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Sometimes, I’m convinced he’s not as ditzy as he acts and is being deliberately obtuse just to get under my skin. “Or maybe you’d prefer to follow in Brett’s footsteps and find your life somewhere else. I don’t care.” I gesture at the restaurant. “Don’t let me keep you. You have tables to serve. Maybe your next hot fuck is about to order a salad.” I take off, leaving Adrian behind me, likely still inspecting his bicep and being impressed with himself, missing my whole point.
Minutes later, I’m sitting on the bottom step of the stairs that lead to the boardwalk from Breezeway Point. The sun has gone down, and the party is still very much alive all over the sand. I just seem to stare past it, not really looking at anything in particular, my mind lost in all of my brother’s words and the bad bile they revived.
My phone buzzes. I roll my eyes, because I already know it’s Adrian with some snide, biting remark about our conversation. When it buzzes again, I give in.
Oh. Wrong brother. It’s Skipper: “Hey, I saw your guy near the Easy just now.”
I lift an eyebrow. The Easy Breezy? Really? I start to type to him that I’m not wasting my whole night looking for Jonah, that I’m totally not obsessed, and that I’m just hanging out around the Quicksilver blowing off steam. Then I realize I don’t have the heart to lie to Skip, shoot him back a thank-you text, and get off my ass.
He responds with a wink emoji.
Even Skipper knows what’s up.
When I get to the bar, however, I still don’t see Jonah. The tables are teeming with men who very clearly just met today or last night—and who even more clearly have one thing on their minds, judging from the looks, the way they are dressed, or the snippets of conversation I overhear as I make my way to the front.
“Coop,” I call out over the noise.
The bartender lifts his face from a giant pitcher of something very, very blue. “Hey, Kent,” he calls back. He’s a daddy-type with no kids. At least, I don’t think he has kids. It’s something of a running joke on the island, that Cooper is every lost gay boy’s father figure here, even though he’s probably only got six or seven years on the other guys. Or is he older than that and no one notices because of his eight-pack abs? The father figure thing is especially true for me, with mine out of the picture completely, but we don’t make it weird. He always gives wise, goodhearted advice no matter the situation, he knows everything and everyone, and nothing ever seems to get to him—or at least if it does, he never shows it. He has a weathered but handsome face that’s warm and attentive, yet as untelling as a brick wall. I’m certain he’s got a past no one knows about; you can tell with just one look in his gray, stormy eyes. “What’re you doing over here? Desert Moon Diner’s out of hot wings again?”
“I wish that was the reason.”
He serves the pitcher to the guests in front of him, then tosses his rag over a shoulder and comes to me. “You got those puppy eyes tonight, Kent. Boy troubles?”
“No, no. None of that.” I clear my throat, then shift uncomfortably. “Well, actually …”
“Spill.”
“Nah, you’re busy. It’s crowded as fuck in here.”
“Everyone’s good. Got Mars running around. Her mom sent her over, since I guess the taqueria was handled and she knew I was being slammed. So what’s up?”
I glance over my shoulder. I didn’t even notice Mars in the crowd—and still can’t see her. Then I suddenly recall having a bone to pick with Cooper. “Why are you going around telling people about me and my brother being at odds? My boss got all in my business yesterday.”
Cooper chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry. Malik is nosy, you know how he is. And he’s close with Louisa at the Thalassa. Bottom line is, I thought if I was nice to Malik and told him what’s up, I’d get a free chocolate muffin.”
I huff. “Well, did it work?”
“Nope. But I got a banana nut one.”
Just then, the petite shape of Mars hurries behind the counter with an empty tray. Her dark brown hair is a curly, frazzled mess that frames her pixie-like face as she quickly fills another tray full of shots. Her necklace glistens like a streak of silver lightning against her sweaty, tawny skin. A beer clearly spilled on her blouse. And in spite of it all, her nails stand proud as she works, painted a vibrant fuchsia. She notices me for half a second and gives a cheery yet out-of-breath “Hey, you!” before speeding off again with her replenished tray of shots. Her real name is Marcia, and I know there’s a cute story in there somewhere about why she’s called Mars, but I don’t know it.
