Page 33 of Absinthe Dreams
They were the only table in residence, a group of four that looked like they’d just come in out of the swamp.
“How much longer ‘til the season starts, anyway?” I asked Cy.
“Oh, we comin’ up on it,” he assured. “Gon’ be a hot one.”
We chattered about the weather and what the farmer’s almanac was saying for the region as we took a seat in one of the booths near the dance floor. Dory came by and dropped a menuin front of Genesis. She didn’t bother with us. She knew we knew all that was on it.
Mostly, we kept talking of gator hunting, which Cypress could talk about all day long. Of course, the talk of fishing led to the kinds of injuries that came from such a sport, which led to talk of some of the things Genesis dealt with in the emergency room. She didn’t get many fishing injuries – just the most severe that couldn’t be handled in one of the rural hospitals out this way.
She’d seen enough, though.
“What I wouldn’t give for a hook stuck in the hand or an infection at the start. Most of the time, I have to deliver the bad news that things are up to or past the point of permanent damage. Best-case scenario, it’s just a little nerve damage. Usually, it’s ‘I’m sorry, you’re going to lose that hand, or that foot.’ I hate it when that happens, but you’d be surprised at how many guys are like ‘aw, that’s okay, Doc, I appreciate ya.’ It’s just wild to me, and at the same time, it's almostworsethan when they curse me out or break down.”
“We a tough people out here,” Cy said. “They tell y’ ‘sall right, you best believe ‘em, Doc. They stand by it. They’ll be alright.”
“He’s not wrong,” I said, taking a drink of my cold, crisp Coke.
She laughed and shook her head. Some of her shorter hair that framed her face had come loose from her ponytail in the wind, and I resisted the urge to put it behind her ear, out of those beautiful spring-green eyes of hers.
She was beautiful when she smiled, but stunning when she laughed. I couldn’t get over it.
We ordered, we ate, we bantered some, and it was comfortable. I liked it. Still, I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t impatient. I wanted to grab my shit and take her back to her place. I wanted to spend some time with her, one-on-one, andlearn more than I’d already gleaned directly from those sexy-ass lips of hers.
Did I want her?
Shit, more than ever at this point, but I also didn’t want to blow it.
I was getting the vibe she was partially so comfortable with me because of her feelings of nostalgia around my cut and my bike. I didn’t want to be friend-zoned, but I was a big believer that the longer-lasting relationships and the best sex there was were all rooted in friendship.
With the way she smiled, lit up, laughed, and seemed to enjoy talking with first the girls and now Cy, I was under the impression it’d been a while since she’d gotten out of the house or had any friends.
She was determined in her career path, which was clear – and I had some thoughts on that. I had a few thoughts on the tight quarters that was her place, too. While I didn’t mind sleeping on her couch, the thought of crawling into bed with her and pulling her lithe body into the shelter of my own was a mighty big temptation that I couldn’t shake.
First things first,I thought to myself as we wrapped the meal and I took care of the tab. I honestly made real damn good money and didn’t spend much doing what I did, being single, and I was racking it up now, living where I lived. Utilities ain’t even a drop in the bucket, and it wasn’t like LaCroix was charging us rent. It was mostly all about keepin’ the place up and fixing shit as it went wrong at the moment.
A lot needed to be done to the place. A bunch of shit still needed purged, the bathrooms needed straight-up gutted, and the same with the kitchen. Carpets needed to be torn out, paneling needed to be removed, and drywall put up. But ain’t none of that important until the distillery was up and running,and the girls had their distraction and their own business in place ofSwamp Witch Designs.
Hex was smart, and his ol’ lady, too. Everything was going into the girls’ names on Swamp Witch and they were being added to the distillery. If shit ever went sideways, both assets were protected and could keep running in our absence – be it if we all got locked up or fucked up to the point we wound up six feet under. The girls would be provided for. They’d be safe and able to continue.
It was important to us.
The ride to the bayou house was short from here. A leisurely pace at about fifty or so, right on up to the turnoff into LaCroix’s yard.
It didn’t feel like home, yet – but then again, neither had the shitty-ass fuckin’ trailer I’d been in.
I was kind of a minimalist. I had clothes, a small television, my bike, my truck, and my tools. That was about it.
I didn’t need anything else. Seemed that Genesis was something of the opposite on that, though. Her small house held a myriad of tasteful art and all kinds of pictures and knick-knacks on the shelves.
“You, okay?” she asked me when I lingered on the ticking bike a touch too long, my hands resting on the tops of my thighs and my gaze locked on the old house in front of me.
“Yeah, just thinkin’ ‘bout what all I should grab. Probably just clothes and toiletries. I don’t need much. I got some tools here, but ain’t none of it shit I need for work, so I don’t need much.”
“Where is your truck?” she asked, looking around.
“I park that shit at one of the substations. I prefer to ride more than rattle around in that old thing,” I said, heaving myself up onto my feet and my leg over the bike.
“I hear that,” she said.
