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

shag on.”
    I had no idea what he meant by shag. Wangling out of his grip I made my excuse. “I’m really not a carpet kind of girl.”
    Billy Ray folded into a knee bender laugh. “You’re funnier than Raid on a cockroach.” Standing back up, he created a scene by twirling the spatula over his head before he bowed. “May I have this dance?”
    Before I’d agreed, he’d positioned his feet in a one, two, three prancing step and started without me. With catcalls echoing around us, what was a girl to do? The host of this shindig paraded around. I considered construing a story about a dodgeball kneecap mishap and planned to hobble away, but Billy Ray took me for a spin before I had a chance to limp. With an audience circling, I did the only thing I could. Pretended I knew what I was doing and followed his lead.
    For a husky man, he was surprisingly light in his flip-flops. Working moves that impressed me, Billy Ray turned out to be an expert shagger. With his accent thick and the music loud, I didn’t understand a word he spoke. “So Razzle,” he asked. “U ike ew ern?” Faking comprehension I nodded and concentrated on my footwork.
    When the song ended, he led me back to the grill. After rubbing his sweaty forehead across the wrist of his spatula-hand, he flipped a piece of meat onto a paper plate. “Thanks for the shag.”
    Out of breath and a little stunned, I murmured some “Much obliged, thank you,” bullshit.
    With my arm extended, I carried the deer steak toward Patsy who sat on a nearby tree stump, enjoying a cigarette. “Why did you introduce me to Billy Ray? You could have pointed him out from a distance.”
    She stubbed out her cigarette and put the butt in her empty glass. “Razzle, no trip to New Bern is complete without meeting Billy Ray.”
    “Would you stop with the Razzle?”
    “The name suits you. Razzle O’Brien,” Patsy said, “I reckon we need another drink to wash down the steak.”
    I focused my eyes and walked toward the kegs with purpose, not wanting to look available for another shag.
     
     
    A FLURRY OF FLYING INSECTS circled the floodlights above a deck as large as the footprint of the house. Shagging with Billy Ray disrupted my inner harmony. I eyed a garden hose. I wanted to rinse the cooties Billy Ray’s meaty hands had passed to mine. Leaning against a deck rail, I held two beers while Patsy sawed at the slab of meat with a plastic knife.
    “How can you eat that?”
    “What?” Patsy asked. “It’s a steak.”
    “You know the details of how it was killed and cleaned. And did you notice Billy Ray’s hands? He had deer goo under his nails. Doesn’t that ruin your appetite?”
    A smartass reply didn’t make it out of her mouth. Raised voices began a shouting match. Patsy corked her head toward a dispute that erupted behind our backs. I turned to look, too. Yelling grew heated, and two guys closed the space between their faces. To be clear, it wasn’t the “Yee-Ha” call out I experienced earlier, but more of an, ‘ I’m gonna kick your face in’ kind of shout.
    Patsy dropped her paper plate and grabbed my arm. “Oh shit,” she warned. “Its Stewart and Kent. They’re goin’ at it like ducks on a junebug.”
    Two sets of fists turned into a pile-up of bodies on top of contorted aluminum lawn furniture. Bloody faces and ripped shirts escalated into pure pandemonium. Patsy tugged my elbow and the beers sloshed. “Come with me.” She led me into the yard, away from the full-on brawl that had exploded below the deck.
    Billy Ray and two others came out of the barn holding rifles in the air. When Patsy and I heard CRACK-CRACK noises ricochet, we concentrated on running. The barn, the house, and the yard emptied as a stampede of partygoers scurried to their cars. The darkened field blazed with headlights moving in all directions. Tires grinding the dried earth drowned out the cricket chirps. Not wanting to become causalities of a stray bullet, Patsy and I