4. Scrap The Plan
4
Scrap The Plan
Billy
H e shouldn’t have touched her . In fact, he’d sworn to himself last night that he wouldn’t, at least, not until they discussed a few things – like the paternity of her baby, for instance. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to get his hopes up and assume she carried his child.
He’d lain awake far too long last night replaying each of their encounters and tracking them on a mental calendar. And as fun as mentally recreating their liaisons had been, remembering the way her face tilted upward as she came undone hadn’t helped settle his mind, or ease him into sleep either.
She carried the bump well, her body lean and strong, her skin taught over the growing babe within. He could only guess the gestation, based on the miniscule details she offered in the dark last night, when his back had been hard on the floor, despite the air mattress. There were also clues in the size of her stomach and the time she’d started being ‘too busy’ to see him regularly over the past few months.
Undeniably, there was a possibility that he was the father – a thought that forced his heart to pound double-time – but those dates Elanor arranged for Breanna had muddied the waters somewhat. They rarely discussed their other partners, and while he hadn’t had any worth mentioning over the past few years, he wasn’t certain the same could be said for Breanna.
Her pregnancy wasn’t a consideration in his hesitation towards her. If she was here, he knew, she was here for him , and for his family. Tradition. The Plan.
She’d never looked more beautiful in her life, and when she’d shed that Santa Suit … it had unlocked something primal inside him, taken all his considerable self-control not to press her into the curtains, tie her there, kick her ankles apart, and thoroughly ravage her like the beast inside him wanted to.
No, it wasn’t that Bre was pregnant, and it wasn’t that he’d lain awake all night pondering the baby’s paternity. His hesitations towards Breanna surrounded the fact that she’d inexplicably stopped speaking openly and honestly with him. Communication – her ability to verbalise every thought without holding back, and the truth plainly written on his face, despite often remaining silent – it was the foundation of their entire friendship. Without that …
Last night he’d been so sure he could withstand the intense tug his body felt towards hers and abstain from touching her, until they’d discussed everything properly. And yet, with her pressed into his lap, in a moment of utter vulnerability, he’d relented. He’d touched her … and damned if he didn’t want to do more.
Shaking his head, Billy adjusted himself again then stepped out into the blinding sun. A tiny mass lurched sideways and he barely managed to catch his frail old grandfather who seemed intent on kissing the wrap-around porch.
“Billy, my lad! Ye scared wits outa me! Thank goodness ye caught me before I fell arse over teakettle. I nearly flashed these people wi’ me nethers!” Grandpa Carmichael chuckled, adjusting his kilt, a beautiful tartan of blue and green, with thin yellow, red and black hatch-crossed lines.
Billy searched the vast blue sky for the universal sign he’d clearly missed – today was not meant for pants. Bre, Seth, and now his old Scottish grandfather – who was busily righting his walking cane and smoothing the traditional Carmichael plaid around his knobbly knees – clearly had not missed that pants-optional memo.
“You and Gran just arrive?” Billy asked, trying to blink the vision of a pants-less Bre from his mind. He squinted, struggling to see their hire car on the parking lot that was quickly springing up along the gravel driveway.
“Aye. Barely made it because of these nit wits!” An arthritis-ridden finger waved accusingly over the crowded area, noting the scattering of family and newcomers.
A bare-bottomed Seth flirted shamelessly with a young blushing girl holding a long-armed microphone. His mother and father were engaged in animated discussion with a beautiful lady Billy immediately recognised as social media influencer Sharee DeLuca, who’d made a career from inventing concepts like ‘cottage core’ and ‘celebrity styling’. Sharee, every bit the supermodel she appeared online, gushed with his mother about spending Christmas here at the farm. Their heads bent together, they conspired, until Sharee declared loud enough for everyone to hear, “Holly Carmichael, we will take the online world by storm this Christmas!”
