Page 121 of Whiskey Chase
“You know what?” Cassidy said, looking at me with disdain. “The longer I talk to you, the more I just wanna punch you right in the face.”
“Bring it on, Deputy Assface.”
Cassidy sucker punched me right in the dang face. I was so surprised I fell back on the bed. But the second my ass hit mattress I launched myself at her. The force of our bodies hitting the wall dented the drywall.
Growing up in Bootleg, Cassidy and I learned how to fight dirty. I grabbed a hold of her hair and gave her a shot to the gut with my knee.
She grunted and threw an elbow that connected with my right boob.
I got off a short shot to her jaw that snapped her head back. But Cassidy wasn’t weak from a week of moping. She gripped me by my t-shirt—Devlin’s Cock Spurs t-shirt that I hadn’t given back—and threw me on the mattress. She climbed on and we traded shots, shouting insults.
“You’re the thick-headedest mule in three counties!” Cassidy yelled.
“You’re a redneck douchecanoe!”
“I can’t believe we’re friends!”
I tasted blood and wasn’t sure if it was my own or if it was dripping from Cassidy’s nose.
“Okay. That’s enough of that.” Bowie’s voice was amused when he picked Cassidy up off me. That pissed us both off. Cassidy kicked him in the shin with her bare foot, and I grabbed his hair.
“Ow! Fuck! Jameson!” Bowie screeched. “Get in here!”
Jameson hauled me over his shoulder and carted me into the living room, which was filled with gawkers.
“What in the hell are you two doing?” Gibson demanded, hands on hips. “Y’all have been best friends since birth.”
“She started it,” I snapped.
“I did! Because she’s a dumbass,” Cassidy growled, still fighting Bowie’s hold on her. “Bootleg Justice!”
“Don’t make me call my lawyer,” I yelled.
There was dead silence for five whole seconds in my house, and then Cassidy and I started to laugh. And we couldn’t stop. Calling a lawyer over Bootleg Justice? It just wasn’t done. Everyone was howling now, and the human restraints were no longer necessary. I met Cassidy in the middle of the room.
“Friends again?” I offered.
“Yeah. Just maybe stop being such a dumbass.”
We hugged it out and the crowd applauded.
“Now, what are you going to do about Devlin?” Bowie asked me.
“Yeah,” the crowd demanded.
“Bring him back!” someone started chanting.
“Pepperoni roll!” someone else chanted.
I climbed up on my coffee table, surrounded by people I’d loved since kindergarten. Friends and neighbors who had been there through the deaths of my parents and were willing to stand with me now even in this mess.
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do! I’m gonna get a shower!”
The crowd cheered.
“And then I’m gonna drive to Annapolis!”
They cheered louder.
