Off Plan

by May Archer

  “I wasn’t laughing!”

  He so was.

  “So why are we going to this place instead of Whispering Key, where the resort is? Is this a hidden entrance only locals know, or…?”

  “Real hidden,” I agreed. “You have no idea.”

  Loafers shut up again once we were over the bridge and heading south. Cooter Key, despite its weird name, was actually pretty, with lots of cute houses and water views. A tourist-trap shop displayed “I Heart Cooter” T-shirts, and Loafers tried to maintain his dignity by clapping a hand over his mouth to hold back his snicker, but I totally heard him anyway.

  There was a happy, tropical vibe to the place that I guess I’d sorta stopped noticing, given that most of my time on Cooter Key was spent cursing the fact that I needed to drive through the island at all. Seeing Loafers getting all hyped over it made me look with fresh eyes. I wondered for a second if Whispering Key might have looked like this, too, if not for all the misfortune and mismanagement that had befallen it. In an alternate reality, it might actually be the place Loafers was expecting to find.

  Which might have been the stupidest thought to ever cross my mind.

  It was like thinking SpongeBob SquarePants might’ve been a male-model-turned-billionaire-philanthropist, if not for the way he’d been born and the shit he’d had done to him. We were shaped by those things the same way landmasses were shaped by volcanoes and erosion and idiot humans tromping all over them. You couldn’t undo it, and it was stupid to try.

  I cleared my throat. “We’re in luck. Bridge is down.” I nodded at the dull green drawbridge in front of us spanning the thousand-foot inlet between Cooter and Whispering Keys, the one thread that kept us tethered to the rest of the world.

  Loafers dragged his eyes from the sparkling water. “Is it not always?”

  “Nope.” I pointed out his window. “See, that right there is the Gulf of Mexico. And this”—I hooked a thumb out my window—“is an intracoastal waterway. If you’re a richy-rich yacht owner living over here, and you want to take your sixty-footer out there, this bridge is in the way, so you call and have them lift it temporarily.”

  “Ah.” He gave me those big, green eyes and nodded seriously. “I’ll keep that in mind for when I buy my yacht.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was kidding. Probably not.

  “So,” I said, as soon as the Charger’s tires touched the pavement on the other side of the bridge. “Here we are. Welcome to Whispering Key, land of dreams.”

  We drove slowly down the winding street, past a collection of single-story homes. Most had yards that desperately needed mowing. One or two had boarded-up windows.

  He frowned. “Hurricane damage?”

  “Nope. Some of those have been empty for a long while. Big Rafe tries to get out and mow the yards once or twice a year.” Or have one of us mow them for him.

  I watched the sunlight spilling through the open window play over his stubbled jaw and rumpled shirt, and waited for him to ask follow-up questions, to realize Rafe had played him so I didn’t have to spell it out. For him to resume being an asshole, since that would be really convenient for me.

  He didn’t, though.

  Because Beale’s Universe hated me.

  So instead, I kept running my mouth.

  “The road we’re on is Godfrey Pass. Spans all seven miles of the key from north to south. That, ah… street on the left there is Margot Lane, which curves up to the highest spot on the island, Godfrey Promontory. Views for days, which is why a few millionaires built mansions up there, once upon a time.”

  “Yeah? Like, Bill Gates, or—”

  I snickered. “Think last millennium, Loafers. You ever hear of Lovey Bricknell? She owned one. Or maybe she still owns it? Not sure if she’s still alive or whatever.”

  Loafers’ jaw dropped.

  “The Lovey Bricknell? The movie star from the fifties? The one who starred in Rose Colored Dreams and My Baby’s Coming Home? She’s definitely alive!” He leaned over the console and stared out the driver’s window like he thought he might catch a glimpse of her.

  “Hey! Easy, tiger. I’m not crashing my car while you fanboy over an eighty-year-old who hasn’t set foot on the island in decades.” I set a hand on his chest and pushed him back to his side of the console, wishing I couldn’t feel the heat of his body through his shirt and that his expensive cologne didn’t make my stomach clench.

  Attraction was a bitch.

  “Oh, wow. My best friend Toby’s a huge fan, and he forced me to watch them all back in coll—” Loafers’ gaze swung out the passenger’s side, and he grabbed at my arm. “Holy shit, stop the car!”

