5
CHELSEA
“It’s a shame how you can’t shop for simple things in Fortune anymore without being exposed to trash.” Mrs. Trainor’s not-so-quiet whisper carries over two aisles of Mrs. Carmichael’s grocery store. Annie Bloom tenses beside me. We’re in the dry goods section looking at cereal and Mrs. Trainor’s probably squeezing the shit out of some loaf of bread.
“Hush up, Jessica, or those chits will hear us and you’ll be getting a visit from a Death Lord,” hisses her companion. That’s likely Mary Wilson, a blue hair. Literally, she has blue hair. She comes into the Cut-n-Curl every two weeks to get a blue rinse. It’s supposed to counter the yellowing of super-white old lady hair, but blue? Mary’s got porcelain white skin and I think the blue makes her look older than her age, but I’m not her hairdresser so I keep my opinion to myself.
I’m staying blonde as long as I can.
“Those felons don’t dare step foot on my property or I’ll be calling Chief Schmidt. You just know that they are responsible for that poor Pastor Bloom’s death. I’d cast out my daughter, too, if she was sinning with two men. It’s just not right Mary.”
Annie’s face turns beet red while her knuckles become white as she clenches the handle of the shopping cart. A former pastor’s daughter taught all her life to be nice, turn the other cheek, and do unto others nonsense, Annie freezes like hard ice cream from the back coolers of Carmichael’s Grocery.
Unlike me.
I was pushed out by a woman who preferred to seek out random strangers for sex than be bothered teaching her whelp right from wrong. I was raised by a man who was in charge of the roughest men in three counties. And I’m getting it regular from my stepbrother. I don’t have a store of good manners placing a check on my behavior.
Plus, I believe in standing up for your friends and having their backs.
“Don’t look in the mirror, Mrs. Trainor, because your green is showing and it’s not pretty,” I retort.
“It’s no big deal,” Annie whispers. “You don’t need to defend me.”
“The hell I don’t,” I answer hotly. Annie doesn’t understand, not yet, because it takes time to fully absorb that not everyone in the world exists to reject you. It’s hard when your only exposure to family is a bad one. Annie’s mom abandoned her and her dad turned out to be a neglectful shithead who tried to beat the sin of loving two men out of her. She spent twenty-two years believing she wasn’t worth more than being her dad’s assistant, a mere reflection of his supposed glory. But now she’s being loved by two hot men who’d cut off their own hands to prevent her from getting so much as a paper cut. It’s a lot to take in. “You’re family now. No one talks shit about my family.”
“You’re one to talk, Chelsea Weaver, holding hands and kissing and Lord knows what else with that brother of yours. That gang is a den of iniquity and someday the good Lord will strike you all down.” Mrs. Trainor has abandoned the bread aisle and brought her filth straight to us. I open my mouth to let her have it when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Mrs. Trainor, Grant Harrison is Chelsea’s step-brother. There is no blood relationship between the two.” Annie’s quiet but firm words send a soft glow through me, wiping out the hot rage. So she does get it. Family has each other’s back—all the time.
“They are siblings in the eyes of the law and in the eyes of God,” Mrs. Trainor proclaims. She points a quivering finger toward us. “One of these days you’ll get your due.”
“Maybe so.” I start walking. I want to get out of here. We can get cereal elsewhere. “But it won’t be because my brother is giving me too many orgasms.”
I brush by her, pulling Annie behind me. Mrs. Trainor hisses something but I don’t hear it because I’ve shut her out. My stomach is churning and I know I’m red in the face—part from anger and part from embarrassment, but I don’t slow down.
“I’m sorry,” Annie whispers softly as we exit into the sunshine and cold winter air. We both pull our jackets tight around our frames as we hurry to the truck. Annie must have started it with her remote back in the grocery so at least the vents are blowing out hot air when we climb inside.
“What for? I think we’re both sinners in the eyes of Mrs. Trainor.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “I suppose one thing in her favor is that she doesn’t talk about you behind your back. Oh no. She shoves her insults and judgments right in your face.”
Annie restarts the truck, the engine having turned off when we opened the doors. “That’s true. You going to tell Wrecker?”
