Whiskey Island by Emilie Richards Page B

But let’s not involve Deirdre or Peggy. Not yet.”
    “Not at all. And please, don’t mention this to Casey.”
    “We’re agreed on that.”
     
    Nobody liked a good time more than Casey. She had a knack for enjoying herself and for choosing the right men to do it with. She had met one at tonight’s celebration, a truck driver and Elvis lookalike named Earl who had an ex-wife and two children and didn’t want to dabble in the aforementioned again. He was new to the Whiskey Island Saloon, but not to Casey. She’d met a hundred Earls in her life and knew exactly what she would and wouldn’t get from a fling with him.
    She supposed she’d encouraged him at the beginning as an antidote to her family. Earl was one of the few people in the room who didn’t know the entire story of her life or have firm opinions about it. As the evening progressed, she had flirted with him while simultaneously fending him off, but now she was picking up signs that he expected that last part to change.
    “You’re sure we can’t blow the joint, baby?” Earl, who was sitting on the stool at the end of the bar, caught Casey’s hand and held it firmly against his midriff.
    Since he’d been asking some version of that question every five minutes, she was more than halfway to being annoyed. “I can’t go anywhere. It’s my welcome home party.” She didn’t bother to mention Ashley, who, after a brief introduction to some of the family, was upstairs with a teenage baby-sitter. Casey had not wanted to overwhelm the little girl—Casey was overwhelmed enough for both of them.
    “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to…” He finished off-key.
    “What?”
    “It’s a song. You’re too young. A baby. My baby.”
    “I’m not your anything, Earl. And I’ve told you, I’ve got to hang around tonight.” Casey regained possession of her hand. “How about another beer?”
    “I want to be able to per-form.”
    Casey didn’t think old Earl was talking about a warbled chorus of “Blue Suede Shoes.” “Find somebody to talk to, then. Everybody here likes to talk. Every one of my relatives has the gift of gab. It’s one of those stereotypes that works.”
    He looked blank. Earl seemed to have all the imagination of a digital clock. She supposed she had been drawn to him because she didn’t have to concentrate on anything he said.
    She patted his cheek. “Never mind. Just go find somebody to talk to.”
    Irritation descended over the blank canvas of his face. “I’m not staying. Either you come with me now, or I’ll find someplace more fun.”
    She didn’t like threats. She was beginning to realize she didn’t like Earl. He looked great in tight jeans, and he had a pouty lower lip that should be sunning itself in Blue Hawaii, but he also seemed to have the King’s high opinion of himself.
    She lifted her chin. “Fine. Go on, then.”
    “Hey, who do you think you are, anyway?” He rose off his stool. “You think you’re too good for me? You’re nobody. You live over a bar.”
    “And I suppose you’re somebody because you haul bananas from New Orleans to Chicago and probably swallow enough speed while you’re at it to run the Indianapolis 500 on foot.”
    He looked blank again. He knew he’d been insulted, but he wasn’t sure how. “Hell, I’m outta here. I can do better. A lot better.”
    “I suggest you try.”
    He pushed her aside and started toward the door. But he hadn’t gone far before a man blocked his path.
    “You know, you just pushed the lady out of your way.” The man standing in front of Earl wasn’t quite as large as he was, but his stance was menacing—which was odd, since he was wearing a conservative gray suit and his thumbs were casually hooked in his pants pockets.
    “Get out of my way.”
    “I don’t think so,” the man said softly. “You owe the lady an ‘excuse me.’”
    The man’s voice was familiar. As she spoke, Casey struggled to place it. “Hey, I don’t care. It’s