Bayou Born(21)

“Oookay.” Her voice warbled with hesitation.

He led her to the bar to claim her purse.

“It’s Lady Branna, right?” Dale handed him the tab and motioned him closer. “As in, she’s like one of those British folks related to the queen or something? I met a guy at a restaurant in Lakeview once. Someone said he was the nephew of a king in one of those little countries in Europe. He spoke American with a French accent. She’s like him, right?”

James suppressed a chuckle. Branna wrinkled her nose and tilted her head as if she was trying to determine if Dale was teasing or not. Or maybe he made no sense to her at all. James couldn’t tell, though he was amused as she drained the last bit of her drink.

“I mean, should I ask her for her autograph?” Dale held up a one-dollar bill. Ten years ago, when Dale first started tending bar for his uncle at Tin Lizzie, whenever someone remotely famous or noteworthy wandered in, Dale asked them to autograph a one-dollar bill. He framed it on the back wall of the bar. When the wall was covered, he then started stapling autographed bills on the ceiling, like the Irish pub over in Pensacola had done, until there was not a spec of ceiling tile showing. James had heard rumors that Tin Lizzie’s ceiling was specially insured.

“Well, I don’t know.” James cocked his head. “I only met her yesterday. She said she’s southern royalty. Who knows, maybe she is. I don’t think she’s the lying type. Ask her.”

He watched Dale slide a dollar bill in Branna’s direction and ask her the question.

“I’m not legally a lady...” She pursed her lips as if struggling to find the right words. She blinked a few times, then started again, “Well, I was raise to be a lady...but not the type you mean.” She hiccupped. Confusion flashed across her face when Dale insisted again that she sign the dollar bill. Flustered, she wrinkled her face like a kid about to cry.

“Sign, then I’ll give you back your purse.”

James nodded, hoping to encourage her so he could get her out of the bar. She looked up at him wide-eyed. Her gaze locked on his as though she was drowning and needed him to toss her a lifeline. She licked her lips, then tried to shove her hair behind her ears. The large tequila drink had rocked her boat more than he’d imagined.

“Here.” James handed over a pen. He moved closer to whisper in her ear. “Just scroll your name across the bill. You’ll make the guy really happy. It will give him something to brag about.”

As if under hypnotic suggestion, she moved the tip of the pen across the dollar, then handed it to Dale, who then, handed back her purse.

Pulling some bills from his pocket, James paid the tab, leaving a sizeable tip. He held out his hand to Branna, who took it and squeezed tightly.

Outside under the flicking floodlights, bugs bumped against the light and buzzed. Gravel crunched under their feet as they made their way to his car. He kept her hand in his and helped balance her with his other hand in the small of her back. He felt her shiver. The evening coolness made him wish he had a blanket in the trunk. The river was not even a mile away. There, they could relax before the drive home. Who was he kidding? He had more than relaxation in mind. The outside air had not cooled his arousal.

They passed a crew-cab pickup with a couple in the backseat. The parking-lot floodlight created a silhouette of a man and woman engaged in a fierce lip-lock.

“Getta-a-roooom!” Branna slurred her words.

“Com’on Pumpkin, we gotta go. That good ol’ boy in that truck could have shotgun. No sense in riling the natives.” He hustled her along, then glanced back to the truck before he opened the car door for her. The couple inside the pickup gave no sign of hearing Branna’s shout while they tore at one another’s clothes.

Branna slunk down in the seat as though she had no bones in her body. “I’ve never been drunk before. So this is what it feels like.”

She marveled at her own drunkenness?

He hooked her seatbelt, and then closed the door, rounding the car to the driver’s side. He pulled from the parking lot with one eye on Branna, who attempted to open the window. Once she rolled it down, she laid her head on the frame and squealed, “Wheeee!”

“Never?” he asked incredulously.

“No. Never.”

She giggled as though she enjoyed a private joke. He shook his head. Branna Lind was full of surprises.

