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Who cares where this is headed?
Our sugar-coated sexy-times come to an abrupt end when I realize Mom's probably waiting up for me. As much as I want to stay here all night, entwined with him in this car, I feel a strong pull to check in on her. I share my problem with him, resting my forehead against his and sighing.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"It's okay. No apologies. From now on, no apologies," he says, smoothing back my hair. "I'll see you tomorrow night."
kate
. . .
The next night,Damien shows up with his twin brother Remy and their older brother Tate. A twinge of disappointment pings inside my stomach, because I'd hoped to be alone with him.
The bar's packed because it's a Friday, and the place practically comes to a standstill when the three of them walk in. Probably because they all look so much alike. Tall, bronze skin, dark hair, flashing dark eyes. They each have varying days of scruff on their faces, with Damien sporting the thickest. Tate's a little shorter, Remy's slightly more bronze because he spends his days on the water as a fishing charter captain.
Damien's the largest. The most muscular. And in my humble and totally unbiased opinion, the hottest of the three.
"Jesus, Kate, don't stare too long or your face is going to freeze like that," Jane grins and grabs her tray of beers. "But yeah, they're hot. I'll give you that. Lucky bitch."
I flutter a little wave with my fingers, catching Damien's gaze. His face lights up and so does the inside of my body, flaring and sparking at the memory of yesterday's tongue tango in the back of the wagon. All disappointment vanishes. He's here for me.
"Hey, girlie," he says.
"Hey, you."
Tate and Remy stand next to him. The three of them take up a lot of space at the bar with their broad shoulders. Remy immediately spots someone he knows and darts off, pulling Tate with him. The two of them have never left the island, and I suspect they know practically every full-time resident.
"Jesus, is that Biloxi Bob?" Damien glances to the small, makeshift stage where Bob, an elderly Black guy, is tuning his guitar.
"Sure is."
"He seemed old when we were kids. Man." Damien shakes his head as he watches Bob move around the stage, tweaking a sound board and plugging in an amp. "He's got more energy than I do."
Bob strums a chord, adjusts his harmonica neck holder, and looks over at the bar. He grins and gives me a thumbs up. It's his cue that he's about to begin. I return the gesture and tap on the remote for the stereo system, shutting the satellite radio off.
"No kidding. He was here when Mom bought the place. You want the same beer as last night?"
"And Bob still packs 'em in. Love it. And yeah, I'd love a Maduro. Thanks."
Our gazes lock, and in the three-beat silence before Bob's first song, I detect a low growl slipping from Damien's mouth. "You're so fucking beautiful, Kate. You know that? Thought about you all day."
My face heats up, and I'm saved from responding with something silly when Bob taps the microphone three times, sending a low thunk-thunk-thunk sound through his amp. All conversation in the place lowers in volume. November is low season for tourists, so most of the people here are regulars and hardcore Bob fans.
"It's Friday night, and that means you get me, Biloxi Bob,here at Lime and Salt Tiki Hut. Let's jam, tourists and locals." Bob has the richest, most baritone voice, and a thick Mississippi accent. People clap and cheer raucously when he strums his first chord — Bob's got a serious cult following.
He launches into a funky rendition of "Come Monday", a Jimmy Buffett song, and everyone in the crowded bar sings along when he begins to croon the familiar lyrics. Damien angles his body so he's able to watch the show and keep an eye on me.
I grow busy at the bar—when Bob plays, people drink and dance like crazy, weaving in between the high-top tables—and after a couple of hours, Damien leans over the bar. "I'm going to take my brothers home, but I'll be back at closing, 'kay?"
"Perfect." Grinning, I kiss my fingertips then press them to the top of his hand.
He returnswhen he said he would, toting a paper bag.
"I'm about finished," I call out in the empty bar as I wipe down the last of the high-top tables. "What's in the bag?"
"Our midnight picnic."
"No way." I pause, straightening my spine. Is he for real?
