Million Dollar Road (27 page)

L
ireinne stormed through the wizard-and-orc battle Wolf was waging in the front room without a single glance. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, her younger brother's thin face was openmouthed with curiosity, his fingers still on the control pad for once.

“Hey, sis,” Wolf asked. “What's up with that lady hanging out all afternoon in the yard with Dad? What the hell were you hollerin' for, anyways?”

“Shut up,” Lireinne retorted with a glare over her shoulder. “It's none of your damned business.”

Once in the privacy of her room, she threw herself on her bed with the puppy, staring unseeing at the posters of Paris and Oslo above her on the wall, brown-streaked from a leak in the roof. The dog formerly known as Lima Bean, now called Lunchmeat, stretched his puppy-length on the bed next to her. He nudged her hand for a cuddle and she stroked his white fur in an absentminded caress. After her upsetting trip to the hospital, Lireinne was already worn out from her afternoon, beat to death by the turns it had taken. Coming home to Emma Freakin' Favreaux in the front yard after going through that was just too damned much to take for one day.

Earlier she'd made herself go visit Mr. Con in the hospital to see if the talk at the alligator farm was even close to true, but once there she'd been stunned to horror all over again at the enormity of the consequences of her single rash act. Lireinne hated to cry, she almost never did, but the sight of his gauze-wrapped hand had brought her to tears because once she'd seen it, she couldn't escape the knowledge that everything that had happened to him, all of it, was
her fault
.

If Lireinne hadn't taken the boys out to the alligator farm that night, then Snowball wouldn't have gotten loose and eaten Mr. Con's hand. Never mind that no one was ever going to find out—
she
was always going to know. Well, Bolt and Wolf might know about it, too, but when they were fleeing the farm in the Explorer, she'd threatened them, making sure they'd understand that they could all go to jail for trespassing if anybody opened their big mouth. The boys, still freaked after their wild night, had been so scared they'd sworn they'd never tell a soul.

Probably, she could count on them to keep the story under wraps for a couple of months, if she was lucky. Chances were the word would never get back to the farm anyway.

Still, Lireinne was positive she'd have trouble sleeping tonight, remembering how sad, how brave Mr. Con had been. He'd been in a lot of pain, too, she just knew it, even though he was trying so hard to act like he wasn't. During that visit it had been all Lireinne could do not to cry out,
It was me—I did it!
Now she felt like a really bad person for having thought he was just an old toucher. He wasn't an animal about it or anything. Being handsy was probably like a reflex or something, just a bad habit.

Beside her the dog rolled onto his back, begging for a tummy rub. Lord, then there was Lunchmeat, Lireinne thought, her guilt about the puppy an uneasy rock in her stomach. She hadn't just rescued Mr. Con's wife's little dog, she'd, well . . . basically
stolen
him.

Uncomfortable at that thought, Lireinne shifted on the bed, remembering the lies she'd told Bud and Wolf about finding Lunch-meat on the side of the road. But I'd do it again, she vowed.

The poor thing had been cowering in the grove of willow trees, covered in mud and trembling like he was freezing to death. Unscathed except for a bald spot on his little plume of a tail, he was frantic to jump into her arms to safety. The Sykes twins were capturing Snowball while Mr. Con staggered away from the pond, leaning on a wailing Tina, and those two women were screaming as loudly as the peacocks when they saw him covered in blood. In the midst of the chaos, no one had noticed when, desperate to save
somebody,
Lireinne had tucked the puppy under her sweater. She'd sneaked behind the willow trees and run for her car the long way, back behind the barns, and the next morning at work she discovered to her immense relief that nobody believed Lunchmeat had survived the gator's attack. Everyone was still talking about how Snowball had eaten both Mr. Con's hand
and
the little dog.

Well, Lireinne thought, she had no choice but to keep Lunch-meat. Now that she'd stolen him, she couldn't take him back. Moreover, Lireinne was positive that woman, Mr. Con's wife, wasn't capable of looking after a puppy—for shit's sake, she'd brought him out to the alligator farm, of all places! He wasn't even on a
leash
.

