Wet and Reckless (Private Pleasures 4)

She could argue retrieving something that belonged to her wasn’t really stealing so much as taking a shortcut to prevent an important item of personal property from entering the stream of commerce and sailing out of her reach forever.

Unfortunately, at this very moment somewhere in the Nashville PD, an overworked detective might be squinting at pawnshop security-cam footage capturing her doing what looked exactly like stealing, regardless of the backstory. Plus, Randy and Uncle Billy would surely tell a different version of the backstory. She didn’t have to be a math whiz to calculate the outcome of two against one, but she’d bypassed that whole equation by taking matters into her own hands.

And all would be fine as long as she didn’t give Officer Donovan a reason to look closer.

If she did, the legal consequences of her actions might be the least of her problems. A certain portion of Uncle Billy’s business involved dubious loans to desperate people, and word was he rarely relied on the law to settle debts.

The order-up bell dinged, interrupting her spiraling worries. She shook off the dire thoughts and headed to the window behind the lunch counter to pick up her plates. Everything was fine. She was miles away from Nashville, and in another few weeks she’d head to L.A. with Gibson in hand and honest money in her pocket. A sizable chunk of the contiguous forty-eight ought to be a sufficient buffer between her and the consequences of her most recent mistakes.

Reassured by the plan, she filled her tray, shouldered it, and made her way down the center aisle. Although the hour cruised toward noon, she delivered two DeShay’s breakfast specials—scrambled eggs, sausage, biscuits and gravy—to a duo of late-morning stragglers who’d introduced themselves as Kenny and Dobie. The guys looked about her age and a little worse for wear from whatever they’d been up to the night before, but they were friendly.

Dobie—the shorter one with sleepy hazel eyes beneath long sandy bangs—offered her a lopsided grin. “I can’t believe you’re Lillian Belle’s granddaughter. No offense, but that mean old bat freaked me out. When I was a kid, I used to walk my dog past her house. She would stand on her porch and scream, ‘Keep that godforsaken beast off my lawn!’ at the top of her lungs.”

“Yeah,” the taller guy with the dark, shaggy mane agreed. “She called my parents one time when I was maybe nine and accused me of TP-ing her property. I spent a whole Saturday picking butt paper out of her trees.”

Roxy put their side order of frickles on the table and cocked an eyebrow at him, wondering if James Franco had a long-lost younger brother inexplicably living in little, old Bluelick. “Did you TP her house, Kenny?”

“Well, sure. Me and a bunch of other guys, including this jerkoff”—he tossed a biscuit at Dobie, who batted it onto his plate—“but how did she know?”

“She saw it in her magic mirror,” Dobie opined. “You’re lucky she didn’t put a curse on you.”

Roxy shook her head. “Sounds like you two were a couple of delinquents.”

“Stupid shit.” Kenny actually blushed as he said the words. “Thing about growing up in a small town is you never get away with a damn thing. Even if nobody catches you in the act, everybody knows who did the deed.”

Dobie held up his hands. “All in the past. We’re responsible adults nowadays. Well, semi-responsible.”

“Growing up here must have been fun.” She didn’t quite conceal the wistful note in her voice.

“It was pretty cool, I guess,” Dobie said. “Boring sometimes. Especially as kids, there was nothing to do but sneak into R-rated movies at the lame-ass Bluelick Bijou or go swimming at the Browning pond.”

“That sounds awesome. You want boring, try sitting in the back of your parents’ van, passing the miles between yesterday’s gig in Houston and tomorrow’s show in Memphis with nothing but a guitar for entertainment.” In truth, her parents had always done their best to take the drudgery out of the travel. They’d made up silly songs together and taught her about the history of the places they’d visited. She’d happily accepted their vagabond lifestyle until puberty. In her case, teen rebellion had taken the form of demands for conformity.

“I would have traded a limb to move here and spend my Friday nights at the Bijou or the Browning pond.” And like a typical teenager, she hadn’t been shy about letting her sentiments show. She’d sulked in the backseat and longed for a normal life with normal parents who worked normal jobs. She’d fantasized about living in a real house, doing regular stuff families on TV did, and having a tight group of friends to hang with. Funny how those so-called normal things still eluded her, and yet now she’d give anything—including Gibson—for the chance to take another road trip with her parents.

Dobie sat up straighter. “Let us show you around. Kenny and I will acquaint you with all the shit you missed out on.”

“You’d play tour guide for me?” They were sweet to offer, and honestly, the idea held appeal. The only real look around town she’d gotten so far had been from a police car. Speaking of which, she didn’t need to land in one again. Now was not the time to release her mostly untapped inner delinquent. “Nothing illegal, right?

“Scouts honor.” Dobie held up his fingers in a peace sign.

“You guys were Boy Scouts?”

“Um, no. But that doesn’t mean you can’t trust us. What time do you get off?”

“Three.” She looked down at her white blouse and black skirt. “But I’ll need to go home and change.”

“No problem. Pick you up here at four. It’s going to be ninety in the shade this afternoon. What’s say we head to the Browning pond?”

“Sounds great as long as I’m home by seven.” Addy had invited her to a place called Rawley’s for an informal meeting with Roger Reynolds, the lawyer who had handled her grandmother’s estate.

“We’ll have you home in plenty of time.”

“All right. Jeez, I hope I still have a swimsuit somewhere in my things.”

“Skinny-dipping’s kind of a tradition ‘round here.” Dobie gave her puppy-dog eyes. Kenny added an eager nod.

Roxy laughed. “You guys feel free to uphold tradition. I’m wearing something.”