Page 14 of Kind of a Bad Idea

My forehead snatches back into a frown. “What? Why?”

“It’s a costume party, of course. I mean, it’s Christian and Starling, what else would it be? It’s a summer of love, hippy theme, and they wanted everyone to prepare a 1970’s soft rock classic for karaoke.”

I groan. “I mean, I’m all for goofy fun, but 1970’s soft rock? What is that even?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to google it while I’m watching the girls for Tatum. She’s taking a final for her early childhood education class. I should probably head out now, actually. She was hoping to leave early so she would have time to study without Phoebe latched onto her boob. She’s struggling with the whole weaning thing, I guess.”

“Okay, okay, head out and I’ll see you later,” I say. “And thanks for dropping those bell-bottoms off. I definitely don’t have time for costume hunting at this point.”

We say goodbye, and I launch into motion, toting Mr. Prickles back inside before throwing on sweats and a hoodie and jogging out to my truck. I hit the grocery store first, grabbing a few different kinds of Jello and face paint from the Halloween aisle, so I can draw a peace sign on my cheek later and call myself “ready to hippie.”

Then, I cruise over to the “bad” side of town—though Bad Dog really doesn’t have many rough areas inside the city limits—to the only liquor store open before ten a.m. I’m grabbing lemon vodka and dark rum when I hear a familiar voice from the next aisle over.

“Stop it,” the woman coos with a soft trill of laughter. “It’s not a big deal, darlin’. I don’t mind at all. You know I work just a few doors down from the liquor store. I’ll bring the vodka and other stuff over this afternoon around four, when I’m done with my last client. Tell your mama not to worry.”

I duck down, discreetly peeking through the space between the shelves, to see massive breasts straining the front of a bright pink sweater, and wrinkle my nose.

Yep, it’s Pammy, all right.

Pammy, who worked as a touring stripper for ten years before returning home to open a hair and tanning salon.

Pammy, who looks like she escaped from a 1980s rock video, complete with the orange tan and frosted blue eye shadow.

Pammy, who is as hyperfeminine as I am “just one of the guys” and who was spotted at Bubba Jump’s with Seven a few weeks back. Maybe it was a date, maybe it wasn’t, but my friend, Zan, told me Pammy was using Seven’s body like a stripper pole, and that there was zero room for the Holy Spirit between her boobs and his face.

Now she’s cooing to someone on the phone about dropping off vodka for his “mama” this afternoon…

I only know one person who would need the extra-large bottles she’s shifting into her cart—Bettie. Which means she was talking to Seven, and she just called him “darlin’.”

Fighting a wave of physical sickness, I stand up, pressing a fist to my mouth.

No. No, no, no! This can’t be happening. Seven can’t be falling for Pammy. I mean, Pammy is okay, I guess, but she’s not right for him. Not even close. She spends way too much time on primping and makeup and hair, and there’s no way she could rock climb or lift weights with nails that long. Working on fixing up motorcycles is out, too. She wouldn’t want to get her soft little hands dirty.

Maybe that’s what he likes about her, that she’s not a dude with boobs.

“I am not a dude with boobs,” I mutter beneath my breath, torn between slinking away and staying to eavesdrop. A part of me is dying for further clues as to what exactly is happening between Seven and Pammy, but the other part doesn’t want to know.

What if he tells her he loves her?

What if she says it back?

How will I ever be okay again? And how could Seven even think about developing feelings for someone else when we spent twenty minutes in a tree together Saturday night sharing our favorite tree house memories from when we were kids? After he laughed at my story and ruffled my hair, and then the hair ruffle turned into his face moving closer to mine and another almost-kiss that left me breathless?

He loves me, not Pammy. I know that the way I know that lemon vodka elevates a yellow Jello shot and that rum is the only choice for the cherry ones.

“Aw, you’re so welcome, sweetheart. Yeah, you too,” Pammy says. “See you soon.”

Sweetheart…

It’s not the “L” word, but it’s way too close for comfort.

I have to do something. I have to take action now, before it’s too late.

After checking out, I hurry to my truck with my supplies, a plan serving itself up on a silver platter as a text from Wendy Ann pops through on my dashboard. The digital voice reads her message, assuring me that there will be no losers on the tour and that my space is reserved.

When the A.I. asks if I want to respond, I say yes, and ask—“Is there room for one more? I might see if Seven wants to go.”

Wendy Ann doesn’t respond right away, but I assume that’s because she’s following up with Lilac, or wrangling children, and put it out of my mind. It isn’t until I show up at the shower dressed in skintight orange and brown bell-bottoms that smell of moth balls to see Seven behind the bar with Bettie mixing drinks, that I remember my plan.

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