Brazing

  Chapter Five

  Bridger

  My brother’s laugh was that of a badger on bath salts.

  “She called me Bridge,” I huffed at West who was getting way too big of a kick out of my library visit. “It makes my name go from completely manly and utterly rugged to some old, worn out, forgotten method of transporting goods over a river. It’s the place that houses trolls for the love of Pete.”

  “Shut up,” he chucked a chip in my direction. “Your name wasn’t all that manly in the first place. It sounds like someone who followed Lewis and Clarke on the expedition. Don’t get your testicles in a knot. Isn’t that a girl thing, making up cutesy names to demasculate us? Take it as a compliment.”

  West always frat-housed things up.

  This school’s first case of fratricide was about to go down.

  He needed a dictionary.

  “Demasculate? That’s not even a word, college boy. It’s emasculate. And shit if I know. Jesse didn’t really call me by loving names while she was screwing me over.”

  “You mean screwing other people over.”

  That’s it. I’m gonna beat his ass.

  Casually strolling over towards him, pretending to reach for a chip, I grabbed the binder sitting behind him and proceeded to plunder him over the head with it.

  “Ow! Okay. Bridger is so sexy and Jesse is a whore. Okay?” He made the statement with a Mariah Carey high pitched voice and a little flick of the wrist to match. My brother was a diva.

  Not okay.

  “She was just young. She made a mistake—a few of them. Don’t call women names—even if they’re not here.”

  West sobered. He hated “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

  Cocky little sap sucker.

  Plopping down on my bed, the cheap, worn out springs of a dorm room bed protested the weight of me. She’d called me on ignoring her all the time. I hadn’t expected that. Truth was, I didn’t know what to expect. Her physical appearance was in stark opposition to what she looked like when she was younger—but that flame inside was just the same. I knew it as soon as she spoke. And when she hopped up on that table, planting her firm ass on my books like it belonged there.

  It made me want to—well, it made me not want to continue studying anything but her.

  Wild—that’s what her name should be.

  I kicked one of my ten pound textbooks inch by inch until it fell from the edge of the bed onto the floor. I was quitting after this semester was over with, right? I studied my ass off all the time, never taking breaks for anything, but family events and church—because West made me go to church—because Cami made Stockton force West to make me go to church.

  Cami ruled our roost now—which was completely fine by the rest of us.

  “Don’t overthink it Bridge. Go over there, make fun of the people who can’t sing, buy the girl a beer. She’s just asking to catch up—she’s not asking for a ring or a cup full of your baby juice.”

  There was something very wrong with Weston Wright. I think my mom dropped him in a pile of sheep shit when he was little. He always said the most inappropriate things at the most inopportune times. Like right now—while I was in arm’s length.

  “Maybe I’ll come with you,” he shrugged. As if I would invite him. The boy had real issues.

  “No you won’t. Hell, I’m not even going to go. A girl like that? I couldn’t even keep Jesse entertained. Anyway, you’d do something stupid.”

  “No one can keep Jesse entertained, Bridger. That girl gets around more than the flu.”

  I laid back on the bed and threw my arm over my eyes pretending to get some shut eye so West would shut up. Why karaoke? What was wrong with coffee? I knew the girl drank coffee. Every damned time I went to get coffee there she was taking up all the coffee and sugar and tables.

  It’s not that small of a school.

  Despite my efforts to pretend to be asleep, West cranked up his heavy metal. I had two choices. Either I could lay there and listen to all the killing and stabbing or I could go to the gym. I hadn’t gotten any studying done at the library. Every time I touched a book or a pencil, I was reminded that Tate’s ass had been on it. She completely made and ruined the library for me—forever.

  Not to mention, that skirt.

  Skirts like that would make her preacher grandfather mortified.

  Sounded like excellent blackmail to me.