As for Jennifer-whoever, Lireinne didn't give a damn, although Mrs. Costello had sure been mad about her, mad enough to whack Mr. Con with her crutch. Huh, Lireinne thought. It was obvious that her poor boss was married to another one of those nose-in-the-air bitches, somebody who treated her precious puppy like a purse, a hat, an . . . accessory.

And besides, Lima Bean was a ridiculous name for a dog that'd narrowly escaped becoming Snowball's next meal. Lunchmeat was much more like it.

Lireinne planted a possessive kiss on the puppy's little white head. “Good dog,” she whispered into his floppy ear. “You're
mine
now, not hers.”

But what the hell was Bud thinking, hanging out with Emma? When she'd driven up, she hadn't been too angry to notice that they'd been standing awfully close to each other. Lireinne ran her hand through her hair, expelling a perplexed breath full of wordless irritation. Was Bud just being polite? For sure, her stepfather was supernice to everybody, no matter who they were—including stuck-up fakes like Emma. Hell, he was even friendly with process servers and bill collectors.

But what if there was something else going on, like maybe Bud having a, a . . .
thing
for Emma? Lireinne wondered doubtfully. It had been a long time since Bud had had a girlfriend.

No way, she told herself in firm denial. That was plain impossible. Her stepfather wouldn't have been so easy to fool, would he? Surely he could figure out on his own that Emma wasn't worth talking to. Couldn't he see how stupid she looked, looking as stiff and empty-headed as a Banana Republic mannequin in the middle of all the crap in the front yard? How snobby she was, traipsing out to the trailer in those expensive shoes and designer jeans?

No, Lireinne sighed again, positive she knew Bud better than that. He was only being himself. Bud never had a mean word to say to anyone, not even someone who'd . . .

There was a soft knock at her door.

“Lireinne, honey? You gonna let me in?”

“Why?” She didn't want to listen to Bud, not while she was still so upset and confused.

Bud didn't take the hint. “Just want to talk to you, babe. C'mon—open the door for me, now.”

With a loud groan, Lireinne got off the bed. She unlocked and opened the door to find her stepfather giving her that
look,
the one that told her she'd assed up.

“What do you want?” Lireinne said, her face sullen. She knew full well he was going to give her a hard time for being rude to a guest.

It was an ironclad rule in the Hooten household, being polite to anybody who knocked on the trailer's old door—even the Parish enforcement officials come to serve notice that the septic tank wasn't up to code, the fat Social Services man who'd wanted to know why Wolf had missed the first week of school, or the cable guy when he came to disconnect the pirated line. According to Bud, those people were only doing their jobs and so there wasn't any need to go off on them, but being nice to Emma Favreaux, in Lireinne's opinion, was just asking to get treated like dirt. Anyway, Lireinne hadn't been rude to her, just
honest
.

Trying to act as though she was indifferent to the look Bud was giving her, Lireinne folded her arms, certain she was holding the high ground in this exchange.

“I think you kinda overreacted out there,” Bud said. He scratched his bald head, his eyes full of mild accusation. “Seems to me, you didn't have a call to act like that, no matter how bad that lady hurt your feelins before.”

Of course he'd say that. Rolling her eyes, Lireinne turned her back on Bud and flounced across the room to her bed. “She didn't hurt my damned
feelings
. I just don't want her being here at the house—that's all.” She collapsed on the edge of the mattress, not looking at her stepfather, wishing he'd let it go, even though she knew he wouldn't. Not yet. Bud could be so freaking stubborn.

“I hear what you're sayin', but she's a nice lady . . .”

“No!” Lireinne was adamant. “She's nothing but a lying bitch. We don't need her for a damned thing.” So there, she thought. Still, she couldn't help feeling as though she was letting Bud down somehow, and that made her angrier than ever. Emma was the one who was wrong here, not her.

Bud wasn't ready to drop it, though, because he came in her room. He sat down on the bed next to her, the old mattress sagging under his weight. Lunchmeat crawled into his lap, little tail wagging, and commenced chewing at a button on his plaid flannel shirt.

