AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A part of me will always love this little shithole of a pub.
The other part despises its very existence.
The Drunk Pelican is the cause of a lot of my problems.
Yet, I’m about to walk through those doors. Against better judgment—probably. Definitely. I inhale a breath, taking in the fresh air.
I’m here to see the guy who called me from across the country, begging me to come home. Parry DiNapoli should be inside these doors. There really is no turning back now.
CHAPTER 3
Zoey Durand
The Drunk Pelican hasn’t changed one bit. I could’ve taken a photograph six years ago, and it’d be a replica of what I’m staring at today.
Torn vinyl booths, graffiti-covered walls, an old jukebox, and Christmas lights that eternally dangle from the ceiling all add to its shabby allure.
Unsurprisingly, it’s also empty.
I guess not much has really changed.
When the door sways closed behind me, the little bells jingle. I wince at the sound. It’s loud enough that I feel like a blowhorn announced my arrival. On the list of people I don’t want to see, Brian Durand’s ass is parked near the top. To be honest, I don’t even know if he’s here.
He took over the pub when our dad ditched this place to become a mariner, working mostly as a deckhand. I don’t expect to see my dad. The Great Lakes shipping season has already started, so it’s more likely he’s on some lake freighter right now.
But Brian…my brother is uptight and relentless enough that he’s still probably spending every hour of the day at the Pelican. Trying to keep this shithole afloat.
Then again, six years is a long time for me to be away, and it’s not like I kept tabs on my brothers. The only person I stayed in contact with was October, and even then, she wouldn’t talk about my family. At my request.
I tried my best to cut out the things that would make me miss home. To make it hurt less being in Chicago.
Don’t ask me why I couldn’t cut her.
I shuffle further into the pub and carry my suitcase so it doesn’t skid noisily on the floor.
“I’ll be with you in a second!” someone calls from behind the kitchen doors.
I recognize the deep smokiness of that voice immediately—the kind that sounds sensual and like a come-on, even when he’s just talking about rainstorms and sailing conditions.
Definitely not Brian, who just sounds like a pissed crab caught in a net.
All the worries from earlier today start to leave. My muscles loosen, and I set my suitcase on the ground.
Pots and pans clank together before the kitchen door swings open. Parry’s eyes meet mine, and he freezes in the doorway. The door swings back and hits his ass. The impact stumbles him, and the tray of glass beer steins drops out of his hands.
Glass shatters violently on the floor. I flinch.
He doesn’t make a move to clean the mess. His bottomless, seafoam green eyes survey me like he’s seeing a ghost.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
Parry DiNapoli used to be one of the hottest people who graced Mistpoint High. Older than me (graduated before I attended), his beauty was another legend whispered in the hallways. Olive skin, sun-kissed golden-blond hair, lean muscles, and carved jawline.
He’s all of those things still. Even his hair has the silk and charm of those 90s California surfers. Tucked behind his ears. Skirting his neck.
He’s never surfed, as far as I know, but if I ever went searching for Parry growing up, nine times out of ten he’d be on the lake underneath the bright sun and likely cleaning a local’s sailboat for an extra buck.
But now—now I’m stuck on the new thing on his face. The scar that slices down the left side. Thick, puffy, distinctive—it begins at his forehead, cuts through the edge of his eyebrow, and descends to the base of his jaw.
What happened to him?
I’ve missed six years.
That invasive thought wreaks havoc in my head. I’ve missed so much. I left, but everyone else I cared about stayed. Everyone I went to high school with or who attended school with my brothers—they’ve most likely already been through some kind of misfortune.
Shit, Parry is thirty now.
He’s my brother Colt’s childhood best friend.
And even though Parry is six years older than me, he’s been close like family. There were times I’d rather run to Parry than to Colt. His edges aren’t as serrated, and his diehard loyalty to town scum like us, Durands, is questionable on his part—but revered on mine. I always looked up to Parry as someone to aspire to be like.
To maintain good morals, a good heart, and be someone to trust. Someone to depend on.
Did not exactly achieve those Parry DiNapoli levels of dependability. I ransacked and murdered that part. I haven’t been dependable for anything since I left.
