Page 10 of A Little Naughty

Hazel Dale Jones died on a cold winter morning when I was thirteen years old. My daddy went into their bedroom and laid up on the bed for a month. He only got up to use the bathroom and shower—not often enough if you asked me—and get a fresh bottle of whiskey.

My older brother Bull didn’t do much better, and our trailer home in the unincorporated part of the county, went to shit.

I was the only one who kept making food, washing clothes, paying bills. I was grieving, but I knew Mom would’ve expected me to keep going. I could’ve used a good dog like Porkchop then, but I was on my own.

People in Eureka assume we’re all criminals, and to be fair, my dad has never been particularly neighborly. He isn’t book smart, he drinks too much, and he likes to fight. My brother Bull is a straight-up asshole, who has also done some jail time, but our mother came from decent people near Charleston.

She taught me to have manners, and she liked to tell me things because I was the youngest. I was with her more. She told me never to let anyone look down on me or say I was less than them. She taught me how to act around women, and one day I intend to have a wife and a home and maybe even a family.

I wouldn’t mind if that wife had curly blonde hair and long legs. I wouldn’t even mind if she liked to wear red-velvet lipstick and thick black eyelashes.

Maybe she’ll sing like an angel, and maybe when I fuck her hard, she’ll cry my name out like she’s on her way to heaven.

A slap to the back of my head sends those thoughts spinning.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” The low snarl is laced with a laugh.

I’m on my feet with both fists up, not even waiting before I throw a punch, but I only make contact with a couch cushion as my brother laughs louder.

Bull has dark hair and black eyes. A scar from a bar fight slices his bottom lip, and tattoos climb up the sides of his neck.

“You were thinking about a girl,” he taunts. “Who was it? Donna?”

“Motherfucker,” I growl, ready to punch him straight in the nuts. “Next time you hit me, I swear to God…”

“What? You’re going to do something about it? You’d better get up early in the morning.” He points to the box of bulbs I’m holding. “What’s this bullshit?”

“Something you’re too stupid to understand.” I pick up the trowel moving the dirt in the center of the tractor tire.

“You planting garlic?”

Glancing at the brown bulb, I guess it does look like a clove of garlic. “It’s a tulip bulb.”

I don’t even wince anymore when I say it. I don’t give a shit if he doesn’t understand me planting flowers. They’re not for him.

We don’t have a headstone in a fancy cemetery where I can go and put a big bouquet on our mother’s grave for everyone to see. All I have are these round tires, and the assortment of flowers I keep planting for her every year.

It’s how I remember her. It’s how I honor her memory, and in a few weeks, she’ll have red and black tulips like she always wanted.

“Whatever. I’m making coffee.”

He goes back to the trailer, and the metal screen door slams behind him. I continue digging and planting.

I’ve just put the last bulb in the ground when a serious, female voice calls from behind me, “Raif Jones?”

I stick the trowel in the dirt and look up to see Martha Jackson standing in the yard.

She’s Piper’s mom, and I’ve talked to her a few times. People say she’s crazy, but I know people say a lot of things. I don’t judge until I know someone better. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that shit.

Either way, Martha is one of those doomsday preppers, orsurvivalistsif you care to be polite. I’ve heard rumors she has an underground bunker with enough food and supplies to last a year—everything you need to get through a zombie apocalypse or a nuclear war or a man-eating bacteria.

Actually, if you sit and think about it, Martha Jackson might be the sanest person in town. What’s wrong with being prepared for the worst, especially these days?

I stand, dusting the soil off my hands. “What do you want?”

She’s dressed in denim overalls and her dark hair hangs in one long, thick braid down her back. Flecks of gray streak her temples.

“I’ve got some work that needs to be done around my house. Adam Stone said you’re strong and honest.” She crosses her arms. “What do you say? I’ll pay you good money.”

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