Feels like Trouble (Lake Fisher 4)

“I was with your granddaughter.”

“Yep.” She grins so big I fear her teeth will fall out. The last time that happened, they skidded under the fridge and I had to move the whole damn kitchen around to get them back.

“I got matching tattoos with Evie.”

“What?” The whispered word comes from the doorway. I look up and find Evie standing there. Her dark hair is a twisted mess, like she’s been riding in my Jeep with the top off.

“You rode in my Jeep with the top off,” I tell her.

“What?” she whispers again. She clears her throat. “I have never ridden in a Jeep in my life. And I surely wouldn’t have gotten in one with someone like you.” Her gaze drags from my naked chest to my naked thighs, her cheeks growing rosy. “Why are you wearing Grandma’s apron?” She covers her eyes. “Oh, God! And nothing else!”

I scratch my head again. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

Ms. Markie lumbers to her feet. “Here’s the gist of it, kids.” She points at me. “You went out with Junior Adams and his lovely wife last night, and they got you stinking drunk on Junior’s grandpappy’s moonshine. Then you happened to run into Evie at the bar, where she stopped because she had a flat tire. You helped her change it, and then she took a few sips of the moonshine, and apparently the girl can’t hold her liquor because she suddenly decided you looked real handsome. You all piled into your Jeep. Don’t worry—Junior drove.”

“Junior drove my Jeep?” I ask.

“He wasn’t drinking. And that, my boy, is the least of your problems,” she replies.

“Okay.” I scrub a hand down my face.

“The two of you”—wagging a finger to indicate Evie and me—“got all snuggly in the backseat and you thought it might be fun if you both got matching tattoos. Junior and Barbara-Claire tried to talk you out of it, but you wouldn’t listen. I always did love that Junior. Originally, you two wanted to find a chapel so you could tie the knot, but you need a license to get married in this state, so you decided to do something else just as permanent.” She points toward my junk. “You got matching tattoos.” Then she reaches back and peels the edge of Evie’s sweat pants down her belly.

Evie’s eyes grow big as saucers when she sees her tattoo. I cover my mouth and try to hold back my snort, but it’s damn near impossible. Because written right there on Evie Allen’s hip are the words I belong to Grady Parker.

“Yours is just as bad,” Ms. Markie says to me.

I stand up and pull the apron down a little. And sure enough, written right there on my hip are the words I belong to Evie Allen.

“Whoa,” I breathe.

I look up at Evie. She stares at me. Then she says, “Aww hell naw,” and she walks in the other direction as fast as her bare feet will carry her.

“So how did I end up in the bushes?” I ask as I wash my hands at Ms. Markie’s sink.

“I think that was an attack of conscience.”

Rightly so.

She waves a hand toward the apron. “Do you think you could put on some clothes now? I’ve seen your bare bottom a few hundred times since you were a baby, but I’ve about had my fill of it today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Can I have a biscuit, first?” She picks up the plate and holds it out to me. I take one off the top, and then another since I have two hands and there’s a whole plate of biscuits. Not to even mention that Ms. Markie makes the best biscuits in Macon Hills. I snatch one more and then I ask, “Do you know where my clothes are?”

I’m careful not to let crumbs spew out of my mouth, because it would be a travesty to waste even a small piece of Ms. Markie’s biscuits.

She jerks a thumb toward where Evie went. I walk in that direction. I take my time, because I suddenly feel like I’m walking toward my execution.

If there’s one thing I know to be true, it’s that Evie Allen hates my guts.

She always has, and I’m pretty sure that whatever happened last night hasn’t changed her opinion of me.

I stand outside Evie’s bedroom door, trying to collect myself enough that I can knock and call out to her without forgetting my own name. Evie always has had a way of making me forget who I am.

I knock on the door and she opens it up so fast that I nearly fall into the room. I brace myself on the doorjamb with my hands and stare at her. “What do you want?” she asks. Then she points her finger in my face, almost bumping my nose with it, and says, “If you call me Clifford, even one time, I’m going to kick you square in the nuts. You’ll never father a child in your entire life, Grady Parker, if I have anything to do with it.”

I cover my package with my palm and take a step back. I had almost forgotten to use my favorite name for her. I’ve called her Clifford since forever, since we were young. She had gotten a big red stuffed dog for her birthday, mainly because she loved the books, and she carried that Clifford dog around with her everywhere she went.

“You don’t have to be quite so vicious,” I tell her.