Wrecker’s my man, my step-brother, my partner in crime, my one true love.
“Yeah. You gotta tell Michigan and Easy too because this is a small town and people will be racing to tell others about the scene that just went down. They’ll want to hear it from you and will be hurt if you don’t tell them.”
“I just hate making them worry.” She nibbles on her lip.
“Trust me. You can’t stop them from worrying. The most you can do is tell the story your own way, making sure that they understand that you don’t need action from them other than a few hugs and kisses.” My gaze falls to Annie’s round belly that bumps up against the steering wheel. “Unless you want them to do something about it.”
“Oh goodness, no. We don’t need that kind of trouble,” she exclaims.
“I hear you.” The last thing either of us needs is our Death Lords Motorcycle men to mount up and wreak havoc on our behalf. The law in Fortune doesn’t like the Death Lords and would love to see each member put behind bars. In Wrecker’s case, that would be his second time and I just know he wouldn’t survive another stint in prison.
“You got something to tell me?” Grant “Wrecker” Harrison says almost before the door of our new apartment closes behind him. We’d moved into the small one bedroom unit above the Cut-n-Curl just days before. I’d intended to buy a bunch of staples at Carmichael’s to fill our shelves but Mrs. Trainor put a spoke in that plan. I ended up driving to the Wal-Mart thirty miles away in Dixon to get our groceries.
“That I love you?” I say not looking up from the sauce I’ve been simmering for the last couple of hours. I hear a thunk as he removes his boots and a tinkle of keys as he tosses them on the counter.
“I know you love me, but I’m talking about what went down at Carmichael’s today and you know it.” His hands wrap around my hips and he tucks his chin into the crook of my neck.
“Since you already heard about it, what’s there to say?” I’m not taking the advice I parceled out to Annie because I want to know what the rumor mill is saying.
“People I don’t care about are talking shit. You’re the only one who matters to me.” His warm breath tickles my skin and displaces a few strands of hair. I press back, enjoying the feel of his big frame against mine.
“Mrs. Trainor spouted off some nonsense; Annie and I left. End of story.” I’m going to defend my man and one of the ways to do that is to not let him know how much Mrs. Trainor’s comments sting otherwise I fear what he’d do in retaliation. I don’t fear his methods but what kind of retribution the law would mete out in response.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, sounding doubtful.
I pin a smile on my face and turn around to show him how unconcerned I am. “I’m real good, honey.”
He raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “That right? Because I heard that there was blue hair flying and finger pointing and voices shouting.”
“Did you get that from Mrs. Carmichael or was that distilled through the good-old Fortune tin can telephone chain?”
“I heard it from Michigan who heard it from Annie. She called him right away, unlike someone I know.” He breaks off a piece of the garlic bread that’s cooling on the cutting board. The timer for the noodles dings. He jostles me out of the way and dumps the big pot of pasta and hot water into the waiting strainer. “I know you’re tough but even tough girls can get their feelings hurt.”
I busy myself with the p
lates and silverware.
“What could you do even if my feelings were hurt? Go egg Mrs. Trainor’s big house on the golf course? Maybe shove some shrimp into her air vents? Hurt feelings will heal over, but if you violate the terms of your parole, you’ll get sent back to Oak Park Heights for the rest of your sentence. I can live with hurt feelings. I can’t live without you. And Chief Schmidt is dying to punish one of you Death Lords.” The dinner plates hit the oak table harder than I intend. I wince at the sharp sound and close my eyes, praying for a little patience. “I hate small towns.”
Grant carries the bowl of steaming pasta in one hand and the sauce in the other and sets the two dishes carefully on the table. His big hands tug me against his chest. I place my ear against his heart and breathe in his warm male scent. Inside the circle of his arms, I feel like there isn’t an arrow that can reach me.
“All small towns or one in particular?” He strokes my back, tunneling up underneath the heavy sweatshirt I have on.
“All of them,” I mumble into his flannel shirt.
“It’s all going to work out. Even the stuff with Schmidthead. We’re working an angle and I don’t think he’ll be around much longer.” He sounds confident so it must be Death Lords stuff. I don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss sometimes.