  I jolted up, ignoring the headbanging of West, grabbed my bag and a pair of shoes, and headed to the student gym. Before Stockton came into all his money, I used the student gym because it was free for all full-time students. It was a perk. Now I used it to avoid all the pseudo-athletes and their never-been-washed, brand new workout gear. I never understood why grown men and women got dressed up to work out. Yes, the women looked good in their little outfits. But it was flat out weird when the men came in with shoes that looked like they’d never hit the pavement much less the gym.

  It embarrassed me for them.

  Scuff the bastards in the parking lot and throw some sand on them. Make it look like they’ve been used once.

  A few blocks later, I walked into the sweat-smelling place and grabbed the first weight machine not being used. Lifting always made me think clearly. It took the edge off of the thinking part of me. I did that. I thought about things too much. I analyze and play things over and over in my head until I don’t know where to turn or what to do. Usually I just let Stockton tell me what to do.

  I know, it’s horrible and immature. But Stockton always has his head on straight. And I can’t figure people out in general. I must’ve read into every single word Jesse uttered the second time we were together. I thought that if I paid more attention—if I showered her with affection that maybe she wouldn’t have a reason to cheat again. The only blame to be placed was on me. There was something I wasn’t doing—something I’d fallen short on.

  It wasn’t going to happen again—that much I knew.

  But if it was—Tate could really break me. There was something so carefree about her—I’d never be able to contain that or even be a part of that whirlwind. I had a feeling it was either be free with her or be left behind.

  I couldn’t get over the change in Tate. My mind kept coming back to it over and over again. But even though most of the changes were drastic, some things remained the same. Her eyes were that same brilliant gray. They reminded me of smoke emerging from a chimney.

  And where there was smoke, there was fire.

  The creek was one place we went on a regular basis as children. When you lived in the country, the deep country like we did, life was what you made of it. We woke up with the sun, completed our chores, and then we were free. There were creeks to discover and frogs to catch. The creek was where I’d first seen her. She didn’t have a pink frilly suit like the rest of the girls so she just stood in the water, enjoying as much of the cool liquid as she could through her toes. I went home and told Mama about Tate and her lack of swimming attire.

  My dear mom bought Tate a suit the next day at a thrift store and left it on the porch while we all were at school. She swore me to secrecy. That was one of many lessons I learned from her about the honor in helping people without telling everyone in town what you’d done.

  The next time we were at the creek Tate was able to swim and from a distance, I was able to watch her bright smile and, for once, fitting in with the rest.

  Tate had been the focus of all my childhood crushes. I’d beat her in races just to see her cheeks flame red in anger. I’d put salamanders in her grandma dress’ pockets just knowing that later on she would discover the slimy reptiles and scream. I wrote her a note once and then buried it in an old homemade wine bottle near her farm. To what end, I didn’t know.

  I would’ve been the first to admit, I had no idea how to flirt with a girl like that. Hell, I had no clue how to flirt in general. But then Jesse happened.

  I didn’t have to flirt with Jesse.

  And in all those c
hildhood crushes, Jesse hadn’t starred in any of them. I hadn’t planned on her. She barreled in, guns blazing, when I was a punk kid, ruled by my hormones instead of my brain. She wasn’t my first kiss, but she was my first date, my first make-out session.

  My first heartbreak.

  The first time I’d purposefully sought out alcohol as salve for my wound.

  She was also the second of all those things.

  But there would never ever be a third. I may have been naïve and under experienced then, but that was a long time ago.

  I supposed one day I would have to put myself out there again.

  But in my mind it would be with someone humble, loyal and maybe a bit overly pious.

  Yes, pious girls didn’t go cheat on your with your best friend—twice.

  Images of coppery curls invaded those thoughts.

  I worked through three sets on each machine I could get on before deciding I’d had enough. The showers in the gym weren’t the best, but they were more private and cleaner than the ones in the dorm, so I made quick use of them and headed back to the dorms.

  West was gone when I returned. Glancing at my watch, I cringed. It was almost seven. The decision whether or not to go knocked at my door.

  Karaoke to me was akin to bending over in a worn pair of jeans and having them rip open in a packed room of silent people. It ripped, it was uncomfortable and it would make me feel all—exposed.

