I gave him a dirty look. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
He glanced at his watch, a well-used device with a faded leather strap. “I have been. For twelve hours. But I still have to eat. So . . .
“I’m licensed as a PI in California.” It was true. Just ask TMZ. They’d documented it.
He narrowed his eyes. “But you’re not in California, Joey.”
“And this whole time I thought Nags Head was part of the San Fernando Valley.” I let my head fall to the side. “Silly me.”
That got a smile out of him. But it didn’t last long, and those all-too-observant eyes fell on me. He crossed his arms and leaned back, his black T-shirt pulling tight across his defined muscles.
Not that I’d noticed. Or cared. Or wanted to stare.
“What’s the case?” he asked.
I leaned closer, recognizing a challenge when one dropped in front of me. “You going to try and steal it from me?”
His eyes crinkled, as if I’d amused him. “Believe it or not, I have enough on my plate without looking for that crazy woman’s boyfriend.”
“Good to know.”
Why did I feel so uncomfortable? At the height of my arrogance, I’d believed I could have any guy I wanted. In reality, I kind of could have. I mean, guys had fallen all over themselves to get my attention. But they’d wanted to date me for who they thought I was. Not the real-life person who occasionally had bad breath and unadorable bouts of insecurity.
Then Eric had come along. I’d thought he’d been protective, at the start.
In the end, he was possessive. There was a big difference.
Anyway, it still just seemed so strange to me that Jackson intimidated me. I didn’t like it.
The detective was still staring, waiting patiently. I had a feeling he’d continue until I answered him. I stared back, but only long enough to observe him. I quickly did a character sketch of him in my mind. He was more country boy than beach bum. I’d guess he owned at least five pieces of camo. And that he drove a pickup truck. Maybe with a gun rack. I’d also guess that he had some sort of adorable orange cap.
“Her boyfriend is missing,” I finally said. “He was last seen at Willie Wahoo’s.”
And why, for that matter, did business owners around here like to use salty names for their restaurants? Names with dirty double innuendos? I didn’t get it.
“Why did her boyfriend come here to Nags Head?” Jackson asked.
I frowned as I remembered Lily’s words. “She fears he may have wanted to commit suicide.”
He didn’t look surprised, which surprised me.
“I see,” Jackson said.
I lowered my voice, trying to come to term with my thoughts. “Why would someone come all the way here to kill themselves? Why not just do it at home? Why drive twelve hours?”
He shrugged and nodded at a waitress as she passed. Based on the smile she gave him, she’d take any attention she could get from the detective. “You’d be surprised at how many people do just that.”
I couldn’t be following him. “What do you mean?”
“This sounds really sick, but people come here to the OBX from all over the world to end it all.”
“No way.” How utterly morbid.
He nodded. “It’s true. Believe me. I wish I didn’t know that, but I’ve seen it too many times.”
“Why would they do that?”
“That’s what no one has been able to figure out. I have my personal theory.”
“Do you mind sharing?”
He glanced away from me, his gaze fogging as if unable to grapple with his thoughts. As soon as the look appeared, it was gone.
“Coming here to this little sandbar that juts out into the Atlantic Ocean is like coming to the edge of the world,” he said. “Coming to the end of it all, you know?”
I swallowed hard, the imagery invoking something raw inside me. I wished I didn’t know about the truth in his words. But I did.
Never again, I vowed. Never again.
“Anyway.” I straightened my back, trying to ward away the memories. As if that would work. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to do a little digging.”
Jackson leaned toward me, a new gleam in his eyes. “Joey, in case you didn’t know this, digging can sometimes leave you buried.”
I pulled up to my rental house five minutes later and tugged my coat tighter around me, bracing myself to open the car door. It was already cold outside, but once the breeze whipped across the ocean and landed on the shoreline, it turned arctic.
I was renting a house right on the water, but only for the winter season. In the summer the residence would get top dollar, and I would need to move out—if I was still in the area, which I hoped I wasn’t—so the owner could quadruple his rates for out-of-towners wanting to make family memories together. For now, I would enjoy the space and its fantastic views.
The two-story building—which was actually a duplex—was surrounded on three sides by dunes. I’d been told that every major storm that blew this way practically made the sand a living creature. The mounds would move and shift and draw closer, close in, depending on how you wanted to look at it.
It sounded like a Hollywood movie in the making to me.
The hills were alive.
I counted to three and opened my door. As I anticipated, the frigid wind attacked my exposed skin from the moment I stepped from my car. I rushed toward my front door. As soon as I grabbed the handle, the door next to mine opened.
“If it isn’t Joey Darling,” someone called. “Welcome home!”
My temporary neighbor, Zane Oakley, stepped outside. Though it was freezing, Zane seemed to have some kind of surfer’s blood in him, and that meant he could go barefoot and wear short sleeves at any time of the year and be okay. I was envious.
I smiled as I looked over at him. When I first arrived in town, Zane had seen me pull up, offered to carry in my suitcases, and then invited me over for ramen and Uno. He’d asked me if anyone had ever told me I looked like Raven Remington. I told him I got that a lot and eventually admitted who I was. We’d been chummy ever since.