  “What? No. Why?” There wasn’t another soul nearby and nothing out of place.

  “The water!” Loafers looked up at me, all pleading and wide-eyed. “It’s so blue over there!”

  “Uh, yeah.” I glanced out the window and tried to pretend I couldn’t feel all five points where his skin hit mine. “That’s ’cause it’s deeper over there. It’s water, Loafers. That’s what it does.”

  “Please,” he begged. “Stop so I can take a picture?” And Jesus Christ, I was the weakest person on the fucking planet, but I rationalized that the guy had a nice ass and he’d given me an ice pack, and I’d done a lot more for a lot less reason, so I stopped.

  Loafers opened the door but only took one giant step toward the beach before he looked down at his shoes and frowned, like he’d only then realized the utter incompatibility of loafers and Whispering Key Beach.

  There was a metaphor there, if the poor sap could only see it.

  But Loafers just stood there, sucking in salt air like it was fine wine and enjoying the view like it had been made just for him while the wind caressed his hair.

  I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. “I’m aging here, Lo—”

  “Oh my God! Look! A dolphin! A fucking dolphin!” He pointed at the water and crowed like he’d summoned the creature himself. He fumbled his cell phone from his pocket. “They don’t have those back in New York.”

  He gave the camera a big cheesy grin that sparkled brighter than the water, and my unwelcome attraction turned to lust that sizzled up my spine.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my cue to get this show on the road. Playing tourist had been cute and all, but the sooner Loafers got a reality check and got gone, the better for my peace of mind.

  “Get back in the car.”

  “Yeah, hang on. I’m just posting this.”

  “Now, Loafers.”

  “Coming. Is marine life one word or two?”

  “What?”

  “Like, wildlife is one word, so I’m… never mind. Found it.”

  “Loafers. Now.”

  “I hear you. I’m coming.” He didn’t move a muscle except for his thumbs, and he mumbled something that sounded like, “Hashtag-adventure, hashtag-new-home, hashtag-Whispering-Key…” He frowned at me through the open window. “Hey, did you know Whispering Key doesn’t have a hashtag? Like…” He shook his head. “How’s that even possible?”

  Of all the things Whispering Key didn’t have, a hashtag was the thing I cared about least.

  “I told you I’ve got shit to do, so get your ass in the car in the next three seconds, or you’re walking the next six miles to the Five Star. And I will throw your suitcases full of fancy shoes into the Gulf.”

  “Chill out.” Loafers got back in the car and slammed the door. “I don’t know how you became so jaded to that view. And the way the breeze glides over you? It’s magic. Wanna see?”

  He held his phone over the console, showing me his selfie. The water was frothy white and turquoise, and Loafers looked windblown and carefree.

  “That thing in the water is a clump of seaweed, not a hashtag-dolphin.” I pushed his hand away. “There’s your magic.”

  Loafers blinked down at his phone dejectedly while I shifted back into drive and pulled back into the middle of the road. “Are you sure?”

  “Fr
iends don’t let friends miscaption their photos.”

  And friends also didn’t let friends go on thinking Whispering Key would be their hashtag-new-home when it was actually a hashtag-nightmare.

  “Okay, Loafers. Real talk. Big Rafe…” Is a liar, a swindler, a crook. “He exaggerates.”

  “Yeah? Like, how?”

  “Like, about Whispering Key. The thing is—”

  “Um, I believe that man is waving at you,” Loafers interrupted. He nodded toward a small, white clapboard building off to our left that bore the sign Omar’s Sundries, and a middle-aged man sunning his substantial beer belly in a folding chair in front of a gas pump, who waved enthusiastically in our direction. “Is that Omar?”

  “No, that’s Dale Jennings,” I said, annoyed at the interruption. I held up a hand to return Dale’s wave. “His family owned the station before Omar bought it. As I was saying—”

  “Does Dale work for Omar now?”

  “What? Ah, no. When his mom sold the place, Dale took his share and bought a motor home. Parked it out back. Now he pumps gas and socializes. Omar doesn’t mind. Look, the thing is—”

  “He really seems quite eager to talk to you,” Loafers said. He pointed at Dale, who was still waving wildly.

