Backwoods (Shivaree)

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An Excerpt From: BACKWOODS

Copyright ?
CARA MCKENNA, 2010

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing,
Inc.

Chapter One

?Evenin?, boss.?

Shane raised a hand in reply to Jeanne, the afternoon
bartender stationed across the way. The door slapped shut behind him and he
wandered through the screened-in porch, past empty couches and up a step to
the main lounge area. He glanced at the scuffed wood of the dance floor,
those same boards he?d played on when this room had been his memaw?s front parlor, before his aunt inherited the old
plantation-style monstrosity and turned the ground floor into a club.

He headed to the bar, waving at the lone, early drinker
camped out by the front windows. Shane tossed a pile of mail on the
counter. ?You mind sortin? out the junk and tossin? the bills on my desk??

?You got it, boss.? Jeanne started flipping through the
envelopes.

He smiled at her. Cute gal. A little heavy, though Shane
didn?t mind that one bit. Warm smile, shiny brown hair. If he wasn?t ten
years her senior and signing her paychecks, he?d have asked the girl out by
now.

She set a catalogue from Baton Rouge Bar Supply in the
junk pile. Shane picked it up, thinking the place could stand some new
furniture, some stools that didn?t wobble or have stuffing creeping from
under the vinyl.

?We got a new musician coming in tonight,? Jeanne said.

Shane made a face as the bills stacked up. ?What kind of
musician??

It was Lovers? Night, as his Aunt Marie had rechristened
Fridays years ago. Shane hated that girlie name but he?d kept it after he
took over running the place, just as he?d kept nearly everything his aunt
had established. It brought the customers in and he wasn?t about to argue
with that.

?It?s Valentine?s week,? he added. ?I don?t want some
amateur stinking up my club when folks are looking for foreplay.?

?Every night?s foreplay around here,? Jeanne said.

True. It might be worse for wear, but something about
the Shivaree drew amorous folks like a siren
song.

?Plus Zach said this guy?s good,? she said. ?Real good.
Think he said he?s from New Orleans.?

?What?s he play??

?Mandolin, I think he said.?

Shane made a face. ?I don?t even know what a mandolin
looks like.?

?It?s like?it looks like a ukulele and violin, put
together,? Jeanne said. ?Sort of.?

?Don?t sound real sexy to me.?

?Well, you?ll have to just come down later and decide
for yourself then.? Jeanne disappeared around the corner to the bar?s
office with the mail. She returned and leaned on the counter, flared her
nostrils. ?You stink, boss.?

Shane put his nose to the shoulder of his work shirt,
breathing in motor oil and grease. ?You?re nuts. I fuckin? love that smell.? He pinched the front
of his shirt and tugged at the fabric, pretending to waft a cloud of his
questionable fragrance in Jeanne?s direction.

?You should wring that shirt into a bottle and sell it
to Calvin Klein,? Jeanne teased. ?Eau du Shane Broussard. Eau du Sweaty
Auto Mechanique.?

?Maybe I should,? Shane said, snotty. ?Give folks a
cologne that actually smells like a man, not all that sporty shit, citrus
or sandalwood or whatever.?

?You lemme know how that goes,
boss. Why don?t you go get yourself cleaned up before you scare the
customer away??

Shane knocked twice on the bar and turned, heading back
through the porch to the side steps that led to the second-floor balcony.
He unlocked the door to his apartment and kicked off his muddy boots, shed his clothes as he made his way through the
living room and kitchen to the bathroom, turned the shower on as hot as it
went. Forty might not seem bad to folks from places colder than Louisiana,
but Shane couldn?t stand anything below seventy-five. Heatstroke over
frostbite, any day of the week.

He soaped up, washed away the grease and grit, thought
about Jeanne?s breasts and jerked off, professionalism be damned. Hell, maybe
he should ask her out. He owned
the place. What was he going to do, fire himself?

He stepped out of the tub and toweled off, wiped the
steam off the mirror and stared at himself in the yellowy bathroom lights.
Not bad. Thirty-five was still young these days. He had another decade or
two before his height went from asset to liability and left him with a bad
back like his old man and his uncles. He kept himself fit, lifted weights
and did sit-ups and chin-ups to stave off the seemingly hereditary paunch overdue
to him from the Broussard side.

Dragging an electric razor over his face, Shane
considered his hair. It was at the end of this month?s cycle, ready for
another buzz. He thought about doing it himself but he liked an excuse to
go into Baton Rouge and flirt with the girl who ran clippers over his head
for half a minute and charged him fifteen bucks for the honor. Another
woman he ought to ask out.

He glanced around the counter and scanned the medicine
cabinet, found a hair clip and tube of lip gloss, evidence of bygone
one-night stands he?d prefer to not advertise to future one-night stands.
He buried them in the trash can under a spent toilet paper roll. Best to be
safe, in case he got brave enough or drunk enough to make a move on Jeanne
or some other willing woman on motherfucking Lovers? Night.

* * * * *

Shane
passed the early evening in the bar?s office, paying bills, ordering stock,
fumbling through the computer program that balanced the club?s books. Eight
hours spent crouched under various cars and trying to drill the most basic
information into his thick-skulled new apprentice had left him with a sore
neck and head. He wished he could just trot upstairs, crack a beer and fall
asleep watching the news. But he had a musician to weigh in on and a
barmaid to flirt with for as long as it took him to realize he was on the
age cusp where that sort of thing went from friendly to creepy.

He
flipped through catalogues, wondering why the fact that it was the weekend
didn?t feel like something to be relieved about. Two days spent rattling
around this house, keeping himself busy. At night,
drinking three beers too many and waking up the next morning with a
semi-familiar girl wrapped around him, or maybe just his own right hand.
Excuses for why Shane ought to head into the garage tomorrow and get ahead
on next week?s work flowed easily and loosened the knot in his chest. His
seventeen-year-old self would?ve had a field day with that one?avoiding
drunken one-night stands by working overtime. Seventeen,
shit. That was over half a lifetime ago.

He
glanced up at a knock on the door. ?C?min.?

Jeanne
poked her head through, the recorded pop music playing out in the bar
leaking in behind her. ?The mandolin guy?s here. You want to brief him on
what sorts of stuff to play??

?Just
tell him to keep it sexy. No lyrics with cussing if he sings. I?ll be out
in a few.?

?You
all right??

?Just
a headache. And I gotta work tomorrow,? he added.

?Bummer.?
Jeanne offered a sympathetic frown and closed the door quietly behind her.

Nice
girl? Too nice to get hit on by her boss. Plus she?d be moving on sooner or
later. She?d get snapped up by some decent young man or realize she was
bound for better things, head off to school someplace. Like everybody else
around here she?d move on, leave Shane behind to tend to his little
territory and await the slow but steady arrival of unremarkable middle-age.

He
rubbed his face and temples and when he lowered his hands the clock on the
computer told him it was seven fifteen.

Beyond
the office, the soft bass thump of the canned music faded away. Shane
pushed his chair out and hit the lights, locked the office and walked into
the Shivaree?s heady, amorous fog. Even in
February it felt like July. Even at suppertime it felt like three a.m. This
place made folks sweat, made them itchy to find a
warm, willing body to pair off with. His aunt had designed it that way, a
place with no pretension where people could be themselves, dress up or down
and drink cheap drinks and listen to free music, get out of their heads for
an evening. Old, young, pretty, homely?the differences all faded away under
the canopy of colored Christmas lights and crystals strung like vines from
the ceiling.