There’s a nice, well-used Martin acoustic leaning against an entire wall of bookcases filled with old LPs. She must have a couple thousand records. Outside of a few deejays I’ve met, I haven’t seen anyone own actual vinyl records. They give the room a musty smell.
So, I’m dealing with a guitar-playing music lover. Please, God, don’t let this chick be some sort of Annie Bates psycho. But then I remember the way she glared at me last night. I doubt she’s my number-one fan.
I follow the noise and find her in a kitchen, a big square room with one of those classic farm tables that can seat twelve in the middle of it.
She ignores me as I sit at the table, my moves slow and pained. Fuck this shit. I’m not drinking that much again. Never. Again.
In the silence, I watch her stir something in a pot on the stove like she’s trying to beat whatever it is into submission. She is definitely not a hot bumpkin. No Daisy Dukes on this chick. Her plump ass hides under ratty jeans with holes in the knees as she stomps around in heavy black boots better suited for my bike—the bike I’m pretty sure is wrapped around her fence. I don’t remember crashing and haven’t got a scratch on me. The will of the universe is a strange thing. Why it brought me to her of all people, I don’t know.
My hostess moves to turn off the stove, and her profile comes into view. Long, straight hair the color of wet sand, gray eyes, and an oval face that should be all soft angles but somehow looks sharp and hard: Elly May is kind of plain. Until she opens her mouth.
Then it’s one long stream of colorful bitch.
It’s been years since I’ve had a female berate me for such an extended period of time. If the dousing of ice-cold water hadn’t shocked me yesterday, that tongue lashing surely did the job.
Yeah, she has a mouth on her. Though she isn’t using it now. I find that more unsettling.
“Hey.” My voice sounds like cracked glass. “I, uh, thanks for…ah…” I swallow. “Well, thanks.”
And people call me a poet.
She snorts as if she’s thinking the same. I silently will her to fully turn and face me.
And she does, her expression pinched with disgust. “You drink what I left you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute, fight a grin.
She just looks at me, then grabs a bowl and fills it. Her boots thud as she stomps over and sets it before me. A blob of lumpy white stuff stares back at me.
“It’s grits,” she says before I can speak. “I don’t want to hear any crap; just eat it.”
“You always this sunny?” I ask, taking the spoon she’s thrust in my face.
“With you? Yes.” She gets her own bowl and sits far away from me.
“‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’” While Elly May might have a juicy ass, she can’t be more than five foot three, and is small boned.
Her scowl takes on epic proportions. “Did you just quote Shakespeare?”
“Saw it on a tattoo,” I lie, because it’s fun to tease her. “There might have been something before that.” I scratch my bearded chin. “Something like… ‘Oh, when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd!’”
“Never saw that part on a tattoo,” she mutters, giving me a dubious look before taking a bite of her grits.
I give her a bland, innocent look, and then we eat in silence. The grits are good, taste-wise. The consistency, however, isn’t exactly helping my nausea.
“The drink was helpful,” I say to fill the silence. I once thought I’d love silence. Turns out, I fucking hate it.
“My dad’s old hangover cure.”
A timer dings, and she gets up. I smell the biscuits then, and my mouth waters. Like a hungry dog, I track her movements as she pulls the tray from the oven and puts the golden mounds on a plate.
As soon as she sets the plate on the table, I’m on them, my fingertips burning, my tongue smarting. Don’t care. They’re too good. Heaven.
She watches me, her lips slanting as if she’s stuck between a smile and a scowl. She’s got nice lips, I’ll give her that. Cupid lips, I think they’re called. The kind that, while small, are shaped like a kiss.
“Want butter with that?” she asks.
“Is that a real question?” I manage between bites.
She gets up, grabs a jar that I find out is filled with honey butter—damn, that’s good—and gets us each a cup of coffee, adding cream to both without asking if I like it that way. I usually take it black and sweet, but I’m not complaining for shit right now. Not when she might take away the biscuits if I do.
I swallow another bite of heaven. “What’s your name?”