16. Helen
For a moment, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing—for more than one reason. First and foremost, I have no idea why Thad is feeling up that mannequin, but somehow even more absurd than this sight is the reality of him being here, in this lingerie shop, right now. After literal years, I finally work up the nerve to sneak into a lingerie store and there he is, standing three feet away from me. Probably here to buy lingerie for his sexy, supermodel-esque girlfriend, of whom there is no proof of existence, but who must exist nonetheless because she always does.
We stare at each other for a short eternity, as I run through all of the plausible scenarios to explain why I’m here that don’t include my own stunted, burgeoning sexuality: I’m here to buy a gift. A sexy gift for a friend—no, that’s too weird. I’ve wandered into the wrong store, maybe? Or I’ve been hired as a secret shopper.
Or maybe, just maybe, there’s nothing that strange about an adult woman buying herself underpants. I know this logically, but somehow it still feels tremendously embarrassing to be caught. Especially since I’m currently looking at red panties, which everyone knows is the horniest color.
It’s not as embarrassing as feeling up a mannequin, though, so at least I still have the moral high ground.
Thad tries to step toward me, but seems to remember all at once about the mannequin and does his best to drop it. It seems to be hanging on to him by his coat, though, which might have been funny under any other circumstance. Instead, I watch stone-faced as he grows increasingly flustered trying to shake the mannequin off before he abruptly pulls off its arm with a loud pop and lets the rest of the mannequin drop to the ground with a heavy thud.
If I didn’t know better, I might think Thad was blushing. Actually, maybe I don’t know better, because I’m almost positive that’s a blush climbing up his neck. “I—” he starts to say, but I cut him off, stepping forward and reaching over his shoulder to detach the mannequin arm still dangling from the back of his coat. There’s no way I’m going to be able to have a conversation with him swinging that thing around like a tail.
In a matter of seconds, he’s free. I set the arm down carefully on a display stand before looking back at him—and I promptly swallow. Absorbed in the task, I hadn’t realized just how close I’ve moved to him. I’m gripping his forearm, my breasts pressed up against his bicep. Our faces are close, so close that I feel the air sucked out of my lungs as his blue-gray eyes lock on to mine.
Thad clears his throat, brows knitted together gruffly under his baseball cap. “Is Dean in the back?”
I frown, matching his expression as I take a step back. “Is Dean in the back of what?”
He gives an irritated grunt. “Of the store.”
It takes a moment to process. “You think I’m meeting my brother in a lingerie store?” I ask him slowly, not quite believing I even have to answer such an accusation.
A look of dismay flashes through Thad’s eyes, but his jaw remains clenched tightly. It’s like he’s messed up, and he knows he messed up, but rather than admitting it, he has to double down. “No one would suspect it.”
“Because no one would have that sort of relationship with their brother, outside of Game of Thrones.” The thought of having a discussion of any kind with Dean around sexy lingerie gives me the heebie-jeebies. I shudder and take another step back, not wanting any closeness between us to muddle my brain. “Dean is not here. Like I told you before, I have no idea where he is.” I fold my arms as a new idea strikes me. “But I guess this proves you’re still following me. I hope it’s been worth your time, stalking me while I watch Netflix and read in bed. Pretty wild stuff.”
His eyes flicker down to the red lacy panties still gripped in my hand, then back up to me. He clears his throat, looking discomfited. “I haven’t been watching you in bed. Only in public.”
“Oh. Well. As long as it’s only in public.” I give a dramatic flourish to my eye roll, suddenly no longer caring that I’ve been caught holding panties. I am not the ridiculous person in this situation, he is. I’m pretty sure whatever vestiges of a crush were left have been finally, firmly snuffed out.
Thad clenches his jaw, a muscle in his cheek flexing. He looks around the store, like he’s afraid someone might overhear him, then leans in closer to me. “I have a theory.”
I truly don’t know who Thad thinks might be listening in on this conversation—the sales girl texting furiously on the phone she thinks we can’t tell she’s hiding behind the counter, or the mom pushing a stroller with her sleeping baby while she examines a pair of crotchless panties. (Interesting.) Either way, he’s a little too close for comfort now, close enough that I can smell his soap and see the unexpected flecks of green in his eyes.
Okay, so maybe not entirely, one hundred percent over the crush.
