"Who, exactly, took her picture?"
"This joker here for one," Marsha retorted with a jerk of her thumb at the culprit. "But Jon-Michael deleted it."
"Yes, and I'll have you know—" the agitated photographer started to say, only to have Bluey step on his words.
"Shut up," the old man advised. He did not so much as twitch the shotgun in his arms but the photographer looked at his set face, shot a nervous glance at the weapon, and shut up.
"The guy with the white shirt took one," Lucy contributed, pointing out the individual in question. "And the babe with the bad haircut over there snapped off a couple."
The woman she had indicated shot her a look brimming with incredulity that anyone with two-toned hair could possibly disparage a perfectly acceptable spiked buzz-cut.
One of the customers pointed out yet another photographer who had shot off a frame and Bluey ordered them all to delete their images.
"Forget it," one photographer snapped, and all the others hesitated when he demanded belligerently, "What is this, a police state? You don't have the authority to make us delete our work."
"This is the state of the blues, boy—and I own it. I have the authority to do whatever I damn well please."
"I'll call the sheriff. I know my rights."
"You're not too bright, are you, son?" Bluey gave him a pitying look. "Hayley, pass this sorry sumbitch the phone. Punch 911, boy, just like you were still in the big city. And don't you believe a word you hear about police brutality in small town cops. Who says they would just as soon lock you up and throw away the key as look at you? Our Brutus isn't like that at all."
Paulette Benson, Gravers Bend sheriff, would have been surprised to hear her new name, and she was not like that at all. Bluey, however, was a better judge of human nature than the photographers. They deleted their memory cards or, in the case of one photographer who still worked old school, handed over his exposed film.
"Now the way I see it, you have a choice," he informed them. "You can stay and listen to some finest-kind blues, or you can go. Bother my bartender again and you get bounced. One more flashbulb goes off in her face and your camera gets smashed. It is all strictly up to you."
No one left.
Hayley discovered her hands were less than steady as she poured the first drink in the wake of the brouhaha. One might expect she would be accustomed by now to this sensation of having her skin peeled back so the fourth estate could get a good gander at her inner workings, but that simply was not something a sane person grew used to. Feeling the spotlight of attention focused on her made her feel naked, exposed, and alone. The only revenge at her disposal was to water down the journalist's drinks. And a feeble reprisal that was.
Her heart pounded and her temper simmered, and Jon-Michael was the last person in the world she wanted to deal with. But there he was anyhow, sliding his handsome muscular butt onto a newly freed barstool, propping his head up with one hand, and pushing an exquisitely wrapped package across the bar at her with his other.
"Hey, sweet thang," he murmured. "I got you something."
It had been a rough night and she was in no mood. Regarding the beautiful package as if were both reptilian and venomous, she said shortly, "Not now, Olivet."
He flashed that big ole charming grin at her. "Yes, now, Prescott," he insisted with an underlying hint of steel that told her he would not go away quietly.
Damn him. Damn him straight to hell. She knew what was in that package, and the last thing she needed tonight was to open it in front of an audience. In her mind's eye she could see her cheap, synthetic lace panties in pieces in his big hands. She heard again the intensity in his voice when he had said, I'll buy you new ones, Hayley. I will; I'll buy you new ones, only you gotta let me—and felt her face flame. It was payback time for knocking him off of the dock and into the water last night. He was going to publicly present her with a pair of rich-boy hundred dollar undies and there was not a damn thing she could do to prevent it. Several people were already hanging around the bar just waiting to see what was in the package. More than one was a reporter.
She tore off the ribbons, shredded the wrapping paper, and ripped open the box. Then she simply stood there for a moment, staring at its contents.
She uttered an abrupt bark of incredulous laughter and reached inside the box. Pulling out a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, complete with nose, bushy eyebrows and bristly mustache, she whipped them on, hooking the ear pieces in place and smoothing the brows. She looked up at Jon-Michael and gave him a mega-watt smile, feeling clothed again. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, darlin’. Pour me a club soda, will you?"
"You got it." A moment later she set it down in front of him. "This one is on the house."
"Mighty big of you, sweetpea." Considering band members’ soft drinks were gratis every night of the week. Picking it up, he saluted her with it, then took it with him as he sauntered off toward the stage.
She watched him go, and the stress knotting her stomach since last night slowly began to unravel. Maybe, just maybe, she would some day allow him to see her breasts again after all.
"Interesting look," a woman’s voice murmured a couple of hours later and Hayley turned to find Kurstin seated on a bar stool, her upper body draped across the top of the bar every bit as bonelessly as her brother had ever managed. Chin atop her stacked hands, she gazed up at Hayley, a crooked little smile tilting up one corner of her mouth. "Didn't anybody ever tell you the early Brooke Shields look is passé?"
"You're kidding me." Hayley licked her thumb and smoothed a synthetic brow. "And here I thought I looked so hip." She gave Kurstin a small smile. "So, what can I get you?"
"White wine." Kurstin was silent a moment as Hayley selected a glass and filled it. She looked up when Hayley tossed a cocktail napkin on the bar and set the drink in front of her. "I just stopped by to lend my moral support," she said, lethargically pushing herself upright. "But it looks as though my concern was premature. Here I was expecting it to be a zoo but it is actually rather civilized in here." Sipping her wine, she looked around. "Well, civilized if one doesn't mind being the undisputed center of attention. That’s gotta be a bit wearing."
"You don't know the half of it. And if zoos are your thing, you should have been here earlier, before Bluey whipped out his shotgun."
"Yeah, right. Pull the other one. You must think I was born yesterday."
She just raised her eyebrows and Kurstin sat a few degrees straighter. "You’re serious?" At Hayley's nod, she said with mild indignation, "Well, crap. I always miss out on all the good stuff." But then her expression dissolved into a dreamy little smile and Hayley had a sudden flash of what Kurstin must have been doing while she had been busy fending off reporters and their intrusive flashbulbs.
For a brief moment raw jealousy bloomed, tough and tenacious as a broadleaf dandelion in the height of summer. Then she ruthlessly weeded it out and cast it aside. All these years she had managed not to let bitterness consume her. Damned if she’d allow it entry now because her best friend achieved something she wished she could find for herself. Something, moreover, Kurstin richly deserved.