  The real question was, was it worth it?

  Was it worth all the discomfort and sheer embarrassment to get another taste of the new Tate?

  There was another level to karaoke, other than the singing that I just couldn’t tolerate. It was on television. Willa and Cami loved those damned shows. All action, speech and breathing had to cease in the Wright household when those shows came on. There was just something about them that embarrassed me to no end.

  I just couldn’t take it.

  The same cringing sensation flowed through me when I saw someone sing in public whether they were talented or not made no difference—the whole thing was too much to handle.

  I avoided concerts, solos at church, singing and dancing on television, and all music award shows—even signing on late night shows crawled up my last nerve.

  But I would get to see Tate again.

  A beer or fourteen would help me be able to tolerate the singing.

  I could always sit in a chair with my back to the stage.

  Shit.

  Deciding that Tate was more interesting than avoiding my pet peeve, I changed into a pair of jeans and a V-necked, teal t-shirt that Cami had bought for me. The girl was quite a shopper. She still couldn’t cook for shit, but she could buy dinner like nobody’s business.

  I slipped into my best pair of snakeskin cowboy boots hoping the cowboy vibe would draw away any notion she had about getting me to sing on stage.

  Captain’s was a bar that all the students knew about. I’d heard tons of people talk about it now and again, but a regular bar was just fine for me. I walked the couple of blocks to the place simmering with all things I hated. The front sign boasted a Captain Morgan type character with a much creepier moustache and looked more like one of the three musketeers with a zoot suit obsession than pirate. People my age filed in and out as I stood there, giving myself one last chance to step away from the disaster inside.

  A high-pitched squeal mixed with laughter caught my attention across the road and instantly my decision was made as my eyes caught up with the sound. It was Tate. There was no missing that untamed mass of hair, catching everyone’s attention like a mass of unorderly flames. She was with another girl, a little taller than her sporting long brown hair. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I missed that laugh of hers. If her hair didn’t already have the world on their toes, then her laugh alone would do it for sure.

  There was nothing like it.

  I couldn’t help my eye roaming to the rest of her. The skirt was another one that would easily warrant a slew of sermons on everything from humility to modesty to the sins of the eyes. My eyes were committing a laundry list of sins at that very second. I chuckled as my gaze found her shoes, expecting to find those high shoes that make the guys take bets on how fast she’s going to bust her ass wide open.

  Instead, she wore purple cowboy boots.

  Apparently that little detail wasn’t going to save me from anything.

  Damn, she looked hot in a pair of boots.

  I raised my phone and took several pictures of her. It was stalkerish, sure. But it would also make excellent blackmail material later. Preacher would just about shit his pants if he saw his prissy little granddaughter wearing a skirt fit for street business—and we weren’t talking about selling corn dogs either. If a good wind caught her, the Lord himself would shy away from that sight.

  Preacher wife would fall out with an aneurism.

  One time she sent Cami home, after she was married to Stockton, for showing too much leg in church.

  Tate was showing enough leg for three women.

  I didn’t mind one damned bit.

  They waited for the traffic to slow, several cars honking as they passed, and then crossed together, holding hands and giggling the entire way. I found myself smiling again in her presence, something I wasn’t used to.

  I hadn’t regularly smiled since my mom was around.

  Everyone thought the death of our parents was hardest on Stockton because he took the brunt of the responsibility after they died. He took in Willa, took over my parents’ work, the whole bit without one word of complaint. And he’d done a fine job, no one would argue that for a second. Not even me.

  And poor Willa, she was just a girl starting out when she lost them.

  But I missed them just as much.

  I think Stockton missed my father the most. I could’ve been very wrong about that, but he spent the most time with him. Dad taught Stockton everything he knew—even his little trips to town to help everyone out. He thought no one knew and I let him have it that way. All of us were close. I’d kill anyone who tried to mess with Stockton, West or Will. But it was a known fact that Willa and Stock were like mashed potatoes and gravy and West and I were the same. West made me angry enough to strangle him sometimes, but I’d pummel anyone who messed with him at the same time—the pecker head.

