Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(9)

I’d come to dislike her pious personality more than I liked looking at her exterior.

As I affixed the lure in place, I decided that if that girl during my school breaks had been Charlotte, she’d been completely different when we were young. She’d turned out exactly like everyone else, hadn’t she? Like all the other boring, brainwashed, judgmental members of polite society.

Studying the early morning mist rising over the lake, I asked myself again, Why do I care?

I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. The end.

“Hey! Hank. You’re never going to believe this.”

At the sound of Beau’s loud whisper, I stood from my tackle box and turned toward the dock, watching the redhead’s approach. He appeared to be agitated and my stomach tightened.

“Shelly is pregnant,” I said automatically, waiting for him to confirm my long-held fear at last.

His steps faltered and his eyebrows pulled together as he drew even with the boat. “What? No, dummy. Shelly isn’t pregnant.” He stepped on the vessel, placing his cooler next to mine and no longer whispering. “Why do you always think I’m going to say Shelly is pregnant?”

The tension in me eased and I turned back to the tackle box. “It was a joke. What’s up?” It wasn’t a joke. It was going to happen sooner or later. And when it did, I would be happy for him. I would. I’d be so . . . happy.

Beau Winston—my best friend since forever and the best person I knew—had been in a serious relationship for several years with the same woman. I hadn’t been keeping track, but they’d been together more than five years but less than ten. Anyway, they weren’t married, but they’d moved in together. Which meant it was only a matter of time before the two of them began populating the earth with their spawn.

Don’t misunderstand, I got nothing against spawn (children), and my business partner’s kids seemed all right. Someone has to pay into social security and keep Medicare afloat. But I can’t employ children, nor are children—especially babies—likely to be customers of my club, or invest in my real-estate interests, or have extensive knowledge of the bond market. In short and in general, I had no use for kids.

But once Beau and Shelly had kids, the good times would be over. He’d be a dad. Since Beau was an exceptionally good man, he’d want to spend time with his spawn. That meant less fishing, no Saturday nights hanging out at Genie’s, fewer camping trips, and no more Beau picking up bartending shifts at The Pink Pony. Something about gestating and birthing spawn made even the most fun-loving of women abhor clubs like mine. Shelly didn’t even have kids and she wasn’t especially fun nor loving.

So. Yeah. The writing was on the wall, and it was written in baby food.

“It’s about Charlotte Mitchell,” he said, tapping my tackle box with his shoe, the movement urgent. “And it’s the nuttiest news since Diane Donner skipped town with Repo.”

Oh no. My heart skipped a beat. What has she done? “What is it?”

Clearly, I’d been right to be suspicious. The woman was making her move. Was Charlotte spreading rumors around town? Was I doomed to live a life of dingly donuts? I was so damn tired of driving all the way to Knoxville for a decent cup of coffee.

“Charlotte,” he said, pronouncing the T in her name with a crisp snap, “is stripping at The G-Spot.”

“Uh . . .” I held perfectly still. “Come again?”

“That’s right.” He nodded with vigor, his forehead wrinkling. “You heard me right. She’s stripping at The G-Spot. Hannah told me. I was checking out of the Piggly Wiggly late last night and she told me she was talking to Odell behind the register, who’d talked to Tina, and Tina had heard it from Catfish at the club, he was there when she asked for an audition.”

“When? When did she audition?” I don’t know why I asked the question. I already knew the answer.

“Sunday. But they didn’t have her audition.” Beau gave his head a disgusted shake. “Old Jasper took one look at her and hired her on the spot—no pun intended. Anyway, she starts this weekend.”

I rubbed my forehead. The G-Spot? Jesus. If she’d be chewed up and spit out at my club, she’d be chewed up, spit out, doused in gasoline, and lit on fire at The G-Spot. Then they’d piss on her ashes.

“Hank—” Beau reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “You have to step in.”

My eyes widened and I reared back. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” He gave me a small shake. “You should offer her a job at The Pony. Make her a bartender or a dishwasher or something—not a dancer.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“She can’t dance at The G-Spot,” he said with conviction. “We can’t let that happen.”

“Wha—why not?” I croaked.

“Why not? What do you mean why not?” Now he was looking at me like I’d lost my marbles. Or I was an idiot.

I glowered at the sky over his shoulder. The sun peeked over the edge of the tree line. If we didn’t leave the dock soon, all the fish would go back to sleep.

Charlotte Michell had already ruined three days this week; I did not appreciate her flailing antics encroaching on my fishing time with Beau. The woman was determined to be a stripper? Fine. Last time I checked, she was an adult, responsible for her own choices. She had agency and free will. Good luck to her.