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When I start latching the metal shutters that secure the bar, Mendo stands to lower the ones on his side. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since Tillie showed up and the challenge was made.
“So, Gabe Landers is having a drink war with a tourist.”
I drop the last shutter, separating us. But I can still hear his laugh. I check all the locks and close down the register. When I duck beneath the back opening, he’s there, watching the waves.
He turns, and his eyes glint from the lights of the condo property that backs the bar. “You have to admit, she’s a looker.”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a comment. It’s not the first time Mendo has played matchmaker, or given me grief about women.
I shoulder my knapsack and scoop up my sandals. We have a long walk to the public parking lot half a mile up the beach.
Mendo falls into step beside me. “You sore I brought up the ocean goddess again?”
“I don’t see why you always tell the story like I got ditched by some beautiful stranger.”
“I’m telling the version of the story that sells drinks.” He sidesteps close enough to ram his shoulder against mine. “Nobody buys from the man who loves ’em and leaves ’em. You, my friend, are a player.”
I only grunt to that. Mendo adds the sales pitch to his story so he can justify telling it every time a cute girl glances my way. Sometimes the goddess is blonde and curvy. Other times, she’s olive-skinned with sleek straight hair. Mendo can riff off anyone who walks up.
And give me hell in the process.
He shoves his phone into a jean pocket. “This new one’s going to get you. I can see it.”
“No chance.”
“I saw that gleam in your eye.”
“It’s moot. She’s a bartender. I’m a bartender. One of us will make better drinks than the other. Then she’ll fly home, and we’ll never see each other again.”
Mendo shakes his head. “Nah. There’s something to her. You agreed to the challenge. It’s not like you.”
“You’ve never set up a booze brawl before.”
“You’ve never had eyes for another bartender.”
Two crabs scuttle out of the brush to head toward the water, both females with heavy egg sacs attached to their undersides. We pause to avoid startling them.
“It’s good publicity,” I say.
“And it has nothing to do with the girl.”
The crabs glide into the ocean, disappearing in the dark surf. “She could have been a dude.”
“But she’s not.”
We start walking again. A bead of sweat rolls down my back. It’s a haul down the beach, and the night temperatures don’t drop much.
Mendo stares up at the waning moon. “You didn’t think it was coincidental that she’s from Atlanta?”
That turn of conversation gets my blood up. “It doesn’t matter. It’s pointless.”
“I’m just saying, cozy up with her, maybe you get a free place to stay out of the deal if you want to go track down Anita.”
“I’ve never said I wanted to do that.”
“But you could.”
I shake my head. “Not interested. My life is here. My mother is here.”
