buster the bird.
