Off Plan

by May Archer

  “The Tate Gallery?” Loafers peered at the sign through the window.

  “Yeah. No relation to the one in England, in case you were confused. It’s been closed for maybe seven years, since Shannon moved up to St. Pete Beach. Mickell’s here hung on until Jeremy shut it down two years ago, but he still opens it up sometimes, like on New Year’s Eve, for us to play pool. Wynott’s secondhand bookstore is in that Gothic building across the square, but trust me when I tell you, do not go in there asking for anything that made a bestseller list in this millennium. Pickles’ grocery store down the road is open whenever Jimmy feels like working. We’ve got a coffee place down the way called Bean Me Up, but Scotty only opens it on weekends. The Concha’s open every day.” I pointed to the narrow orange building across the street. “Food’s amazing, but there’s a very limited menu—basically whatever Lety feels like making that day—but it’s a good option if you don’t feel like hauling your ass an hour over Cooter Key to the Red Lobster.” I turned my head to look at him. “Are you getting the picture?”

  “That this part of the island is a ghost town?” Loafers nodded, concerned. “Why, though?”

  “No, not this part of the key. This is the key. Everything from those houses we passed when we came over the bridge all the way up to the other end of the island where the Five Star Resort is.” I made air quotes with my fingers. “And as for why… A whole bunch of things, I guess. Short version is there was an accident a few decades back, and a tourist died. Tourism slowed a bit, nobody knew how to pivot, and businesses shut down or didn’t keep up. The place started feeling stale, so tourism slowed more. And then more. Throw in a malevolent spirit and a couple big storms, including the one that knocked out the bridge from Whispering Key to the mainland, like Dale mentioned, and here we are.”

  Loafers ran a hand over his face. “A malevolent spirit?”

  I sighed. “A stupid legend that’s the least of your concerns. See that red shack, over there by the docks? That’s the home of Goodmen Outfitters Adventure Tours, the company my uncle—your new boss—and his brother started an age ago. Goodmen Outfitters used to really be something back in the day. Kinda like Whispering Key itself, I guess. They sold everything from diving equipment to mountain climbing gear—supplies for whatever kind of adventure you could dream up. These days, that shack and the crew boat next to it—the Mary Anna—are all that’s left. Big Rafe and my cousins and I use the boat to run charter tours off the mainland. We take frat bros out to drink Four Lokos in the sun over spring break, or take bachelorettes out to drink champagne and listen to stories about ghosts and buried treasure. Before he got himself elected mayor of this island, that was all Rafe Goodman was in charge of.”

  “But… what about the resort? Don’t those guests want to take tours?” Loafers sounded a little desperate, and I almost felt sorry for him. Denial was a powerful drug.

  “There are no guests. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I said gently. “You were played, Loafers.” I patted his shoulder.

  Loafers pulled away. “What you’re saying is impossible.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  Ah. So it was gonna be like that, was it? Served me right for being nice.

  “Impossible but true. We have no schools, no restaurants, no easy transportation. The businesses failed because the tourists went away, and the residents left because the businesses failed, and now here we are. If you came to Whispering Key thinking you’d be making easy money at some cushy resort…” I broke off, shaking my head. “Look, you have every right to be angry. And I’ll take you back to the airport whenever you want, okay?”

  Loafers scowled. “I can’t just leave. I wouldn’t do that. I told you, once I’m committed, I’m committed.” Still, his gaze tracked over the worn buildings in disbelief. “What you’re telling me is crazy. Gulf-front property like this has got to be worth a bajillion dollars for the beaches alone. Any land developer would jump at the chance to buy all that abandoned property from the owners and make the island into McMansion-ville, complete with waterfront condos! There’s no such thing as a bankrupt tropical island.”

  The anger that had been simmering in my gut since this morning—anger at Rafe, anger at myself for doing his bidding, anger at seeing this island through new eyes and being forced to acknowledge just how pitiful it was—rose to the surface. “And yet, the proof is all around us! Are you one of those flat-earther people, too, Loafers?”

