Ginger cleared her throat, her stomach rolling and head swimming. She needed to get out of here. Oh God, she needed some fresh air or water or . . . or . . .
Nope. It was too late. It was all just a little too much for her to handle.
Her stomach heaved, her mouth opened wide, and two partially digested, shotgunned beers ended up on the floor at their feet.
Chapter 20
~ Woodman ~
Woodman watched in shock as Ginger doubled over and threw up on the lobby floor. When she’d heaved three or four times, she righted herself, looked back and forth between the cousins with horror in her eyes, then ran through the double doors of the firehouse.
“Jesus!” cried Cain, staring at the enormous puddle of puke on the floor. “What the fuck?”
Woodman turned on his cousin, shocked as fuck inside but also feeling defensive on Ginger’s behalf. “She got sick. People do get sick, Cain.”
Cain scrunched up his nose at the smell. “Did she drink a whole fuckin’ keg of beer? Since when does Princess Ginger drink so much?”
Woodman could smell it too and was wondering the same thing. “She was workin’ here all afternoon. Probably had a beer and forgot to eat.”
Looking down at the floor, Cain shook his head. “Sorry, cuz, but that’s more than one.”
“You know what?” Woodman started, about to lay into Cain, then shook his head and took a deep breath. “I gotta go after her. But what the hell were y’all fightin’ about? She just vomited on the floor, Cain.”
Cain gave him a look. “God forbid anyone upset the princess.”
“Can you just call her Ginger?”
“Ginger and I aren’t exactly besties,” answered Cain.
Woodman was losing his patience. “What just happened between y’all?”
Cain paused for a moment, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before looking down at the floor in disgust. “Nothin’. Just dredgin’ up old stuff from a million years ago.”
“Homecomin’?”
Cain shrugged. “Sure. Shit like that.” He looked around the lobby. “You, uh, you got a mop? I’ll clean up this fuckin’ mess, and you can go after her.”
“Thanks. Over there.” Woodman pointed to the supply closet in the corner of the room. He started for the doors then turned back around. “Cain . . . ”
Cain looked up, his eyes troubled, his voice stern. “Just stop. Don’t go diggin’ around, Josiah. Ain’t no treasure to be found.”
Woodman furrowed his brows, taking in Cain’s defensive stance and squared-off jaw.
“I was just goin’ to say it’s good to have you back.”
“Oh,” said Cain, looking sheepish. “Yeah. Thanks. It’s good to be, uh, good to be home.”
***
Whatever had happened between Ginger and Cain, thought Woodman as he walked quickly down the sidewalk, toward his house, it seemed like a little more than a simple dredging up of high school grievances.
First of all, Ginger hadn’t raised her voice above a polite “yes, ma’am,” “no, ma’am,” and “that’s fine” in months, but when he approached the lobby, he could see them clearly through the glass doors, toe to toe and spitting mad. And again, it didn’t seem like their conversation was about something from a million years ago. It seemed current. It felt alive. The air fairly crackled with immediacy, with fury and frustration, when he interrupted them.
Second of all, Ginger McHuid, who’d been the perfect picture of a young Southern lady since their engagement, had just tossed her cookies on the lobby floor of the Apply Valley Fire Department. Good God, he’d never seen anything like it. And he had to believe that something fiercely upsetting was the genesis of such a reaction.
And third of all, as Cain had pointed out, the vomit was primarily beer. No, all beer. And more than one.
He saw her up ahead, walking fast, head down, and he sped up as much as his ankle would allow to catch up with her. His foot, already compromised by yesterday’s dancing lesson, throbbed in his orthopedic sneakers, but he needed to talk to her. He needed to understand what was going on, so he pushed himself to move faster.
As he caught up, he grabbed her arm. “Slow down.”
“Let go,” she growled, shaking him off, continuing her breakneck pace.
“I can’t keep up. Slow down, Gin. Now!”
She stopped midstep, turned, and looked up at him. Her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks slick, and she had a wet stain on the front of her melon-colored T-shirt.
“What the heck’s gotten into you?” Woodman asked. “You barely ever drink.”