You'd Be Mine(46)

She grins sheepishly. “Even so, I’m sorry.”

I move to lean against the doorjamb and miss. I recover in time to catch her half grin.

“I should get going. We’re apparently meeting you guys at some bar tonight?”

“Taps,” I say with a salute.

“Right. That one.”

She hops down the porch steps, and my eyes follow her to the truck. She turns to face me once more, gives me a weak wave, and gets in. Fitz opens the screen door.

“All right, Jefferson,” he says with a knowing smirk. “Let’s get you in the shower before you sober up and realize what an idiot you’ve made of yourself.”

“You say idiot; I call it charm,” I say, following him up the creaky old stairs and managing to miss the first step.

Fitz snickers under his breath. “It doesn’t matter what you call it, friend; it matters what she’d call it.”

I grin to myself in the mirror, closing the bathroom door on Fitz. “Then definitely charm.”





17



Annie


saturday, july 13

indianapolis, indiana

We’re late, mostly because our driver takes us the long way down Meridian.

Taps is nowhere near the touristy bar scene. Taps is barely within the city limits. Once you run out of stoplights, all you see are cornfields and wind turbines in every direction. Then, seemingly in the middle of one of those endless fields, a few short miles from the dusty dirt road Jefferson calls home, is Taps. Which is just as well, as none of us is legal and I’m not interested in hitting up any location TMZ might stake out with the right tip-off.

There’s no cover, but they are taking a donation at the door on behalf of the Wounded Warrior Project, and all three of us dig into our pockets to contribute. A burly bouncer barely gives us a glance as we pass through the dark, propped-open doorway. Through the haze of cigarette smoke, I make out a large wooden plank dance floor where multiple couples, young and old, stomp around in circles. There is a neon-lit bar with two bustling bartenders and a few worn pool tables behind them. When we walk in, things feel hushed at once. I take a step back, but Kacey pulls me along, leading me straight to the bar. I try not to cast my eyes around too much, despite the clear fact we’re not locals. Jason comes up behind me and leans over the bar holding out a bill. One of the bartenders floats over, and he flashes her a winning smile.

“Six shots of your best Cuervo, se?orita.”

I roll my eyes so hard, I probably pull a muscle.

Jason catches it and shrugs impishly. “What? The ladies love when I charm them with my espa?ol.”

“Puh-lease,” I say. “Kindergartners know more Spanish than you. You were better off carrying around your drumsticks in your back pocket.”

The bartender pushes the shot glasses toward us. I hold out a hand. “None for me, thanks.”

Jason raises a brow and pulls them all toward him. “Obviously, I wasn’t ordering for you. Especially if you’re going to make fun of my muy bueno skills.”

“Grandma Angelica is rolling in her grave.” The bartender turns to me, expectant. “Just a ginger ale,” I say.

Kacey lets out a squeal. Fitz has found us. He’s followed by a curvy woman who looks to be in her forties.

“Maggie, this is our friend—”

She cuts him off in exasperation. “I know who Annie Mathers is, Fitz.” She holds out a hand, and I shake it. She looks me up and down with a knowing grin. “So you’re the one changing Clay’s religion.”

Jason spews tequila all over us like one of those fire breathers. A glance at the bartender and she tosses me a rag, which I immediately apply to the floorboards.

“Hey!” Jason protests, and so I toss it in his face.

“I’m not worried about you, ya ingrate.” I turn back to Maggie. “I’m so sorry about that.”

Maggie waves me off. “I’ve raised three boys of my own; I’ve grown used to dirty floors.”

“Wow, three? I never had a brother.” I feel my cheeks heat when she nods, grinning. Of course she knows. Everyone knows. Ignoring the twinge, I jab a thumb over my shoulder at Jason. “This one’s as close as I get.”

Maggie laughs. “I have a daughter, too.” She points at one of the bartenders, the petite auburn-haired, younger woman who passes me my ginger ale. I smile wide in greeting.

She wipes her hands on a fresh rag and offers one. “Lindy Parsons. I’m a huge fan, Ms. Mathers. Of both your mom and you.”

Maggie smiles fondly. “It’s true. She’s been a fan since the womb. I used to plug in headphones to my Discman and play Cora’s greatest hits over my belly.”

Usually talk of my parents makes me uneasy, but it’s impossible to feel uncomfortable around Maggie. She has this maternal vibe that makes you want her to brush your hair while you talk about your crushes.

“Well, we should probably be friends, then, because that’s how I became a fan as well,” I say to Lindy.

A slow song comes over the jukebox, and Fitz leads a giddy Kacey in a twirl of her peasant skirt around the floor. Jason starts chatting with a couple of young women in matching straw hats at the bar, and I hop on a stool with my ginger ale. Things pick up behind the bar, and Maggie jumps back to help. Soon it’s surpassing even her.