  “My name is Mason.” He put his chin in the air. “And I’d like to speak to Mr. Goodman now. Please take me to the resort.” He waved a hand imperiously.

  “You’re joking! Big Rafe lied. You don’t owe him anything.”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion. Does this look like the face of someone who’s joking?” he demanded, pointing a finger at his chin, and I couldn’t help but take a long, long look, as instructed.

  His cheeks were flushed and damp, his hair was disheveled, and his lips were bright red, probably from pushing them together so hard. I could see, in that second, exactly what he’d look like, crawling out of my bed after a long, thorough fuck, and my cock twitched in my shorts at the very idea.

  Which pissed me off even further.

  Why wouldn’t this man accept the fucking inevitable and leave without prolonging this mutual torture?

  “Fine,” I said, shifting the car into gear. “You wanna continue this charade, it’s your funeral.”

  But I had the sinking feeling that if I didn’t get Loafers to leave Whispering Key immediately, the joke might just be on me.

  Chapter Four

  Mason

  You were played, Loafers.

  I sucked in a deep breath, letting the tangy salt air soothe me slightly, and hoped the rushing air would block out the sound of Fenn saying those words in that deep, rough voice and pitying tone.

  Really, what kind of a name was Fenn, anyway? At least as stupid as Gunner. Maybe stupider.

  I glanced over and saw his knuckles were going white on the steering wheel, the tendons in his forearms popping beneath his skin like he was somehow mad at me, which was logically inconceivable. It was none of his damn business whether I stayed or left.

  I swallowed and stared out the car window at the beauty of the scenery and the weather-battered buildings hung with No Trespassing signs.

  Mason Bloom Takes Charge of His One Goddamn Life and Lives Fearlessly. What a joke. What a clusterfuck of enormous, never-before-seen proportions of clusterfuckery.

  Didn’t it figure that the one time I did something without thinking and overthinking, it ended up with me on a third-world island with a tour guide who provoked the crap out of me? I was an easygoing person. Ask anyone. Laid-back with patients, laid-back with my family, laid-back with my ex. But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so fucking angry.

  “How much further?” I demanded.

  “Two minutes. Still enough time to turn back.”

  I set my jaw. “I’m not turning back.”

  It was tempting. Like, very tempting. But I’d signed a contract, and I took that shit seriously. I wasn’t going to walk away from this job until I’d talked to Mr. Goodman and given him a chance to find someone to take my place.

  And honestly, even if I hadn’t felt honor-bound to stay temporarily… where the fuck was I going to go from here? I had less than nothing in New York to go back to: No apartment. No job. No girlfriend. Hell, even my car was with Toby. And when I thought about what my brother would say when he found out, how sympathetic he’d be and how I’d never live it down?

  Yeah, there was no way I was leaving Whispering Key without another job lined up. If the idiot next to me could handle life on this island, I sure as fuck could, at least for a few weeks. Wouldn’t be the worst experience of my life by a long shot.

  “I’m going to take control of this,” I said under my breath. “Fearlessly.”

  Fenn turned his head and gave me a look that might have been amusement or maybe concern over my mental stat
e. “Stubborn, noble, or dumb as fuck? Hmmm. Smart money says a little of each.”

  I ignored him and turned my head so I could rub at the spot between my eyebrows. I could feel a headache brewing like an impending storm.

  “It’s only gonna get worse,” Fenn warned. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”

  I dropped my hand. “Your concern is touching. Truly. Could we drive in silence for a minute, please?”

  “More walls, Loafers?” He shot me a wink out of his good eye—a flash of blue-green like Gulf water in his tan face—and dropped an arm between us like a curtain. “Have it your way. I’d rather listen to this anyhow.”

  He cranked up the radio and started singing the world’s most deliberately off-key version of “Hey, Jude.”

  I scrubbed two hands through my hair. “Silence means different things to different people, apparently,” I said mournfully.

  Fenn was too busy singing the Nah nah nahs to hear.

  And, okay, maybe I was dumb, because I found myself wanting to laugh. Possibly hysterically.

