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I wouldn’t have needed a place to hang if things hadn’t gone south at home. Things wouldn’t have gone south at home if things hadn’t gone south at work. They went south at work because my partner went and fell in love and decided his entire life, including his career, needed a complete overhaul. If he’d still been doing the partner thing, I wouldn’t have been flying solo on my last assignment, said assignment would have been a success, and I wouldn’t have walked into my apartment that night two weeks ago a frazzled, twitchy mess.
If I hadn’t been a twitchy mess, I might not have fired a round into a lost college kid who wandered inside by mistake, I’d still be on the job and not on administrative leave—or possibly worse—nor would I be seeing department shrinks.
I definitely would not be running off to the beach toget my head straight.
I hate shrinks.
All that aside, I have to admit the beach isn’t the worst place to cool one’s heels, especially given the accommodations I’ve been graced with. I’m two days into my stay, and though restless, I have to admit the grandeur of it all is having its way with me. Tripp’s place, or rather, his boyhood home graciously loaned out to me during his parents’ vacation, is like staying in the penthouse at the Ritz. At least that’s how I imagine the penthouse at the Ritz must be. Neither my family’s mobile home in the desert nor my efficiency in Dallas gives me a frame of reference for that sort of thing.
Although Tripp and I worked together for the better part of ten years, he’s tended to be pretty close-mouthed about his past, his personal life, and his family. Nonetheless, you learn about a guy when you work with him. Things slip out over time. So imagine my surprise when the reality of his roots turned out to be an eight-thousand square-foot beachside mansion. In retrospect, I think he tried to warn me as he handed me the hand-scrawled address to enter into my maps app. I should have listened more closely. When I arrived, I kept rechecking the address, certain I’d made a mistake.
But now, roughly forty-eight hours in, I have only two complaints: the perpetual presence of sand in my teeth and the rain today that drove me indoors way too early. On the upside, I have found awesome food without so much as a whiff of fish anywhere. Most of the restaurants boast outside seating, and while the sound of waves crashing is something I appreciate, I could use a break. Where do the locals go when they need a break?
I reach for my beer, a light brew, because it’s what’s on tap, and wash down a particularly fiery jalapeno. The more I eat, the more they burn.
Love it!
Behind me a ways, the door opens, and of course, I turn. Yes, I’m off-duty—heck, I’m virtually unemployed—but that doesn’t change years of training, much less instinct. A woman blows through, holding a small purse over her head as if she’ll melt if rain touches her. I look just long enough to ascertain there’s no threat, and there isn’t, at least not to anyone in the restaurant. There quite possibly is to herself. She bumps a chair she probably would have seen had she not been running from a few raindrops.
To my surprise, her footsteps approach, settling to my right, where she plunks her drippy purse onto the shiny bar. I don’t stop myself from glancing over. Anyone would. And I do a doubletake because the lady at my side is not the middle-aged female I somehow—don’t ask me how—mistook her for at first glance. Indeed, amongst all the things going wrong with my life right now, I might need to addeyesight to the list.
To begin with, I’m not sure the termladyis apt.Girlswirls around the forefront of my brain. But no, she’s a woman, at least in legal terms, and, well, her figure makes that case as well. Still, there’s something about her.
I shake it off and turn back to my burger and jalapeno fries. I like a good-looking lady as much as the next guy, and I can flirt circles around most of my acquaintance. Turn on the old Gonzo charm and they fall at my feet.
Mentally, I tweak my shoulders and dust my fingertips against my shirt. Not many I know can compete with my prowess.
But…that’s not what tonight is about. I can’t get my head straight this week if I clog it up with women and one-night stands.
Or maybe that’s exactly what I need.
Shoot. I’m confused about something that’s been happening lately, something that predates my present, professional woes. I’m knocking on the door of thirty, and suddenly, starting sometime last spring, I feel a little sleezy when I take a lady home. Sure, that’s not how I was raised, and I know my mother would knock me upside the head if she knew my casual approach to relationships, but it’s the way I’ve lived my life since my college years. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it exactly, but I’m not particularly proud either. Had I chosen a different line of work, I might have settled down by now, but what I do for a living is not conducive to home and hearth. So, I settle for the next best thing. I’m a man. What else would anyone expect?
I pull myself out of this awful introspection just in time to hear that the lady’s to-go order has been delayed. I tune in a little closer, bracing for a blue exchange, because it’s obvious she’s ticked. She has a right to be, more than she knows. Not a minute before she entered, I heard the squeals and watched through a crack in the kitchen door as the bartender and the only waitress in the place got all handsy,bumped the cook, andcrash, bang, boom.
But instead of an ugly exchange, my bar-mate accepts her fate and wilts against the stool next to me. “But I’m staaarving,” she mutters as the loser saunters away, and, if I’m not mistaken, she gives the bar a frustrated but quiet kick.
I nudge my plate a smidge. “We can share.” The words skip off my tongue long before my brain weighs in.
She startles, as if she’s only now noticed my presence, then draws back. “No, thank you.”
I’m impressed by her politeness. The offer warranted an eyeroll at best. I shrug as I pull the plate back to center. “If you change your mind…” I let the sentence trail.
She doesn’t respond, and I take a bite of my burger. Beside me, her long fingers with pretty, white-tipped nails, tap the bar, and it’s then I notice that she’s shaking. I’ve seen this a lot in my line of work. I’m vaguely disappointed.
Her eyes purposefully scan the bar. “Aren’t there supposed to be peanuts at a bar?” She’s mostly talking to herself, another sign, but then she knots her hands together and it hits me: she’s not tripping or coming down. She’s hungry. My mother gets like this when her blood sugar is low.
I repeat my offer, gesturing to the plate. “Offer still stands.”
A pair of amazing blue eyes lock with mine. She glances at my plate, curls her bottom lip into her teeth, and so help me, a new offer forms on the tip of my tongue. But before I can screw up royally, she snatches one of the jalapeno strips and shoves it into her mouth.
I blow out a breath that’s part relief and part frustration. I’m typically all-aboard for the testosterone express, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, figuratively speaking, and it’s critical I keep my head straight. My attorney says so.
Mesmerized by this beauty suddenly in my sphere, I try not to stare. If I creep her out, she’ll run.
I’m so focused on not coming off like slime that it takes me a moment to notice her eyes have gone wide and her face is turning fifty shades of scarlet. When her hand begins frantically fanning her mouth, genius that I am, I pinpoint the problem and shove my mug at her. Beer sloshes overboard as she jams it to those pouty lips and drinks—no, gulps—it down. About halfway, to be precise.
I’m transfixed, or mesmerized, whichever is the stronger of the two.
