Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
MICHAEL JACKSON, “P.Y.T. (PRETTY YOUNG THING)”
The Corys were third-generation ranchers who owned most of the land in Devil’s Head. While Matt was nearly perfect in everyone’s eyes, he had no interest in taking over the ranch or farming the land as his legacy, like the men before him. That put Wesley Cory in a predicament since Isaac had proven to be a disappointment. The Army was the Cory family’s last hope to salvage their eldest son’s soul.
As we pulled down the long gravel road toward their white, two-story, twentieth-century farmhouse, a shadow caught my eye, followed by a puff of smoke. Isaac was leaning on an old cottonwood, one boot propped against the trunk and a cigarette in his hand. Thankfully, no one else noticed him. Had my sisters spotted him, they would have tattled immediately, and it could have sparked another “smoking will kill you” lecture from my parents .
I hated the smell of cigarette smoke, but Isaac made it look cool and sexy, like the Marlboro Man—every parent’s worst nightmare.
Dad parked in our usual spot beside the detached two-car garage, and the five of us spilled out of our light-blue Ford Crown Victoria. He popped the trunk, and we loaded our arms with pies and dinner rolls that Mom contributed to Violet’s Easter ham dinner.
As we trekked up the dirt path toward the screened-in porch, gravel crunched beneath the tires of Matt’s red 1972 El Camino, stopping in front of the garage. The car was an early graduation present from his grandparents.
Matt jumped out and jogged toward us. “Let me get that,” he said, taking the rhubarb pie from my mom just in time to open the screen door for us.
Matt grinned when I stepped past him, bringing up the rear with the basket of dinner rolls I helped form into knots. “You look pretty, Sarah,” he said with a generous smile.
“She really does,” Isaac chimed.
“Shut up,” Matt mumbled.
“What?” Isaac held open the door while Matt led me into the house. “P.Y.T.,” he murmured behind me so only I could hear him.
Pretty Young Thing.
My father disapproved of Michael Jackson’s music, but I loved every song, including P.Y.T.'s sultry lyrics and catchy tempo.
Did I like Isaac breathing those three letters behind me like a dirty secret? Let’s just say I didn’t hate it.
“Janet, you baked up a storm,” Violet gushed over my mom’s pies and rolls as we set them on the antique buffet in the dining room, which was adjacent to the living room with a wood-burning stove. The staircase to the second floor separated the spacious kitchen from the living and dining room.
“My girls helped me,” Mom said, giving us a proud nod of approval as we sat on the sofa like three life-sized dolls—two brunettes and a blonde with smiles on our makeup-less faces, hands folded in our laps.
“Sarah, do you want to help me with the deviled eggs?” Violet asked. She always asked me to help in the kitchen. “Matthew loves deviled eggs.”
Violet seized every opportunity to teach me things she thought would please her youngest son. I wasn’t stupid. I knew everyone was grooming me to be his wife—the next matron of the Cory Ranch. However, that didn’t change the fact that Matt wanted to attend college and play baseball. He had no interest in ranching cattle, raising hogs, or growing corn and hay. And while I had been in 4-H as long as I can remember—sewing, canning, and showing livestock for the Corys—my heart belonged to Pat Benatar, Whitney Houston, and Laura Branigan more than it did to Matthew Cory.
Our families were too intertwined to see that Matt and I had no intention of starting the next chapters of our lives as each other’s betrothed.
The problem was that Matt and I had been each other’s security blankets, and we didn’t know how to let go even when holding on felt too suffocating—at least, that was my perception. Matt was indifferent to everything. He seemed equally willing to marry me or break up, as long as it didn’t affect his baseball plans. I had plans, too, but nobody cared about them.
“Janet, have you seen my newest quilt?” Violet nodded for my mom to follow her upstairs as I finished halving the peeled eggs and scooped the yolks into a bowl.
“Sarah, do you want a Coke?” Matt asked, retrieving a bottle opener to remove the cap from the sixteen-ounce glass bottle.
“No. I’m good. But thanks.”
“I’ll take the rest,” Isaac said, filling a glass with ice before pouring the rest of the Coke into it.
“I’ll be outside with our dads,” Matt said before opening the squeaky screen door to the porch.
