Witch Is The New Black (Paris, Texas Romance Book 3) Page 9

  Bernie tensed but kept her eyes closed. She didn’t like surprises.

  “Bernie, honey?”

  “Yes?”

  Winnie kneaded her shoulders with a sigh, grinding her knuckles into her flesh. “You’re so tense. Relax already. Just for a little while. You’re always so on edge. It’s nothing bad. I try to make all my surprises happy ones.”

  Bernie blew out a shuddering breath. Winnie was right. She did always expect the worst. “Sorry. Okay, I’m ready.”

  Winnie squealed with excitement before she said, “Open your eyes!”

  Bernie opened them to a set of keys dangling in her face.

  Just beyond the keys, a car…shaped like a bubble…with a Summer’s Eve douche—no, really; a douche—on the side.

  Winnie spun her around, her eyes glittering. “Okay, so I know, I know. It has an advertisement for a douche on the side of it, and it’s a hundred years old, but!” she said on a breath. “It works, and I just can’t bear seeing you walk in the bloody heat every day if one of us can’t come and grab you from the farm because Lola has a ballet class or you miss a ride with Calla because you want to finish one last chore. Plus, all that really matters is that it works, right? And it does work. Promise.”

  A car. She was letting her use a car? She’d robbed a bank, for the love of Cheetos, and Winnie was just handing her the keys to a car? Okay, the car had a douche on the side of it, yes. It was ancient, too. But a car?

  She was stunned into silence.

  Winnie winced, her gorgeous face crestfallen. “You hate it, don’t you? Damn, I was afraid of that. I know it’s not much to look at, but I drove it cross-country, from prison here to Paris, and it runs great. Well, mostly, but we had Guthrie Adams give it a good once-over before we put it back on the road, just to be sure.”

  Bernie instantly regretted hurting her feelings. “I robbed a bank.”

  She planted her hands on her slender hips, peering down at Bernie. “And?”

  “And you’re trusting me with a car?”

  Now Winnie’s face went soft, and she curled her fingers under Bernie’s chin. “It has to start somewhere, Bernie, right? I was in magic-abuse jail, too, remember? Listen, I’m going to give you one long-winded speech here. You in?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “Someone once trusted me, and I did some pretty shitty things—like blowing up my now-husband’s warehouse because I thought he was cheating on me. Look, Bernie, at some point, you’re going to have to accept that we like you. We like the shit out of you. You’re reliable, hardworking, kind to all those seniors, good with the animals on the farm. Along with liking you comes extending the hand of trust. Trust is just as important on both our parts. I want to help you be the best witch you can be. You have to trust that I’m making decisions based on who I believe you really are. Not the person you showed everyone to get into prison.”

  Goddamn these people and their nice. Her eyes filled with tears. She’d long forgotten what it was like to interact with other people without doing so for the sake of survival. She’d forgotten what it was like to forge friendships. But she wanted to remember how to let someone in again after Eddie.

  Rather than say a word, because she almost couldn’t speak if she tried, she threw her arms around Winnie’s neck and hugged her hard.

  Winnie tugged a strand of her hair and smiled, thumbing away one of Bernie’s tears. “Now off with you. Bingo calls. Goddess knows, you don’t want to be late or Roscoe Brown gets so jittery he might miss the eleven o’ clock news, he conjures up an earthquake. I lost a perfectly good set of dishes the last time he did that.”

  Bernie laughed as she grabbed the keys. “Got it. Curfew?”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, whenever. I’ll probably be up when you get in anyway. Benny’s teething is killing me. So we can dish on whether Flora finally gives it to Clive while my little man takes another ten years off my immortality, screaming his little brains out.”

  Bernie squeezed Winnie’s hand once more before she hopped down the steps, feeling lighter than she had in more years than she cared to count.

  “Jacques, the GPS, is set to take you to the senior center,” Winnie yelled as she waved. “Have fun!”

  As she climbed into the car, the lingering smell of pork rinds and Schlitz Malt Liquor assaulted her nose, but it didn’t matter. Someone trusted her enough to let her borrow a car.

  She’d been in prison longer than she’d been anywhere else since she’d become an adult. Because she’d had no choice during her incarceration. She couldn’t run away when everything went sideways—and it always went sideways.

