Idol (VIP, #1)(5)

On the bedside table sits a tall glass of some red drink. It’s filled with fresh ice, the glass beaded with condensation as if someone just brought it in. Next to it are four clear, blue pills and a note:

For the criminally stupid.

Despite the fact that movement makes my stomach heave, I snort. Memories of my hostess’s sharp tongue and rough hands rush in. I ignore them—because I really don’t want to remember how drunk I was—and pick up the glass.

The drink smells vaguely like a Bloody Mary but also of something sharp and citrus. I don’t want to taste it, but that axe is driving deeper, and I’m thirsty as f*ck.

It goes down hard, me gagging along the way, the pills I take with it almost getting stuck in my throat. The concoction is fizzy, which is a surprise. I’m guessing it’s Bloody Mary mixed with ginger soda and lemons—but hell, maybe there’s arsenic in it too. By the time I finish, I kind of enjoy the taste and feel like I just might live.

I lie on the white cloud bed, smell the touch of sea brine in the air, and listen to the wind chimes. Until the banging of pots and the slam of a cabinet door snag my attention.

Elly May.

If her name really is Elly May, I’m going to laugh my ass off. But Elly May sounds more like a sexy, hay-riding chick. The kind that will milk you dry then offer up her pie. My Elly May is far from that.

Yesterday was fuzzy, but I remember her all right: Frowning face. Foul mouth.

I hear it again in the form of a muffled “f*ck” and another slam of a door.

Grunting, I sit up, taking a few breaths as the room spins. I’m buck-ass naked and have to smile at that. Most interesting shower I’ve had in a while, and I didn’t even get off.

It takes an eternity to stand and even longer to reach my clothes. I find them neatly folded on a chair and smelling of Tide. My grandma used Tide. I shove my clothes on and head for the door.

I’ve been sleeping in the back room of an old farmhouse, apparently. I don’t remember what the outside even looks like, but inside is kind of spare country with plank floors and faded furniture.

There’s a nice, well-used Martin acoustic leaning against an entire wall of bookcases filled with old LPs. She must have a couple thousand records. Outside of a few deejays I’ve met, I haven’t seen anyone own actual vinyl records. They give the room a musty smell.

So, I’m dealing with a guitar-playing music lover. Please, God, don’t let this chick be some sort of Annie Bates psycho. But then I remember the way she glared at me last night. I doubt she’s my number-one fan.

I follow the noise and find her in a kitchen, a big square room with one of those classic farm tables that can seat twelve in the middle of it.

She ignores me as I sit at the table, my moves slow and pained. Fuck this shit. I’m not drinking that much again. Never. Again.

In the silence, I watch her stir something in a pot on the stove like she’s trying to beat whatever it is into submission. She is definitely not a hot bumpkin. No Daisy Dukes on this chick. Her plump ass hides under ratty jeans with holes in the knees as she stomps around in heavy black boots better suited for my bike—the bike I’m pretty sure is wrapped around her fence. I don’t remember crashing and haven’t got a scratch on me. The will of the universe is a strange thing. Why it brought me to her of all people, I don’t know.

My hostess moves to turn off the stove, and her profile comes into view. Long, straight hair the color of wet sand, gray eyes, and an oval face that should be all soft angles but somehow looks sharp and hard: Elly May is kind of plain. Until she opens her mouth.

Then it’s one long stream of colorful bitch.

It’s been years since I’ve had a female berate me for such an extended period of time. If the dousing of ice-cold water hadn’t shocked me yesterday, that tongue lashing surely did the job.

Yeah, she has a mouth on her. Though she isn’t using it now. I find that more unsettling.

“Hey.” My voice sounds like cracked glass. “I, uh, thanks for…ah…” I swallow. “Well, thanks.”

And people call me a poet.

She snorts as if she’s thinking the same. I silently will her to fully turn and face me.

And she does, her expression pinched with disgust. “You drink what I left you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I salute, fight a grin.

She just looks at me, then grabs a bowl and fills it. Her boots thud as she stomps over and sets it before me. A blob of lumpy white stuff stares back at me.

“It’s grits,” she says before I can speak. “I don’t want to hear any crap; just eat it.”

“You always this sunny?” I ask, taking the spoon she’s thrust in my face.

“With you? Yes.” She gets her own bowl and sits far away from me.

“‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’” While Elly May might have a juicy ass, she can’t be more than five foot three, and is small boned.

Her scowl takes on epic proportions. “Did you just quote Shakespeare?”

“Saw it on a tattoo,” I lie, because it’s fun to tease her. “There might have been something before that.” I scratch my bearded chin. “Something like… ‘Oh, when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd!’”

“Never saw that part on a tattoo,” she mutters, giving me a dubious look before taking a bite of her grits.