Their outing had gotten out of hand. That was his fault. He’d take full responsibility, but more alone time with Branna right now would lead to serious problems. His brain shouted, “No!” His body, screamed, “Yes!”

He turned onto the road to Lakeview, a half-moon shone above. Except for an occasional farmhouse with a floodlight, the view everywhere now looked the same—empty darkness.

“Where do you live Miss Lind? Where is your house?”

“Remember...truck...last night? Beat up, white. Said you’d...introduce that guy. Interested in his house...but now...”

“What’s your address Branna?” He slowed to the side of the road and leaned closer to hear her mumblings.

“I think...”

“Think what?”

Branna’s head lolled to the side.

Damn it. She’d gone to sleep.





Chapter 14

Branna woke. Her body was limp and her brain enjoyed a pleasant haze as someone carried her. In the darkness, she looked up into James’ barely visible face. His thighs bumped against her butt whenever he took a step. She circled his neck with her arms and would have gone back to sleep, except that the butt bumping made her giggle. The buzz from the margarita wrapped her in state of relaxed surrender. And she couldn’t deny it, the hardness of his body intrigued her.

“Pumpkins are lighter,” James grumbled when they were a few steps from the landing at the front door.

“Huh?”

“Your midnight changing act. What happened to it? I’m not carrying a pumpkin up these steps. You look like a featherweight on your feet. But I have to say, you weigh more than a pumpkin in deadweight.”

“Where are we?” Shadows surrounded them. Tree shapes created by moonbeams draped the darkness. She leaned back a bit to see the ground was far below. Her brain began to compute. She was alone in the woods with a man she barely knew, and he was carrying her up to a cabin. His touch had produced the most wonderful quivers all night. Dare she admit to erotic stimulation? His kiss was smoother than satin. She had every intention of exploring the adventure of James. Once they made it inside.

But a headline about a dead college instructor flashed in her head. She tensed.

“Relax. You’re safe. This is a protected place with coffee and food before the drive back. Listen, local cops sit and wait for drunks to leave the bars down the highway a mile. Neither of us needs to make the police-blotter list tomorrow.”

When James got close to the door, close enough to press the handle, it poked her butt. The front door opened, and once across the threshold, he set her on her feet. She swayed, a definite margarita wobble. He caught her. Was this a game they were playing?

“Anyone home?” she called sing-songing-ly. When no one responded, she giggled. “No one’s home. Are we breaking and entering? No. Couldn’t be that because you didn’t break anything. No door. No glass. Maybe your back. Carrying me up those steps. Are you okay?” She swayed. Being drunk wasn’t so bad. She giggled, remembering the lengthy lecture her grandmother gave about the demons of alcohol.

Taking a step from the doorway toward the living room, she tried to balance on both feet, but swayed. James caught her, picked her up and plopped her on a couch that faced a large stone fireplace.

“I’m not a sack of potatoes.” She frowned.

“Pumpkins. Potatoes. I could think of other ways of describing you.”

He knelt in front of her, put a pillow on the armrest of the couch and guided her to lie back. He scooped up her feet, dropped her shoes, and let her stretch out long on the couch.

“You mean descriptions like the ones that sleazy bartender used at the Library?”

If he heard her, he ignored her question.

“I’ll make some coffee and get us some food,” he said.

She rose to sitting when he walked around the couch and toward the kitchen. The place had a definite cabin feel, but in Mississippi, houses built on stilts were called camps in the bayous and flood-prone areas. “Is there water nearby?”

“We’re waterfront on the Itchneetucknee River. This is my grandparents’ escape.”

She collapsed back down on the couch, her eyes too heavy to stay open.

A few minutes later she woke. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee lifted to her nose, but she wasn’t ready to let go of her margarita buzz. The mellowness relaxed her. All thoughts of anything else disappeared. But—the desire she experienced on the dance floor with James had not diminished a bit. She squeezed her legs tightly together, then stretched long. She had an itch that demanded scratching.