“The preacher’s daughter making deviled eggs for Easter dinner.” Isaac chuckled, shaking his head. “Why do you suppose they’re called deviled eggs?”
I parted my lips to speak, but nothing came out because I was too distracted by the flask in Isaac’s hand. He unscrewed the cap and poured a generous amount into his Coke.
When I lifted my gaze from the flask to his face, he smirked. “I like the way you look at me.”
I swallowed hard and focused on the eggs, as Isaac stood uncomfortably close to me, his backside against the counter. “How do I look at you?”
“Like you’re thirsty.” He lifted his glass, offering it to me.
I smooshed the yolks with the back of the spoon. “I said no when Matt offered. What makes you think I’m suddenly thirsty?”
“Your cheeks are red.”
I rolled my head between my shoulders, dismissing him without a verbal response. Isaac was goading me. He still thought of me as Matty’s innocent twelve-year-old crush. And that irked me. “Smoking will kill you,” I mumbled.
That was it—my best comeback.
He chuckled. “When?”
“When what?”
“When will it kill me? ”
I shrugged. “Someday.”
“Sunday Morning, something will kill all of us someday .”
“Well,” I nudged him aside to retrieve a spoon from the drawer for the mayonnaise, “God’s not taking you to Heaven. I’m pretty sure there’s no smoking in Heaven.”
“What if smoking is Heaven? Have you tried it?” He took a swig of his drink.
“It’s disgusting,” I said, removing the lid from the mayonnaise jar.
“So you’ve tried it?”
He was so annoying.
“No. I haven’t tried it.” I scooped the mayonnaise into the measuring cup. “I also haven’t licked a cow’s butthole, but I bet it’s a universally shared sentiment that doing so is disgusting .”
He barked a laugh. “You can’t speak for the universe. Ass-licking may be considered a sacred ritual in certain cultures.”
“Do you think Mom would care if I had a Coke?” Eve asked, strolling into the kitchen. “Since it’s Easter?”
My parents never let us have pop with a meal, just as a “special treat,” which meant we snuck it whenever possible.
“Why don’t you wait and ask her,” I said.
“Here. Take mine. I won’t tell anyone.” Isaac held out his nearly full glass of Coke and whatever was in that flask.
Eve’s brown eyes widened. “Thanks?—”
“That’s mine.” I dropped the spoon and snatched the glass before Eve could blink. I didn’t wait for the taste to register. It burned the entire way down, all eleven gulps.
I counted.
Eve frowned. “Fine. I’ll ask Mom.” She spun on her heels and stomped out of the kitchen .
I shoved the empty glass into Isaac’s chest. “Don’t be a butt nugget.”
Isaac wrapped his fingers around the glass, lifting both eyebrows. His smile immediately curled into something more satanic than the stuffed eggs I was supposed to finish.
Instead of acknowledging that look on his face, I threw the rest of the ingredients into the bowl without measuring.
“Do you think that’s enough salt?” Isaac asked before tipping the glass at his lips and sucking a piece of ice into his mouth.
“How’s everything coming along?” Violet’s melodic voice announced her and my mom’s descent down the stairs.
I replied with a tight, “Fine,” while stirring the ingredients.
“Well, look at you.” Violet patted Isaac’s back. “My boy became a man. A good man who helps in the kitchen.” She gushed as her son screwed the lids onto the ingredients I haphazardly threw into the bowl.
Isaac was a man. All man. I had no dispute with that. But a good man?
No.
He was not a good man. Not even close.
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Sarah, let’s move everything to the kitchen table so I can get the ham and scalloped potatoes out of the oven,” Violet said. “Maybe your sisters can help you fill the eggs.”
I opened my mouth for an “okay,” but the only thing that escaped was a loud belch. As my mom winced with a painfully sour face, I cupped a hand over my mouth. What did I expect after chugging that much soda all at once?
“Sarah,” my mom said in a harsh whisper as Isaac snickered with his fist over his mouth.
“Excuse me,” I murmured, tucking my chin and carrying the bowl to the kitchen table.
“Eve, Gabby, come help your sister fill the eggs,” Mom called.
“Isaac, go find the rest of the men and tell them dinner will be served in about ten minutes.” Violet nodded toward the door.
