Beard Science(39)

Cletus didn’t play the banjo during this first song, he played the acoustic guitar and he sang a duet with Claire. I’d never heard him sing before, and so my bated breath became a breath held, and then a sigh of thorough delight and wonder. He had a remarkable voice, deep and rich, and like his laugh it reminded me of smooth chocolate.

As Cletus and Claire finished the first song to a round of roaring applause, I decided that the difference between Cletus and his brothers was that Billy and Beau did not agitate my emotions. They inspired warmth and fondness; benign, safe feelings.

Cletus, however, had me on spin cycle. He agitated every single one of my emotions. I was all over the place. I’d never realized that feeling so much all at once was possible.

Cletus picked up his banjo for the next song, which was an upbeat cover of Mumford and Son’s “I Will Wait.” Claire played the guitar and sang lead vocal.

I glanced at the row of Winstons and their partners and it warmed my heart to see each of them smiling at the stage, various shades of adoration and pride written on their features. I didn’t feel envy, but I did feel longing. This, right here, was why I wanted a big family.

They finished the set with Johnny Cash’s “Tennessee,” but Claire switched blue-eyed girl with boy, and gal became guy. It totally worked. She sounded deep and husky for this last song, demonstrating her impressive range. Plus, her voice had a vivid quality that sent goosebumps down my back. She was brilliant.

Much like Sienna with her gravitational aura, Claire’s presence on stage was both natural and thrilling. And so was Cletus. I might have been a little biased, but I thought he was just as good as Claire . . . except, he held himself back. He was circumspect, as though foisting the attention on his partner was the primary goal.

Even on stage, Cletus seemed determined to hide from the spotlight, to conceal his amazing. This comprehension left me agitated. He was remarkable, and yet he was determined people think of him as mediocre.

They finished and the place exploded, all five thousand or so audience members jumped to their feet. Claire laughed and tossed her hair, mouthing the words thank you and blowing kisses. Meanwhile, Cletus packed up his gear, took a short bow, and walked off the stage.

Duane, who was sitting to one side of me, guffawed at Cletus’s abrupt departure; so did Jessica next to him.

Beau, who was on my other side also laughed and nudged my arm, yelling over the exuberant crowed. “He doesn’t care about the contest, not for himself. He did this to get Claire up there and to buy a car.”

“To buy a car?” I asked, confused. “You mean with the prize money?”

He shook his head. “No. One of the judges—some big record producer—owns a 1971 Buick Riviera. It has a split rear window that makes it look a bit like a shark. He already has one, but he wants two for some reason. He’s got the Lincoln to trade and is hoping to leverage Claire.”

I wrinkled my nose at the ridiculousness of this news, and also the fact that Cletus was using his friendship with Claire to get his hands on a car.

Beau, seemingly able to discern the direction of my thoughts, shook his head, leaned closer and spoke directly into my ear. “This is classic Cletus, killing two birds with one stone. Claire deserves to be on that stage, but she needed to be pushed. She never would have done it on her own. He did it because he cares for her. We all do. Cletus just handed her a record deal—whether she wants it or not, that’s up to her—but he’ll also manage to extort some powerful fella in the process.”

Beau pulled away, meeting my gaze and watching me process his words. He bent to my ear again, adding, “His mind works in mysterious ways,” Beau shrugged, “but the man always gets what he wants.”



“Oh good Lord. Please tell me you did not use the words, academically speaking when you were giving sweet Jennifer advice.”

“I may have uttered the phrase.” Cletus’s eyes darted to mine, then away. “I don’t remember.”

“You lie like a dog, Cletus Winston. You do too, remember. You remember, and you did use those words, and you don’t want to admit it.”

I blushed, bright red, my eyes bouncing between Cletus and Claire.

The three of us were in a dressing room, sharing a bottle of champagne and a tray of fancy appetizers. It was my first time drinking champagne and my head felt fuzzy.

Shortly after their set ended, an usher came and found me in the audience, told me I was needed backstage. I excused myself from the row of Winstons and followed the attendant through a maze of hallways. He halted at a door with a piece of paper taped to it that read McClure & Winston.