His mother flushed, and a warmth grew in his chest. She worked so hard every Christmas, to provide a magical Southern Hemisphere experience. Now, this beautiful American influencer was going to expand Holly’s reach further, and they would indeed take over the online world with carefully framed images of all things festive.
To the other side of the dusty driveway stood Bre’s guest – Piers ‘Revv’ Ryder, car enthusiast and host of Crank Shaft , an international TV docu-series that featured rare and vintage cars, their owners, mechanics, and restoration teams. Bre had loved Crank Shaft with the same adoration most girls bestowed upon their Barbie dolls, dreaming for years of being featured on the show. Apparently, the universe hadn’t thrown enough spanners into their usual holiday works because that plan was finally coming to fruition right now.
Revv wore aviators and a leather jacket, despite the already biting sun of the December morning. He looked bored and disinterested as Connor and Liam swooned over his Chevrolet, yet managed a beaming smile when the cameraman turned their way.
“Breanna!” His grandfather’s voice pulled Billy back to the porch.
“Richard! You old fox!” Bre swept past him, sounding much more herself than so far this morning. His old Mighty Ducks jersey was now tucked smartly into stretchy black leggings that left nothing to the imagination and made Billy’s cock strain.
Normally, Bre didn’t wear form-fitting clothing. All their lives, she’d hidden her body, swathed in baggy-jeans and too-big t-shirts. Bre was baseball caps, overalls and boots. Big jumpers to her knees and generally loose fabrics. Comfortable. He liked that about her, that she didn’t feel the need to dress up or put on a show or pretence – not for anyone, or anything. Billy gulped, trying to snatch his eyes back from where they were glued to her arse.
Her ability to get him hard, so easily – and so publicly – was going to be problematic. Normally, they would have already dealt with their body’s pent-up frustrations and needs, but …
He shook the thoughts away as she bent to hug his grandfather. The sight did nothing to deter his imagination. Pressing his lips together, Billy leaned back against the doorframe, hoping the solid weight of the weatherboard house might lend him some strength.
“Love yer legs, lass.” Richard patted Bre’s rump affectionately, the cheeky bugger. “Ye finally fillin’ out, I see.” He tugged the brim of her cap down, teasing.
“Love your skirt,” Bre shot back, grinning widely as she lifted the hat. “But I’m not going to comment about how you fill it out. Not on your life, old man!”
“Oh, ye do know how te spoil a man’s fun.” Richard tutted, leaning heavily on his cane. “Once ye get used te the fresh breeze around yer nethers, ye know, ye canna go back to wearin’ pants! Plus,” he leaned in, whispering loud enough for those back in Scotland to hear, “the lassies like the easy access!”
“Oh yeah? Which lassies? Speaking of, where is your wife?”
“Oh, you know her.” Richard waved towards the house. “She’s probably already hidin’ away in a corner somewhere, bein’ the anti te my social .” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “Such a wallflower, she is. Wee Billy gets it from her, I swear!” Richard chuckled, and at the same moment Revv’s mirrored glasses slid down his long nose as he eyed the porch and its residents.
Nudging the cameraman and pointing to the wrap-around veranda, Revv called, “Breanna, baby! Are you ready for this?” He opened his arms wide, walking towards her.
Then, without waiting for her reply, he spun on one sleek dress-shoe heel and spoke to the camera.
“Breanna Henderson is Miss Shit Show Supervisor herself. She’s also the owner of the acclaimed restoration garage, Rust Busters, here in the small town of Moonshine in New South Wales, Australia. This Christmas, we’ll be highlighting her story and her amazing 1943 Ford Coupe Utility that has become a prominent feature of the town’s Christmas celebrations. We’ll also join you LIVE on Christmas Eve right here on the Carmichael Christmas Tree Farm for their annual town-levelling party. And as an extra-special Christmas gift to you ,” Revv pointed into the camera, grinning, still slowly making his way towards the veranda, “in this episode of Crank Shaft , we’ll also be joined by interior designer to the stars, my very good friend, Sharee DeLuca!”
