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“Forget it.” He jerked his hand from the wheel to hold it up in a gesture of silence. “I don’t want to know. Just forget I asked.”
Another of those little shrugs. “If you change your mind,” she offered again. “Like I said . . .”
“You’re here,” he snapped. “I know, Kye. I know. You’re here.”
NINE
Her brother and cousins were going to make her crazy, Lyrica told herself several days later as she moved through the crowded rooms that housed the weekend’s largest lake party. Usually, Kye would have already shown up, but so far, Lyrica hadn’t found her. Perhaps, she thought, she should have called to make certain her friend was going to be there.
Unfortunately, damned near everyone there knew her, too, which meant it wouldn’t be much longer before someone called Dawg.
The live band was pounding out a country tune with a hard, fast rhythm. The crowd was milling around the house and the main grounds, and some were already slipping into the private areas of the yard. It was growing late, and intoxicated couples were finding the shadows while some weren’t even bothering with shadows.
The rumors that the Collier parties sometimes slipped into sexual free-for-alls just might be true. And here she was, alone amid the escalating carnality that could be glimpsed and laughed at.
What had seemed like a good idea when she’d heard of the party, while she was fighting nightmares and memories, didn’t seem nearly as smart now.
It was Saturday night, and the summer partying season was just kicking off. The lake was crazy this time of year. These beginning-of-the-season parties and the desperate, winter-weary revelries never failed to end up with the sheriff being called and usually an ambulance or two as well.
If Dawg caught her here, he’d chew a strip of hide off Lyrica’s ass a mile long. Not to mention what her sisters would have to say. Her mother, Mercedes, would give her that look of disappointment that would make Lyrica want to shrink inside, while Timothy would just chuckle, pat her on the head, and tell her it was just those Mackay genetics running roughshod over her good sense.
She hated the Timothy part the most. His amusement and assumption that she probably couldn’t help herself.
Still, she eyed the crowd that seemed packed into the structure as she entered it. She hadn’t been to many of the lake house parties, mostly because her brother and cousins knew far too many people. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be stopped at the door and escorted to a quiet room while her brother was called.
She’d gotten tired of that years ago.
She made out much better at the bars outside of town, or even in Louisville or Lexington instead. Places where Dawg Mackay wasn’t so well-known.
Stepping back into
the entryway, Lyrica surveyed the large entry and living area, wondering how many guests were calling her brother as she stood there.
She should have stayed home. Or gone to a bar, Lyrica thought in disgust as she pushed her way through the crowd, hoping to find an empty corner where she could hide for a while.
As she passed the bar she snagged a cold beer that the bartender set out for another guest who’d made the mistake of turning his back. She always managed to get carded at private parties. She’d never heard of such a thing until coming to Kentucky. She’d never been carded in Texas, even when she’d slipped into the bars.
But then, she hadn’t had a brother like Dawg Mackay overseeing every breath she took, either.
Sipping at the beer, she spied what appeared to be an empty corner behind several large, thickly growing potted plants on the other side of the room. Perfect for observing while hiding, she thought in relief.
Until she began to slip around it and came to a shocked stop.
“Fuck yeah, baby. Fuck that dick,” the male groaned, eyes closed as he held the thick hips of his partner and pounded into her from behind.
The slick length of his erection was a blur of movement as he found a few more explicit phrases to throw out to her. His fingers held her hips so tight, the hem of her dress bunched above them, that Lyrica was certain the other woman would carry bruises.
But Lyrica would forever carry the memory of seeing her former schoolteacher’s cock shuttling between the thighs of the prissy, pursed-lipped mayor’s sister, who ran city hall like an iron-fisted prude.
A second later she was being pulled from the sight, as completely unbelievable as it was, by her neighbor Sam, who was laughing her ass off at Lyrica’s shock.
“Sam, that was gross,” she hissed as the other woman continued to grip her wrist and drag her from the room into a long hallway that had yet to fill with guests.
“The look on your face was priceless.” Sam was still laughing, her hazel eyes filled with mirth beneath the ever-present bill of the black, low-profile ball cap she wore.
The long ponytail was pulled through the adjustable band behind her head as usual. Dressed in men’s loose shorts, a sleeveless white T-shirt, and sneakers, Sam had a masculine aura that never failed to fascinate or shock most people.
She didn’t make excuses for herself and she damned sure didn’t apologize for who she was.
