Backcast (20 page)

7

Borrowed Robes

The Pantyliners were hosting today's cocktail hour.

The entire coterie of writers had taken to gathering each afternoon around four to share progress and compare notes. It was Barb's best chance to check in with everyone, and it gave the group a good opportunity to bolster each other and keep the momentum going. They were down to the last week, now.

The Pansters had already completed their essays and were working on final revisions.

The Pantyliners were closing in on submitting their first drafts.

The Outliners were still arguing about what kind of notepads to buy.

Barb shook her tired head and called it “business as usual.”

But the tone of the gathering today was different. Not as easy or lighthearted. In fact, Darien thought it was downright somber. Most of that seemed to derive from Quinn, who was pretty devastated about having to withdraw from the fishing tournament. It was clear that Junior's hospitalization was hitting her pretty hard. Even though Montana said that his brother, Big Boy, assured Quinn that she didn't have to follow through with her promise to fix up their Panhead Harley. A deal was a deal, he told her. And since Junior couldn't help her fish, she didn't have to fix the motorcycle.

But Quinn didn't seem to care. She just drifted around the property like a dark cloud and didn't talk much with anyone. She'd show up for the daily meetings, but she wouldn't participate. She'd sit quietly, drinking her bottles of Backcast ale, then wander off toward the water as soon as the meetings wound down.

She still took the boat out, though—always early, and always alone.

Darien wondered if she was going rogue, and was still determined to compete even if she couldn't officially participate.

She wandered over to where Montana and Barb were sitting. They were in the shade, conveniently out of Quinn's earshot. When Barb saw her approaching, she stood up to drag another chair over.

“Come and join us.”

“Thanks.” Darien dropped into the chair and faced Montana. “Can I ask you a question about Quinn?”

“Sure.” Montana shrugged. “I don't know if I can answer any questions about her, but you can ask.”

“It's about the tournament. Do you think we should try to help her out?”

“Help her out?” Montana looked confused. “Help her out how?”

“You know. With the fishing.”

“What's going on with the fishing?” Barb sounded confused.

“Didn't you hear?” Darien explained. “Junior got sick and had to drop out so Quinn can't compete.”

“Really?” Barb looked at Montana. “Why not?”

“It's some stupid tournament rule. Every team has to have a man on it.”

Barb rolled her eyes. “What year is this? Nineteen-fifty?”

“I guess so. At least on the water.”

“It really doesn't seem fair.” Darien folded her arms. “Can't we do anything to help her out?”

Montana seemed to weigh her response. “Not unless one of us can acquire the relevant credentials within the next seventy-two hours.”

Darien sighed. “There aren't enough hormones on the planet for that.”

“What about finding another man in the islands to participate?” Barb waved a hand toward the lake. “There have to be hundreds of bass fishermen up here who aren't already committed.”

Montana raised an eyebrow. “You
have
seen the boat, right?”

Darien laughed.

“I think it's ridiculous.” Barb drained her drink. “It pisses me off that we still live in a society where anyone gives a shit about gender. Especially when it relates to something as absurd as winning a prize for catching the ugliest damn fish.”

“With all due respect,” Montana clarified. “The prize is for catching the
biggest
damn fish—not the ugliest. The ugly part is just a bonus.”

“Well as far as I'm concerned, they can shove their bonuses up their narrow-minded asses.” Barb got to her feet. She stumbled a bit and Darien reached out a hand to steady her. “Thanks.” She held up her empty glass. “I'm getting another one. Either of you two ready?”

They both shook their heads. Barb slowly wandered off toward the bar. Darien watched her unsteady progress across the lawn.

“She might want to rethink having another drink.”

“She's not the only one.” Montana nodded toward another cluster of chairs located not far from theirs. “It looks like those two are at it again.”

“Which two?” Darien followed her gaze. “Oh, shit. Viv and Towanda?”

“Yeah. They should just break down and audition for
Friday Night Fights
.”

“I wonder what the hell is going on this time?”

Montana stood up and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “There's only one way to find out.”

Darien got up, too. “Right behind you.”

They tried to appear nonchalant as they sauntered toward the larger group. They needn't have bothered with discretion. No one paid any attention to the fact that they'd arrived to watch the show. Viv and Towanda were both on their feet in the middle of the circle of chairs. The scene reminded Darien of a garden-variety playground fight—something she knew a lot about.

The rest of the group just looked—indifferent. Cricket MacBean and V. Jay-Jay Singh were calmly sipping on their cocktails like this was an everyday occurrence. Shawn Harris, on the other hand, seemed preoccupied with her cell phone.

The decibel level of the insults flying back and forth between the two antagonists rose in direct proportion to their increasing vitriol.

Viv looked spitting mad. Her face was nearly as red as her hair.

“How dare you suggest that my outline lacks cohesiveness?”

“Hey.” Towanda gestured toward a dog-eared stack of notepads on the ground beside Viv's chair. “Is it my fault you could drive a Buick through the holes in that flimsy construction?”

“
Flimsy?
You call my work
flimsy?
”

“Let me see.” Towanda made an elaborate parody of thinking about her answer. “
Yes
. Flimsy would definitely be the word.”

“You know what, Wanda? The only
hole
around here that's big enough to accommodate a Buick is that one you call a vagina.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, Viv. I stopped caring about your opinion the first time I had the misfortune to read one of your ridiculous whodunits.”

Viv spread her arms wide to encompass the group. “This complaint from the author of the immortal classic,
MILF Money?
”

“You're just jealous.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. My books sell rings around yours, and you know it.”