  Fuck.

  I sighed and pulled the car to a stop on the far side of the road. “Look, Dale’s a talker,” I warned Loafers as I rolled down the window. “I am not. Do not engage, okay? You and I have a discussion to finish.”

  Loafers nodded.

  I turned to Dale with a smile. “Afternoon, Dale.”

  “Heya, Fenn! Scorcher out here.” Dale took off his cap, which read Wish You Were Beer, pushed back his thinning hair, and put the hat back on.

  “Sure is. You staying cool?”

  Dale grinned broadly. “Body like this can’t be anything but hot, Fenn.” He put his hands behind his head and rotated his ample hips in an exaggerated bump and grind. “Specially since I started takin’ my supplements.” He looked over my shoulder at Loafers. “Heya. I’m Dale Jennings.”

  “Mason Bloom,” Loafers said brightly. “I’m the new doctor for Whispering Key.”

  Dale’s eyes widened. “Ya don’t say!”

  “Yup. Just arrived today, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, alright!” Dale exclaimed. “Doc, how much d’you know about ferrymones?”

  I covered my face with one hand and groaned so only Loafers could hear me. “Why, Loafers, why?”

  “I’m being friendly,” he hissed. “Try it sometime.” To Dale he said, “Uh. Pheromones?”

  I could sense Loafers looking at me, expecting me to explain this, but I shook my head. Dale and his ferrymones weren’t the sort of thing you could explain in a two-second whisper. Besides which, if Loafers had kept his mouth shut, we would have been halfway down the street by now.

  “I mean, I know what pheromones are—”

  “B’cause I been taking a hundred percent pure mating hormones, what’ve increased my virility ’n’ sexual potency by seventy-one times the national average according to clinical studies? And I asked my doc over on the mainland if he could get me a prescription for ’em, but he said they’re not an actual medication, which can’t be the truth. I figure it’s because they’re too strong for the government to let us have ’em. In fact…” Dale pulled his T-shirt away from his body and took a cautious sniff. “They ain’t too much for ya, are they?”

  Loafers tilted his head to one side, considering. “Um, no. Did you say you’re taking pheromones? As in, you’re ingesting them?”

  “Ingesting!” Dale looked affronted. “I’d never! I just swallow ’em right down with orange juice.”

  “That’s… never mind.” Loafers twisted to put a knee on his seat and leaned earnestly toward Dale, bracing a hand on my door and getting all up in my space in the process, smelling like the beach and expensive cologne. “Look, I know we’ve just met, Mr. Jennings, but I promise you, that’s not how pheromones work.”

  At that moment, I couldn’t give two shits how pheromones worked, or whether Dale was spewing sex hormones over the whole island. I cared very deeply, however, about the sex hormones that were gonna be unleashed right in my damn car if Loafers didn’t move. I wasn’t sure which of us would be more horrified if that happened.

  I leaned as far back as I could and elbowed him lightly in the gut. “Hey. What were you saying earlier about personal boundaries?”

  Loafers ignored me. “Those supplements could even be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Dale bristled. “I’ll have you know, I’m a picture a’health. Just look at me! Your friend needs to mind his own, Fenny.”

  “Right? Dr. Bloom—” I punctuated his name with a shove to his shoulder “—is gonna sit back down now.”

  Loafers elbowed me back, exponentially harder than I’d nudged him. “Do you mind?” he hissed, like I was the one crawling in his lap.

  “Yes, I really fucking do.” I pushed Loafers again, and he smacked my hand away.

  “Mr. Jennings—” Loafers stuck his face out the window and leaned his elbow against my shoulder in the process.

  “Ouch! Quit it,” I muttered, twisting away. “Get back in your damn seat!”

  “I’m doing my job.” He turned back toward Dale with a broad smile. “What exactly did your doctor say?”

  Dale frowned. “Well, he said they were sugar pills. But he wasn’t here when Barbara Patenaude nearly ran herself into the pump one time, ’cause my ferrymones overpowered her. So what does he know?”

  “Dale. Was this before or after Ms. Patenaude’s daughter took her for cataract surgery?” I asked, cursing myself for getting involved at all.