The portly cameraman swung the lens Sharee’s way. It took her less than a second to react, sliding a practised smile onto her face, but as the camera’s attention shifted back to Ryder, Billy noted the confusion ... or perhaps annoyance … that etched grooves between her eyebrows. It looked like she hadn’t expected Revv to be here. In fact Billy, would not have been surprised if they had ever spoken to each other, let alone been ‘very good friends.’
Sharee was gorgeous yet understated, in fresh white linen and open-toed sandals that were no fit for a farm in high summer, if she had any intention of heading out into the trees – and why wouldn’t she? It was December and this was a Christmas Tree Farm, after all. He’d have to mention the necessity of boots. Red-bellied black snakes, brown snakes, tiger snakes, ants, a host of spiders, and a few rather grumpy wombats called the farm home, and the sharp jab of fresh pine needles to your foot wasn’t pleasant, either.
In too-white clothing that danced around her, polished gold jewellery and fashionably large spectacles that framed equally large, lovely eyes, she didn’t look like someone used to being around dirt. She might be at home on a smooth sandy beach, with a too-wide brimmed hat atop her head and a cocktail in each hand, rather than here in the Australian bush, just far enough from civilisation to be officially considered The Middle of Nowhere.
Sharee confidently snapped photos on her phone, needing no entourage or concerted attention. In fact, now that Revv was busy, once more talking to his reflection in the camera lens, Sharee was trying desperately to extricate herself from Liam and Connor’s conversation. Backing away with a winning but genuine smile, she excused herself, heading into the house where Holly promised breakfast was still hot and waiting.
“Why is it so hot here? Is it always this hot here?” Billy’s grandfather complained, eyeing Sharee with soft milky blue eyes and flapping the hem of his kilt.
“Grandpa!” the twins intoned, outraged at the old man trying to steal Sharee DeLuca’s attention.
“It’s December in Australia,” Seth reminded Richard with a clap on his stooped shoulders, arse still visible behind the frilly front-cover of Holly’s apron. “Though I could get used to this whole free-balling in summer thing.” He swayed slightly left to right, chuckling. “Breezy.”
Billy smoothed down another smile. Sharee and Revv had good instincts – Christmas at the Carmichaels’ would provide a lot of unique footage for their respective audiences.
“Hush down, Pa!” Nick scolded his father. “The ladies don’t wish te hear … nor see … such things. Right, Holly?”
His wife nodded as she bounded past, arm-in-arm with Sharee, chatting about ‘Insta-worthy décor’ like it was the momentous invention of sliced bread.
“Best. Christmas. Ever!” Holly said as she disappeared into the house with her guest. Sharee smiled with genuine warmth.
She could be a kindred spirit, Billy thought, watching attractive American woman melt into the background, happy to disappear. He wished he could disappear, too, especially as Revv Ryder advanced.
In stark contrast to Sharee, Revv was the embodiment of over the top. Every gesture was bigger than necessary, and his slightly-too-loud voice was too smooth, with the inflections that came with years of media engagement. He had a way of speaking into the camera lens, schmoozing the audience, and forgetting to speak directly to the guests on his show. People were props just as much as the cars were, and with Revv consistently front-and-centre, he saw himself as the undisputed star.
Finally reaching the porch, Revv hinged at the waist in a practised bow, taking Bre’s hand with the clear intention of kissing it. He halted, noting the ingrained black crescents around her nails and the dark lines that refused to scrub away, no matter how hard she tried. Each crack and crevice in her rough little hands revealed hard work – something the celebrity clearly didn’t appreciate in the way that Billy did. And then Revv noticed her swollen belly, panic crossing his features for a split second.
Could Piers Ryder be the father of Bre’s baby?