He eyed me while passing the table on his way out. I kept a neutral expression as if nothing had happened, as if I didn’t have approximately two to three shots of hard liquor in my system.
I felt a little warmer and cared a little less. And that wasn’t good.
Ten minutes later, everyone sat at the dining room table—the dads at opposite ends, our moms and my sisters on one side, and me sandwiched between Matt and Isaac on the other side.
My dad cleared his throat. “Shall we say grace?” Dad held out his hands, and everyone followed suit.
Then the darndest thing happened: that liquid poison messed with my memory. I forgot Matt was on my left, so with my right hand, I put his hand (only not his hand) on my inner thigh.
There were two things worth noting:
1.) Under sober conditions, I would not have done that.
2.) Isaac was on my right.
Okay, there were three things worth noting.
3.) Matt’s hand (which was actually Isaac’s) squeezed my leg, and it felt good, so I said as much.
Out. Loud.
“That feels so good.” Once I heard my voice, I opened my eyes. For the record, I was praying even if my dad had stopped, which he had. I was praying I didn’t say those words outside my head.
From the confused gazes on me, I knew the answer. So I looked at Matt for help. Why did he do that? His hand was no longer on my leg. Still, it was pretty disrespectful for him to put me in that position, even if it felt good. And even if I did sort of instigate it. But Matt looked as confused as everyone else.
Everyone except Isaac, who was on my right.
Oh, no. It was his hand!
He smirked.
“Praise the Lord,” I said. “It feels so good to Praise God.”
Dad scowled, but Mom smoothed things over. “Praise God, indeed,” she said, unfolding her napkin and draping it on her lap while flashing Violet an angelic smile. “Everything looks and smells amazing, Vi. May it all nourish and bless our bodies.”
“Amen,” everyone mumbled before passing the food around the table.
I was too buzzed to hit my plate with the food, so after my slice of ham landed on the table beside the plate (which nearly no one saw), Isaac served me the rest of the food. Thankfully, his assistance went unnoticed.
Throughout the meal, I spontaneously giggled and immediately covered my mouth with a fist, disguising it as a cough. My parents talked about my sisters working at the church to help run Vacation Bible School, which I had done in previous summers.
“What about you, Sarah?” Violet asked. “Have you decided what you’re doing this summer? We’d love to have you help on the ranch. ”
I was eighteen, so I got to choose my summer job for the first time.
“It’s nothing personal,” Matt said politely. “But Sarah doesn’t want to work on the ranch.” He smiled at me as if he’d just done me a huge favor.
“We’re trying to talk her into a mission trip,” Dad said, giving me a nod of encouragement.
I felt like my eyes were bouncing around in my head, unable to concentrate on anyone or anything for more than a few seconds. A tiny voice told my eyes and brain to get it together and focus, but the buzz demanded all my attention—that and the memory of Isaac squeezing my leg.
“Sarah, are you feeling okay?” Mom asked in a concerned tone.
I choked on another giggle and shook my head. “I, uh, need to use the restroom. I just feel a little off.” I scooted back in my chair and stood. The room spun.
“Is it a headache?” Mom questioned.
“It,” I returned a jerky nod like my head was on a spring, “could be the start of one.”
All I had to do was make it a few feet to turn the corner into the kitchen. A few normal steps. But it was so hard.
“Sarah?” Violet called my name.
I cringed. Had she noticed my inability to walk a straight line? Everything was ready to unravel. I knew I’d have to rat out Isaac because there was no way anyone would’ve believed I had a flask with alcohol stashed in my purse.
“Hmm?” I stopped, pressing my hand to the wall while praying for a new excuse. Did I think God would answer my prayers with a well-thought-out lie for me to use?
With that amount of hard liquor in my blood, anything felt possible .
“The toilet off the kitchen hasn’t been flushing right. Use the one upstairs,” she said.
Upstairs?
Fun fact: I had never been upstairs. Preacher’s daughters weren’t allowed anywhere near the bedrooms of nonfamily members. I felt like I was being rewarded for my bad behavior.
Was that possible?
