Far Cry: A Talbott’s Cove Novel

by Canterbary, Kate

  "You gonna fix those hinges for me?" I gestured toward the threshold with a roll of quarters. "Because I can see from here they're loose from the rough treatment you're giving them."

  "Get me a screwdriver." She stomped across the empty tavern, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and anger rising around her like a bank of coastal fog. If I knew anything about Brooke—and fog—I knew I wouldn't be able to see the hand in front of my face real soon. "I'll tighten them right up after you and I have a little talk."

  I returned to my receipts. "Sorry, sweetheart, closed for the night."

  She slipped onto her usual stool, the one near the end with a sniper's view of the tavern. "Would you care to explain to me what the fuck happened here, Jed?"

  "Gonna need you to be more specific, sweetheart."

  Brooke paused, laced her fingers together on the bar top. "I came in here earlier."

  "That you did." I nodded as I shuffled the cash again. I couldn't even count when she stared at me like that. "Left without paying too."

  "Put it on my tab."

  "Last I checked, you haven't opened a tab." I shoved everything into a bank bag and finally shifted to face her. A feral smirk pulled at her lips and her brilliant blue eyes sparkled. I'd never seen anything more beautiful—or infuriating—than the wrath she kept simmering beneath the surface.

  And it was a goddamn problem. Of course it was. Pissing her off made my damn day, but moments like these, when it was me and Brooke and all that fog rolling around us, made for a different kind of day.

  "Then let me open one right now." She drew her narrow shoulders in, lowered her lashes, and peered up at me. I wanted to believe that move was pure and unpracticed, although Brooke got everything she wanted not because she deserved it but because she knew how to demand it. "I think you know I'm good for it."

  So fucking dangerous.

  I ran my palm over my head, tugged the hair knotted at the base of my skull. "Like I told you earlier, I don't have time for this." Didn't have the time, the mental fortitude, the goddamn strength. "Get to the point or get the hell outta here."

  Every ounce of sweet drained from her. In its place was rock salt in the shape of an obnoxiously lovely woman. "What happened with"—she pointed to the empty stool where the stuffed shirt from Manchester had sat—"that one?"

  I went in search of something to do—or break. Ice was the only thing I could shatter without creating more work for myself. I pushed back the top on the chill chest, speared the metal scoop inside. "Why the sudden interest in visitors to the Cove?"

  I heard her snicker over the tumble of ice cubes. It was a halting breath that twisted into a brittle laugh. That rough, unsatisfied sound tightened my shoulders and locked my jaw. I wished I hadn't heard it because that reaction told me everything I needed to know about her in this moment. For starters, she didn't give a shit about the guy she'd tried to pick up for the night. Not surprisingly. Second, the who was far less relevant than the what. Finally—and this was the most important one—she was damn close to combusting. The only question was whether she wanted someone to light her up. Not the way that Manchester asshole would've done it, if he'd managed to fumble his way to that point. But really set her on fire. Make her burn—and glow.

  "My interest in visitors is none of your business," she answered. "Since you've inserted yourself into my business, I'd like to know what you did with the gentleman I met earlier."

  "'Met' is a rather civilized way of describing it, don't you think?" I snapped the chill chest shut, looked around, shrugged. "My tavern isn't your hookup pool."

  She cast her gaze from one end of the empty bar to the other. "I wouldn't call it much of a pool."

  "Why can't you use Tinder like everyone else? Come on, sweetheart. Get yourself some apps and get the hell outta here."

  "I hate apps," she replied.

  "And I hate cilantro, but you don't see me passing on the tacos, do you?"

  "No, I mean I hate apps," she said, holding up her phone. "I hate them so much that I don't have any." I snatched the device away from her and peered at the screen. "Look. No social media. No news or weather. No food delivery."

  "The only delivery around here is DiLorenzo's and it's only when Denny gets tired of washing dishes and needs some walking-around money."

  She sliced her hands through the air. "Irrelevant. I didn't have delivery apps when I lived in New York."

  I hit her with a glare. "If you really wanted something, you'd download an app for it."

  "And that's where you're wrong, Jed. If I really wanted something, I'd go out and get it." She waved her hands. "That's what I was attempting to do earlier."

  I set her phone on the bar top. "You have the newest iPhone and you use it for what? Phone calls? Texting Annette?"

  She tilted her head, schooling me with an expression that said I should know better than to pick at her spoiled little rich girl status. "Not that I owe you any kind of explanation, but until recently, when my previous phone met with an unlikely end, I had one of the earliest models." She pursed her lips. I looked away to keep from staring at her there. "And yes, Jed, I use it to make phone calls and text my bloodless sister."

