The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

My brain’s definitely missing a lot of blood. It’s all gone south the longer I’m stuck wondering what’s under her hood.

Would she give me that squeal of delight she saves for Herc if I wrestled her down in the dirt?

Would I get that sunshine laugh?

What the hell sounds would she make if I showed her a hog worth every bad fucking pun I’m making?

I snort at my own stupidity, mixing a whiskey sour for a customer that helps ground me.

Years ago, I was too old and too close to Shelly, treating her like family.

Now, I’m too wrecked.

I haven’t touched a drink in years, but that’s not to say the desire ever totally fades. The urge never leaves you, no different than bad memories.

What if I slip up? What if I fuck myself over some desperate night and wind up needing another round of tortured self-reflection and group therapy to yank my ass back to sobriety where it belongs?

No.

I never wanted Shelly to see what Afghanistan turned me into for a reason, or the booze that held me hostage long after.

I’m serving up tall peach Bellinis to a pack of bouncing, laughing ladies on the barstools when something catches my eye.

The front door of the bar swings open, and Shelly walks through it, too beautiful for life.

As if my one-track mind conjured her.

She sails in, wearing a bright floral dress, no sleeves and enough leg hanging out to make a race horse jealous.

My jaw sets tight. I nearly break a damn tooth a second later when I see who’s behind her.

That slick-dick city boy who’s basically living at Amelia’s.

Carlton or whatever.

He’s not only with her, but he has his grimy paw on her back, walking his fingers subtly close to where her ass begins. The same place that makes my fist start throbbing.

What a coincidence.

What the hell business brings him here, anyway?

And what the hell is she doing with him? Here? At the Bobcat?

...are they on a fucking date?

I grind my teeth together, holding in a bearish hate-growl.

If evil eyes could kill, this guy would be drawn and quartered.

He’s a snake, and I know it. It’s not just his looks, always too formal for a place where the tourists usually stomp around in flannel and cowboy boots and blend in with the locals.

It’s the fact that he stopped over at my great aunt Faye’s house the other day.

She’s been having a perpetual garage sale for weeks, trying to clean out her place and make a little extra scratch before winter like she does every year.

Plus, she’s making more noise all the time about selling her place and moving into senior living. That’s why I wound up with pig-wonder not so long ago.

Hudson hadn’t bought anything after picking through her old record collection, but the way she described his fancy-ass car left no doubt who she was dealing with.