“Oh, yeah?” I challenge, irritated at how breathy my voice sounds. “What’s that?”
“You may not know where Dean is, but you do know how to find out.”
I command my face not to betray anything, but I know my face. It is not a poker face, and I am no Lady Gaga. My expressions are as transparent as these panties.
Thad sees my hesitation and grins at me, triumphant and cocky, and something about it makes me feel squirmy in my bathing-suit areas. “There it is again. You know something.”
I do my best to channel my inner sister, the one who taught middle school English for a year at an inner-city Catholic high school. Think Sister Act 2, but without the singing, or the fun, or Whoopi Goldberg. I’m not a natural disciplinarian, but one has a steep learning curve with prepubescents, and I can be tough. When forced to be. And no other alternatives present themselves. “Maybe. But even if, hypothetically, that’s true, why should I tell you? Frankly, you haven’t done anything to show me I should trust you.”
“You don’t have to trust me,” Thad returns easily, folding his arms in such a way that (distractingly) shows off the tight muscles in his forearms. “But you should trust this: Dean is in a lot of trouble. On the scale of people looking for him, I’m a hermit crab. But there are barracudas, stingrays, even great whites who are on the hunt, too, just waiting for a chance to get a bite out of him.”
That sounds…ominous. I frown at him, not wanting to relent too easily. “Killer whales are actually the apex predators of the sea. But I get your point. Who are these people and what do they want with Dean, anyway?”
“Not entirely sure. But rumor has it that Dean has majorly pissed off the Chicago mafia.”
For a moment, I can only stare at him. “Like, the mafia mafia? Like Tony Soprano, Marlon Brando, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse mafia?” I shake my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Dean’s an idiot but he’s only been arrested for petty crimes. Drunk and disorderly conduct, peeing in alleys, that kind of stuff. What does the mafia want with him?”
Thad scoff-laughs. “Someone’s been feeding you a spoonful of bullshit if you think that’s true. Dean’s been dabbling in the big stuff for a while now.” He slides open his phone, switching through a few screens before handing it to me. “Here. Take a look for yourself.”
I stare in surprise at the different charges on Dean’s record: racketeering, sports gambling, extortion, loan sharking. Most recently he was arrested for health-care fraud.
And every single time, someone bailed him out. The only person who would do that is Pam Flanagan, which means that Mom has to know about all the different charges on Dean’s criminal record. Knowing my mother, she refuses to believe most of them, but she at least knows of their existence.
Despite my worry for Dean’s well-being, I can’t help but be irritated by the entire situation. Dean is literally in and out of jail and seriously jeopardizing my parents’ finances by skipping bail, and yet somehow I’m the problem child because I only go to church once a week now and I maybe/someday/hopefully will have sex. Explain that one to me, slowly.
Thad must read the warring emotions on my face as something more benevolent than they really are. “I can tell you care about your brother. Let me help him.”
I snort. “By putting him back in jail?”
“In custody, away from the mob? Yeah, I’d say that’s much safer than whatever game he’s playing right now.”
I debate this idea internally, weighing out the pros and cons. More to buy myself time than anything, I fold my arms back at him and ask, “How do I know you’re really who you say you are? According to Google, bounty hunting is illegal in the state of Illinois.” Yep. I did some research. I put my MS in library science to good use. “Maybe you’re part of the mob and trying to trick me into leading you to Dean.”
I don’t actually think this is true, but it feels like something I should clarify, just to show I’m not as naive as everyone seems to think I am.
Sighing, Thad changes screens on his phone and pulls up…YouTube?
“Is this your swearing-in ceremony, or something?” I ask as the video loads. “Do bounty hunters have swearing-in ceremonies?”
“Shush,” he orders me. “Just watch.”
What follows is the most amazing five minutes of my life thus far. A brief, thirty-second introduction clip for a show called Bama Bounty plays, with overlays of a city I don’t recognize, juxtaposed with swamps and alligators, cheesy graphics, an older man with a faint resemblance to Thad—but with a blue mohawk!—and Thad standing back-to-back with two other twentysomething guys who also faintly resemble him. And all of them, every last one, has matching mohawks: Thad’s is his natural shade of red, while one guy has dyed his green and the other purple.
Thad clears his throat. “My brothers. And the first guy is?—”
“Your dad,” I finish for him, watching eagerly as the clip continues.