  I blew out a breath as I reached for a towel. All the glassware was dry, but goddamn, I needed something to keep my hands busy. "You come out with a lot of strange shit, Bam Bam, but that's the strangest."

  "It's so great that you have opinions," she mused. "Even better that I don't give a single fuck what you think." She leaned forward, folded her arms on the edge of the bar. "Then again, I can't give a single fuck because I don't have any. Literally. I have no fucks because you cockblocked me."

  Why I thought I could carry on this conversation without submitting to her like every other object in her orbit was a mystery to me. Whatever it took to stand here without wanting to fist her platinum hair and bite her bow lips and give her the kind of fuck she'd never forget, I didn't have. And I'd looked. Fuck me, I'd looked. I'd spent the past two years searching.

  "What d'you want from me, Brooke? An apology? You're not getting one. I kicked the guy out because he annoyed me. When you own the joint, you can do that."

  "You kicked him out while also cockblocking me," she replied.

  "Not that it'd matter to you, but I'm pretty sure he's married."

  "'Not that it'd matter to you,'" she repeated. "Your dick isn't big enough to use that tone of voice with me. Check yourself, Jed."

  Nothing about her words was particularly infuriating—no more than the rest of this conversation—but they sent me over the edge nonetheless. "Sweetheart, you don't know the first thing about my dick."

  Her hair cascaded over her shoulders as she leaned forward. "Oh, I know more than enough."

  I twisted the towel around my fist. "Big talk from a girl trying to pick up tourists."

  "Funny how it's only a problem when I do it."

  I blinked at her. Dropped the towel. Swallowed down the words I wanted to say to her. Rounded the bar. I closed my hand around Brooke's bicep and tugged her off the stool. "Let's go," I murmured.

  "And where, may I ask, are we going?"

  I gave her only a clenched jaw in response as I yanked her past the bar and into the dim storeroom. This was happening somewhere dark and private—and it was happening. I kicked the door shut behind us and marched her toward a wall of empty kegs until her back met the cool metal.

  "Excuse you," she said, glaring at my hold on her arm. "What do you think you're doing with your hand on me?"

  "We both know you would've ripped my fucking ear off and kicked my balls into my gut by now if you didn't want my hand on you."

  "Oh really?" she scoffed. "So, what? I'm asking for it?"

  "You're asking for something, sweetheart."

  I was right about that. She was asking for something. She was fishing.

  And I was taking the bait.

  I flicked a glance at her eyes, her lips. I hated how much I wanted to taste her. "Tell me w
hat you're looking for."

  Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled up in the way it always did when she was drowning in all the contempt and condescension she kept close. It wasn't meant to be hypnotic, but fuck me if I could convince my cock otherwise. "I don't need to tell you anything."

  "Need? No. But you want to, Bam Bam." I shuffled closer to her, my lower body settling against hers. "Go ahead. Tell me what you want."

  Her breath caught and that small proof she wasn't nearly as contemptuous as she pretended felt like a victory. But she wasn't letting me enjoy the win. Not even for a second.

  "It's nothing you'd be able to manage."

  I traced the neckline of her sweater, just barely brushing my fingertips over her pale skin as I went. Not a freckle or tan line to be seen. "Try me."

  A beat of silence passed between us before I vaulted over a line I swore I'd never approach, much less cross. Not again. I shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't have dragged her back here to begin with—to this room scented with stale beer, and to the moment where everything between us changed—but I never should've bowed my head and closed my lips around the tender skin below her ear. It was a quick taste that turned into a kiss and then a scrape of my teeth less gentle than I'd intended.

  But while I was tasting and kissing and biting her neck, Brooke was statue still. She didn't react, didn't move, didn't even breathe. She was dead silent until, "Do that again."

  There it was, the single most important reason for staying far away from that line, and it was spoken with her special blend of entitlement and ice that burned the sense out of me.

  I pulled back. "No."

  Her lips flattened and her brow arched up. "Again."

  "That's not how it works here, sweetheart."

  She blinked, tipped her head to the side as if she hadn't heard me. "My universe isn't the one where I take orders, Jed."

  "And my universe isn't the one where you get what you want simply because you want it." I kicked her ankles apart and pressed myself into the notch between her legs. Her body shuddered against mine in a violent, lingering jerk. A man who hadn't devoted entire years to observing this woman would've blown the whistle and called the game, but I knew we were just getting started. Brooke, the woman constructed from ice and salt and fire, was only warming up with sighs and shudders like these. "Go ahead. You don't like my rules, you're welcome to walk out of here."