Billy shuddered to think of this greasy celebrity’s hands trailing Bre’s soft skin. Begrudgingly, he had to admit it was a possibility. The Crank Shaft host had met Breanna in a preliminary interview several months ago, right around the time Billy estimated she might have fallen pregnant, based on the limited information she’d given him.
As repulsive as Billy found the man, he understood that celebrities held a certain appeal, and Bre’s attitude towards the man was ambiguous. He’d seen Bre flirt and fight – the line between the two sometimes obscured by the passionate way she approached both activities.
Could Revv be the father? Bre would share that information with him, surely? Did the father, whoever he was, know she was with child? Thought after thought tumbled through his brain. Running his hand down his face, Billy tried to wipe them all away.
It didn’t matter who the father of Bre’s baby was. All that mattered was that she was happy. If she was happy with Revv Ryder ... Billy watched her punch their celebrity guest lightly in the arm. Piers grinned down at her upturned face. A growl half formed in Billy’s throat.
She didn’t need protecting, but that primal side of him wanted to do just that. Rip the sleazy celebrity from where he leaned too close over her, schmoozing for the rolling camera.
Revv’s lips aborted their original mission, flicking to the menacing shadow Billy had morphed into, before plucking at the air above Bre’s hand. Colour rose high on Bre’s cheeks and Billy’s stomach twisted.
Another vehicle – an SUV – arrived in the rapidly growing car park. Four children of various sizes and states of excitement piled out, followed by Billy’s eldest brother, Graham, who was already apologising for his family.
“Lianne was unable to make it, so it’s just me and the boys,” he said, temples shining with more grey hairs than last year. “Hopefully she can be here for the Christmas Eve Party.”
Hope, Billy knew, was needed with this rowdy bunch.
“UNCLE BILLIAM!” The two youngest bolted from the car and straight for Billy’s legs, circling their considerably smaller limbs around him and holding tight.
“Lachlan, Leo.” Billy tried lifting his feet, and the three-year-olds squealed in delight as they clung like lead shoes. “My favourite twins.”
“HEY!” Connor and Liam protested.
“And Max!” Billy greeted the more subdued boy of eight, who leaned over his siblings to hug his uncle’s waist before reaching up to pat his bearded cheek.
“They’re your problem now, Uncle Bill,” he said with mock seriousness, before adding in awe, “Is that … are you … Revv Ryder?!” Flustered, Max spun, burying red cheeks into Breanna’s side. “Hey, Aunty Bre!”
Almost as quickly as he dived in for the hug, Max retreated, his amazed expression shifting back and forth between Bre’s face, her distended stomach, and Revv. He shot Billy a look of absolute delight before darting into the house, calling for his Nanna Holly.
Revv rubbed his hands together. They were too clean and soft to be a real mechanic’s hands, Billy noted. “All that kid’s Christmases have come at once with me here, right?” Revv sought affirmation. No one answered, and in the growing silence, his reflective glasses dipped as he eyed Bre’s belly once more.
Callum, Billy’s eldest nephew at ten years of age, hung back to help his father with the bags, waving enthusiastically up to them.
“Kids,” Revv commented between gritted teeth. “Gotta love them.”
He made it sound like a question, and Billy felt himself bristle. Breanna, too, seemed to straighten at Revv’s tone, her belly pushing further into the space between the three of them, before she exhaled and leaned over the railing, moving her attention elsewhere.
“Welcome home!” she called to Graham, who was clearly relieved to have finally arrived. By all reports it was a lengthy, noisy drive from Melbourne to Moonshine, in an enclosed space with four children, two of whom suffered terrible car sickness. Owning a pub, Billy was well acquainted with the smell of vomit, but by some minor miracle, none of his nephews smelled of the stuff.
“Yeeees, children.” Revv’s eyes searched the sky for something like strength. “ Wonderful .”
Billy found himself asking, “You have any children?” The answer was clearly written on the celebrity’s photo-ready face – in Revv’s world, there had never been anyone but himself.