“Hey, Zane!” I paused despite the cold. “What’s going on?”
Before he could answer, a woman stepped from his duplex. I hadn’t seen her before, but she basically looked the same as the rest: tan, thin, and blond, with long, sun-streaked hair.
Yes, I’d already figured out Zane had a type, just in the short three days I’d been here. Three days. Three different women.
She winked at him as she passed and fluttered her fingers in the air. “See you later, Zane.”
He grinned back, his white teeth practically sparkling. “Bye, sunshine. I’ll catch you later.”
As she climbed into her car, Zane finally pulled his gaze away and looked at me again. His brown curly hair, naturally highlighted by the sun, formed a halo around his head. He was tall—at least six feet, which was a good seven inches taller than I was—with broad shoulders and a lean build. When he spoke, his voice was slightly raspy, reminding me of Owen Wilson.
“Did you forget her name?” I asked, humor staining my voice.
He looked wounded—but only mockingly so. “I just happen to like pet names, thank you. And your words, they hurt.” He knocked his fist into his heart to drive home his point.
I smiled. Yes, Zane was a player. He was handsome and as free spirited as the waves crashing on the other side of the sand dune. I was still getting to know him, but I had figured out a few things. I knew that if Zane could make a living as a surfer, he probably would. But he couldn’t. So instead he had a mishmash of jobs. He did some part-time realty work. He helped repair surfboards. In the summer he gave surf lessons. He might have even said something about deejaying on occasion.
“I’m going to go watch some Bob Ross. Any interest?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
Zane was obsessed with The Joy of Painting, a fact that greatly amused me.
“I can’t. I’m actually headed
to Willie Wahoo’s. Ever been there?” I asked.
He raised his chin dramatically. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
“I’m going to freshen up and head that way.”
“To enjoy their fine cuisine?”
“They have fine cuisine?” It hadn’t been my impression.
“No, not really. But why else would you go there?”
I shrugged. “I’m doing some research. You want to come along?”
He smiled with his eyes. Heck, he smiled with his face also. Everything about him just seemed to smile. All the time. “Research? For what?”
“It’s top secret.”
“Top secret?” He wagged his eyebrows up and down. “I’m so interested. Let me go grab some shoes.”
Four
When I walked into Willie’s, I was so glad Zane was with me. The establishment wasn’t the kind of place a single girl liked to venture into alone. The moment I stepped foot in the place, at least fifteen sets of eyes turned my way and checked me out. It wasn’t that I was so beautiful I always turned heads. Every woman who stepped foot into this place turned heads.
Zane put a friendly hand on my back and directed me toward the bar. In the background, a terribly off-key man sang karaoke—“Love Shack,” to be exact. Everyone drank, and the smell of alcohol saturated the place. In the corners of the room, some kind of ballgame played, a ticker running across the bottom.
The whole atmosphere of this place at night just turned my stomach. It wasn’t that I was above it. It was simply that I’d lived this life, and I had no desire to go back. Ever.
“Billy, have you met my friend Joey yet?” Zane took a seat at the bar.
A bulky bartender with a shaved head assessed me. He reminded me of a gangbanger until a smile cracked his face. Then he reminded me of Mr. Clean. “No, I don’t think I have. Welcome to Willie’s!”
I smiled. “Thanks. You own this place?”
“Sure do.”
“Why is it named Willie’s then?”
“Billy Wahoo’s just didn’t have the same ring to it.”
I couldn’t argue.
“She needs your help,” Zane continued.
On the drive here, Zane had asked surprisingly few questions about why I was looking for this Simon guy. He seemed content just to be along for the ride, which I could appreciate.
Billy’s eyes ran up and down the length of me. “Does she?”
His words almost sounded suggestive, which made me want to flick his forehead.
“I’m looking for information on this man.” I showed him the picture of Simon on my phone.
He stared at the screen, his face not giving away anything. “Is that right?”
“Can you help a girl out?” Zane piped in.
I hoped Zane’s “good old boy” connections would help. It had been a long time since I’d been around small-town dynamics. People could be your best friends or worst enemies.
“It will cost you,” Billy said.
Immediately, my muscles tensed. What was this man talking about? As someone who’d been offered roles in return for certain favors, I was now cautious, to put it mildly. If this was an episode of Relentless, Raven would have this guy pinned against the bar and demand he do the right thing without asking anything in return.
I wasn’t Raven. “What will it cost?”
The man’s eyes lit as he looked at me and then at Zane. He sent Zane some kind of unspoken request. I only knew that because Zane’s face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern at a pumpkin-carving contest.
“For real?” A smile stretched across Zane’s lips, and excitement edged his voice.
“For real, what?” I hated feeling clueless and like some kind of eye-candy outsider.
“All right, girl, we can do this.” Zane turned toward me and took my hand. His eyes danced with mischief.
I braced myself for whatever “this” was.
He stepped onto the barstool.
“What are you doing?” I rushed.
The music went silent, and I felt everyone’s eyes on us. I didn’t mind the attention—I just liked to know what it was for first.
