Free Sultry with a Twist by Macy Beckett

supper anymore, at least not until he finished his house, and by then, she’d return to Austin. But perhaps that was a blessing. If June was honest with herself, and she tried to be, she could easily fall for him again in the next twenty-eight days if they spent too much time together. Best to—ouch! Something scraped against June’s calf, maybe a patch of thistle. She rubbed the side of her sneaker against her leg, but the prickle intensified, until it felt like her skin was on fire.
    Releasing the mower, she glanced down at her legs—and shrieked like a banshee. A stinging, swarming cloud of yellow and black covered her calves and ankles. She must’ve run over a bees’ nest! They crawled in frantic zigzag patterns higher up the length of her body, while some took flight and prepared to attack her face. June’s heart nearly seized, and she bolted for the fellowship hall, screaming the whole way. She was still yelling when she threw open the door and dashed inside.
    “Grammy! Grammy! Grammy!” June scurried in circles, swatting at her legs, her arms, her face, anywhere she could reach.
    Dozens of shoes squeaked and clopped against the tile floor, but June couldn’t see anything except a blur of arms as she slapped herself silly.
    “Oh, my Lord!”
    “Put her in the baptismal font!”
    “No! Get the hose.”
    “Where’s the wasp spray?” It was Gram’s voice, the only one June could identify in her panicked state.
    Within seconds, the air was practically impossible to breathe as Gram fogged the fellowship hall with thick, acrid insecticide. Coughing hard enough to hack up a lung, June bent over and braced her hands against her knees. The scene playing out before her was comical, and she would’ve laughed had she not been paralyzed in agony and choking on fumes.
    Pastor McMahon’s stomach bobbed up and down as he jumped to swat a rolled-up newspaper against the low ceiling. Prim church ladies armed with fly swatters whacked and smacked, crouching low and then springing on their prey like kung-fu fighters. Even Ms. Bicknocker joined in, flicking a dish towel with the skill of a seasoned locker room jock. When the last of the bees were crushed, everyone huddled around June’s swollen, blotchy legs.
    “My daddy used to chew tobacco and spit on the stings.”
    “Got any tobacco?”
    “Nope.”
    “How ’bout ammonia?”
    “We should call Doc Benton.”
    “He’s wet behind the ears. Call Doc Noble.”
    “Everyone get your credit cards,” Grammy said. “And tweezers, if you can find ’em.”
    Ten minutes later, Pastor McMahon brought June some aspirin and iced tea, and she tried her best to sit still while five gray-haired ladies scraped and plucked the stingers from her skin.
    “Quit squirming,” Ms. Bicknocker said over the top of her bifocals. “I can barely see as it is.”
    “Sorry. It really hurts.” The throbbing ache didn’t subside. If anything, it mounted with each passing second. June grasped the cool edge of her plastic chair and held her breath. Nope, that didn’t help.
    “Nora,” Gram said to June’s old Sunday school teacher. “See if you can find a spray bottle. Baking soda and water’ll cool the burn.”
    And God bless them all, it really did. June’s temples still ached, but Gram claimed that was to be expected with all the venom in her bloodstream. When the last stinger had been plucked, June thanked everyone for their time and help, and Pastor McMahon suggested she show her appreciation by attending next Sunday’s service. She agreed, unable to think of a single excuse not to, and asked for indoor community service hours until her legs healed.
    Back home, Grammy made June lie in bed with three pillows under her knees. Then she wrapped June’s legs in cool, damp towels soaked in baking soda and ice water.
    “Same thing happened to your mama.” Gram sat at the end of the bed, and it shook with her weight. “I ever tell you that story?”
    June shook her head. She could