The usher knocked, Claire opened it, hugged me, then pulled me inside.

“Cletus explained everything,” she’d said, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “I’m here to help. We are now good friends and you can ask me anything you like.”

And that was it. Just like that, Claire McClure, Cletus Winston, and I were discussing sex backstage at a big deal talent show.

“Fine. I did use the words ‘academically speaking,’” Cletus admitted reluctantly, “Moving on—”

“That’s a problem, Cletus, because there’s nothing academic about making love.”

“I beg to differ—”

“Just please stop talking and let me set this unsuspecting woman straight. Stop polluting her with your academically speaking.”

He started to roll his eyes then stopped. Instead, he plucked a carrot from the appetizer tray and snapped it with his teeth. “Fine. You explain it then.”

“I will. Prepare to be amazed.”

He frowned, like something smelled bad. “I don’t know if I want to be amazed by you when the subject is sex.”

“Then you can leave.”

Cletus brought his narrowed eyes to me, then away, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I’ll stay. For now.”

Claire laughed at him, like she thought he was funny and wonderful—which he was—then moved her warm gaze to mine, her smile softening as she considered me.

When she spoke, she did so as though we really were good friends, her voice was gentle and familiar. “I remember when you won at the state fair for the first time, for your banana cake. Your momma was so proud and happy, but you looked totally petrified.”

“I was,” I admitted easily.

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you’ve won every year since?”

I nodded.

Her brow wrinkled and her eyes moved over me, thoughtfully assessing. “You’ve never been kissed, or so Cletus told me.”

I nodded again, glad he’d told her so I didn’t have to. “I know ignorance is supposed to be bliss, but it’s feeling more and more like a cage these days.”

The side of her mouth hitched but her eyes looked a little sad. “Love is a . . . well, it’s interesting. It can be wonderful, but it can also be destructive. I understand your loyalty to your parents, I do. But you’re right. You’re in a cage, and you’re looking for a way out. Don’t rush it. You have time. I was actually the opposite. When I was nineteen I was a bird, looking for a cage. Believe it or not, your situation is better.”

I nodded solemnly, because I knew her story. Everyone in town knew about Claire, how she’d been born Scarlet St. Claire, the only child of Razor Blade St. Claire, president of the Iron Wraiths. She’d grown up in the motorcycle club and, by all accounts, it hadn’t been an easy life. At fifteen she’d disappeared for three years, only to show back up engaged to Ben McClure, son of the local fire chief. They married when she was nineteen. He went to war, she went to college. Four years later she had her degree, but Ben had died overseas.

She’d taught at my father’s high school—music and drama—and took care of Ben’s parents. Just last summer, she’d moved to Nashville to accept a teaching position at a community college. But if Beau was right, this evening she might be accepting a record deal instead.

She seemed to be debating what to say next, and when she spoke she started slowly. “Let me tell you a story. My husband—” Claire broke off, her eyes darting to Cletus for a split second, then away. Her cheeks heated, but she cleared her throat and pushed past whatever flare of emotion held her momentarily hostage. “My husband, Ben, when he was alive, loved to play baseball with his father. They’d toss the ball around. He loved it. When he joined the army and was deployed, a pro-baseball player was deployed with him. So he had the chance to play baseball with a real professional. I mean, this guy was fantastic, just one of the best in the world. But when I asked Ben about it, do you know what he said?”

“No,” Cletus said suddenly and unnecessarily.

Claire’s eyes cut to his and she gave him a flat look of annoyance before continuing. “He said, ‘You know, Claire, it was fun. But if I could play baseball with anyone in the world, it would still be my pop.’” She paused, allowing Ben’s answer to sink in, then added, “That’s the difference love makes. So Cletus is right on the one hand. Having experience, good technique, good moves—those are all just fine. If you’re having sex for recreation or playing it like a professional sport, then those things are critical. But if you’re making love, then experience and good moves are a bonus, but not at all important. It’s the person, not the technique, that makes it worthwhile.”