Page 26 of Denim & Diamonds

My brows jumped. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” February reached for my beer and knocked back a healthy gulp. I have no idea why, but it was sexy as fuck.

“So you’re named after a hooker?”

“I am indeed. The medium also told my mother she was once a man named Chuck who robbed banks. So I think I made out on the deal.”

I lifted my chin to February. “You gonna drink the rest of my beer or you want me to make you your prissy cocktail? I picked up bleu cheese olives at the market the other day.”

February’s eyes lit up. “If you say you also have orange bitters, I might propose.”

My lip twitched. I’d picked that shit up, too. “I’ll make it. But I’m stirring it, not shaking.” As I stood, I glared at my brothers. “Benice.”

Trevor grinned. “Oh, I’ll beverynice.”

I wagged a finger at him. “The martini won’t be the only thing getting stirred if you don’t cut the shit.”

As I worked behind the bar, I listened to the conversation at the table.

“So how long are you in town?” Elvin asked.

“Almost another three weeks.”

“What do you do back in New York?”

“I design purses.”

“No shit. You know, Brock did some designing back in the day.”

I had no idea where this conversation was going, but I knew it couldn’t be good. I yelled over. “Whatever he’s about to tell you is a lie.”

“Really?” Elvin smiled. “So you didn’t sculpt stuff out of cat shit?”

I closed my eyes. “Fuck.”

February laughed. “He made sculptures out of cat shit?”

“Yep. Brock was probably five or six when we used to go to this park on the outskirts of town. It had a few swings and a slide with a sandbox. The local stray cats treated it like a litter box. Brock thought the shit was clay and started sculpting crap for our mom.”

“Did you know it was cat poop?” February asked.

“Of course. I’m not an idiot like my brother.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“What fun would that have been?” Elvin shrugged. “Our mom had a snowman made of three round cat turds and twigs on her windowsill until the day she died. I tried to get it when we cleaned out her house, but Brock beat me to it.”

February turned in her chair. “Do you still have the shit sculpture?”

I shook my head at my brother. “I’m going to kill you, Elvin.”

My brothers all laughed while I finished stirring—not shaking—a prissy martini. I set it down in front of February and waited for her to sip.

“Good?”

“Oh my God. This might be the best martini I’ve ever had. What brand of olive juice did you use?”

“They’re homemade. This little Italian market has an olive bar with all different kinds of stuffed olives.”

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