Billy managed to extricate the squealing, giggling bundles from his legs, chasing them inside with threats of hiding the lollies so high they’d never find them.
“Tis goin’ te be a big Christmas this year,” Richard said to the TV host and his entourage. “Ye might want te come in an’ fortify yerself wi’ some whiskey. At least, that’s what I’ll be doin’ ,” he added. “Tis so good, this stuff, like an angel pissin’ in yer mouth.”
“Delicious,” Seth grinned, lead the way. The fiercely blushing microphone girl was behind him. The cameraman, already sweating through his t-shirt and wiping his damp face with a hankie, soon followed, Richard tapping his heels, tutting, “Hurry up, man, good whiskey waits fer ne one!”
With his audience gone, and drink on offer, Revv wasn’t far behind.
“I’ll be there in a minute!” Breanna called after them, leaning heavily on the railing and fixing her eyes on the sprawling fields of radiata pine.
Moving beside her, Billy stood close, bumping her shoulder with his. I’m here , he wanted to say. Talk to me . Laughter echoed from inside the house, carried away on the same breeze that caught the door, gently clicking it closed.
“So,” Bre began with a small smile, “Revv finally realised I needed to be on Crank Shaft .” It was a safe conversational starting point, if not a bit obvious.
It wasn’t a question; she didn’t need a response or confirmation, so Billy simply waited for her to continue. “He’s … we’re … it’s a Christmas Special. About me. And Edsel. Pre-filmed episode, then a live special on Christmas Eve …”
Billy watched Breanna closely as she breathed in and out, a hint of her former panic detectable, though she still seemed incapable of the easy speech he’d taken for granted all these years.
Her breathing changed and she sniffed the air. Once, twice. “Billy, why does it smell like bushfire? I thought all the backburning finished months ago.”
With a small jerk of his head, he led her down the front steps and to the side of the house, past the pristine little white Suzuki that could only have been Sharee DeLuca’s car, and towards the boundary of the property.
Bre stood with her arms resting on her belly. Billy watched as her hazel eyes widened, surveying the charred boundary fence – or what remained of it. The long, dark line that scorched a clear divide between Henderson and Carmichael land still emitted a faint burnt smell.
“It’s her handiwork, isn’t it.”
Billy nodded, seeing tired disappointment, heavy and familiar, wash over Breanna at the thought of Mrs Elanor Henderson. He knew Bre wanted to apologise for her mother’s behaviour, but Hendersons didn’t say sorry. And if she, or Seth, started down the path of asking forgiveness for their parents’ antics, they would never stop.
The deliberate burning of the fence between the properties was just one incident in a long line of ‘neighbourly disputes’ that had long ago exhausted the patience of the Moonshine Police Department. The Montague-and-Capulet-style civil war between the Hendersons and Carmichaels was legendary, most of the conflict stemming from Elanor Henderson herself.
Sure, the four Carmichael lads had made their fun, too, Seth planning a lot of the calculated, devious retaliations, but Elanor Henderson had a knack for un-neighbourly subterfuge that would have made a seasoned spy uneasy. The woman was an evil genius disguised as a homemaker.
“It’s not smart. Or neighbourly. OR festive!” Bre ground out. “What kind of an idiot sets a brand-new wooden fence on fire in the peak of a bloody Australian summer?”
Billy didn’t respond, knowing those waters ran too deep to dive into right now. Instead, he cleared the lump in his throat that seemed to lodge there every time he was around Bre, preparing to – somehow – try and bridge the gap their silence had built last night.
“She must’ve used an accelerant, too. That’s malicious damage.” Bre exhaled slowly. “Thanks for not holding it against Seth and me. She’s our mum, but she’s barely family. Not anymore.”
Elanor had tried to come between their families for years. Now, Billy was grateful that she might be the one safe topic they could discuss.
“You have always been part of our family, Bruce. That will never change.”
She reached for his hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Thank you.” Her voice was watery again.
