The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie

6. REDNECK BLUES

After Skye took off, nearly causing a three-car pileup in her wake, Rowdy stood on the curb, watching downtown traffic fly by, a frown on his face.

No freaking way was that snotty, snooty, uptight little witch his Skyebaby!  His angel was sweet and sassy, smart and fun and funny, full of sugar and spice.  Not condescending and superior and contrary like Jade Ballard.  The reality and the fantasy just didn’t mesh, but even as upset as he was, he hoped she’d be okay. 

His head still reeling, Rowdy walked the few blocks back to where he’d parked the Bronco and climbed in, cranking up the A/C.  His shirt now stuck to him thanks to the evening’s heat, and the silver wrapping paper had grown sweaty in his hand.  He threw it and the rose onto the passenger seat, but he wasn’t ready to go home.  He drove up I-35 to New Braunfels and then took 46 home.  The twisty, hilly, extra long drive required all his concentration and bought him plenty of time to calm down.  Once he got there, he sat in his Bronco, listening to the cicadas and wondering why he should even bother climbing out.  But the sickly sweet scent of the wilted rose made staying in his huge old tin can for any amount of time impossible.

With a sigh, Rowdy killed the engine before it overheated and blew up, slid out from behind the wheel and slowly walked down the driveway to the mailbox on still-shaky legs.  Only to be greeted by the sight of another damned letter from his sister, the California penal system’s latest bible thumper. Damnitalltohell, did she not give up? 

He shoved the letter and half a dozen fliers back inside and slammed it shut, then stood there scowling at the box.  As if a poor mailbox were to blame for all his troubles.  No, he was to blame.  He was the one who fell for some sweet talker’s internet bullshit.       

He lost a fight with the gate, trying to get in the yard and finally kicked it open, stomping up the walk and through the front door.  His keys and her present landed on the hall table.

Rowdy sagged against the door and slumped to the floor, not caring that his clothes might end up covered in dust.

Tonight was supposed to have been the start of something great.  The rest of his life and maybe, just maybe some sort of future.  One he’d never dreamed of.  One that had previously left him with too many reservations to reach for. 

Abuse, and judging from Charlene’s letters, sheer stupidity ran in his family.  She’d gotten pregnant at fifteen, been a mom at sixteen, run off at nineteen, leaving her husband and daughter behind, then become an eight year guest of the state of California. 

He would never, ever, hurt a woman or child, but that wasn’t to say he’d never committed an act of violence.  His 16-year-old had never been able to shed the guilt of putting his own father in the hospital where he’d later died.  Or his mother’s silent accusations.  Even if he’d probably saved his mother’s life in the process.  He stared unseeing at the little silver box on the table across from him then squeezed his eyes shut.

Rowdy didn’t want to pass that sort of legacy on to a child.  He’d always been content to just be Uncle Rowdy, have a Wife-For-A-Night when needed and go on about his business.  At best, he’d hoped to find some woman who had kids and wouldn’t want more.  At worst, he’d have remained single. 

Then he met Skye.  Jade.  What the hell kind of name was Jade Skye?  Was that even her name or an internet moniker?  Didn’t matter.  He’d fallen for a fantasy, an  illusion that was probably as much of his making as hers.  As much as he knew about her, he apparently, didn’t know a thing.  Oldest of three, dumped at the altar by her fiancé, worked in sales.  Loved music.  Played the piano but couldn’t sing a lick.  Got thrown out of ballet but loved to dance anyway.  Mom wouldn’t let her take tap.