Overruled(48)

This is our tradition. Since we were sixteen years old, whenever I’d come home, when we wanted to be alone or if there was something big we had to talk about—it was a six-pack of Bud and a ride to the river.

A blanket on the bank is our therapy couch. Hasn’t failed us yet, and I have no intention of letting it fail us now.

After Jenny disappears from the doorway, I climb slowly up the porch steps—the way you’d approach a hibernating, crotchety old bear. You’re fairly certain it’s safe, but it’s best to be ready to bolt just in case it has one good swipe of its claws left.

I tip my hat to Nana in greeting. “Ma’am.”

Her eyes thin to razor-sharp slits. “I don’t like you, boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her crooked finger juts out at me. “You’re a Satan. Slitherin’ in to trick Eve out of Paradise.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“My great-grandbaby is the best thing you ever done.”

One side of my mouth pulls up in a smirk. “Can’t say I disagree with you about that.”

“Shoulda shot you years ago,” she grumbles.

I take the seat beside her, bracing my hands on my spread knees—like I’m giving her statement its due consideration. “I don’t know . . . if you shot me, there’d be nobody left to bring you your favorite drink.”

I lift my shirt, flashing the small bottle of Maker’s Mark Cask Strength hidden beneath, like a drug dealer on a corner. Citing her health, Jenny’s mother cut Nana off from the bourbon years ago—or at least tried to. But Nana’s a sneaky, crafty old bird.

Like a vulture.

She stares at the bottle, licking her thin lips the way a man who’s sighted an oasis among miles of desert would do. It might seem unbecoming to bribe an old woman with liquor. Tasteless to pump her for information. But this isn’t about manners, or respect, or doing the right thing.

This is about f*cking winning.

Plus . . . I would’ve brought Nana the revered Cask Strength anyhow. I’ve been sneaking her bottles of top-shelf brands for years. And she still hates me.

“Tell me about Jimmy Dean.”

She tilts back with confusion. “The sausage? We got some in the freezer.”

I roll my eyes. “No, the guy Jenny thinks she’s marrying—James Dean.”

And it’s like I’ve spoken the magic words. Years fade from Nana’s countenance as her scowl falls away and a dreamy smile takes its place. The first one I’ve seen in decades.

“You mean JD? Mmm-hmm, he’s a fine specimen of a man. If I were forty years younger, I’d make a play for him myself. Handsome, polite . . . he’s a good boy.” Then the familiar glower is back in place. “Not like you—Satan.”

I just chuckle. “What’s good ole JD do for a livin’?”

“He teaches at the high school. Chemistry or such . . . He’s a smart man. And talented—only been there this past year and he’s already assistant football coach. When that Dallas Henry gets booted from the head coachin’ position, I imagine JD’ll take his place.”

Mmm . . . old Sausage Link is coaching football at the same school where he used to be the jock-strap collector. There’s irony for you.

Nana eyes my hand as it rubs the bottle of bourbon, like a genie might spring out of it.

“What else?” I push.

She sighs, mulling it over. “His daddy passed on a few months ago. JD sold their farm and is havin’ a great big house built, brand new, in that fancy development out on 529. That’s where he’s takin’ Jenny to live . . . and Presley.”

My boot hits the porch with an angry thud. Over my dead f*cking body.

Nana reads me well. “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy. You got no one to blame but yerself.” She folds her arms and straightens with a haughty sniff. “You’re not a bad daddy, I’ll give ya that much. But . . . Jenny needs a man . . . a man who’s here.”

“I am here,” I tell her softly.

“Humph. And from what I hear told, you’re not alone. Brought a pretty little city girl with ya. A La-tina.”

Jenny’s mother’s voice hollers from inside the house, proving once again that a small town is a lot like the Mafia—ears everywhere.

“Momma! Be nice.”

Nana gives as good as she gets. “Don’t you tell me how to be!” Then she offers me a pearl of wisdom. “One good thing about dyin’—you don’t need to be nice to no one.”