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Add in my mother’s constant calls and text messages, and I’m ready to just squeeze something until it pops in my hand. Can a person get mad enough to rupture an eggplant?
Ugh.
I’m just glad Mother hasn’t followed through on her threats of coming out here herself to drag me home. Her latest message said time’s running out.
And if I don’t return ASAP, I won’t have a career to come back to.
Huffing out a breath, I wash my hands and walk to the restroom door.
She’s right, of course. I won’t have a career if I stay away much longer. I’m surprised Jean-Paul hasn’t sent me a Dear Jean—pun intended—termination letter from the company after Quinn savaged his ego.
It’s equally incredible and gross that my mother’s money must speak louder than his own wounded pride.
My knee gets better by the day, at least. The silks help limber up everything and strengthen my whole body. I’ll continue practicing while an angsty part of me wonders if I want to have a director career.
As I open the restroom door, a woman whips past, heading for the back door at the end of the hall. I instantly recognize the ratty bleach-blonde hair stacked on her head.
Carolina Dibs.
I shoot a quick glance into the bar area and see Quinn still talking to Grady. They’re close, serious-looking, talking in low voices…
Obviously about the Pickett situation.
Quickly, before he spots me, I hurry to the back door. I have no clue if Carolina knows anything or whether she’ll tell me if she does, but I have to try.
It’s dark outside. The door leads to a small patio smoking area lit up by a long string of lights hanging from the tall wooden poles.
Carolina is the only person around, standing near a tall pub table. Even the long shadow she casts looks more crooked than the Road to Hana. While lighting a cigarette, she gives me a sneer as I close the door behind me.
“You smoke?” she asks, giving me a flippant once-over look.
“No,” I answer. “Just needed a touch of fresh air.”
“Should’ve used the front door. It’d be an easier walk in those two-bit heels.” She blows a puff of disapproving smoke my way.
Be nice, I tell myself.
“This one was closer,” I say with a shrug. Then, lifting my hair off the back of my neck, I add, “I worked up quite a sweat dancing.”
“Uh-huh. That wasn’t all you worked up, ya little attention slut,” she says, taking another angry puff off her cigarette.
So, this is going well.
I lift a brow.
She lets out a hoarse laugh that ends in a rough cough.
“Faulk couldn’t keep his hands off you. You really must give good head or somethin’.” She shoots me another nasty look and spits on the ground.
Can she be any more charming?
The jealousy in her voice matches her sour expression.
Understandable, I guess, but fair’s fair.
It seems insane I was jealous of her only a little while ago when I briefly thought Quinn had any interest. Poor guy.
Truth is, I’ve always been a little jealous of any woman—or girl years ago—who I thought Quinn might have taken a shine to.
Knowing that I’m that woman now, the one he’s interested in, gives me a powerful sense of pride. It also makes it pretty freaking difficult not to rub it in Carolina’s ugly face.
I flash her a people-eating smile. “Honey, this mouth might do some favors, but that’s not why he sticks with me. We’ve got the two most important things I bet you loved in school—history and chemistry.”
Her eyes turn to spears as she glares at me.
I shrug again, nonchalantly, and step closer to the table.
“I can’t keep my hands off him, either.”
She averts her gaze and takes a long drag off her cigarette like it gives her strength.
Uncle Dean stopped by to pay me this afternoon. Cash, of course, because he doesn’t believe in banks or doing a page of paperwork more than he needs to.
Digging in my back pocket, I pull out two crisp Benjamins, a chunk of this week’s pay. Goat wrangling will never make me rich, but for small-town life, it’s not bad.
There’s nothing else I’d rather spend it on right now if it gets her to spill something useful.
“What the hell’s that?”
“Money. You do use it, right?” I ask cheerfully.
Her eyes narrow. “What for?”
“You.”
Carolina stubs out her cigarette in the sand-filled can. “Why? What do you want?”
“Information.”
“Oh, because I look like a frickin’ library?” she snorts, shaking her head.
“I think you know things,” I say.
Her eyes haven’t left the money, and neither has my hand. I’ll give her until the count of ten.
I get to four before she opens her mouth.
“What kinda information you after, bitch?”
“That guy who was at your place when I dropped off the goats…how well do you know him?” I meet her eyes, already looking for lies.