At the top of the creaky stairs covered in a faded blue carpet runner, there was a bedroom to the right. It had an unmade single bed in the corner and shelves with baseball trophies and ribbons—Matt’s room. On the opposite side, there was another room with a bed made so neatly that you could bounce a quarter off the top. Rock band posters, everything from Tom Petty to Aerosmith and ZZ Top, covered the walls. An electric guitar sat on a stand beside the window overlooking the garage.
The buzz led me into Isaac’s room, where I sat on the edge of his bed and flopped backward, making everything spin even more. That made me giggle, so I snatched his pillow and covered my face to muffle my laughter.
It smelled like Drakkar Noir with hints of rosemary, cardamom, and cedar. When it registered that I was sniffing my boyfriend’s brother’s pillow, I tossed it aside and stood, wobbling a bit before tiptoeing to the guitar. Since it wasn't plugged in, I plucked a few strings. I’d dreamed of playing the guitar, but my parents insisted I stick to the piano. It was kinder to my delicate fingers.
“If you touch something of mine, I get to touch something of yours, but I guess you tried to get me to feel you up during prayer, so that counts.”
I jumped out of my skin, slapping a hand over my mouth while staring at Isaac through wide, unblinking eyes. “What are you doing in here?” I mumbled, then giggled behind my hand.
“It’s my room. The question is, what are you doing here?” Isaac was pure sin; everything my dad had warned me about all wrapped up into one hot man with a cherry on top.
“I think you got me drunk.” I nibbled on my thumbnail, failing to suppress another snort.
He smirked. “I never would have guessed.” His gaze averted to my side. “What were you doing on my bed?”
“Huh?” I followed his gaze. “Nothing. I wasn’t.”
“My blanket is wrinkled, and my pillow is ruffled.” He took pleasure in calling me out like Goldilocks.
I sighed. “Why does your pillow smell so good? You smoke, ” I slurred the word with an extra long O. “Smokers are stinky. I’m tipsy.” My eyes rolled with a heavy blink. “I’ve never been tipsy. I like it. And I re-e-ealy like how your pillow smells.”
He held a finger to his lips, shooshing me while glancing over his shoulder.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “I can’t believe they let you up here with me,” I whispered. Well, it was a partial whisper. “I’m not allowed to be in boys’ bedrooms. I could accidentally have sex.”
Isaac rolled his lips between his teeth, but it did little to hide his amusement. “I have Tylenol.” He grabbed the white bottle from his nightstand. “My mom wanted Matt to get it for you, but I told her it was probably in my room. Do you need a Tylenol for your headache?” He held the bottle in my face between his thumb and his forefinger. Isaac had enormous hands, even larger than Matt’s.
I didn’t care. How much hand did one man need ?
“You should teach me to play your guitar.” I turned, lifting it from its stand.
“I don’t think I’ll be teaching you anything.” Isaac stole the guitar from me and returned it to its spot.
When he faced me, I was in his space, or he was in mine. So, I tipped my head back and smiled while jabbing my pointer finger into his chest. “I bet you have a lot to teach because you,” I tapped my finger like a woodpecker, “were in a band.”
His chest was hard, and I wondered if he had tattoos on it too.
“Go slide into Matty’s bed and sniff his pillow. I’ll tell everyone you took two Tylenol and needed a nap. Maybe you can do a better job of not embarrassing yourself in an hour or two. My parents have the croquet set up in the backyard. I’d hate for you to do anything inappropriate with one of the mallets. So sleep it off, Sunday Morning.”
I squinted, but it didn’t help my vision issues. “You were going to get my sister drunk.”
Isaac rolled his eyes. “You’re so ignorant. I wasn’t going to let her drink it. And even if she had taken it, after one sip, she would have spit it out or at least known that it wasn’t just Coke.”
I canted my head. “Your eyes are so dark. And the white part is really white.”
“The sky is blue, and the grass is green. Are there any more brilliant observations you want to discuss before you take a nap?”
“Do you believe in God?”
Isaac returned a blank look. I was unsure if it was a stare-off, but if so, I lost.
“Fine,” I grumbled, stiffly holding my arms out to the side while attempting to walk an imaginary line between Isaac’s room and Matt’s, seeing if I could pass a field sobriety test. Heather’s uncle failed one the previous year.
I failed too.
Collapsing onto Matt’s bed, I curled onto my side with my folded hands tucked under my cheek and fell asleep.