  “Turn it down,” I insisted, reaching for the dial.

  Fenn wrapped his hand around mine in a firm grip. “Don’t touch another man’s knob, Loafers.”

  “I didn’t… I wasn’t…” I felt my face go hot, and I couldn’t say why, exactly. “You’re disgusting. As if I’d touch your… knob.”

  “I’m disgusting? Loafers, you’re the one who’s getting double entendres from innocent conversation! First the cooters, now this?”

  I pulled my shoulder away, furious. “My name is Mason. Ma-son. Two syllables. It shouldn’t be hard to remember, even for you.”

  “Even for me.” Fenn whistled through his teeth. “Call me crazy, but I feel our friendship withering before it ever got a chance to truly blossom. Ah, well. Easy come, easy go.” He paused. “So, Mason, huh? An appropriate name for a guy with a fondness for walls. Your mom must’ve been predicting the future when she named you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Meanwhile, your name is, what? Fenn? Like a marshy swampland? Perfectly appropriate for a guy who’s—” I floundered for a second, trying to think up a word insulting enough “—you. Were you always going to be dense and foul, I wonder? Is it nature or nurture?”

  Fenn laughed a rumbly laugh, and for a second his blue-green eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that was… objectively not unattractive. Like, for a guy.

  And… wow. When had I started noticing shit like that about people?

  Fenn hissed in pain and cupped a protective hand over his bruise.

  “Fuck. It’s Fenn with two n’s, not one, Loafers. Though, honestly, the guy I’m named for was a treasure hunter my dad idolized, so I’ll take the swampland.”

  Interest caught despite myself, I frowned. “Why? What’s wrong with treasure hunt—?”

  The car gave a loud bump as the tires left the paved road and hit a patch of concrete liberally covered with pebbles and scrub grass. We were in a barren parking lot in front of a two-story yellow stucco structure that reminded me a lot of the building where my dentist’s office was located back home, right down to the dark-tinted windows and the long outdoor corridor running along the front and sides.

  “What are we doing?” I demanded, leaning over the dashboard to peer up at the building through the windshield. “Is this Mr. Goodman’s office?”

  Fenn snorted. “This, Loafers, is my home. And yours, I guess. For as long as you stick around.”

  “My—” I looked at the building again. Despite all I’d seen of Whispering Key already, I hadn’t expected… this. Even the Bates Motel had looked decent enough from the outside. “There’s been a mistake.”

  Fenn hooted. “There have been several. Most recently, the one where you decided you weren’t leaving.” He shut off the engine and popped open his door, standing and stretching in a way that made his thin T-shirt ride up over a set of abdominal muscles that would have made a useful teaching tool for medical students. Then he bent down and looked into the car, where I was still buckled firmly into my seat. “Ya comin’?”

  His tone was exactly halfway between laughter and commiseration, and it was enough to have me reaching for my own belt and getting out of the car. I’d be damned if I was the source of his humor or the object of his pity.

  Of course, I found as soon as I stood that my pants were stuck to my legs like cling film. I stuffed the sweat-damp tails of my shirt back into my waistband and glared at Fenn over the top of the car. “You live here, too?”

  “Yep. We’re neighbors! Isn’t that great? I’d organize the others to bring you some casseroles, except I hate casseroles… and there are no others.”

  “No others.” I pushed a hand through my hair. “Meaning…”

  “Did you go to remedial medical school, Loafers? No tourists means no one is using the motel,” he said impatiently. “We have the place to ourselves, such as it is.”

  He nodded behind me, to a sign atop a peeling white pole that cast an enormous shadow on the ground like a harbinger of doom.

  The Five Star Resort.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  “I need to speak to Mr. Goodman,” I said tightly.

  Fenn leaned his forearms on the roof of the car, watching whatever expressions were flickering over my face. A little smile danced around his mouth. “You sure do. But first, let me give you the tour! Bet you’d like to know what the Wi-Fi passcode is, right?”

  I nodded, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “What is it?”

