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"I don't know if it's supposed to be said like 'I wantmore,'or like a 'mural'."
"I say demure," Goldie said, using themuralsound.
"Well I say the opposite. Demure," Velma countered with themoreversion.
"It's like caramel. Is it car-mel or car-a-mel?" Goldie asked.
We all piped up with our different versions.
"Your turn, hot stuff," Esther said. We all looked to JT.
"Panties," he replied, taking a sip of his drink.
My mouth fell open. So did the others.
"Why?" I wondered.
He shrugged. "Just don't like saying it."
"If not panties, what should they be then?"
He was facing all of us, but his gaze was on me. "On the floor."
7
Two hours later, JT and I sat across from each other—still—and questioned our sanity. I was forming a little ass groove in the cushion beneath me. Goldie and Velma had gone to sleep, the two of them sharing the small bedroom in the back, only after Esther grabbed the cat, who hadn't been happy about losing its bed. How Goldie and Velma fit in that bed was beyond me, but that was their problem. Whatwasmy problem was that I could hear them snoring through the closed door. Esther had made it one drink longer than the other two and had conked out in the recliner, her head tilted back, mouth open, cat asleep in lap. She, too, snored and sounded like a buzz saw.
"I've never heard anything like it," JT said, wincing when Esther's snore turned into a snort.
I put my hands up to my ears. "I'm not drunk enough to survive this."
JT stood, held out his hand. "Let's get out of here."
I stared at him for a moment, long enough to suffer through a chorus of commingled snores. I reached out, took his hand and we fled the RV.
Once we'd walked far enough away to have the buzz saw silenced, we paused. His hand was big, engulfing mine, but his touch was gentle. Warm. Very reassuring for someone who'd tased me. Oh yeah, the guy was a jerk. It was just hard to remember that when his hand felt good. And that was just his hand. So I tugged it from his grip and stepped back.
The night was cool, but I didn't need a jacket. The parking lot was deserted, the bright halide lights set JT in harsh shadows. He ran a hand over his face. "How do you handle that?" He tilted his head toward the RV.
"Thailand."
"And when you were younger?"
A slight breeze swept my hair into my face and I tucked it behind my ear. "Boarding school, college, career."
"The only way I'm going back in there is if I get more to drink first." He thumbed over his shoulder toward the RV.
"All right, then where?"
JT glanced around. "Bowling alley?"
I turned to where he looked, saw the flickering neon sign in the squat building next to the Walmart. Chippers Lanes' lot was full. It appearedtheplace to be in Hardin. I shrugged. "You want to bowl, Detective?"
He grinned, ran his hand over the back of his neck. "Bowling's best when you're not sober, so why the hell not? I promise not to pinch your ass like Frank."
Pinch? No. Pat or hmm…spank? Yes, please.
"It's not my sport, but I'm up for it." Anything was better than the snoring Three Stooges.