“The only ‘rings' your books generate are the kind that require penicillin.”

Cricket MacBean chuckled. Towanda shot her a withering look.

“What?” Cricket pointed at Viv. “That was funny.”

Shawn Harris lowered her phone. “She
is
a nurse, Towanda. You have to give her that.”

Towanda glowered at Shawn.

“Give it up you two.” Viv pointed a finger at Towanda. “Interlopers like her don't give a shit about the integrity of our genre. They just want to cash in and make a fast buck riding our coattails.”

Towanda was still fuming. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don't ride
anybody's
coattails—especially yours.”

“Oh, really? Then why aren't you pedaling your petty porn tales in the mainstream markets? Why do you feel the need to clog our ranks with your flimsy, faux lesbian sex romps?”

“My books are
not
faux lesbian.”

“Oh, really? Could've fooled me.”

“A stink bug with a lobotomy could fool you.”

Cricket laughed again.

This time, it was Viv who was un-amused. “Stuff it, Loretta Swit.”

Cricket looked around the group. “Why am I always compared to some forgotten actress who played a nurse on TV?”

“Take the compliment, Crix. She was pretty hot.”

Cricket flashed a three-fingered “W” sign at Shawn.

“You know what your problem is?” Towanda had taken a step closer to Viv. The women were about the same height, but something about Towanda's stance made her seem taller.

Viv was unfazed. “No. But I'm sure you're going to enlighten me.”

“You just can't accept the fact that some of us have more balanced sexual identities.”

“Balanced? That's certainly a creative way to describe sucking dick.”

Towanda turned purple. “You just resent that I'm married to a man.”

“Wrong.” Viv wagged a finger in Towanda's face. “I could give a shit that you're married to a man. What I refuse to accept is how you intentionally toss extraneous girl-on-girl scenes into your books just so they can be classified as ‘lesbian.' In my view, that's the sleaziest kind of opportunism. It's disingenuous as hell and you know it.”

“Why don't you get off your self-righteous soapbox and be honest about what's really chapping your ass?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know precisely what I'm talking about. You just can't stand the fact that I'm beating you at your own game.”

“Writing isn't a ‘game' for me. It's a craft. And I take it very seriously. For you, it's just a way to make a quick buck by feeding the fantasies of big-bellied knuckle-draggers who get off watching women get busy.”

Towanda smiled at her. “You shouldn't talk about your Sapphic sisterhood that way, Viv. It isn't very respectful.”

Uh oh.

Darien saw the slap coming before the blur of Viv's hand connected with Towanda's face. The resulting
smack
reverberated around them like the crack of a rifle. At first, Towanda stood rooted in place like a statue. Darien could see the hazy, pink outline of Viv's fingers materialize on her cheek. Then all bets were off. Towanda was in motion. She pounced on Viv like a golden retriever on a dropped canapé. But Viv was stronger and feistier than she appeared, and within seconds, the two of them were rolling around on the ground in a hail of arms and legs.

“Not again.” V. Jay-Jay shook her head in disgust.

Shawn agreed. “Somebody better call for backup. These two can go at it all night.”

“This really is disgraceful behavior.” V. Jay-Jay looked around at the circle of onlookers. “Isn't anyone going to do anything?”

Cricket MacBean fished around inside her jacket pocket. Her hand shot into the air and she energetically waved a bill back and forth. “Holding! Double sawbuck on the breeder!”

“I'll take some of that.” Shawn passed her a twenty.

“I'm in!” Montana stepped forward and handed Cricket a couple of folded bills. “Red lobster on Viv.”

V. Jay-Jay sighed and looked at Darien. “If you can't beat em, join em.” She dug her wallet out of her messenger bag and extracted a twenty.

“Oh, shit.” Darien pointed toward the inn. “Here comes Page Archer.”

“Now they've had it.” V. Jay-Jay put her money away. “We'll be lucky if we don't all get bounced.”

Viv and Towanda were still going at it. If the circle of chairs hadn't penned them in, they'd likely have rolled off the cliff into the lake. Their slaps and smacks were interspersed with curses.

“Cunt!”

“Bitch.”

“Fucking imposter!”

“Lying sack of shit!”

“Cocksucker!”

“Rug muncher!”

“Takes one to know one!”

“Fuck you, Viv! And get your goddamn hand off my ass!”

Darien watched Page Archer storm closer to the melee. She did not look happy.

Montana was watching her approach, too. “How the hell does she always manage to show up just when things get interesting?”

“It must be some kind of innkeeper thing.” Shawn shook her head. “They have eyes in the backs of their heads.”

Page reached their circle and stood with her hands on her hips, watching the two writhing bodies on the ground with disgust. Then she approached Cricket and handed her a fifty.

“Pineapple on the redhead.” She waved a hand at the writhing maze of body parts. “When those two get untangled, tell them the bar is closed.”

“Those two are certifiable.”

Shawn made her way back to the room shortly after Mavis showed up and ended the fracas on the lawn. Kate was already dressed for dinner so Shawn was scrambling to catch up. Kate sat on the edge of the bed and watched Shawn sift through her pile of clothes for a clean shirt.

“Were those gunshots I heard?”

“Yeah.” Shawn held a dark blue polo shirt up to her nose and gave it a sniff. “Who knew Mavis was packing?”

“I don't imagine that was welcome news to Page Archer.”

“Are you kidding? It was Page Archer who sent her down there.”

Shawn returned the blue shirt to the pile and pulled out another candidate. A green one this time.