  “N-O-N-E. As in, there’s no password, because there’s no Wi-Fi.” He tapped out a rim shot on the top of the car, pointed finger guns at me, and fired.

  “Hilarious. Where is Mr. Goodman’s office?”

  “The tour’s barely begun! You look hot, Loafers. Let’s check out the ice machine over in the breezeway.”

  He pointed to a large archway in the center of the ground floor of the motel that was completely pitch-black, like that one spot had absorbed all the light around it.

  I suppressed a shudder.

  “Let’s not. Mr. Goodman?”

  “I’ll have you know, that ice machine was here before men landed on the moon, and it still works. Same with the washing machine. And at only five cents a load, it’s a total bargain.”

  “Great.” I folded my arms over my chest. “I’m sold. Is the tour done now?”

  “Might wanna watch out for the dryer, though,” Fenn continued, proving he was much better at ignoring me than I was at ignoring him. “Last time I opened it, there was a giant snake in there. Roberta and I decided it’d be better if I hung my clothes to dry.”

  “Roberta?”

  “The snake.”

  “Of course.” I shuddered again, for real this time.

  “Feel free to renegotiate,” the asshole said cheerfully. “You might have more leverage, given that you’re wearing the skin of her brethren on your feet.”

  “Her brethren? My shoes are not snakeskin! They’re Italian—” I looked down at my shoe, and a tiny pair of reptilian eyes looked back. “Gaaaah!” I did a little jig in place, kicking my foot like a cancan dancer to get the little whatever it was off me.

  Fenn burst into laughter so loud it rang around the deserted parking lot.

  “Shut up! Did you see that? Holy shit, was that a… a snake? Was it a spider? Is it poison?” I demanded.

  “That was a gecko,” Fenn wheezed. “A tiny, harmless little hashtag-gecko. Like on the insurance commercial, but without the British accent? The poor baby just wanted a selfie with you and you terrorized him, Loafers! Where’s your love of hashtag-wildlife gone?”

  I ground my teeth together. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

  “Well, I’m not not enjoying it, Loafers,” he said, wiping his eyes. “And that’s the damned unfortunate truth.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Fenn sniffed and sobered. “It means I’m ready to go back to the airport when you are.”

  My molar
s creaked. Fenn Reardon was a serial killer. The kind who annoyed his victims to death.

  “I’ll go find Mr. Goodman myself.” I set off across the cracked concrete toward the motel. There had to be some kind of office attached, right? Probably right next to the nonexistent cabana beside the nonexistent hot tub I’d been promised?

  “The Goodmans’ house is the next lot over,” Fenn called from behind me. “Rafe does all his mayor business from his home office. Through the trees to your right. Can’t miss it.”

  “Fine.”

  I stalked off in that direction, and I heard Fenn’s flip-flops smack the ground as he followed me.

  “I thought you said I couldn’t miss it,” I said without turning around. “I don’t require an escort. You should go take care of your important plans.”

  “And miss this show? Not a snowball’s chance, Loafers.”

  Right. Fuck my life. Again.

  I stepped through the little stand of trees bordering the right edge of the lot and spotted a little white house on the other side. The front yard was mostly driveway, paved in the same cracked, dingy color as the parking lot next door, and the building itself looked like a child’s drawing of a house—two big awning-topped windows flanking the front door, and a steeply peaked roof with a single window above. It looked remarkably like the house where I’d grown up, though with a lot less grass and a lot more palm trees.

  A beefy giant of a human sitting on the stoop with his boots propped on the railing jumped to his feet when he saw us coming and extended a hand. “Hey. You must be Mason! I’m Beale. Ah… Beale Goodman. Big Rafe’s my dad. Nice to meet you.”

  I found myself smiling just a little, because it was impossible not to when the guy was flashing me a bright grin and a pair of big, innocent blue eyes. “Same to you. I need—”

  “We’re not here for chitchat, Beale. Loafers isn’t staying.” Fenn stepped around me, grabbing my wrist before I could shake Beale’s hand and towing me up the stairs behind him. “Rafe out back?”