The dive bar is right on the marina so I don’t have to worry about getting a DUI added to my already growing record with the SDPD. I stare at the old black-and-white photos behind the bar, images taken back when the Portuguese dominated the tuna fishing industry here over a hundred years ago. This bar was built as a gathering spot for the men when they pulled into port. Not a damn thing has changed. I’d argue the place smells worse now than it did back then, but it does the job it’s supposed to. No windows, no frilly features, just a wall of booze and a place to sit.
In the last few months I’ve become a regular and no matter when I show up—morning, noon, or night—my seat that backs up against the wall at the end of the bar is always empty and waiting like an old friend, which is exactly what I needed tonight.
“Colt, you remember when I caught that marlin!” Spit flies from Avery’s slurring mouth. “Ask Colt, he was there.”
I don’t answer because it’s all bullshit. That marlin was 240 pounds, but I’ll let the asshole have his moment.
I find when I’m in this kind of mood I’m better off keeping my mouth shut.
After walking Celia to the gate I felt itchy, like sand crabs were burrowing under my skin. The mild confrontation with her sparked an edginess I can’t shake. When I made it back to my boat I could still pick up the lingering scent of her perfume or whatever the hell that was I could smell on her skin and for some fucked up reason it made me restless. Nowhere near ready to hit the sheets, Jenkins and I decided to drop by the Office for a little sleep aid.
Nick, the bartender and owner, slides another glass of amber liquid in front of me and I nod my thanks.
“No way you caught no thousand-pound anything using that shit bait.” Jenkins knocks back his drink and Avery glares at him.
“Shit bait? What the fuck are you talkin’ ’bout, old man?”
They go back and forth and the argument turns to static as the liquor courses through my veins and numbs just about everything.
Feeling eyes on me I look across the bar and lock onto a familiar smile.
Sydney.
I lift my glass and she takes that as an invite over as she puts her tray down on the bar and heads my way.
I wish I could say that her presence made my pulse race like it used to. When I first met her I looked forward to her shift ending so I could take her back to my boat. Over time I’ve lost my taste for a lot of things and as much fun as she has been, I’m beginning to get bored with it all.
“Hey, Colt.” She leans against the wall next to me.
I turn my head, but my elbows stay firmly planted on the bar. “Syd, how’s it going?”
She shrugs, her eyes scanning the small bar. “Eh . . . it’s been a slow night. I think Nick’s gonna cut me soon.”
Sydney’s a good girl. I’ve learned she’s led a rough life and at the age of thirty she’s what I call a career waitress. She’s beautiful, long dark hair that kisses her lower back and almond-shaped brown eyes that would make any man long for the bedroom.
She’s the perfect diversion and I’m ashamed to say I’ve used her for that more times than I’m proud to admit.
“Is that right?” I turn more fully to her, my knees opened, and her eyes drop to my crotch. Yeah, I figured as much.
Thing is, as much as I’ve used Sydney, she’s used me too. It’s an unspoken agreement we have that’s worked well.
“You feel like hanging out?” There’s no expectation, no hopeful expression, it’s always been easy between us, like asking someone if they want to go catch a movie.
Although, there will be no movie, no charming or need for seduction. Just sex.
When I don’t answer her right away, she continues.
“Maybe when I’m off I could grab a couple drinks here and then we could head back to your boat.”
“Make it fast.” I nod to my drink. “Few more of these and I won’t be much use to you.”
She smiles and there’s a tingling between my legs. Ah-ha, not totally numb . . . yet.
“No drinks, then.” She scurries back to her station at the other side of the bar and has a word with Nick.
Jenkins mumbles something at my side.
“You got something to say?” I throw back a healthy mouthful of whiskey.
He stares at me with his good eye, then shakes his head. “You’re a fool, Colt.”
I toss back the rest of my drink and fish a few twenties from my wallet. “Tell me something I don’t know, asshole.”
I push up from my stool and cross to the door where Sydney’s waiting. Throwing my arm over her shoulder I push through the door and lean into her ear. “You’re too good to me.”
Her arm wraps around my lower back. “You’re not so shabby yourself, Colt.”
What a joke.
If she only knew.
FOUR
SAWYER
It’s too early to be awake.
Lying on Celia’s couch staring out the window the ocean is barely visible through a thick layer of fog that rolled in sometime in the middle of the night. At least the sun is coming up, which means no more wrestling with sleep while organizing my to-do lists in my head.
After getting in the Uber at the marina last night I had the driver take me to a nearby grocery store to pick up a few things. It was dark when I got back to Celia’s, and when I opened the door I was hit with the overly sweet and pungent stench of rotting food. The light switch wouldn’t work so I fumbled around the kitchen using the flashlight from my phone and found some matches and candles. Perfect timing too, because shortly after I lit the final candle my phone died. Without electricity I managed to clear out the rotting disaster in the fridge and toss it in the dumpster out back.
The bedroom was even darker and was stuffy and hot from being locked up for months so I dragged my tired body to the living room. Opening all the windows helped to air out the stagnant space, and even with the rhythmic crashing of waves filtering in through the screens, I wasn’t able to do more than doze off a few times.
I kick the afghan from my legs and push to sit up, my back stiff from the thin cushion on the bamboo-framed couch. Stretching, I rub my eyes and blink until my vision clears. I peruse my surroundings as I’m finally able to see the room in the light.
It’s a little over double the size of Aden’s living space in his boat, but unlike Aden’s place every square inch of Celia’s home is covered in personal touches. The walls are painted in a pale coral and any artwork she has is clearly of the handmade variety—all of them abstract and colorful. There are a couple tall bookshelves, a small table with mismatched chairs that seats only two, and a handful of items that it looks like she picked up from her travels. A Native American rain stick, bongos, and a funky-looking vase that has to be four feet tall. It’s a lot for the modest space, making me feel cramped and anxious. I need to get organized.
First things first, I need to scribble out my to-do list. My legs ache a bit when I stand and I feel like a ninety-year-old woman when I walk to the kitchen to find something to write on. A small pad of paper in the shape of a sunflower sits on the countertop and I pull a pen from my purse.
Making lists always manages to bring me back to center. To focus on the task at hand, the things I can control.
Electricity takes the number one spot. Maybe I can drive into town and find an electrician—
Movement from outside catches my eye. I squint through the thinning fog to see a well-built man, shirt off, hat on backward, jogging away from the cottages. I guess I can see why this place appealed to Celia; the view isn’t just good, it’s spectacular.