Page 24 of For Better or Hearse
“Well, you needed it.”
“Congrats on your show of chivalry. You ticked off one box.” She sips her martini, then studies both men. “While we’re here, Augustus wants me to ask each of you to write down your favorite memory of you and your grandfather together. I’m helping write his memoirs.”
Tate gapes at her, jaw slack. “Man, that’s crunchy as fuck.”
Nathaniel sets his drink down. Hard.
It’s too close. Too in his face. He’s accepted that his grandfather won’t be around forever, but this girl is like an omen. A chaotic, disheveled presence he doesn’t want to stomach, let alone include.
Nathaniel rolls his neck out. Irritation creeps over him. “Kind of personal, if you ask me.”
“He’s dictating. I just type. I’ll compile all the stories in a book for anyone who wants it.” Ash throws him a wicked smile. “And don’t worry, Nathaniel, your little third-grade poker party secret is safe with me.”
“Christ.”
Tate snickers.
Ash continues with a shrug. “He wants to fix it, control it, because that’s—”
“Augustus,” Nathaniel says.
“Wow, finishing each other’s sentences.” Tate guffaws, drums on the bar top. “That’s a match made in—”
“Hell,” Nathaniel snarls.
Ignoring him, Ash cocks her head. Purses her lips. Examines Tate. “You’re the one with a podcast about…potatoes?”
Nathaniel grinds a fist against his forehead. “Please don’t ask him about it.”
“That’s right. Tater Talks.”
Her eyes widen. “Wow. Really cashing in on this lifelong nickname, aren’t you?” She dips her chin. “I respect that.” Then, leaning into Nathaniel, she lowers her voice. “Do you think your grandfather really knew Carlo Giacomo?”
He’s already shaking his head. “No idea.”
Bored, likely because he’s no longer the subject of the conversation, Tate stands and stretches. “Gonna head out. Can’t take much more of this doom and gloom talk.” He claps Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Think I’ll rustle up some fun. You comin’?”
Nathaniel shakes his head. Fun to his brother is a podcast, a vintage porn mag and a bag of beef jerky. “Funned out for the day.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tate slugs down the remains of his drink. “If I can bail tomorrow, you best believe I’m on it.” He turns his focus to Ash. “What about you? You want to come?”
Nathaniel stiffens.
As if she’s considering it, Ash runs her finger around the rim of her glass. Then she says, “Think I’ll stay and harass your brother for a while.”
“Cool.”
“Oh, and Tate—” Ash slips off the stool and steps into Tate’s space. Gripping the collar of his bowling shirt, she yanks him down to eye level. Her pretty face threatening, her teeth bared, she says, “If you go this entire vacation without having a true one-on-one with your grandfather, I’ll come to your podcast and beat the fucking shit out of you with your microphone.”
With that, she lets him loose.
“Fuck,” Tate breathes in what Nathaniel swears is amazement. Then he turns on his heel and beelines for the exit.
Ash hops onto her stool again. Slides her martini closer. “We need a task force that stops white men from starting podcasts for no reason.”
He chuckles. Barely.
They sip their drinks. Outside, the rain comes down in droves, the tin roof a lively melody of percussion.