  No one had ever specifically blamed her for all the strange things that happened when she was around. How could they? They didn’t know magic existed. But certainly she’d heard her fair share of jokes about the evil cloud hanging over her head or her bad-luck spree.

  Maybe if she just opened up, explained, shared something instead of keeping this all so close to her chest, trusted just one person, maybe this time she wouldn’t have to run away.

  Bernie pressed the button to turn on the GPS and sat back just as Fee appeared on the passenger seat, his nose still bent out of shape, evident by the way he turned his head to look out the window.

  As the screen for the GPS lit up, it said in a cheerful voice, “Bon jouuuuur, Bernieeee! It’s bingo night! N-thirty-three!”

  The GPS talked, too. With a French accent.

  With a smile, she found that didn’t surprise her at all.

  * * * *

  “Left, Berniee! You must make ze left zis instant!”

  Fee screeched as she made a sharp left as instructed, pulling into the senior center parking lot with only five minutes to spare. The brick structure, housed beneath Calla’s grandfather’s apartment, was welcoming and friendly. Flowers in big pots dotted the stoop and a sign with a hand-painted moon and stars swung in the light breeze from the side of the building.

  Yanking up the emergency brake, she looked over at Fee, who clung to the passenger door with his claws unsheathed. “Oh stop, Drama Llama. My driving wasn’t that bad.”

  Fee huffed, turning his head back toward the window. “If I were talking to you, which I am absolutely not, I’d tell you that your driving sucks the ass of a goat. It’s a modern-day miracle you didn’t take out the entirety of Main Street with those two wheels you were driving on, Dale Junior.”

  She popped the door open and stuck a leg out, gathering her old-lady purse made of vinyl and plaid cloth before nudging Fee with her finger. “I haven’t driven in a long time and Jacques here is a little rusty on his directions, methinks.”

  Jacques’ screen lit up in greens and blues. “Oh, Berniiiieee,” Jacques cooed. “Do not be so cruel. My spelling, she ees sometimes not so, how you say…”

  “Good?” Bernie teased.

  “Oui. My apologieees.”

  Bernie tapped the screen affectionately. “It’s all good, Jacques. See you in a bit.” She pressed the button to shut down the GPS and pulled the key from the ignition. “C’mon, Fee. We have a job to do.”

  Fee harrumphed as he hopped out of the car, but he wouldn’t even look at her as they crossed the parking lot and headed for the glass doors of the center, where light streamed from the inside and the seniors milled about, cups of coffee in their hands.

  Just as she grabbed for the door and allowed Fee entry, another slender, perfectly manicured hand covered hers, shutting it behind the cat. “Bernie, right?”

  Boobs, right?

  Fee hissed in her head, his words swirling around. If I were talking to you, which I still am not, I’d remind you about resting bitch face and walking away from this woman. I don’t know what her angle is, but she’s got one. I can smell it on her. She can’t hide whatever the hell her issue is with all that expensive perfume she bathes in.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Violet was here. Why would she come to bingo night? Weren’t there malls to bankrupt? Car dealerships to empty?


  Bernie nodded, removing her hand from the door and squaring her shoulders to turn and face Violet. “Yes. It’s Bernie. Nice to see you again, Miss Hammond. Are you joining us for bingo night?”

  “I’m joining Ridge,” she cooed.

  Bernie remained silent and fumed rather than let Violet bait her.

  “Sweet ride.” She hitched an elegant thumb over her bare shoulder at the Pacer.

  Bernie bobbed her head once more, fighting the impulse to get back in the car and run Violet over with her sweet ride.

  “A feminine product right there on the side of your car for all the world to see. How interesting.”

  “Yeah. Seems douches need love, too. If anyone gets that, you should.”

  Violet let out an airy chuckle from tight lips glossed to raspberry perfection. “New outfit?” she drawled, scanning Bernie’s shorter frame from head to toe with a scathing glance.

  Borrowed it from your mother.

  Bernie. I can hear your thoughts when I’m in your head. Don’t do it. Get the eff inside here. Now, Fee whispered, his words reverberating in her brain.

