The Happy Hour Choir by Sally Kilpatrick

help a girl out?”
    â€œSorry,” Ben said with a shrug.
    Julian looked away, a sure sign my presence was not wanted.
    â€œWell, thank you anyway.” I put my chair back and headed up the risers.
    So much for being nice.
    Â 
    The next night I finished the nine o’clock singing of “Dwelling in Beulah Land” and turned my sights on the Gates brothers. There they stood at the pool table, both baritones, best I could tell. Not for the first time I wondered how these two could be brothers. Greg was blond and pale, freckled from years of farmwork out in the sun. Pete stood a foot taller with creamy caramel skin and wavy reddish-brown hair—he was my next victim.
    Not that I felt too good about what I was about to do.
    â€œHey, Pete, come outside a sec. I wanna ask you a question.” I headed for the door, knowing he would follow because those were the same words he’d said to me six years ago. His question had been a very succinct “Wanna screw?” My answer wasn’t one I was proud of, but, in my defense, I was suffering from losing Hunter, trying to take care of Ginger, and trying to figure out why people ever bothered with this sex business anyway.
    Needless to say, Pete and I didn’t have any answers for each other.
    By the time he rounded the corner, he had fear in his eyes, something the Gates brothers inspired but rarely experienced. “What’s this all about?”
    â€œI need a little favor from you and your brother,” I said sweetly.
    â€œWhat?” he asked warily.
    â€œOh, only a little bit of your time on Wednesdays and Sundays to sing in the church choir.”
    He took three steps back as if I’d scalded him. “Nuh-uh. No way.”
    â€œPete, Pete,” I said. “Surely you’d like for me to keep your secret, wouldn’t you?”
    He swallowed hard. “You wouldn’t.”
    I twirled a strand of hair around my finger because it seemed like a femme fatale thing to do. “I wouldn’t like it, but I’ll do what I’ve got to do.”
    He ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. “What the hell? Why would you go around telling everyone about us and—”
    â€œWhoa.” I shook my head. “What kind of person do you think I am? I was going to tell everybody how you really chipped your tooth over there in the parking lot that night you got drunk and fell.”
    â€œAw, Beulah.”
    I smiled. Pete scraped together a living with his Walmart job, a smattering of farming, and a pet project: his animal removal business. His business had finally taken off when he spun the tale of how he got kicked in the mouth by one of his horses after a nest of copperheads hatched outside the barn. I was the only person who’d witnessed what really happened with his tooth.
    He cursed under his breath, knowing he was had. “What am I supposed to tell my brother?”
    â€œI’m sure you’ll think of something,” I said.
    He swore loudly and profusely. “Why would you do a thing like that?”
    â€œI need a choir. You can sing. It won’t be that bad. Promise.”
    He turned to face me and grinned, giving me a hint of his chipped front tooth. “You could have asked nicely.”
    â€œI could have,” I answered sweetly, “but that’s not my style, and you would’ve said no.”
    â€œDammit, Beulah!”
    â€œIf I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that.”
    â€œI mean dammit.”
    Greg leaned out the door. “It’s your shot, dumbass.”
    That was my cue. “Wednesday at seven. Don’t forget your brother.”
    A few minutes later, I took my seat behind the piano, relieved by my progress but less than happy about how I’d achieved it. One go-through of Jimmy Buffett’s “Why Don’t We Get Drunk,” and Pete Gates was shooting daggers at me from the other side of the pool table. Just when I