“Right this way, sugar plum.”
“Sugar plum?” Had he forgotten my name too? Before I comprehended what was happening, Zane pulled me up, and we were both standing on the bar.
A narrow ledge with glasses overhead and breakable mugs on either side of me? This wasn’t good. It reminded me of a fight scene I’d done once on a narrow pier. I’d ended up in the water, and I’d taken a cameraman with me.
“Hit it, Rocky,” Zane called across the room.
Almost as if this whole thing had been preplanned, someone threw two microphones up. Zane caught them both and handed me one. It was as if one of those improbable scenes in a movie had been prepped and ready to go in real life.
What was going on here?
“I’m not reenacting any scenes from Coyote Ugly, just in case that’s what you’re thinking,” I warned him.
Zane threw his head back in laughter. He was enjoying this. Then again, he enjoyed everything from The Joy of Painting to building houses out of playing cards.
At that moment, music from Grease began playing over the speakers. “Summer Loving,” to be exact. Zane crooned out the lyrics. With theatrics that would have made John Travolta proud, he turned toward me, hunching his back and bending until we were face to face.
He had a good voice. Fabulous, actually. Deep and smooth. The kind women would want to listen to for hours.
Zane was full of surprises.
He stared at me when it came time for my turn. I opened my mouth and then shut it again. Even I wasn’t sure if I’d been about to sing or argue with Zane about this whole scenario.
The crowd around me began cheering. Come on, girl! Let’s hear it. You can do it!
That last line was said with the same inflection as the line from the Adam Sandler movie The Waterboy. That sealed the deal for me. I was a sucker for the early Adam Sandler flicks.
And it didn’t hurt that we’d done Grease in high school. I’d gotten the role of Sandy, and I knew these words by heart.
Something about hearing the crowd around me did me in. It loosened my muscles and made part of me come alive again. The performing side. The attention-seeking side.
I cleared my throat and joined in, mimicking Zane’s stance.
This was what I had to do to find answers? Then so be it. I was in my element. But so much for not drawing attention to myself.
The more the crowd cheered us on, the more it fed my need to perform. I sang like a pro and acted out every line of the song until it ended.
When we finished—Zane and I face to face, of course—we paused and the crowd cheered, asking for more.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this much fun.
Zane hopped down. Just as he went to grab my hand and help me down, my foot slipped. I started falling, but somehow I landed in Zane’s very capable arms.
“It’s a good thing I’m here,” he muttered, smiling down at me.
“And it’s a good thing I’m not a total wallflower, or I’d really resent you right now.” I had to look away before his ocean-blues sucked me in.
He snorted. “You? A wallflower? You give off the extroverted vibe.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as he set me on my feet.
“It’s your eyes. They’re big and open and engaging. You touch people when you talk to them. Your shoulders are back and your chin up as if you’re just looking for the next person to connect with.” He made a flashing motion with his hands. “You scream extrovert.”
“You study psychology?”
“Just the waves. The beach is my classroom.”
I believed him.
But I had other things on my mind besides trying to win a karaoke championship. “Now can we get some answers?”
“You know it.” He winked and turned back to Billy. “Now, our part of the deal is done, so spill it.”
Zane shook his head. “Not tonight. I already sang for you. A deal is a deal, and this little lady needs some answers.”
Zane must sing for this crowd a lot. And he was good at it. There wasn’t a self-conscious bone in his body. And every pretty woman that passed him called out hello. And of course, Zane responded by calling them “baby,” “honey,” “doll,” and “sweetheart.”
Billy grunted and leaned on the bar toward me. “That guy was in here last night. Is that what you want to know?”
Yes, it was. I could leave now . . . right? Mission complete.
But . . . I needed more than that. I needed to prod, to think like a detective.
What would Raven do?
“Did he say anything?” I asked.
Billy let out a sigh and continued to dry the glass in his hands. “He was talking all kinds of nonsense. And he kept looking around, asking me if everyone inside was a regular. Like we have regulars around here all the time. I’d go broke if that was the case. Three months of tourism equals an entire year of sustainability.”
That was kind of weird or kind of paranoid. Lily had said he wasn’t acting right lately though.
“What kind of nonsense?”
“He was saying that there are bad people in the world. That small towns are toxic. That time was running out.”
Interesting. “Did he say where he was staying?”
“No, he didn’t.”
My lungs deflated. How did I find someone who didn’t want to be located? Where did I even go from here?
“He did drop this though.” Billy slid something across the counter to me. “He was trying to pick up someone. She didn’t appear interested.”
I glanced down at the paper coaster in front of me. On the back was scribbled the words Oceanfront Inn Express, Room 288.
“Any idea who the woman was?” I asked.
“Never seen her before. She was pretty. A brunette. Long hair and an olive complexion. If you find her, see if I can get her number.”
I’d been about to say thank you, but I changed my mind.
I turned to leave instead.
“You can repay me by coming back again, you hear?” Billy said. “You two make quite the team.”
Ready to Fumble (The Worst Detective Ever Book 1) Page 3
