Читать книгу In Emmylou's Hands - Pamela Hearon - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

THE SHOWER IN Sol’s bathroom was difficult though not impossible to navigate as long as he held on to the hand bar. But the water wasn’t helping the jellyfish stings. If anything, it made them worse. The intense stings had morphed into an intense itch.

Sol had searched the kitchen cabinets for meat tenderizer—wasn’t that supposed to be the go-to miracle cure?—but found none. He’d remembered hearing somewhere that urine would ease the sting, also, but he wasn’t that desperate.

He turned off the water and dried inside the shower, then got out and reattached his prosthesis. The itch was annoying enough that sleep would be an absent friend, which really didn’t matter because he could spend the entire day tomorrow in bed if he wanted. So instead of slipping into pajamas, he pulled on a clean pair of cargo shorts. After so many years in long pants, he’d forgotten how cool, loose and unfettering shorts could be.

Without meat tenderizer, bourbon was sure to be the next best thing for his stings, provided it was applied internally. He went to the bar in the large common room and found a new bottle because he’d finished the dab that was left in the old one.

The first sip went down smoothly. The second caught in his throat when a sound caused him to flinch. A cough sent the bourbon several places where it shouldn’t have been—onto the bar, down his bare front and, most irritating, up his nose. It burned up into his sinuses making his eyes tear. Great! Between the jellyfish and the bourbon, he was literally burning and itching from head to toe, inside and out. And the fact that someone was knocking on his back door...at two-thirty in the morning...did not bode well for this situation improving.

But he chose to ignore the knock. Probably just some drunk anyway.

Coughs continued to wrack his system until the liquid cleared from the passages it wasn’t meant to come into contact with.

Whoever was at the sliding glass door must have heard, because the knocking grew more persistent.

“Hey!” A male voice. “I need help.”

The word help called Sol to action. He grabbed his phone in case he needed to call 911...or the police...and hustled toward the hallway.

The kitchen light gave him a fairly good view of a man standing at the door that led to the deck on the beach. The guy needed help all right—but not the kind Sol could give.

Some kind of crazy-ass, scantily clad cross-dressing dude.

But he broke into a smile when he saw Sol. “Hey, man! Oh, thank God.” He dropped his head back in a relieved gesture. Then he straightened and pressed his forearms and face against the glass. The gesture pulled his T-shirt up, revealing an orange lace thong that basically covered nothing.

The man wasn’t bloody. He stood upright. He obviously wasn’t hurt. And he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get away from anybody.

“Go on.” Sol yelled from several feet away. “Get out of here.” He started to turn.

“Wait!” The nutcase pounded the door with his palms. “No, man! Hey! Don’t go!”

Sol moved closer, but only to flip the light switch on the wall. The deck light remained on, putting the visitor in a spotlight. Someplace he was used to being, no doubt.

“Look, I’m Joe Wayne Fuller. My family owns this house.”

Sol pulled up straight, pausing to study him a moment.

“My sister, EmmyLou Fuller, arranged your stay. Ain’t that right?” The guy’s head bobbed up and down, answering his own question.

EmmyLou Fuller? Sol had never heard her use that last name, but the name EmmyLou was too distinct not to refer to her. If this joker was her brother, she’d probably put him up to this.

The woman had already proven she’d go to great lengths to try to best Sol Beecher.

“Call her. She’ll tell you I ain’t dangerous or nothing. I just got into a situation.” He crunched his fingers in the air, forming imaginary quotation marks around the word. “I...uh... I lost my clothes, and, oh hell, man. Just call EmmyLou. She’ll vouch for me.”

“I’m not calling her. It’s two-thirty in the morning.” Sol put his hands on his hips and stood his ground.

Joe Wayne—if that was really his name—pressed his forehead against his arm and took a deep breath. “Well, would you at least get me some clothes from the family suite? I can’t go nowhere else like this.”

So he knew about the family suite.

Sol blew out an angry breath and jerked his phone up to find EmmyLou’s number.

* * *

A CALL AT two-thirty was not a rare occurrence in Emmy’s world.

Her two younger brothers, both single, were forever calling her when they came in after a night of drinking and carousing. And even the two older ones, both married, called after spats with their wives or when they needed help understanding the female gender.

