AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Gabriel was truly flustered. “Now see here—”
“I don’t want to see you near Jane for the rest of the night. When I was a girl, nice young men did not paw at young ladies in dirty alleys.”
When she was a young lady, Mama Ginger got cited for mooning a busload of tourists in town for the annual lace-tatting convention. But Gabriel didn’t know that, so he looked appropriately chagrined.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, slinking back into the bar.
“And Jane, you just go on over to the bride’s table and sit down. But first, fix your lipstick. You look like a tramp.” My jaw dropped. “You heard me. Now, scoot!”
When I emerged from the bathroom, feeling far less clean than when I went in, Jolene, Zeb, my vampire friends, and some of Jolene’s uncles were doing shots at the bar. This included Uncle Zane, who sounded a lot like Boomhauer from King of the Hill. The only words you could understand were his curse words. And he cursed a lot. His twin brother, Dane, made a point not to curse, instead using elementary-grade curse substitutes. When I made my preshot toast, “Here’s to heavy security at the wedding,” Zane said something along the lines of “Like that will do any damned good.” Dane told Zane to watch his effing mouth in front of the effing ladies, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Oh, come on, just say the words,” Jolene drawled, patting Dane on the back. “We all know what you’re trying to say, just go ahead, be a man and go for the guessto.”
I chuckled. “Either you’ve had too much punch or I think you mean gusto.”
Zeb snorted as he took another drink. “Well, Jolene’s not exactly a rocket scientist. She also says ‘foo pas’ instead of faux pas and ‘lie-berry’ instead of library.”
Jolene recoiled as if Zeb had slapped her. Zane and Dane looked at Zeb as if they were sure they’d heard him wrong, then abandoned their drinks, returned to the werewolf side of the room, and glared at their nephew-to-be. Even Dick and Gabriel seemed uncomfortable.
Despite the disturbing pallor that had sapped her cheeks, Jolene gave a forced, tinkly little laugh. “It’s a good thing I have smart friends. I think I’ll just get some more punch.”
Zeb rolled his eyes and punched Gabriel’s shoulder. “It’s a good thing she’s got such a pretty face, because there’s not much going on behind it.”
I sent a significant look toward Zeb. He had that hazy, befuddled look on his face again, like someone coming out of anesthesia. He seemed to shake it off, his eyes blinking as he tried to follow Jolene’s path across the room. A brief flash of remorse crossed his features. Then it was replaced by some empty macho smirk. “You might want to go apologize to her.”
Zeb took another drink and crushed the cup in his hand before tossing it over his shoulder. “You’re right. Otherwise, I’ll be paying for it later. Am I right?”>When Mimi and Jolene got wind of this maneuver, their only logical defense seemed to be moving the wedding up a week without planning to tell Mama Ginger until the last minute. And it would have worked, if Misty Kilgore, whose husband was shooting the wedding photos, had kept her mouth shut in line at the Piggly Wiggly.
Mama Ginger responded with a world-class hissy fit, further exacerbated when she was told that anyone who was not on the original mailing list would be turned away at the McClaines’ gate by large male cousins. This steely-spined response by Mimi McClaine forever secured my loyalty and devotion. Mama Ginger’s countermove was to tell Misty Kilgore that the wedding was off, prompting Mr. Kilgore to rip up the contract and schedule another wedding that weekend. Since there were no local photographers available, it was decided that Jolene’s cousin Scooter, who had a lazy eye and astigmatism, would be taking the pictures. It was safe to say at this point that Jolene had lost all control of the wedding-planning process.
So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to be standing under a guttering neon Budweiser sign wearing a strapless black dress and hair that took an alarming amount of time and pins. Vampires don’t fare well in redneck establishments. There tend to be a lot of easily breakable wooden objects and, well, rednecks. And Eddie Mac’s just happened to be the county’s main supplier of T-shirts showing a cartoon vampire being stomped on by the Statue of Liberty.
“Oh, hello, Jane, honey!” Mama Ginger cried, rushing past Jolene and the recently de-eye-patched Zeb. She wrapped her arms around me in an inescapable viselike grip and swung me around in time to the jukebox’s blaring “Islands in the Stream.” “There’s my girl! How are you?”
“Fine,” I said, smiling politely, even as Jolene’s face fell at this blatant display of favoritism. Behind her back, Mimi sent Mama Ginger a poisonous glare.
“Mr. Lavelle,” I said, smiling politely at Zeb’s father. Floyd Lavelle hadn’t had a civil word for me since I refused to fetch him a beer at a Labor Day barbecue. I was seven, and even then, I didn’t know my place. He grunted in what passed for a greeting and headed for the bar.
“Now, I made my special pimento cheese balls because I remember how much you like them,” Mama Ginger said, pinching my cheek. “You’re so skinny.”
“OK, that hurts,” I said, prying her carmine-tipped pincers from my face. “This is Gabriel. He’s a friend of mine and Zeb’s, oh, and a groomsman.”
Mama Ginger caught sight of our joined hands. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed at Gabriel. She mumbled, “How nice,” and turned on her heels.
Mama Ginger continued to greet her guests, most of whom were bar regulars. Jolene might as well have been furniture for all the attention she was paid. For example, the little banner Mama Ginger had hung simply said, “Congratulations, Zeb,” leaving room for possibilities. To add insult to gastronomical injury, the bar’s “special event package” provided a crock pot of beer weenies, a grocery-store sheet cake, and lots of beer on tap. That was it. For fifty people. Fortunately, Mimi McClaine saw this coming and called in werewolf reinforcements.
Constantly thinking and talking about food is what makes werewolves some of the world’s greatest chefs and restaurateurs. For example, Jolene’s uncle Clay owned one of the best lunch places in town. His personal food philosophy was “Meat, meat, and more meat,” which might explain the shop’s specialty: a sandwich piled high with two pork tenderloins, Black Forest ham, and bacon. Within a half hour, several aunties and uncles arrived with huge platters of cold cuts, barbecue, salads, cupcakes, and cookies, which the bar crowd fell on like hyenas on a fresh zebra carcass.
I sidled up to Mimi, who was watching the proceedings from a very dark corner. Her irises were constricted in a distinctly nonhuman manner. I slipped an arm around her waist, stroking a soothing hand along her spine. “Will you adopt me?”
“Will it piss off Ginger?” she muttered.
I nodded. “Probably.”
“I’m trying to be as patient as possible, but if that witch doesn’t ease up on my baby, I may not be held accountable for my actions.”
We watched as the buffet was moved off Pool Table 3 so Herb Baker’s Friday-night group could proceed with their usual game.
I whispered, “I’ll help you hide the body.”
