“Hi, sugar,” Tante Lulu cooed.
Uh-oh! Tante Lulu is not prone to cooing. What’s wrong with this picture?
Although her greeting was warm, her eyes said he was in big trouble. And Luc knew why. It had been a long time since he’d drunk to excess, and his aunt would be thinking that his hell-raising days were starting all over again. The way Luc was feeling, there was little chance of a repeat of this dumb performance anytime soon. Tante Lulu’s lips thinned into a little moue of disgust as she continued to contemplate him.
Luc allowed himself the brief luxury of remembering another pair of lips and a killer kiss.
Sylvie.
Aaarrgh! The woman was driving him nuts. Somehow, she’d managed to imbed herself in his brain… like an erotic splinter. But he couldn’t think about that now, not in front of Tante Lulu. His wily great-aunt, a noted bayou traiteur, or folk healer, would probably be able to read his mind.
“René says you won the booger contest.”
“Huh?”
“He says you drank ten Dixie beers at The Swamp Shack—”
“René always did talk too much.”
“—then you started dancin’ with that waitress, Marie Dubois, and the two of you fools won the booger contest.”
Comprehension dawned. “That’s boogie, Tante Lulu. Not booger.”
“Whatever,” she said, waving a hand airily. “Did you hear the new song René wrote? ‘How Can I Love You When You Keep Rattlin’ My Chain?'” She rolled her eyes meaningfully. “I bought a new car.”
What that last had to do with dancing or René’s songwriting talents, he had no idea. “I figured maybe you were taking up biking,” he teased, giving her spandex pants a little snap. His aunt was skinny as a rail and had no curves at all. She’d lost her behind around 1973, if she’d ever had one. What would possess her to don such an outfit?
His aunt swatted his hand away. “Nope. These pants match my new car.”
“A purple car?”
“Yep. A 1965 Chevy Impala.”
“Tante Lulu! What would you want with a big gas-guzzler like that? Betcha a dollar you can’t even see over the steering wheel.”
“You lose. I can see just fine, with two cushions.”
He sat up in the rumpled bed, making sure the sheet covered him below the waist, though he was pretty sure he was wearing boxer shorts.
“What happened to your hair?” he asked grumpily. He wouldn’t even bother to ask how she’d gotten into his second-floor apartment. She’d probably conned a second key from René or Remy.
She flicked the ends of her Chia Pet. “Charmaine gave me a perm. Spiffy, huh? She tossed it in for nothin’ after I bought her car.”
So, that was the story of the car. Luc’s half sister Charmaine was a former Miss Louisiana who operated a beauty salon over in Thibodaux called “Kuts & Kurls.” Her mission in life was to turn the entire state of Louisiana into big-haired bimbos—at least, the female half. He’d have a good talk with Charmaine later today, once his head stopped growing. It felt the size of a medicine ball right now.
“What? You don’t like my ‘do?” Tante Lulu asked the question with belligerence, but Luc caught the underlying tone of hurt and insecurity in her voice.
The last thing Luc wanted to do was hurt his aunt. “Oh, yeah, I like it just great. It will probably last a really long time.”
Tante Lulu frowned, not sure if he was being sarcastic.
“I don’t know much about perms, but I bet it would take a long time for those curls to… um, relax.” He was on a roll now. Next, he’d be discussing mousse. God!
Apparently that was the right thing to say because Tante Lulu beamed at him. “Charmaine says that Demi Moore is gonna get a ‘do just like this one. Imagine that. Me and Demi Moore havin’ the same ‘do.”
I’m imagining, all right. “It’s just a little… well, blond.” He knew immediately that he’d said the wrong thing. He would have bitten his tongue, except it was taking over his mouth with fuzziness.
“So what’s wrong with blond?” She braced both hands on her almost nonexistent hips.