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“And you will be.”
Slapping his knees as though an important decision had been reached, Eddy stood up and set his empty beer can on the dresser. Tate stood up, too, and he happened to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.
“Good God.” He ran his hand over the heavy stubble on his jaw. “Who’d vote for that? Why didn’t you tell me I looked so bad?”
“I didn’t have the heart.” Eddy slapped him lightly between the shoulder blades. “All you need is some rest. And I recommend a close shave in the morning.”
“I’ll be leaving for the hospital early. They told me that Carole will be taken out of the recovery room about six and moved into a private room. I want to be there.”
Eddy studied the shiny toes of his shoes for a moment before raising his eyes to his slightly taller friend. “The way you’re sticking so close to her through this—well, uh, I think it’s damned admirable.”
Tate bobbed his head once, tersely. “Thanks.”
Eddy started to say more, thought better of it, and gave Tate’s arm a companionable slap. Tate wouldn’t welcome marriage counseling from anyone, but especially not from a bachelor.
“I’ll leave and let you get to bed. Stay in touch tomorrow. We’ll be standing by for word on Carole’s condition.”
“How are things at home?”
“Status quo.”
“Jack said you’d put Fancy to work at headquarters.”
Eddy laughed and, knowing that Tate wouldn’t take offense at an off-color comment about his niece, added, “By day I’ve got her stuffing envelopes. By night, God only knows who’s stuffing envelopes. By night, God only knows who’s stuffing her.”
* * *
Francine Angela Rutledge crossed the cattle guard doing seventy-five miles per hour in a year-old car that she’d inflicted with five years’ worth of abuse. Because she didn’t like safety belts, she was jounced out of her seat a good six inches. When she landed, she was laughing. She loved feeling the wind tear through her long, blond hair, even in wintertime. Driving fast, with flagrant disregard for traffic laws, was just one of Fancy’s passions.
Another was Eddy Paschal.
Her desire for him was recent and, so far, unfulfilled and unreciprocated. She had all the confidence in the world that he would eventually come around.
In the meantime, she was occupying herself with a bellhop at the Holiday Inn in Kerrville. She’d met him at a twenty-four-hour truck stop several weeks earlier. She had stopped there after a late movie, since it was one of the few places in town that stayed open after ten o’clock and it was on her way home.
At the truck stop Buck and Fancy made smoldering eye contact over the orange vinyl booths while she nursed a vanilla Coke through a large straw. Buck gobbled down a bacon cheeseburger. The way his mouth savagely gnawed at the greasy sandwich aroused her, just as intended. So on her way past his booth, she had slowed down as though to speak, then went on by. She settled her tab quickly, wasting no time to chat with the cashier as she usually did, and went directly to her convertible parked outside.
Sliding beneath the steering wheel, she smiled smugly. It was only a matter of time now. Watching through the wide windows of the café, she saw the young man stuff the last few bites of the cheeseburger into his mouth and toss enough currency to cover his bill onto the table before charging for the door in hot pursuit.
After exchanging names and innuendos, Buck had suggested that they meet there the following night, same time, for dinner. Fancy had an even better idea—breakfast at the motel.
Buck said that suited him just fine since he had access to all the unoccupied rooms at the Holiday Inn. The illicit and risky arrangement appealed to Fancy enormously. Her lips had formed the practiced smile that she knew was crotch-teasing. It promised a wicked good time.
“I’ll be there at seven o’clock sharp,” she had said in her huskiest drawl. “I’ll bring the doughnuts, you bring the rubbers.” While she exercised no more morals than an alley cat, she was too smart and too selfish to risk catching a fatal disease for a mere roll in the hay.
Buck hadn’t been a disappointment. What he lacked in finesse he made up for with stamina. He’d been so potent and eager to please that she’d pretended not to notice the pimples on his ass. Overall, he had a pretty good body. That’s why she’d slept with him six times since that first morning.
They’d spent tonight, his night off, in the tacky apartment he was so proud of, eating bad Mexican TV dinners, drinking cheap wine, smoking expensive grass—Fancy’s contribution to the evening’s entertainment—and screwing on the carpet because it had looked marginally cleaner to her than the sheets on the bed.
Buck was sweet. He was earnest. He was horny. He told her often that he loved her. He was okay. Nobody was perfect.
Except Eddy.
She sighed now, expanding the cotton sweater across her braless breasts. Much to the disapproval of her grandmother, Zee, Fancy didn’t believe in the restraints imposed by brassieres any more than those imposed by seat belts.
Eddy was beautiful. He was always perfectly groomed, and he dressed like a man, not a boy. The local louts, mostly shit-kickers and rednecks, wore cowboy clothes. God! Western wear was okay in its place. Hadn’t she worn the gaudiest outfit she could find the year she was rodeo queen? But it belonged exclusively in the rodeo arena, as far as she was concerned.
Eddy wore dark three-piece suits and silk shirts and Italian leather shoes. He always smelled like he’d just stepped out of the shower. Thinking about him in the shower made her cream. She lived for the day she could touch his naked body, kiss it, lick him all over. She just knew he would taste good.