But a call from Sol Beecher at this time of night hadn’t occurred in fourteen years. She blinked at his name on the caller ID, and her heart did a strange triple beat. But then she remembered he was at the beach house—he was probably calling to complain about something that didn’t suit him.

She fumbled with the button and pressed the phone to her ear. “If you’ve stopped up the plumbing, you’ll have to wait until morning. Just think of the beach 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 an idea.

He shuffled down the hall and found his new best friend with a whiskey—no, that was clearly a bottle of Four Roses, so make that a bourbon. “You get into Dad’s private stash? He’ll skin us both.”

The stranger shook his head. “Brought this myself.” His tone said he wasn’t sharing, either.

Joe Wayne considered going back to the room for the keys. One of them unlocked the liquor cabinet. But he’d left some beer in the fridge, and right then, a cold one sounded okay. “Dad drinks Four Roses, too. Says anybody who drinks it must be a Southern gentleman.”

No response, but the former surfer shifted his weight onto his artificial leg and rubbed the top of his good foot against it.

Joe Wayne attempted to pry him into conversation again. “What’s your name, anyway?”

The stranger squinted like he was figuring on whether or not to give out that information before he finally answered. “Sol. Sol Beecher.”

“Joe Wayne Fuller.” Joe Wayne held his hand out.

Sol cocked a half grin before shaking. “Yeah. We’ve already met.”

Joe Wayne rounded the bar to get to the refrigerator. “So you’re a friend of EmmyLou’s?” He grabbed a beer and popped the top, guzzling half of it in one gulp.

Sol snorted. “I wouldn’t say that. I won a raffle. A week here at the house was the prize.”

“You know her, though? EmmyLou?”

“Yeah. I know her.”

Not much of a conversationalist, this Sol Beecher. But he finally broke the silence. “You her half-brother? Or...has she been married?

Joe Wayne finished the beer. “Nope.” He grabbed another.

“Her last name is Creighton. Yours is Fuller.”

Joe Wayne took only a sip this time. “Creighton’s her middle name. Fuller’s her real last name. She started using Creighton ’cause she didn’t want people to...” Shit! Running his mouth off—giving up his sister’s secrets to someone he didn’t even know. “Oh hell, just ignore me. I’m drunk.”

Sol looked him squarely in the eye. “And you’ll need to be hitting the road soon.”

“Yeah, about that. Seeing as how you seem to be here all by your lonesome...” Joe Wayne glanced around but saw no evidence of anyone else. “You’re here by yourself, right?”

“Right.” Sol set the glass on the bar harder than necessary. “And I like it that way.” He leaned down and scratched the top of his foot again.

“You’re doing a powerful lot of scratching.” Joe Wayne steered the subject away from his sleeping place for the night. Figured he’d approach it again later. “You get wasp stung or something?”

“Jellyfish. Three places. They’re not stinging anymore, but the itching’s driving me crazy.”

Joe Wayne gave a sympathetic shake of his head. “You showered before you treated ’em. Don’t ever do that—makes ’em worse.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Sol gritted his teeth and hit the bar with the end of his fist. “Got me on the cheek of the ass, too.”

Joe Wayne’s laugh earned him an angry glare.

“I went through the kitchen looking for meat tenderizer—”

“That ain’t what you need. You need—” Joe Wayne stopped. “Tell you what. You agree I can stay here tonight and I’ll tell you how to get rid of the itch. It’s three o’clock now. A few more hours can’t be so bad, can it? You’re gonna sleep through them anyway.” He gave Sol a huge grin. “Unless that damn itching keeps you up all night.”

A look came into Sol’s eyes that Joe Wayne recognized. Defeat. “All right,” Sol snapped. “Just tell me what to do.”

“I’ll do better than that. Wait here and I’ll get you the cure.”

Joe Wayne went to the kitchen and retrieved one of the giant bottles of vinegar they kept under the sink just for jellyfish stings. He trotted back up the hall and presented the bottle to Sol. “Get in the shower and pour this on the spots full strength. Let it stay on for a few minutes and then soak in a hot tub for twenty minutes. Itching’ll be gone.”

Sol grabbed the bottle of vinegar and his refilled glass of bourbon. “Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Joe Wayne waited until the door to the downstairs guest suite closed. Then he got a glass out of the cabinet. “Twenty-five minutes alone with a bottle of Four Roses?” He poured a hefty couple of shots into his glass. “Don’t mind if I do.”