  “Cataracts got nothin’ to do with it,” Dale said stoutly. “Anyway, I wanted my doctor to test my blood, but since the bridge went out—”

  “The bridge?” Loafers asked in confusion.

  “Bridge to the mainland. Been gone… what, Fenn? Few years now?”

  I nodded. Before my time.

  “So we mostly do for ourselves,” Dale continued. “Oh! ’Cept that time when Gage Goodman cut his hand real bad and they sent a chopper. Remember that, Fenny? Took an hour. Thought Big Rafe was gonna have a conniption fit.”

  “I remember.”

  “Yep. So alls I can tell you’s what I know: I started taking the ferrymones, I felt better and stronger than ever, and Barbara was overcome.” He smirked and adjusted his hat. “Pret-tee clear what happened.”

  Loafers peered at Dale out the window, and his tongue danced at the corner of his mouth like he was deep in thought.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. If I didn’t see it, it couldn’t tempt me, right?

  That lasted two seconds.

  “The thing is, Mr. Jennings, what if those pills are sugar? No, no, hear me out!” he urged. “What if they’re not doing anything but boosting your own confidence, which in turn is, um… changing your biochemical—” Loafers waved a hand. “—signature patterns?” He cleared his throat. “And that, um, is causing you to become so—” He coughed lightly. “—irresistible?”

  Dale lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

  So did I.

  “You mean I’m making the extra ferrymones myself?” Dale whispered, clearly intrigued by the idea.

  “Not to put too fine… or accurate… a point on it…” Loafers coughed. “Yeah.”

  I blinked, just a little bit impressed. Everyone on Whispering Key had heard Dale preach the good news about his ferrymones. Most of us ignored him, some folks called him a fool—because he was—but not a soul had thought to suggest that he was sexy enough without them.

  “I see what you’re saying, Doc.” Dale tapped a finger to the side of his nose, and his little eyes focused on Loafers intently. “Alright, then. I could stop takin’ ’em on a trial basis, just to prove they work.”

  “Good thinking.” Loafers nodded sagely. “I think you’ll find nothing changes!”

  “Can you get back in your godd
amn seat now?” I demanded in a low voice.

  “Could you stop being a child?” Loafers sat back in his seat, scowling. “I’m helping someone.”

  “You’re harming me.” I made a show of rolling my shoulder at the same time I casually adjusted my shorts, which had gotten way too cramped suddenly. “I’m probably all bruised now. And you could have dinged my bad eye.”

  “Did I?”

  “Not the point.”

  Dale’s gaze ping-ponged back and forth between us. “So, how long you two been friends?”

  “Ten minutes,” Loafers said sweetly, at the same time I said, “Too long.”

  Dale shrugged. “Where you gonna be hangin’ your shingle, Doc? ’Cause I’ve had this mole on my right foot for ages, and I’d sure love for you to take a peek at it. Looks kinda like a jellyfish with tentacles, but it swells when the tide comes in. Is that normal?”

  “When the tide… no! Definitely not.” Loafers looked a little bit horrified.

  “Great!” Dale slapped the edge of the window frame twice. “I’ll come find you first thing Monday, then!”

  “See you then!”

  “Loafers…” I put the car back in Drive. “Don’t make any promises, okay?”

  “What do you mean?” He blinked at me warily. “About seeing patients?”

  “Remember what I was saying? About Rafe exaggerating things? Look around you. What do you see?”

  The road ahead curved left, taking us away from the beach and closer to the bay, and suddenly the street widened and the town center appeared in all its faded glory. Two-story dingy white Victorian buildings with peeling gingerbread-covered railings running the entire length of the second floor stood beside smaller, brightly colored single-story storefronts with wide awnings over dirty, empty window fronts. The signs on the fronts of the stores were either faded or missing entirely.

  I pulled into a spot next to Mickell’s Arcade and stopped to let Loafers get an eyeful.

  “Is it… not tourist season?” he asked hesitantly. “Everything looks closed down.”

  I sighed. “Loafers, it’s never tourist season on Whispering Key. Not anymore.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. Look, that there is the Godfrey Inn.” I pointed to a three-story building near the docks with a wide front porch and plantation shutters that were missing a few slats. “Miss Thelma hasn’t had a guest in this millennium. And the building next to it?”