Page 33 of The Wild Card
“MyMr. Biceps.”
Okay, I like that a littletoomuch. It’s a name that has nothing to do with my brothers. Only me. And, I guess, my biceps.
Chevy clears his throat, and he’s wearing his official deputy look. Probably because I’m holding in my arms the evidence of someone who’s been overserved. I consider setting Molly back on her feet, but when she snuggles a little deeper into my chest, I decide to keep holding her.
“Molly, this is Chevy. He’s an unofficial Graham brother and also a deputy sheriff in Sheet Cake.”
“An unofficial Graham? That makes you … Deputy Biceps!” she cheers, and Chevy looks down to hide his laughter.
“I’m not sure these arms can quite stack up to the official Grahams, but okay, sure,” he says. “I’ll be Deputy Biceps.” He clears his throat and gives me an apologetic look. “I don’t mean to pry, but how many drinks were you served this evening?”
Molly makes a dismissivepshh. “Only one. Officially. The rest I just got myself behind the bar.” Lowering her voice, she says, “Wolf said to help myself since I was his guest. He also mentioned showing me his bunker, but I wasn’t sure if that was a euphemism for something …”
Tank snorts, and I roll my eyes at the mention of Wolf’s bunker, a Sheet Cake myth.
At least, Ithinkit’s a myth. Until someone I know and trust personally sees Wolf’s supposed bunker firsthand, I won’t believe in its existence.
Just like Bigfoot. Pat can send me as many possible sighting videos as he wants; I won’t believe such a thing exists unless I see it with my own eyes.
As though summoned by his name, Wolf approaches, holding up both hands defensively. I’m grateful to see he’s wearing jeans under the chaps he had on earlier.
“That account is only somewhat accurate,” Wolf says, and Chevy frowns.
“Hey—you’re wearing pants!” Molly says.
Chevy ignores this. “We tend to overlook your place because it’s over the county line. Andusuallyyou don’t overserve or let people drive home under the influence,” Chevy says. “But if you’re not keeping track of your liquor, we might have an issue.”
“I’m not intoxicated,” Molly says, but she stumbles a little over the syllables.
Tank, who I didn’t realize had disappeared a moment ago, reappears with a water bottle and hands it to Molly.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the bottle, “but I already drank a lot.”
“Just drink, Molly,” I tell her gently. “You’ll be glad tomorrow.”
Tank has to help her open the bottle because she can’t twist the top off, and Chevy gives Wolf a pointed look. At any point, I could put Molly down. I don’t.
“I promise I didn’t overserve her,” Wolf says. “And though I told her to make herself at home, I didnotmean she should finish off the last fourth of a bottle of Fireball while I was out back breaking up a fight.”
All of us except Molly groan. “A fourth of a bottle?” I ask.
“A smaller bottle,” Wolf says, but even he’s grimacing.
“I’ll get another bottle of water,” Tank says.
“I’m fine,” Molly says. Then hiccups.
And this is how I end up taking Molly home with me.
I’m expecting a whole lot of awkwardness considering my current “home” is Tank’s loft, but my dad makes up some flimsy excuse about needing to head back to his house in Austin. Right now, he’s still splitting time between the home we grew up in and the town he now owns.
Before Tank leaves, he says, “This should give you some time to talk things over in the morning.”
I’m not going to argue with his logic.
Instead, after depositing a softly snoring Molly on the couch, I change the sheets on my bed. They’re not filthy, but it just seems like the right thing to do.
Molly’s still sleeping when I return to the living area and blinks sleepily at me when I start to tug off her cowboy boots.