  But Bernie’d had enough of playing doormat to Violet’s stilettos. Sure, she was on parole, and she was afraid she’d fuck that up at every turn, but she didn’t have to take a blatant attack.

  She turned the tables, scanning Violet’s outfit from head to toe, lingering on her very short white shorts and her barely there halter top in flamingo pink. “Yep. I like subtle and mysterious. You know; the opposite of ‘show them your girlie bits up front’?”

  Fee paced in front of the glass door like a tiger in a cage. Bernie! Knock it off. Walk away!

  Violet’s curly red hair swirled around her perfect face just as a hot wind picked up. The air had that funny smell to it, just as it had when Fee had cemented her feet to the ground.

  Magic? Was that magic in the air? Did magic smell?

  Violet’s eyes lit up, the color changing, swirling as the wind continued to blow.

  Well, if this was magic, Violet sure had a leg up on Beyoncé and a wind machine.

  Bernie! You’ve done it now. Head’s up!

  The air began to tear at Bernie’s velour tracksuit, pulling the already loose pants down along her hips as the zipper on her matching jacket began to unzip itself—

  And then Ridge was there, scooping her up and planting a delicious kiss on her lips before setting her back on the ground with a grin. “Sorry I’m late, Snuggle Puff, but one of the cows got out of that damned fence again and it was an all-out Amber Alert to find her. By the way, did I mention how hot you look in that tracksuit? Love it.”

  The wind died down instantly, leaving Bernie glowering at him while her buttery limbs fought to hold her up.

  But Ridge took her hand and kissed the back of it, sending a sweeping shiver along her spine. “Can you forgive me? Promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  Bernie lifted one eyebrow in question, but okay. She was game. For whatever he was doing.

  Thrusting out her lower lip, she pouted with a coy bat of her eyelashes, looking right through Violet and her shock. “Oh, my little Love Machine, you’re sooo good to me. You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked, swinging their entwined hands back and forth.

  Now Ridge looked as confused as she felt. “Um, Project Runway marathon?”

  Bernie let her head fall back on her shoulders as she laughed and shook her head. “No, Snookie-Wookie. It’s way better. Way.”

  He lifted his chin, his eyes amusingly suspicious. “Narrow your definition of ‘better’.”

  “Housewives marathon. Orange County to be precise.”

  Ridge returned her pout, adorably so. “Aw, c’mon. If I have to listen to that OG of the OC Vicki screech woohoo and talk about her love tank being on empty, it just might drive me to drink, Smooshy Face,” he groaned, stepping around Violet as though she wasn’t there and pushing the glass door open for them.

  “You said you’d make it up to me. It’s Housewives or drowning your sorrows—alone, I might add—in a bottle of vodka,” she teased back until they were safely inside and the door swept shut behind them.

  He pulled her to a corner behind an enormous potted fica tree and grinned. “Love Machine?”

  “Oh quiet. You caught me off guard with Snuggle Puff. I was improvising. And Snuggle Puff? Really?”

  Ridge barked a laugh. “You saved me, you know.”

  “From?”

  “Violet’s man-eating clutches. I swear, that woman has eight arms, and the minute she sees me, I become prey.”

  Unlike Bernie, who had only two arms and had used both to accost him in his barn. “She did say she was here for you…”

  “I bet she did. But she said wrong,” he said, his response solid and quiet.

  “Why are you here then?” Didn’t he have somewhere else he could be irresistible?

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m here because I happen to like bingo. Good thing, too, or Violet was going to let you have it, judging from the spell she was conjuring.”

  “She doesn’t like me much.”

  “Yeah? Well, nobody likes her much. She can’t stand the seniors and hasn’t been ashamed to say as much.”

  “You didn’t have to kiss me if you needed saving.”

  “But I thought we were going steady now?”

  Bernie’s head snapped upward, her mouth going dry. “Steady?”

  He stuffed a hand in the pocket of his jeans and nodded. “Well, yeah. If you kiss me in my barn, it means we have to go steady.”

  “Says who?”

  “Legend says who.”

  “What legend?”

  “The one I’m going to make up so you’ll be convinced enough to be my steady?”

