Page 32 of The Wild Card
Collin
When we walkinto Backwoods Bar, I’m greeted by a shocking sight. Molly is seated at a table, one short sleeve of her shirt pulled up as she arm wrestles a pig farmer whom everyone knows as Sooey—yes, like the pig call.
I have no idea what the man’s actual name is and have never heard it uttered.
But Idoknow he’s definitely not using his full strength against Molly, who’s cheating now, using both arms to try and pin his much larger one to the table.
“Oh, my,” Tank says just as Chevy sidles up to us.
The local deputy and might-as-well-be fourth Graham brother isn’t in uniform tonight, though his jeans, boots, belt buckle, and cowboy hat are essentially the same thing he wears when he’s on the clock. Just no badge and gun. Also, there’s a beer in his hand.
“I’m afraid that someone got into the Fireball,” Chevy drawls.
“Which kind? The cinnamon or?—”
“The whisky.”
I wince. There’s a weaker version of Fireball with a little more ABV than beer. But the cinnamon whisky tastes like a fiery Jolly Rancher and is like sixty-six proof. In other words: deliciously dangerous. Which means it’s a lot easier to drink more than you intend and then find yourself hanging over a toilet with a lot of regrets the next morning.
Molly, now standing on a chair for leverage, finally pins down Sooey's meaty arm. The bar cheers, and someone starts playing “We Are the Champions” on their phone. The big man is a good sport about it, smiling as Molly raises both arms above her head, fist pumping with the kind of wild abandon I think only Fireball can provide—especially when you’ve just cheated your way to a win at arm wrestling a pig farmer.
I realize Molly’s about to lose her balance a few seconds before she does. And I’m right there to catch her when the stool tips and she goes sprawling.
It’s an awkward catch with her forehead knocking into my collarbone and me stumbling back a few steps. But almost immediately, her arms wind around my neck as she relaxes into me.
“My hero,” she says, looking up at me with a believably adoring expression.
I haven’t seen her in an acting role other than our little show today, but the woman isconvincing. The warmth in her eyes makes my heart kick into a new speed in my chest.
She’s faking it, I remind myself.Just playing her girlfriend role.
Maybe I should ask her for tips on how to play a part without getting emotionally involved. Because I don’t know how to compartmentalize my feelings.
Especially not when she’s playing with the hair hanging over my collar and looking at me like a human heart-eye emoji.
“How’re you doing there, darlin’?”
Molly grins, and I see the first signs of alcohol haze as her eyes go half-lidded. “I like that nickname best, but I’m still not sure it’s the right one,” she says, then lowers her voice. Dropping one hand from my neck and crooking a finger toward me, she whispers, “Before I knew your name, I decided to call you Mr. Biceps.”
I can’t hold back a smug grin. “Is that right?”
“Yep. Don’t act like you don’t know you’ve got great guns.” She finds my upper arm and tries to wrap her hand around it. “See? It’s more circumferamence—circumfratense—circumventerence?—”
“Circumference?” I suggest, trying to contain my smile. Fireball Molly is pretty adorable.
“That’s the one! Hey! It’s your dad! Hi, Mr. Biceps’s dad!”
Tank and Chevy wear matching smiles. Though Chevy is trying to look serious. He might be off the clock, but you can’t remove the cop from the man even if he’s not wearing his badge.
But Molly isn’t over the line enough to warrant a drunk-in-public citation. She’s still living in the land of mild—not serious—regret life in the morning. Though I’m surprised, as Wolf is usually good about seeing when people are nearing the line and stopping them before they go anywhere near crossing it.
“Hello, Molly,” Dad says. “You’ve always called me Tank, but I kind of like being Mr. Biceps’s dad.” He tugs his sleeve up over his arm and flexes. “I mean, if I can’t just be the original Mr. Biceps.”
Molly cackles. “You should all change your last name from Graham to Biceps. Daddy Biceps then Grumpy Biceps and Happy Biceps.”
She doesn’t have to explain who’s who. James is obviously Grumpy Biceps and Happy Biceps is Pat. I wait for her to get to me, but she doesn’t.
“Hey—which Biceps am I?” I ask.
