Free Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) by Paisley Ray Page A

Patsy stopped at the commercial-size barbecues and tapped some guy on his shoulder. Above the music, she shouted, “Hey Billy Ray, I want you to meet Rachael, Katie Lee’s roommate.”
    Closing the grill cover Billy Ray turned around, and I guessed his age to be a smidge below thirty. He styled his thick hair in a ponytail and wore a small gold loop earring in his left lobe. The missing sleeves from his untucked pink-oxford showed off his T-shirt tan. I’d never seen anyone under fifty wear a bowtie before now. Below the waist, he lost all formality with turquoise plaid Bermuda shorts and drug store flip-flops.
    I’d drunk a few BJ’s, two bathtub dews and inhaled waves of nicotine. On top of that, the smoke erupting from the grill stung my eyes and stirred light-headedness. I checked my feet, making sure they stayed on earth, before taking a hard look at this man. I pegged him as having been raised by a fussy mother who’d wished she’d had a girl and a father who snuck around trying to undo all the soft and delicate things his mother taught him. I pressed my fingertips to my lips to jumpstart them. “Nice to meet you, Billy Ray,” I said, motioning my hand in a loose wrist wave.
    Billy Ray’s thin lips pursed, and his smile reminded me of the Joker. Reaching inside a beat up Igloo cooler, he reopened the grill and placed bright red meat patties without any visible veins of fat onto the metal grates. “You ladies hungry?”
    I gripped Patsy’s arm to steady myself. “What are those?”
    “Deer steaks, darlin.’ Shot the buck myself, weekend before last.”
    He continued telling us the details of the two rifle shots it took to kill the buck, how long it took him to butcher and clean the animal, and how he carried the meat for ten miles back to his truck. I eat meat, but I don’t have a need to know how it gets to my plate. The conversation sent my stomach into a queasy zone.
    After the animal slaughter details, awkwardness lapsed in the conversation, and I watched Billy Ray reposition his grilling spatula into his left hand so he could drain a beer with his right. With bent knees and an arched back, he made a show of aligning the bottom of his plastic cup to the starry sky. When he carelessly crunched the cup and tossed it into the thicket of trees, I was ready to leave. Unfortunately, my exit wasn’t quick enough. He slipped his fingers around mine. With a firm hold, he kissed the back of my hand, dead center, between my fingers and my wrist. I noticed his dirty fingernails, splattered with bright-colored paint. He was the last person I’d peg as an artist and figured he was more likely to detail hot rod flames on one of the cars in the barn.
    Billy Ray’s donut eyes appeared glazed, and he spoke in a slur, barely recognizable as English. I turned my ear toward his mouth and strained to understand him. “It’s my sincerest pleasure to meet you, Razzle.”
    I pulled back, but he continued holding my hand as though steadying me on a patch of ice. “Rachael. My name is Rachael.”
    Flexing his operatic aria, Billy Ray sang, “Razzle dazzle, I love your pizazzle.”
    I stood trapped between a smoking barbecue and Billy Ray drunk off his ass. Turning my head, I mouthed, “Help,” to Patsy’s backside. In my moment of need, she flirted with someone I didn’t know. My level of attraction hovered below frosty. I needed an exit strategy and settled on the tried-and-true, I have to use the bathroom . Lightly placing my free hand on Billy Ray’s arm, mostly for balance, I said, “You’ll have to excuse me, I…”
    “No excuses, Raz,” he said, leading me to a clearing. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.” Before I had a chance to bolt, Billy Ray slid an available arm around my waist. His other hand still held mine, and the oversized spatula.
    “Rrrrazzle,” he growled, stretching his tongue across the single r as if it had multiplied. Stiffening to a bullfighter stance, he advised, “Get your