Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(71)
“Aren’t you sweet? Taking such a concern.” Unlike mine, Fisher’s sincerity was bona fide or at least it seemed to be from her good-natured tone. “Good guys like you make up for dirtbags like my boyfriend. Albert, honey, you can rub a little harder. I’m tougher than I look.”
I heard Michael’s convulsive swallow as loudly as if it had come from my own throat, but he obeyed and increased the pressure. The contented sigh that ruffled my hair from the backseat indicated he had hit the spot. “It’s the usual sad, sad story,” she said with a carefree air that was belied by a faintly bitter undertone. “Cocky guy, stupid girl. Junior doesn’t have a chance. With his parents, the poor kid will probably have to repeat preschool three times.” There was another sigh, this one much less content. “Can’t say I didn’t make my bed, though, and whining won’t change a thing. We had one last big fight and I told him to stop the car and let me out. Great guy that he is, he did. Took off and didn’t even look back.”
Pink nails flicked through Michael’s hair. “You get a girlfriend, sweetie; you treat her real nice, okay?”
On that note Michael’s blush progressed to full-blown, spontaneous human combustion and he hurriedly finished with the massage, “I’m not sure a girlfriend is the best idea for me.”
“Oh, well, a little boyfriend then.” Untroubled, she fished a piece of hard candy out of her coat pocket and popped it into her mouth. “Just be sweet to whoever you end up with.”
“That’s not what I . . . Never mind.” The conversation was too close to home for Michael and he turned in the seat to face the front. It was debatable whether he would ever trust himself enough to allow the creation of a bond—sexual, romantic, or both—with a girl or woman. That same uncertainty applied to the bonds between family . . . between brothers. Eventually, when we were safe, I could look into providing him with DNA evidence proving that we were related, but that still might not do the trick. Michael had to allow himself to believe, and I wasn’t sure he was emotionally capable of that—not now; perhaps not ever.
It was not the best of thoughts and I let it wash away under the bright chatter that flowed out of Fisher like an endless stream of sticky, sweet molasses. She talked about her worthless boyfriend, her cheerleading days, her plans to go to college after the baby was born, but mostly she talked about Blossom. Blossom this and Blossom that. The dog ignored it all, even the tale of her rescuing seven children from a burning building while still wearing the blue ribbon from her last dog show. I didn’t believe any of it for a second, but it made for a good story.
It wasn’t long before we had to stop for lunch. Waycross was only twenty or so miles, but it turned out a hungry pregnant woman could be a cranky one. The honey in her voice began to turn to vinegar after she finished off the last of her candy. We ended up at yet another barbecue joint. They sprinkle the landscape of the South like a savory-smelling, greasy-fingered Milky Way. This one was lacking a purple pig out front, which was probably for the best. A repeat of that scenario might have PETA all over my ass, and my ass was fairly well booked up for the moment, although we hadn’t seen any sign of Jericho in the past two days. Then again, I really hadn’t expected to. The fastest of supernatural healers wasn’t going to shake off a bullet to the gut and a shattered leg that quickly. And I doubted he would send a team after us that he couldn’t head himself. Jericho was the hands-on type.
“Here! Stop here.” A hand pounded the back of my headrest. “I’ve heard of this place. It’s supposed to be best round these parts.”
Best round these parts . . . who could argue with that? I pulled into the parking lot that was nothing more than a patch of bald, red ground. And there we were at Annie’s Big Fat Fannie. There was a blinking neon sign in the window that let us know just how fat that fanny was. It was a simple design: glass tubing twisted into two pinkish red curves that buzzed cheerfully as we walked to the door. If Annie’s fanny was indeed as large as indicated, the food they served must be good. Inside there were mostly booths with red and yellow plastic seats and a few scattered tables. We chose a table to accommodate Junior’s girth, but I did maintain enough control of the situation to choose one that gave me a clear view of both exits.
Fisher didn’t care one way or the other. She dived headfirst into the menu as she waved one frantic hand for immediate service. By the time the waitress—obviously not Annie as the fanny was flat as a pancake—arrived, Fisher had picked out three lunch specials. Two were for her and the other was for Blossom who was still snoozing along with Godzilla in the back of the car. Michael and I put in our own orders, unmanly single servings, and a few minutes later were provided with pint-sized jars full of iced tea garnished with a frozen peach slice. Fisher ignored hers and made her way through a basket full of fried biscuits slathered with apple butter.
“Someone who can out-eat you, kid.” I kicked Michael’s ankle lightly under the table and tipped the fruit into the tea before taking a swallow. Not too bad. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Even the best of us have off days.” Clearly challenged, Michael reached for a biscuit, only to have his hand swatted away.
“Sorry, sweetie,” Fisher apologized. “It’s you or Junior, and Junior always wins.”
“I see.” He shook his fingers as if they stung. Fisher must pack quite a punch, I thought with amusement. “It’s too bad Junior hasn’t learned about sharing yet.”