“Out of curiosity,” he hedged, “do you know why she burned the new fence down?”
Shrugging, she shot Billy a smirk. “To be fair, it was an ugly fence.”
The laugh that erupted from Billy was pure depth and baritone, a sudden boom that sent the birds fleeing from the trees. He mastered himself quickly, surprised at the outburst. He forced himself to mumble, “You always knew how to make me laugh, Bruce.”
“Best sound in the world,” she told him, her own quiet chuckle dissolving quickly. Her hands slowly roamed her stomach as she thought.
Billy had to admit, he could see why Elanor had refused the fence. If he’d been in her shoes, he wouldn’t have wanted to sacrifice the view of the Carmichael home, either. Not that anyone would ever actually agree with Elanor Henderson’s irrational incendiary actions, but still … his family home was a remarkable sight, especially from this angle.
Beneath the brilliant, vast blue sky, the sprawling, modern country home, with its expanses of timber and white, was set between tall evergreen trees. A big, red, American-style barn sat to one side, in the seemingly endless landscape of deep green radiata pine trees.
“You know, Billy, I think we–”
“Breanna, baby!” Revv Ryder’s voice disturbed their conversation. Billy swallowed a growl at the interruption.
Taking a deep breath, Bre tore her eyes away from the burnt earth – and the small house just beyond it – turning to the oncoming intruder.
“Baby, you going to officially introduce us or what?” Even from here, Billy could smell the whiskey.
Bre blinked. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m a bit … distracted.”
“By me?” Revv grinned, but Bre continued as though she hadn’t heard his quip. Good, Billy thought.
“Revv, this is Billy. Billy, Piers Ryder, better known as–”
“Everyone calls me Revv,” the celeb said seriously, looking up at Billy who was taller by a good few inches, even with the lifts in his impractical shined black shoes. “Cos I go revv revv vroom with the cars and the ladies.”
Revv flexed his wrists, as though riding an imaginary motorbike up Billy’s torso. Torn between a grin and a grimace, Billy slid his hand down over his beard, smoothing all expression from his features.
Clearly, this well-delivered line must have worked for Revv in the past. Women probably swooned and sighed at the celebrity. Men likely chortled deep in their throats with masculine appreciation. Not here. On the farm, Revv’s too-reflective glasses, slicked back Danny Zuko hairstyle, always-ready-for-the-limelight charm, and leather jacket on an already thirty-degree day, just didn’t work. Not on Billy, at least, and surely not on Breanna, whose bullshit-o-metre was notoriously accurate. The woman could smell a deception – and call you out for it – with just a look. And … yep … her shrewd eyes were judging Revv.
He waited for Bre to chew Ryder up and spit him out. No words came, to Billy’s surprise and disappointment. She must still be using the same glue she’d sealed her mouth shut with last night.
Waiting, hand outstretched, Billy waited for Revv to give up on his show and just shake his damned hand, while trying to ignore the fact that his best friend had, apparently, received a brain transplant.
When the TV host finally took his offering, Revv shook and squeezed with too much force. The man had just ridden an invisible motorbike up Billy’s chest, so how he expected to command masculine respect with assertive handshake now, he would never know.
Clearing his throat, Revv extricated his hand and, lips pursed, subtly rubbed his knuckles. Billy clocked the moment – hell, he’d seen it often enough – when a person realised he only had one arm. So he wasn’t surprised when Revv asked bluntly, “How’d you end up one-armed?”
“Revv!” Breanna looked ready to punch him.
Billy gave her a look – My fight, not yours – and she unclenched her fists with a small, begrudging nod, understanding immediately.
Best friends were like that, almost telepathic. Billy was glad to see that , at least, hadn’t changed.
“No shame, man,” Revv continued, sliding his aviators higher up his sharp nose. “No shame. Birth defect? Wrestling a grizzly in these woods?”
