He slides off the stool, causing me to look up at him. Hell, even when I’mstandingI have to look up at him, since I’m five-foot-ten, and he far surpassed my height with that growth spurt he had a couple years ago. Big ol’ six-foot-two giant that he is. His basketball team loves him.
“I’m gonna go take Pepper outside to touch some grass before I leave for work. Thanks for giving me a cry-puffed face, by the way.”
I snort. “Happy to help. Being a harbinger of tears isn’t an easy job, but someone has to do it.”
“Speaking of jobs,” Cam starts, “I heard some ramblings around town that this lobsterman is looking for a couple of crew members. Do you know Gannett Waters?”
I shake my head. Well, I knowofthe guy, but do I personally know him? No. I know more about his older brother, Evan, than I do him. But, even then, I only know about Evan because it was big news around town when he came out of the closet. I don’t even think he lives around here anymore, to be quite honest.
“Gannett comes into the lobster pound almost every day. Duh, I mean he is a lobsterman, so that makes sense, right?” He snickers at his own joke. “Anyway, so yeah—he’s looking to hire.”
“So, do I just follow you into work and see if he’d be willing to employ me? I don’t know shit about lobstering… or even if that can be done without being able to speak. What are the odds he knows how to speak Sign?”
Cam shrugs. “I could be there to interpret, just to get the ball rolling and see…”
“What time do the boats usually come in?”
“Right when I get there, most days. If not, I guess he hangs out at Portside Pub a lot.”
“Okay. I’ll swing by when you head in then. Anything is worth a shot at this point. I wonder if there’s an employee discount or something. Can you picture us peasants living large, dining on lobsters every night?”
Cam laughs. “I wouldn’t complain. Do you know how hard it is to serve them to tourists every day and not want to just devour their meals in front of them?”
I smirk. “Alright, go let Peppa Pig out, and I’ll go get changed out of these sweats.”
“‘Bout time,” he teases, heading into the living room to rouse his sunbathing skunk. “And, uh, don’t wear whatever it was you wore a few days ago. I dunno if you were trying to look like an eighties gym teacher or what, but those shorts were—sussy.”
“Oh my lord, you kids and your ignorance over the fitness guru that was Richard Simmons.”
“Who?”
“Never mind…”
I discover that this Gannett fella has already unloaded his boat for the day, and has come and gone from the lobster pound by the time I get there and Cameron starts his waiting shift. I do happen to overhear, however, another older gentleman—Wagner, I think—talking to someone about how he’s about to go meet Gannett up at the pub, so I guess I will just have to resort to conducting this impromptu interview of sorts via my notes app. The pub isn’t more than a short walk away, so I scramble my way there, abandoning my car down at the marina.
When I finally make my way inside Portside, I scan the somewhat crowded pub, looking for any sign of Gannett. My eyes finally land on him, sitting on a stool in front of the bar… and he’s not alone. Sitting on the stool next to him, yukking it up like they’re good buddies, is Marcus.
Fucking Marcus Antonucci.
I almost walk right back out of the pub, despite knowing how badly I need to buckle down and get a job. Christ, I’ve lived in Ternbay full-time for nearly a couple of years now, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy trying to find a job as someone who is mute… but I never imagined it would bethishard.
Still though, I don’t need another run in with Marcus. The only guy to ever break my heart so damn hard that I thought I would never get over him—that is, until I met Aaron. Aaron helped put the broken pieces of myself back together again and made me believe in love once more.
Ugh, so now what do I do? Sit and wait for those two to stop chatting so I can somehow weasel my way over to talk to Gannett? Or should I just wait and try again tomorrow?
I’m about to spin on my heels and walk out when the bartender catches my attention. “You look lost,” the heavily tattooed—sinfully muscled—man grunts. “Can I get you a drink, or are you about to go hunt demons and ghouls?”
I scrunch my face, raising my eyebrows in question.
“You look like that fool fromSupernatural,” he explains.
I sigh, having gotten relatively used to being likened to Dean Winchester. Not that it’s a bad thing, by any means. I used to fanboy all over Jensen Ackles myself, and if that makes me weird for having jerked off to my celebrity lookalike, then I guess we can call a spade a spade here.
I saunter over and pull up a stool, keeping a fair distance down the bar from Gannett and Marcus. I pull out my phone, type up a note, and show the bartender my screen.
“Man of few words, I see,” he notes, starting my drink order.
I nod, showing him my scar.
