Page 63 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“We plan to visit him in the clink this morning.” Faye’s honeyed tone sounds like she’s stepped right out of an old black-and-white western film.
The clink? Seriously?
I disappear into the pantry for chamomile and ginger tea bags. The herbs are gentle on the stomach, good for headaches, and are precisely what a hangover begs for.
I also appreciate the privacy.
“That’s nice of you both. I am working, so if that’s everything—”
“Sammy tried to talk Nash out of it.” Wilma’s on my last shred of patience. “He was taking one or all. Public intoxication. Disorderly conduct. Assault. So Hart offered to sleep it off in a cell. Claims he initiated the fight.”
I was there, listening from the sidelines. I know what happened. Not much more than macho nonsense and too many beers. He wasn’t even part of the scuffle with the biker earlier, so I have no idea why he ran out there throwing punches after it had already been dealt with.
Hothead.
“We are waiting for Molly to get there and grant us access to visit Hart, and I’ll tell you, that boy will have fire in his eyes and your name on his breath.” There goes Faye, her voice rolling in like a warm breeze through a dusty canyon.
“I’d bet money it will be to curse me out.”
Like I curse out the kettle when it whistles, demanding I return to the staff whose ears are all too eager to listen.
“Ladies, I have to go. Have a good day. Bye.”
I rush back into the kitchen and take the kettle off the burner. I drop the handful of tea bags in a jug and put half a dozen slices of bread in the conveyor toaster. Just as I pour the steaming water into the waiting jug, Wilma’s voice breaks the silence.
“Hart Wilde protected your reputation in that bar fight.” Her steel-edged voice pierces the room. “That’s practically a proposal ‘round here.”
My heart stops beating. I swear the silence that follows could strike me dead. I wish it would.
“Ladies...”
“And the poor boy ended up behind bars,” Faye takes over. “Lookin’ like a rugged cowboy cover model with just the right amount of stubble and sin.”
The sight of Hart in jail lookin’ like stubble and sin, slams into the forefront of my mind in ways I don’t like.
It’s that damn nightmare.
“Siri, end call,” I snap over my shoulder, regretting not grabbing the supplies and running to the staff kitchen.
Siri tells me she didn’t quite catch that.
“With that bad-boy pout and everythin’. Like Johnny Cash in county lock-up.” If Faye breaks into song, I’m going to lose it.
“Siri, hang up.”
“Can you say that again?” she replies.
“Black eye, busted lip, and a righteous cause,” Wilma adds.
“Or like he just stepped out of one of Lena’s southern romance novels titled ‘For Love and Handcuffs’.” Faye does enjoy the local romance authors’ spicy books.
“Siri, end call now!”
“Sorry, something went wrong,” she replies.
“And we printed out his picture from the jail roster. His mugshot has smolder.” Faye’s voice has smolder.
“He’ll be released this morning, so what are you gonna do, Jade?” Wilma asks. “Go visit him? Take him a casserole?”