  That was the kind of comment my mom would’ve popped me on the back of the head with a rolling pin for.

  I missed my mom. I missed her every day. It struck me at odd times like that one, watching the girls cross the street with an anxiety-ridden pull in my stomach and not just about the singing or the crowded place. Tate scared me.

  Maybe my mourning hit me when things happened in my life that I would usually call her up and tell her about.

  I would’ve definitely called her and told her about Tate.

  My mom knew about Jesse. She knew the whole thing. I made her swear not to tell anyone, even Dad. I didn’t want Jesse uncomfortable coming around the house to see Willa or anyone.

  And though she deserved every bit of it, I didn’t want her reputation ruined—or smeared all over town.

  Jesse did a good enough job of that all by herself.

  My mom took my secret to the grave. When it happened a second time, Stockton and Cami were already involved and I couldn’t talk to Willa—it was her best friend. So I talked to West.

  Shit, I was such a mama’s boy.

  “You must be Bridge,” the brunette, suddenly in front of me, extended her hand. I’d been in my thoughts way too long.

  “I am Bridger. And you are?” I extended the pronunciation of the R like a toaster in the middle of an electrical mishap.

  See? Bridger, it’s just an R. You can do it. All of you.

  “Well Bridger, I’m Carter. And we know you know Tate. She’s been telling us all kinds of stories about you two having fun at the crick.”

  She tried very hard to say creek like crick. It was a pitiful hillbilly accent if I??
?d ever heard one.

  I wondered what kinds of stories Tate had been telling her.

  Tate responded with a fierce blush that extended all the way down into her black top and probably far beyond that. At least that was a plus. I could still make her blush.

  “Why don’t we go in where it’s very loud and not a good place for storytelling,” Tate offered in a blatant attempt to take the attention away from herself.

  “After you,” I waved them inside.

  God, I really don’t want to go in here.

  I did the gentlemanly thing and paid the entrance fee for the three of us to get in. Carter stood aside like she expected the gesture while Tate loudly protested.

  “I can pay for myself. This is not a date.”

  “No one said it was a date, Ms. Self-Reliance. But I’m a Southern boy and my mama didn’t raise a scoundrel.”

  “A scoundrel! This boy is priceless,” Carter cackled. “Tate, when you go home, find me one of these boys, pretty, pretty please. I need a piece of Southern ass. I wonder if he’d ask permission before he—never mind.”

  She stopped her sentence as my eyes and Tate’s widened in sync at her friend’s—openness.

  “You’re going back home?” I inquired as the character behind the window stamped our hands indicating we were old enough to drink.

  Tate threw Carter a look that would kill small bunnies. Apparently, Carter got the drift and began to backtrack.

  “Oh, um, Bridge.” Sweet baby Jesus, I’m never going to outlive that name. “Can you get us a table while I score some drinks? You’re a vodka rocks man, yeah?”

  “That’ll do,” I said, stupefied at why Tate wouldn’t want me to know that she was going home. What was that girl hiding?

  I watched her and Carter at the bar. Her hips, rounded and curved, swayed back and forth causing that sexy little skirt to do the same. Carter whispered something in her ear and Tate threw her head back laughing so loud that even the singer on stage paused to listen. I loved that she had no care about who saw her and whose attention she caught.

  The guy next to her inched closer, I could see his game from across the room. He had the gall to rear back and take a real long gander at her ass.

  Have some couth, man. She’s not bacon hung up for inspection.

  I gripped the tiny circle table in front of me. This wasn’t happening. Tate was just a childhood crush—a fantasy never to be realized. I’d sworn off women for good. I couldn’t go through another Jesse.

  Before I knew it, I found myself behind Tate, slipping between Google Eyes and her, making it clear that it wasn’t okay—what he was doing wasn’t okay with me—or Tate.

  She was a friend, an old friend. And I was saving her from a creeper. That was it. Nothing less and certainly nothing more.

  “Darlin,’ you ever gonna bring me that drink?”