Page 54 of Panty Dropper

CHAPTER 25

Billy

Icouldn’t believe what I was seeing. That low-down rattlesnake of an asshole Jennings Abernathy was striding down the middle aisle of the church like he owned the place. I half expected him to blow right on past me, hop up on the platform, and preach a sermon like he was the damn minister or something.

People liked to say that there was “bad blood” between our families. But bad blood didn’t come close to what was between Jennings and Pop. They’d hated each other. I truly believe that they’d wished the other one dead.

Before he’d even made it a fraction of the way up to the front, my fists were already balled at my sides. He’d never had one civil exchange with my father, and now he had the nerve to come waltzing into his funeral like he belonged here.

Fuck, no. No way.

I might’ve given him the benefit of the doubt and entertained the possibility that he was coming here to pay his respects, declare a final truce now that Pop was in the ground. But the cock of the walk way he was strutting around and the cat that ate the canary smile on his face told a different story.

No. He was here to gloat. That much was clear as day. What wasn’t clear was what in the hell’d made him think he could get away with it.

I took a single step forward when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder that stopped me in my tracks.

I recognized that grip from the thousand times it had been laid there in the past just as I was about to do something rash. I turned to look into Hank’s tight face. “Not here, not now,” he growled in a low voice, and even though it went against every primal instinct in my body I stepped back, letting my brother know that the message was received.

By the time he reached Hank and Jimmy and me, standing there in a cluster, I’d had time to compose myself and put on a stone face. Now that I’d managed to do it, I was determined not to let it slip, no matter what Abernathy said or did. I understood that if he could make me lose my shit and cause a scene at my own father’s funeral, then that meant that he was in control, here. Not me. And there was no way in hell I was gonna let that asshole sit in the driver’s seat.

He stopped in front of us and bowed his head for a few beats, like he was play acting on a stage, then raised his face to us, a solemn expression pasted on it that was phonier than a three dollar bill.

“Boys,” he intoned in his deep, rich baritone voice that I was sure had fooled many a juror over the years. “This is a sad day for our community. A truly sad day. Your father and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but in every battle we entered into, he proved himself a worthy opponent. He will be missed.”

Every word that came out of his mouth was bullshit.

Hank stuck out his hand and said, “Abernathy,” with a short, clipped nod that made it clear that was the extent of the interaction. I knew that tone and, without even looking at my brother’s face, I knew the expression he wore. It was the one that’d shut me up more times than I cared to remember. Abernathy must at least have some sense in his head because he turned and strode back up the aisle with the same theatrical confidence that he’d had coming down.

For a crazy moment, I thought he was going to breeze straight back out the doors to the foyer, and then out to the parking lot, leaving me wondering if the last two minutes had just been some kind of hallucination.

At the last second, though, he detoured and took a seat in the back row. I leaned over to my brothers. “What the hell is he doing here?” I asked, just loud enough for their ears only.

Jimmy shook his head, Hank stayed stock still staring straight ahead.

“Fuck him,” Hank advised sagely. “Today’s about Pop.”

I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “You’re right.”

Jimmy glanced up at the platform and said, “Come on, fellas. Looks like Reverend Lee is about to head up to the pulpit.”

We walked over to our reserved seats in the front row and a minute later, Cheyenne sat down next to me. I grabbed her hand and gave it a quick squeeze and she shot me a grateful smile.

It felt good having her there with us. Our family was complete again.

So why was I wishin’ that Reagan was up here with us, too?

The minute I’d spotted Reagan sitting by herself in a pew about halfway back in the sanctuary, I’d been seized by a powerful desire to have her by my side. It wasn’t just because I wanted to sit next to her, although her company would’ve been nice. It was because, as crazy as it sounded, it felt like that’s where she belonged.

It didn’t matter to me that I’d only known her a few days. She was different. What I felt for her was different. Too bad she didn’t seem to be wrestling with the same feelings.

As the service got underway, I focused my attention on the podium. People got up and shared their funny memories of Pop. That had been another of his requests: he only wanted funny anecdotes told about him during the service. No “mushy, sentimental crap” (his words), and we had to choose people who had a talent for telling a decent story.

His reasoning had been that he didn’t know if anybody was gonna cry over him, but dammit, they were gonna laugh.

As the service went on it became apparent we’d chosen the speakers well. The place was filled with laughter and the occasional groan. But through anecdote after anecdote, funny as they were, a block of ice grew in my belly that was hard as steel and cold as a witch’s tit.

I tried to figure out what was causing it. Hell, what it even was: Dread? Fear?

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