  Bernie’s stomach nosedived. He was, of course, teasing her again. He’d never ask her to be his steady. “Steadies are overrated. They demand way too much of you, they always want to do couple things, and they call you ridiculous pet names like Snuggle Puff.”

  “I can call you something else. What’s your preference?”

  This was getting too intimate. Too much like flirting. Too. Much.

  Realizing she was still holding his hand as if he belonged to her, Bernie pulled away from his grip. “Obviously, judging from the wind Violet was whipping up, you saved me, too. Thanks for that. Consider us even. Now I have to go call numbers for bingo.” Tucking her purse to her body, she waved as casually as her pounding heart would allow. “Catch ya later.”

  As she made her way across the wide, shiny floor, George, Clive, and Gus, huddled at a table covered with bingo cards and a bowl of pretzels, snickered and catcalled. “Bernie’s got a boyfriend! Bernie’s got a boyfriend!”

  Clive grabbed her hand and pinched the back of it with a chuckle. “I thought you were savin’ yourself for me, young lady?”

  “Who says I’m not?” she teased back.

  Clive bumped an age-spotted fist with her. “Woohoo! I like ’em sassy!”

  Flora scooted up beside her and rubbed her shoulder against Bernie’s. “Judgin’ from the way Ridge’s lookin’ at you like you’re a plate of fried chicken topped with his mama’s gravy, I’d say he says you’re not.”

  Bernie blushed, fighting the impulse to run. She shook an admonishing finger at them. “All right, matchmakers. Enough, or I’ll make sure you don’t win a single game. You do know who’s in charge of the spinny thing with the numbered balls, don’t you?” she joked as she left them to make her way toward Calla.

  The center was enormous, cheerful, bright, scattered with folding chairs and sturdy wood tables. Messages of encouragement like “Older Is Bolder” were stitched and framed and hung on the walls.

  One wall in particular caught Bernie’s eye and made her smile. Hundreds of pictures of the seniors and their families and the staff at the center were tacked onto a wall made entirely of cork.

  Gus with his daughter and her two boys, smiling. Flora with her handsome sons, her arms wrapped around their waists. Ha
ppy memories from the field trips the seniors had taken were all proudly displayed. She loved that the people she was coming to enjoy spending time with had such full lives.

  And a small part of her, maybe the one that had been neglected for so long, wanted pictures like that to hang on a wall someday—wanted a place to belong.

  Calla’s husband Nash—tall, dark, and a perfect match for the werewolf physically—waved her over to a set of stairs leading to a podium. “Hey, Bernie! Thanks for doing this.”

  Dropping her purse on the podium, she smiled at him. “No big deal.”

  He gave a sidelong glance at his wife before he said, “Oh no. You have no idea what a big deal it is. Believe me.”

  Calla rushed up beside him, pinching his waist. “Don’t scare off the volunteer, honey,” she said with clenched teeth.

  “You didn’t tell her, did you, honey?” Nash asked, his eyes narrowing playfully.

  “Tell me what?”

  Calla’s shoulders sagged beneath her flowered maxi dress. “Okay, so sometimes things get a little heated. I might have under-exaggerated the behavior of my seniors when I told you about bingo today in the barn. They like to win, and when they don’t, they…”

  “Throw things,” Nash provided with a resonant chuckle. “Call each other creative names. Sore sports, the lot of them. They behave as though the numbers called have nothing to do with a randomly generating machine. They blame you personally. Swear, last bingo night I thought Effie Adams was going to take the top of Lenny Ford’s head right off with her fiery wand of nuclear destruction just to get at me.”

  Calla huffed, rolling her eyes up at Nash before she gave a resigned sigh. “I won’t hate you if you want to leave, Bernie. Nash has a sick calf he needs to tend to. I usually man the floor, you know, in case they start lobbing food at each other, and Nash always calls the numbers, but the calf is more important. So if you want to go, I’d totally understand.”

  Bernie couldn’t help but grin. She’d heard all about bingo night from Winnie and Lola over dinner. Lola was no longer allowed to attend because her mommy said Mr. Boudreaux had toilet lips.

  “Nope. I made a commitment. I’m in. I’m not afraid of a little swearing and a food fight.”