“Everbody makes themselves a mistake now and then.” Bud's big hand, as tough, scarred, and calloused as an old work boot, gently disengaged the puppy's teeth from the button. “It's like this here little dog. He don't have any idea he's doing wrong when he gets into something—like your flip-flops. Remember how you handled that, him chewing on 'em? Like he just needed to learn better? I think this lady's got her heart in the right place. She didn't mean nothing harmful by it. Emma's been through hell, I figure. I believe she's trying, too. Trying real hard, 'cause you sure weren't cutting her any slack out there.”

Lireinne barked a bitter laugh, amazed at Bud's naïveté. “Yeah? Then she should try harder at minding her own business. I
hate
her.” She retrieved Lunchmeat from Bud's lap, knowing she'd sounded like a little kid but not caring. She shouldn't have to listen to this talk of being nice to Emma.

“I hope to hell I never see her ass again,” Lireinne added vehemently.

“Uh, that's a 'nother thing I want to talk to you about,” Bud said with some deliberateness. He rubbed his big hand over his head as he gave her a long look. “See, Emma's invited us all over for dinner tomorrow night and I hope you'll go. Give her another chance, Lireinne. I think it took a lot of guts for her to come out here to see you, so you know she's not just yankin' your chain, darlin'. C'mon, say yes. Be the bigger person.”

“I'd rather . . .” Lireinne paused, trying to think of the most stupidly heinous act in the world. “I'd rather swim with
Snowball
. And, and I'm a plenty big enough person already!”

“You sure 'bout that?”

Lireinne couldn't believe he'd just said that. Worse, she couldn't think of a thing to say back to him in self-defense. Still, after Bud left her room and shut the door behind him, she was filled with a disgruntled speculation. Why on earth would Emma have invited the Hootens over for dinner?

What was in it for that high-toned heifer?

 

The rest of the day passed while Lireinne moped around the trailer in a state of low-level piss-off, holding out and not talking much to anyone. She retired to her room to eat the dinner Bud cooked that night—canned beans, canned corn, and canned ham—with only the TV for company. Without having to say a word, her stepfather had managed to communicate his disappointment with her, but she wasn't about to give in and accept Emma's invitation. Even talking about it would only encourage him.

The next day, Sunday, was much the same. That afternoon, fed up and restless, Lireinne got in the car and drove up to Folsom to see Mose.
He
wasn't going to give her a hard time over Emma and her stupid “please-like-me-again” dinner party. She spent the afternoon hanging out with the old Thoroughbred and a couple of the handicapped kids, teaching them how to groom Mose the way he liked best. To Lireinne's satisfaction it was a good afternoon, an experience she'd like to have again. Maybe she'd volunteer here, she thought as she drove away from the center. It'd been pretty cool, the way those kids looked up to her, just like she really knew what she was talking about.

When Lireinne got home late in the day, she found the trailer empty and quiet. Bud and Wolf were at Emma's house, she supposed. No freaking problem. It would be good to have the place to herself for a change—no stupid Xbox, no stepfather giving her that
look
—but the rest of the afternoon rolled on as slowly as a car with a flat tire. It was well after dark when Bud and Wolf finally returned. At the sound of the truck coming down the drive, Lireinne made sure she was holed up in her room so she wouldn't have to deal with them.

But even through her locked door, she found she couldn't escape Bud and Wolf's good-humored conversation as they came inside the trailer's front room. She raised the volume on the television. Lireinne didn't need the aggravation, hearing about what kind of a time they'd had, didn't want to know what they'd eaten or what Emma's place was like. She and Lunchmeat were doing great all on their own, Lireinne told herself stoutly. She had the TV for company and the puppy was gnawing the rawhide chew toy she'd bought for him at the Dollar General. He was happy, her flip-flops were safe, and she didn't feel the least bit left out.

Lireinne was having a hard time ignoring Bud's and Wolf's voices in the front room, though. She rolled onto her side in her bed and stuffed the pillow over her head. The trailer walls were so thin she couldn't help but overhear, though, and, she suspected grumpily, Bud was pitching his voice louder than his usual soft-spoken rumble so she
would
overhear.