dining room, while Fernando and Theresa huddle in the curve of the bar near the entrance, dark heads bent together, in the midst of some serious gossip. As usual.
Fernando turns as the door slams closed behind me, his amber eyes sparkling above his freshly shaped goatee. “Annabelle! You little slut, we were just talking about you.”
“Don’t call her a slut.” Theresa pinches Fernando’s well-muscled arm. He’s wearing one of his many skintight black tank tops, the ones that cling to each sculpted pec and washboard ab, showcasing the perfection of his body. The better to taunt we straight women with the majesty of the Latino god we’ll never have, I suppose.
He certainly isn’t hoping to hook up with someone at Swallows. Most of Theresa’s clientele is over the hill and all of them are straighter than the broom shoved up Jin-Sang’s ass. Fernando’s own bed-and-breakfast/antique shop/wine bar is the best (and only) place to meet and mingle with other men in Donaldsonville. It’s at the end of Railroad Street,and aptly named The First and Last Chance Wine Bar and Flophouse.
“It’s okay, she knows she’s a slut.” Fernando grins, dimple popping. “Right, honey?”
“That’s right, Fern.” I lean down, letting Fernando kiss my cheek just for the joy of seeing his nose wrinkle.
“Shut the front door! You smell like ass.”
“You would know.” I grin and plunk my purse down on the floor before sliding onto the stool next to Fernando’s.
“Oh, bitchy
and
slutty today. So, tell me, is it true you were shacking up in the middle of the day with both your doors wide open and—”
“Buffalo wings or cheeseburger?” Theresa interrupts, rattling her armful of bracelets at Fernando like he’s a cat to be scared away. Speaking of cats …
I turn to peer at where my bike and trailer are parked in front of the bar, feeling oddly pleased to see Gimpy still asleep in the back. I’m starting to get attached to the bastard, and would have brought him in if I didn’t know for a fact that Theresa would cut me if I toted something hairy into her place of business. She’s only five feet tall and small enough to wear her twelve-year-old daughter’s clothes, but she’s tough and not a fan of four-legged things.
She grew up in White Castle, the next town over, in a trailer full of six brothers and sisters and triple the number of cats. Rumor has it she drowned them all—the cats, not the brothers and sisters—the day hermother died of a fairy bite, just shoved the rheumy-eyed mongrels in a sack and pitched them into the Mississippi on her way into Donaldsonville.
I’m not sure the story is true, but I’ve seen Theresa draw a gun on a dog that lingered too long near her Dumpster. She didn’t kill it—just fired in its general direction—but still …
“Which one?” she pushes when I hesitate a second too long. “Or are you going to appease my motherly side and order some grilled chicken or something healthy?”
“You have a motherly side?” I ask, grabbing a handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of me.
“My kids think so, but the brats don’t know any better.” She doesn’t bother smiling. We both know she’s kidding. She’d give her life for Dina or Diego. “So, wings, I’m guessing?”
I nod. “With extra blue cheese and an Abita Amber.”
Theresa clicks her tongue and turns away, but not before reaching out to pat my arm. Just once, a swift pat-squeeze that’s over before it begins. Still, the gesture throws me. Theresa isn’t touchy-feely. She must have heard about the body … about what I had to do to the body.
Looking around the room, I spot the sympathetic glances from Shane and Nell and even Patrick—who I haven’t seen look anything but red and angry since the Saints were sold to some frigid state up north where they can’t even pronounce “who dat”—presses his lipstogether and nods. Ugh … it’s almost enough to make me get up and go home. If I hadn’t
Fernando turns as the door slams closed behind me, his amber eyes sparkling above his freshly shaped goatee. “Annabelle! You little slut, we were just talking about you.”
“Don’t call her a slut.” Theresa pinches Fernando’s well-muscled arm. He’s wearing one of his many skintight black tank tops, the ones that cling to each sculpted pec and washboard ab, showcasing the perfection of his body. The better to taunt we straight women with the majesty of the Latino god we’ll never have, I suppose.
He certainly isn’t hoping to hook up with someone at Swallows. Most of Theresa’s clientele is over the hill and all of them are straighter than the broom shoved up Jin-Sang’s ass. Fernando’s own bed-and-breakfast/antique shop/wine bar is the best (and only) place to meet and mingle with other men in Donaldsonville. It’s at the end of Railroad Street,and aptly named The First and Last Chance Wine Bar and Flophouse.
“It’s okay, she knows she’s a slut.” Fernando grins, dimple popping. “Right, honey?”
“That’s right, Fern.” I lean down, letting Fernando kiss my cheek just for the joy of seeing his nose wrinkle.
“Shut the front door! You smell like ass.”
“You would know.” I grin and plunk my purse down on the floor before sliding onto the stool next to Fernando’s.
“Oh, bitchy
and
slutty today. So, tell me, is it true you were shacking up in the middle of the day with both your doors wide open and—”
“Buffalo wings or cheeseburger?” Theresa interrupts, rattling her armful of bracelets at Fernando like he’s a cat to be scared away. Speaking of cats …
I turn to peer at where my bike and trailer are parked in front of the bar, feeling oddly pleased to see Gimpy still asleep in the back. I’m starting to get attached to the bastard, and would have brought him in if I didn’t know for a fact that Theresa would cut me if I toted something hairy into her place of business. She’s only five feet tall and small enough to wear her twelve-year-old daughter’s clothes, but she’s tough and not a fan of four-legged things.
She grew up in White Castle, the next town over, in a trailer full of six brothers and sisters and triple the number of cats. Rumor has it she drowned them all—the cats, not the brothers and sisters—the day hermother died of a fairy bite, just shoved the rheumy-eyed mongrels in a sack and pitched them into the Mississippi on her way into Donaldsonville.
I’m not sure the story is true, but I’ve seen Theresa draw a gun on a dog that lingered too long near her Dumpster. She didn’t kill it—just fired in its general direction—but still …
“Which one?” she pushes when I hesitate a second too long. “Or are you going to appease my motherly side and order some grilled chicken or something healthy?”
“You have a motherly side?” I ask, grabbing a handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of me.
“My kids think so, but the brats don’t know any better.” She doesn’t bother smiling. We both know she’s kidding. She’d give her life for Dina or Diego. “So, wings, I’m guessing?”
I nod. “With extra blue cheese and an Abita Amber.”
Theresa clicks her tongue and turns away, but not before reaching out to pat my arm. Just once, a swift pat-squeeze that’s over before it begins. Still, the gesture throws me. Theresa isn’t touchy-feely. She must have heard about the body … about what I had to do to the body.
Looking around the room, I spot the sympathetic glances from Shane and Nell and even Patrick—who I haven’t seen look anything but red and angry since the Saints were sold to some frigid state up north where they can’t even pronounce “who dat”—presses his lipstogether and nods. Ugh … it’s almost enough to make me get up and go home. If I hadn’t
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