In the passenger seat, she spreads out the fabric, pulls it down closer to her knees. She’s spent so much time in overalls lately that having her legs exposed like this feels strange, almost inherently erotic. Like she’s a nineteenth-century lady flashing some ankle.
When Charlie joins her in the cab, his hands clutch the steeringwheel, but he doesn’t turn the key in the ignition. She’s about to tell him it’s okay if they don’t go anywhere else tonight, if he wants to head back to the farm, or even drop her off there and head back out on his own. But he clears his throat and stares out the windshield. “I don’t know how you did it, and I don’t think I want to know. But... it helped him. So thank you.”
“Oh.” She’s unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Um. You’re welcome.”
“It’s hard sometimes when...” He trails off, tangled in the complexity of the thought. “It’s just hard sometimes.”
“Yeah.” She understands without him saying more, about how all this weighs so heavily on him. Her fingers tremble ever so slightly as she reaches out and places them on his forearm, timid to touch him, worried he’ll bite. He allows it, though, and even lays his own hand over hers for a second, barely more than a pat, but enough to engulf Gretchen in head-to-toe heat.
The man is a flame. But maybe she is too. Hopefully, she doesn’t misstep and burn it all down.
20
“Tipsy Lou’s? Is this a bar?” Gretchen is honestly bemused; she expected the mystery of where Charlie spends his free time to have a more interesting answer. Or at least one that’s morehim.Like a knitting circle or a book club, maybe. Certainly not a black-painted cinder block cube of a building off Route 15 that has more motorcycles than cars in its parking lot.
He parks below a window that houses a large neonbarsign. “Seems so,” he says with a touch of humor she’s barely heard since he asked if she was an undercover pork chop. He gets out of the truck and comes around to her side. “Want help down?”
Yes, please touch me again.“No, I can manage.” Gretchen slips to the very edge of the side of the passenger seat and kind of... slides like a two-by-four falling off a ledge. Her hands clutch at the hem of her dress to hold it in place, which prevents her from flashing anyone but leaves no way to steady herself as she lands in an awkward crouch.
“That was some dismount,” Charlie comments, and his crooked smile makes her almost lose her balance again as she stands.
Once upright, she straightens her clothes and tucks her hair behind her ears. She hasn’t worn it down for a week, and the way it brushes against the bare skin near her collarbone keeps startling her. Strange how quickly the way she dressed every day for years has become so unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable. The relative steadiness of her spirit medium gig in DC made her forget how instantly she can acclimate to things when the need arises. “So are you going to tell me what it is we’re here for, or am I going to have to wait and see?”
He shrugs and smiles again as he walks ahead of her toward the entrance.Wait and see it is.
Inside Tipsy Lou’s, the din of dozens of different conversations fills the space almost as claustrophobically as the actual people standing around. It’s a swarm-like buzzing that gives Gretchen an immediate headache. She hasn’t been in a packed bar like this in years, not since her first few months in DC when she supplemented her then-paltry séance income by scamming drunk government consultants at some of the local power dining hot spots. The whole crying by the bathrooms and claiming her boyfriend just dumped her and left her without any money to get home act was never something she enjoyed pulling off very much; too little artistry involved (and a high risk of being groped). So once she didn’t need the extra money to survive anymore, Gretchen happily became a homebody. The intensity of being surrounded by so many people now is enough to make it difficult to breathe, and she finds herself clutching at her chest as if she might be able to coax her rib cage to expand.
“You okay?” Charlie has to yell down at her for her to hear him.
“Yeah, I’m good. Just a bit... overstimulated,” she yells back up.
He takes her hand, which would be something she would enjoy very much if she were not currently sweating profusely, and Gretchen follows in his wake as he ushers them through the crowd toward—Oh, thank goodness. They’ve come to a separate room in the back that only has a handful of people, most of them gathered around three pool tables. The noise from the main area of the bar still reaches back here, but it’s muffled enough that the clack of balls ricocheting off one another is at the forefront.
“Yo! Waybill!” An olive-skinned man with a bushy black mustache and shoulder-length hair looks up after taking his turn at the table to the right. “Didn’t know if we’d see you tonight.” The man strolls over, and he and Charlie clap their hands together in a bro-style shake. Then he turns to Gretchen and, with eyebrows raised in interest, asks, “And who is this?”
“Hi, I’m Gretchen.” She holds out a hand, and to her surprise the man takes it but doesn’t shake it so much as drop into a goofy, exaggerated curtsy that startles her into a giggle.
“I go by Dutch,” he says, rising again. Dutch flashes a sparkling smile. “And I amsopleased to meet you, Gretchen. We heard quite a bit about you last week.”
“Oh?”
Charlie clears his throat. “Any tables about to be free?”
“Yeah, Bobbi and I just finished up. You can grab ours. I’d offer to play you, but I assume you’d rather hang out with your date.”
“Acorn isn’t my date.” He says it quickly enough to sting a little, a rubber band snapped on her wrist. A good reminder.
“Hm. Well, whatever she is, you’d be a fool to ignore her to play withme. Bobbi’s already bled me dry anyway. That woman is an absolute menace. Here, take this.” Dutch hands Charlie his cue. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go ply the lovely Roberta with tequila shots and see if I can convince her to be my plus-one for my cousin’s wedding in May.” His thick, dark eyebrows jump as he looks back to Gretchen. “Careful with this one. He’s a menace too,” he tells her before strolling away, and she laughs, assuming it’s a joke. Of course, there’s the extreme sexual tension that has her staying awake much later than she’d like, imagining all of the dirty, dirty things she’d like to get up to with Charlie, and the way he makes her fight-or-flight response kick into overdrive. But she can’t imagine anyone else thinking Charlie Waybill is in any way dangerous.
He chalks another cue and hands it to her. “You know how to play?” he asks, gesturing toward the pool table with a nod of his head.
Gretchen’s father used to make an extra buck or two hustling in places they were passing through. But he only played when they needed quick cash. It wasn’t something he did with any real passion. Just another trick up his sleeve. One of the many he taught his daughter. Or, in this particular case, one hetriedto teach her—Gretchen never did get the hang of it. She looks over the table’s green felt as if her memories might appear there, growing larger like ink stains. “Not really.”
“Gotta admit I’m surprised,” he says, walking over to where she’s standing. He places the cue ball on the table and leans in closer to her ear. “A con artist who can’t play pool? Thought it was basically a requirement in your line of work.”
In response to her subsequent silence, he gives a few clicks of his tongue and a shake of his head—playful admonishment. Not hostility. So maybe this is okay. Maybe things really have changed between them after what happened the other morning and with his grandfather tonight.
“Seems like a real oversight,” he adds.
