Free Sandra Hill - [Jinx] by Pink Jinx

was takin’ yer clothes off fer money. Talk about!”
    “Not all my clothes. My . . . uh . . . privates were covered.” John winked at the rest of them, as if sharing a private joke.
    I hope he doesn’t think I care one way or another if he’s putting his family jewels on display.
    After harrumphing at the boy’s nonsense, the old lady gave Jake a thorough head-to-toe survey. “Yer a little old ta be shakin’ yer bare tush, ain’t ya?”
    Oh, good Lord!
“I am not a stripper. And I’m not old, either. I’m only thirty-five.”
Now why do I feel the need to defend myself to a lady as old as God’s mother?
    She arched her brows to indicate that thirty-five was definitely old. “Doan get yer bowels in a twist, boy. Tee-John said you was playin’. I figgered dancin’ buck nekkid is one way of playin’.”
    “Hey, while I think it might be cool to strut my stuff, I am not a stripper.” He couldn’t wait to tell Ronnie that the same person who thought she was a hooker thought he was a stripper.
The hooker and the stripper . . . Sounds like a good name for a fifth marriage—The Hooker/Stripper Marriage.
Jake’s eyes widened with incredulity at his own dangerous musings. No surprise that he discovered himself working the worry beads in his pocket.
I did not just think the word
marriage
in connection with my ex-wife. Definitely not! Never ever again! Oh, shit! I’ve gotta get out of here.
    “Tante Lulu, Jake is a professional poker player,” John said patiently, giving his great-aunt’s small shoulders a squeeze.
    That went over just as big as the stripper occupation. “You plays cards fer a livin’?”
    Jake nodded, still reeling inwardly over the marriage brain blip he’d just had.
    “Thass like sayin’ a person jump-ropes fer a livin’. Or plays Ping-Pong fer a job. Tsk, tsk, tsk! It mus’ be a Yankee thang.”
    “Now, Auntie,” John said, “that’s a bit harsh. Remember how you put food on the table during those lean years? Weed. Need I say more?”
    “Oh, oh, oh! Someone needs to have his mouth washed with lye soap. The herbs I gave out in my healing was always legal.”
    “I was just teasing.”
    “Some things are not funny.” She glowered at her nephew. “You ain’t so big I caint paddle yer be-hind, boy, and doan you fergit it.”
    Everyone just smiled at the old lady.
    “So, you’re from Louisiana?” Jake asked Tante Lulu and Tee-John. “Were you affected by Hurricane Katrina?”
    Tante Lulu rolled her eyes. “Does a gater stink?”
    Jake guessed that meant yes.
    “Everyone in Southern Louisiana was affected in one way or another,” Tee-John said. “We were luckier than most, being so far inland, but still, most of my family lives on the bayou. So there was plenty of wind and flood damage.”
    “Not as bad as most, though. Thass fer sure,” Tante Lulu added. “I gots friends who’ll never be the same. Specially those that fish fer a livin’.”
    Tee-John laughed then. “We practically had to hog-tie my great-aunt here to make her leave for shelter. She wanted to ride out the storm on her back porch. We probably would have found her body in the middle of the Mississippi if she had.”
    “Pfff! I woulda been fine.”
    “As it turned out, my great-aunt single-handedly ran a shelter for the disaster victims in the basement of Our Lady of the Bayou Church. What a gal!” He winked at her, and she beamed back at him.
    Brenda Caslow joined them then. Brenda, a blonde who hailed from Savannah—a real Georgia peach, if there ever was one—had been a NASCAR mechanic. She was probably Ronnie’s age, or a little older, but that’s where the similarity ended. Of medium height and average build, she seemed to have been poured into her coveralls, which clearly showed her hips and ass straining at the seams. Brenda was going to be the cook/mechanic on the project.
    “Give me a grapefruit juice on the rocks,” Brenda told the bartender. Frank had told them earlier that Brenda was