The Sword and the Scythe

Chapter 11: Tennessee Whiskey

"I didn't realize you'd lived in California for so long. When did you move out there?"

"When I got back from the Great War. Had some business to take care of, but I liked the place so much, I never left."

"Hold on—you fought in World War I?" She looked over at him, her green eyes wide. He couldn't help but resent the incredulity in them a little bit.

"Why does that surprise you?"

"Well, you know, you always see World War I vets as fresh-faced kids and clean-cut guys with perfect, short hair."

Leroy ran a hand through his unruly black mop feeling more self-conscious than he had in a long time. "I wasn't always the definition of dysfunction, you know. I did fight in the second one, too. You saw me in the picture—clean-cut or not," he added as he winced. There he went again with the oversharing.

"Enjoy pounding on some Nazis, did you?"

"I can't stand war—even if it's justified." He looked out the window at the yellow fields passing by. "Every war comes down to a bunch of old men sending idealistic boys to fight their battles because they don't know any better than to do what they're told. The old men in charge might change, but it's only ever the boys being killed."

"Hold on a minute," she half-shouted, making him jump a little as his head throbbed from the noise. "If you're older than dirt, why didn't you help me in my American History classes? I got a Bon that World War I essay."

He let out a sigh of relief. "I guess I'm just an asshole like that."

She elbowed him, her skin leaving a tingling trail where it brushed his, a playful expression lighting up her face before tightening her grip on the wheel.

That smile in the corner of her mouth made it impossible for him to stop staring at her. At least she didn't seem to notice his gaze as she drove too fast down the interstate. She changed the radio station to country station. He hated country music—if it wasn't Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, or Dolly Parton, he didn't want anything to do with it. But he watched as she sang along to the upbeat song, slamming her hands against the steering wheel and dancing in her seat with that alluring smile on her face. It almost made him like the song just because she enjoyed it so much.

"You know what we should do?"

"What?" he asked, a smile creeping in the corner of his mouth as he looked at her. The newfound enthusiasm she had was so infectious that he almost felt a bubble of excitement rise up from his stomach.

"We should go to a bar tonight! Let off some steam."

"I don't know if that's a good idea. We need to make the most of our head start," he said even while every cell his body screamed Whiskey!

"Oh, come on! It won't throw off our schedule much, and it'll be at least another day before we back track to Arizona." She turned and flashed him those big green eyes. "Please?"

He shrugged. "Whatever you want. You're the driver."

Later that night they checked into a Hilton. Leroy did not want to make a habit of staying in seedy motels. He'd conceded that the previous night it was necessary because of the detective—he didn't need for anyone to see them carrying an unconscious body in and out. But he preferred nice beds and clean sheets. Plus, this time he was able to get a room with two beds. He couldn't help noticing that Charlotte hadn't curled up against him the night before. At least, not until she'd already fallen asleep. Then she'd rolled over to him like it was instinct, burying her head in his chest in that way that made him feel alive.