The scene is a brief one from what appears to be a reality television series following Thad and his bounty hunter family as they arrest people who break their bail. All of them have very thick Southern accents, much more defined than the occasional hint I get from him every now and then.
“Is this in Mobile?” I ask, remembering what he told me about splitting his time between here and there.
Thad clears his throat. “Yep.”
In the clip I’m watching, Thad’s father—Darius, according to the chyron on the screen—breaks down the information about the perpetrator and his criminal record for Thad and Thad’s brothers (Orpheus and Amadeus—I’m not making this stuff up, I swear). The three sons make a lot of colorful interjections about the perpetrator’s clothing and hair—most of which seem pretty badly scripted—and Darius promises to bring him swift Bama justice!
Then a very pretty, very made-up woman in sleek black athletic gear and a bulletproof vest sits on Thad’s lap. Her outfit is no-nonsense but her hair is teased up to an unnatural volume and she’s wearing long lavender acrylic nails. Her chyron reads “Vera” and I watch in morbid fascination as she runs her purple-tipped fingers up and down Thad’s chest. As she does so, I spot a huge diamond engagement ring on her left hand. “Good luck, baby. Bring him into custody and I’ll let you take me into custody tonight?—”
In the lingerie store, Thad clears his throat and takes the phone back from me. “So, yeah. Verified bounty hunter. It is illegal in Illinois, but I technically practice out of Indiana, where it is legal, so.”
I nod, pretending to still care about whether or not he has the right license, when I’m really still stuck on the woman in the video. Are they still engaged? Or married now? This video is date-stamped from a few years ago, and Thad no longer lives in Mobile or has a mohawk, so clearly some things have changed. But still…engagement usually leads to marriage. Was he kissing me in my apartment while he has a hot, high-maintenance bounty hunter wife at home?
All of this really shouldn’t matter, considering the kind of trouble Dean is in. Still, I can’t help glancing down at Thad’s left hand. No ring. That could mean anything, though. Lots of people don’t wear wedding rings, or they might still just be engaged…
Focus, Helen, I reprimand myself. I don’t even like Thad as a person anymore, much less as a romantic prospect, and my attention should be on Dean and the best way to help him. “Why shouldn’t I go to Shane instead of you? He’s a private detective. That seems a little more legit than a bounty hunter who shouldn’t even be bounty hunting in this state.”
At the mention of Shane’s name, Thad grimaces, like he’s just bitten into something sour. “I don’t know what kind of act Shane was putting on for you, but trust me when I say he’s a complete douchebag. Finding Dean will be all about boosting his career and his ego, and if Dean gets fed to the sharks along the way, well, too bad, so sad, move on to the next job. I might be a lowly bounty hunter, but I only get paid if I catch my man alive.”
He says this all matter-of-factly, and it’s the first time it sinks in for me that Dean is actually, truly in danger. Not just his usual slap-on-the-wrist hijinks, but real and legitimate life-and-death danger.
It doesn’t make any sense why I should trust Thad, but for some reason, I do. Sighing, I look down at my hands, where I realize I’ve been twisting the red lacy panties around. I drop them on the display, forcing myself to meet Thad’s gaze and hoping he didn’t follow the movement. “I’m going to see my parents on Sunday. They’re coming into town and staying with my aunt Linda. Dean is supposed to call.”
Thad’s eyes light up, and he steps in closer to me, lowering his voice. “Bring me with you.”
I suck in a breath, shaking my head. “My mom will freak out if she knows a bounty hunter is after Dean.”
“So don’t tell her I’m a bounty hunter. Tell her I’m your boyfriend.”
My dumb heart speeds up a little. I feel myself reaching for the panties again—nervous habit, I guess?—and have to clench my hands at my sides to stop myself. “I don’t know if they’ll buy that. I haven’t ever introduced someone to my parents, not since…” No need to be coy anymore. He knows it all. I square my shoulders. “…since ever. Even before I was a sister.”
His eyes flicker down, then back up again. “The red panties suggest it’s only a matter of time. I might as well be your first.”
The words seem to register with him at the same time as they hit me, and he flushes. “First guy you bring home, I mean.”
“Fine,” I say quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice my own rising blush. I hand him my phone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the information…”
And just like that, I’m bringing Thaddeus Hughes, bounty hunter, over for Sunday dinner.