Leslie Kelly - Killing Time

“Louise…”

“Come on, your shirt’s easy. Just pretend it’s Saturday.”

The twisting turns in the conversation were giving him a headache on top of his hangover. “What?”

“Half the women in this town make a point of driving down your street on Saturday afternoons because they know you’re gonna be mowing your lawn,” she explained.

Half the women in town? No wonder his street was like Daytona during Pepsi 400 weekend when he cut the grass. “So?”

She sighed heavily, explaining as if he were a six-year-old and she a weary parent. “So…you always do it sooner or later. It’s usually after four, when you’ve finished the cutting and you’re just doing the edging and cleanup. And by the way, Mick, you do such a nice job on your lawn, much better than when the Edgertons owned your house.”

“What do I do, Louise?” he asked, still wondering whether she liked him or hated him, wanted to marry him or wanted to kill him. Hmm…when he thought of it that way, she suddenly reminded him of just about every other woman in his life.

“You know what you do,” she said. “You know when you’re almost done, and you’re ready to cool off with a long, wet soak from your garden hose…? That’s when traffic’s the heaviest.”

She gave him a look that said he was supposed to understand what the hell she was talking about. He didn’t. Rolling her eyes, Louise said, “You weren’t this thick in high school.”

“Somehow my brain doesn’t work well when it’s envisioning taking a bullet.”

“Sorry, it can’t be helped. I know even as nice as you are you won’t get naked and be forced to marry me by my daddy unless I force you to get forced first.”

He began to see, as crazy as it was. Louise, the girl he’d been nice to back in high school, wanted to force him to get forced into marrying her so she could help save his unsalvageable reputation. “My head hurts.”

“Stop drinking so many beers on Sunday nights with the fellas after your football games.”

“So, you know my entire weekend schedule, not just my Saturdays in the yard?”

“Oh, yes, Saturdays. Back to the shirt. You always take it off when you hose yourself down after you’re done. Then you get a beer from the fridge on your porch and you pop open the bottle and guzzle the thing down while you’re all wet and shiny.” A pink flush rose in her plump cheeks. “Tons of women plan their Saturday shopping around your yard work. Except, of course, on rainy days. Then they meet in the basement of the dress shop and play cards.”

Welcome to small-town life. Christ, why the hell did he live here again? “That’s crazy.”

Louise obviously saw his disbelief. “Men. You’re all thick. Didn’t you realize why Mrs. Richardson crashed her brand-new Buick into the back of your neighbor’s old AMC Pacer? She was watching you, watching all that sweat mix with the dirt and grass on your shoulders and your arms. Trying to see what we all want to see.”

His hands instinctively dropped to the front of his pants.

Louise giggled again. “Not that.” Then she stammered and looked away. “Well, yes, that. But also, your, um, you know…”

“My…” Hair? Back? Earlobes? What was the woman talking about? And who the hell knew women were as lewd as men when it came to ogling the opposite sex, even if it was a complete stranger? Of course, no one was really a stranger in Derryville.

“Your thingie,” she whispered.

His thingie. A number of thingies on his body tightened up as he waited to hear what all the women in town wanted to peek at.

“My what?” he asked, hoping she meant his checkbook, which should be enough to scare off most women. But he doubted it.

“Your…tattoo!”

He stiffened, his jaw clenching, the response as instinctive as it was predictable. Few people knew the origins of his tattoo, the one spread across his lower back, just below his hips, riding his ass like a low-slung pair of jeans. The tattoo was one subject that was off-limits in his life. As was the woman who’d originally inspired him to get it.

“Forget about seeing my tattoo or anything else. I’m not taking off my clothes.”

Her smile broadened. “Oh, yes, you are.”

“Put down the gun. You already said you wouldn’t kill me.”

She lowered the gun and took careful aim at every man’s Achilles’ heel. The one between his legs.

Muttering another curse—which earned him another tsk—he yanked off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. His Northern brain had no part in that decision. The Southern one had simply taken over in pure self-preservation.

“That’s better. Keep going.”

He hesitated, wondering how this could be happening in his nice little real estate office on the nice main road of this nice small town. If any of his poker buddies ever found out a woman had held him at gunpoint and made him strip, they’d die laughing. Of course, if the story had involved one of his more typical female friends, they’d probably be jealous as hell.

When he didn’t move fast enough, Louise let out an impatient sigh. “You know I wouldn’t kill you. But I can shoot well enough to make sure you behave from now on.” Her stare followed the direction of her pistol, and she let out a quivery sigh as she looked at his pants. “I guess I’d like to see what all the women fuss and carry on about.” Then she squared her shoulders in self-sacrifice. “But if it comes right down to it, I don’t mind having a marriage without those carryings-on between the sheets. Whatever it takes, I’ve got to save you from yourself.”

Marriage and no sex. Funny, at the thought of being married to Louise, he could suddenly understand the appeal. “That’s very kind of you…but I promise, I really don’t mind my reputation.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I do,” she said fiercely. “You’re the nicest man in this stinky town. I’m sick of everyone thinking you’re nothing but a walking cock-a-doodle-doo.”

The cock-a-doodle-doo bit almost made him laugh, particularly because a brilliant flush had darkened Louise’s cheeks when she’d said it, as if she’d uttered an unforgivable swearword. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

Her expression told him she wasn’t. “It’s because they’re jealous you don’t take up with local women. You go casting your rod into the ponds of other towns, ’steada right here at home.”

She was right. That was one of his unspoken rules, which he’d adhered to for the past several years. Never fish in a tiny lake where it’s not so easy to throw one back.

“But I know with those Hollywood floozies coming to town, the urge might be too much for you. So I’m going to save you.”

Hollywood floozies. It took a second, but he finally figured out what she meant. Derryville was about to be invaded by a TV crew. A new reality TV show called Killing Time in a Small Town was set to film right here. That was the reason for this morning’s meeting. One of the producers was looking for a short-term rental, since Derryville’s only inn was going to be filled up with the cast and camera crew of the show.

“I know you’re not ready to settle down, Mick, but that’ll change once we’re married. Daddy should be here in fifteen minutes or so, after he takes my brothers to football practice. That gives us enough time to get you naked and me—” she flushed again, more brilliantly than before “—mussed.”

Fifteen minutes. Knowing Louise’s no-good old man, who was late on everything from his mortgage payments to his own weddings, that equaled more like an hour. Meaning he had that long to convince her to give up her crazy idea.

A number of possibilities quickly ran through his mind. He could sweet-talk her, reason with her, cajole her…