Billy’s eyes bore holes through Revv’s confidence. He enjoyed watching the celebrity squirm. It was rare that he needed to tell his story; everyone in Moonshine had been acquainted with it long ago. But now, standing beside a burnt fence in the blistering sun, with his surprise-I’m-pregnant best friend and an obnoxious celebrity car enthusiast … This wasn’t the time to share his story.
The dinner table always bustled with conversation. Perhaps tonight he’d regale the newcomers with the tale. He’d recount how, at the tender age of five, he and his brothers had been playing amongst the abandoned train carriages in the railyard. How he’d somehow become trapped beneath a large wagon that hadn’t moved in years – except that day, when fate cursed him. He’d tell them about the pain and shock, how his three older brothers ran into town seeking help. He’d leave out the part where Breanna, just a child herself, appeared to him like an angel, bravely setting her shoulders and demanding he stay awake and talk to her.
“Don’t leave me!” The words echoed in his mind. “No matter what, Billy Carmichael, don’t leave me! I’m here. I won’t go anywhere. Just listen to my voice …”
Billy noted the expression on Bre’s face, like she saw right through his skin and into his brain … like she was reliving that day, too.
“There are no grizzlies in Australia, Ryder.”
Revv ignored the comment. “I’m just curious,” he added, somewhat defensively. “Might be good to get someone like you on the show.”
“Someone like him ?” Bre spluttered, incredulous.
Interesting. He’d never been wanted because of his disability before.
“Great for ratings,” Revv added. His eyes dropped to her stomach, as though a beautiful woman sporting a baby belly might be good for the Crank Shaft ratings too.
“Revv.” She was fuming. “Billy should be on the show, no matter what! He helped me with the Ford, he’s–”
“If Mr Lefty here was involved with the restoration? He can certainly be involved in the show!” Revv flashed a dazzling fake smile. “C’mon, Breanna, baby!” Revv practically purred before snatching her away. “We have so much to do.” He threw this last comment over his shoulder to Billy. “ Crank Shaft will take a fair chunk of her time.”
Billy trailed behind, trying desperately to loosen his tight jaw and unlock his eyes from Breanna’s arse and those stretchy leggings he was going to insist she wore forever more.
“Viewers love a chick holding a wrench, you know,” Revv said. “Great for ratings. Breanna is perfect for this Christmas Special. And this place!” He spun on his shiny high-heel dress shoe. “Perfect filming location, man. Thanks for inviting us.”
Billy’s eyebrows crashed together, but Bre shot him an apologetic smile.
Right, so this was The Piers Show, and they all had to play their parts.
“How long do you plan on staying?” Billy asked, trying to clear the mental image of ripping off Ryder’s arm. It was draped around Bre’s shoulders, his hand inching lower.
“Breanna knows the plan. You told him the plan, right baby? You, me, old Edsel.” Revv’s voice had taken on a wistful tone. All his ‘baby’ talk was making Billy’s skin crawl.
If Billy knew nothing else about Breanna Henderson, it was that she abhorred nicknames. ‘Bruce’ had been her own choice, when they were children, to signify that she was part of the boys crew. A mate. But any other name? From anyone else? Hell, he’d seen Bre break up with a man on the spot for calling her ‘sweetie.’
At times, when he was caught up in her, when the world became a hazy almost-there reality he’d departed from, he let the monicker ‘honey’ slip. At times, Breanna loved it. Occasionally, he’d earned a swift fist to his stomach.
“Baby,” Billy growled, low enough that only wild dogs might hear. When had Bre and Revv become so familiar?
“So,” Revv practically purred, “that Nick fellow said something about searching for a pickle?” His grin was fiendish. Billy bet he was the kind of man who giggled like a child at crude words. “And in a related matter, how can I get my hands on one of those kilts?”
“You can’t.” Bre told him, finally shaking Revv’s arm off her shoulders.
Billy rumbled. “Kilts are only for clansmen.”