“Do we have a plan B?”
Her insides twisted. “I have a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency backup that I’d rather not use if you don’t mind.” She swallowed hard. She really did not want to execute plan B if she could help it.
His brows turned inward. But he wasn’t irritated with her. He was considering her. Taking her words to heart. “Then we better find a gravel-voiced, seventy-something heartthrob.”
A man in the middle of a concentrated group of bodies shouted bitterly at someone, and an honest-to-god child cussed him out in response. Eventually, a short and stumpy man in a Badgers hat was ejected from the swarm by a seven-foot-tall man in black Shell Station merch.
Elliot watched the action closely, perhaps preparing his witness testimony for the inevitable court proceeding. “The energy in this place reminds me too much of Boston for comfort.”
Lainey’s lips made apfftsound. “Boston wishes.”
Behind Badgers Hat Guy was a tall, gray-haired man hovering near the edge of the crowd. Arms folded, he leaned against a high stool, more for show than actual relaxation. She eyed Elliot and then tilted her head in the man’s direction. Elliot set down his plastic cup of foamy beer and grabbed her left hand with both of his to weave her protectively through the room in a way she wasn’tnotinto.
His mouth tilted down to her ear. “Remember, we’re married.” His index finger tapped her wedding band, and she wondered if he was noticing how sweaty her palms were from allthis extended hand-holding. “No propositioning septuagenarians,” he instructed.
He pulled his mouth away just enough to wink at her.
Her internal organs jumped. “I promise nothing.”
Within the swarming mass of bodies, they now had a better view of the action. Drinkers hovered around what had been the original bar top before it was repurposed for the true draw of the establishment: turtle races. People of all ages were slapping the counter, beckoning their turtle into the red zone to win an electric-blue JELL-O shot from a Styrofoam cooler. Behind the bar wasn’t a wall of taps but a large, circular platform with a sign mounted behind it that read,No Touching, No Booing, No Side Wagers. On the platform, crawling every which way, were six disoriented box turtles.
A woman in a green Packers hoodie walked up to the gray-haired man to furtively hand him a wad of cash. Without looking away from the race, the man accepted with a casual nod. If Lainey had to guess, that silver-haired man was definitely engaging in the third prohibited item on the list.
Lainey squeezed Elliot’s forearm, and when they latched eyes, she tilted her head in the direction of the confident-looking older man.
“Let me do the talking this time,” he whispered, his breath brushing against her temple as he leaned in close to be heard over the noise.
“I’m sure that’ll go splendidly. You’re always so good on your feet.” Her tongue was acid, but her back ached to lean against the hand pressing at the curve of her spine.
Face-to-face with their target, Lainey didn’t give Elliot the chance to fumble the bag in the name of some misguided sense of chivalry. She spoke clear and loud: “Elaine says you’re theman to talk to about making these races a bit more interesting. I’d love to put a little cash on Speedy.”
There were few things a person could count on in this world, but one was that there would always be a turtle ironically named Speedy.
The silver-haired man counted the bills in his hand, not even deigning to look up. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t know any Elaine.”
This had been a possibility, but she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to pivot to plan B so soon. Her skin heated and shrunk, tightening around her internal anatomy. She really hated plan B. Plan B was humiliating. Plan B was…
She cleared her throat. “Okay. What about—”
Elliot cut her off, positioning his body between the two of them. “What about Gil Hodges? Know him?” he asked.
She looked up at Elliot, her mouth drifting into a smile in spite of herself.
The man raised an eyebrow with dim recognition. “Might. Who’s asking?”
Elliot folded his arms over his chest, making himself bigger and broader. In an instant, everything about Elliot was a little different. He looked like himself, but not. Like he was wearing a coat that fit him but most certainly wasn’t his.
“I’m Gil’s nephew,” he answered, his voice even more baritone than usual. “I took over the Shore Thing last month.” Elliot lifted his chin up toward the scores written on the back wall. “Reading the board, it looks like Shell Shock has a little heat. What is he? Seven-one on your sheet?”
“No longer interested in Speedy?” The older man snorted and finally lifted his head to look at them. “Just drifted. Eight-one.”
Elliot nodded, as though this man’s words had made sense tohim. Meanwhile, Lainey wondered whether she was suffering from a highly targeted brain aneurysm. “Okay. How does fifty across the board sound?” Elliot posited.
The man leveled him with a look. “Son, it sounds like you’re jumping in blind. Everyone’s been leaning Koopa Troopa tonight.”
Now Elliot was the amused one. “Do you think I’m looking to put my money with the chalk? Plus, I saw Koopa earlier. He’s getting the spins. I’m not worried.”
The silver fox leaned back against his stool and gave Elliot a long once-over, his expression settling into something like begrudging respect. “Combos?” he asked.