  She pouted. She whined. Then, "Again—please."

  And I damn near died.

  I pulled myself back from that free fall and brushed my beard over the curve of her neck. "That's it, that's right," I murmured.

  She twisted her wrists out of my grip. I expected her to take that freedom and use it to pop me in the eye, but she dragged her palms down my back and curled her fingers around my belt. She used that leverage to pull me closer. Fucking closer.

  I rocked my hips into the heat between her legs and dragged my lips up the slender column of her neck. She smelled like soap and flowery shampoo and her skin was softer than I'd imagined. Than I'd remembered. It was irritating as hell. I wanted to hate every second so I could discard this desire and move on with my life.

  "If this is all you want, sweetheart, you went to an awful lot of trouble for a little necking."

  "No one says necking, Jed. They haven't in fifty-seven years."

  "Fifty-seven, huh?" She bobbed her head, humming in agreement. "What would you rather I say?"

  "Say your mouth is auditioning for me."

  I kissed down the line of her jaw, telling her, "I'm not auditioning for a fucking thing. Tell me what you want or go home."

  "Mmhmm. Yes."

  She sighed as I mapped her skin with my mouth, tipping her head back to grant me greater access. Now that I'd started, I couldn't stop thrusting against her. Couldn't keep myself from nipping and sucking her neck. Couldn't come to the realization this was a terrible idea. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Her grip on my belt tightened and she moaned like I was creating magic and then—

  "Good night, Jed."

  She slipped out of my arms and away from the kegs, and she marched her fine ass to the door while I stared after her once again.

  There was no moving on. Not from this.

  Chapter Four

  Brooke

  Short Selling: the practice of borrowing and selling shares of stock based on expectations of declining value only to then repurchase those shares at a lower price to turn a profit.

  "That was not the plan," I said to myself for the fifth time since leaving the Galley. "Not the plan at all."

  I stamped my foot on the sidewalk outside my father's house, but it didn't help. Nothing helped. Wasn't that the story of my life right now? No matter what I did, it wasn't getting better. And if I thought I'd been in rough shape earlier today, my current condition could only be expressed by wailing at the moon.

  Shoving my fingers through my hair, I glared at the walkway that led to the door that would take me inside. Back to the place where nothing helped, nothing got better, and nothing ever would. I wasn't ready to go in and face that reality.

  "Not yet," I murmured, turning away from the house.

  Down the hill sat the village of Talbott's Cove, quiet and dark in the crisp September night. Harbor lights cast a golden glow over the water and surrounding homes and businesses.

  There'd been a time when I loved being able to see the entire town and everything happening in it from my father's house. It wasn't until I'd returned home after years away that I realized isolation was the price paid for this vantage point.

  I was alone, even with round the clock staff and my father and my best friend never more than a text away. I was so damn lonely and overwhelmed and resentful and—and I didn't want to be any of those things tonight.

  I turned back toward the village. And I ran.

  As I barreled down the hill toward the village, I didn't allow myself to think this through. If I started thinking now, I'd come up with several strong reasons why I should return home, plug into the Asia-Pacific markets, and forget about the feel of JJ Harniczek's hands on my body. And yet, as my shoes slapped the pavement, I allowed myself a pair of thoughts.

  One: Running was awful. Why did anyone do this for sport?

  Two: Would JJ be home yet or should I stop at the tavern first?

  When I reached the town square, the tavern was dark save for a single light over the door. "All right. Onward," I said to the night air. "The things a girl has to do for some dick."

  On days when the dementia wind blew a certain way, my father would sit by the bank of windows facing the village and recount the history of this town as he knew it. He was careful to note the exact years each road was constructed and structures that followed, and the reasons for all of it. JJ lived at the end of a narrow, bungalow-lined street set behind the harbor that was built in the mid-eighteen-hundreds. Better roads were needed around the harbor then, and as the lobstering trade took off more local housing was required.

  This was the predominant thought in my head as I run-walked down the sidewalk at twelve thirty in the morning. The approximate age and purpose of this road. I had to mentally box that noise up and hide it in a brain closet when I reached JJ's house because dick and Dad's dementia monologues didn't mix.

  I'd nearly caught my breath when I knocked on his door, but the bare chest and scowl he greeted me with stole it all over again.

  Goddamn. When did he get all that ink and chest hair and muscle?

  He raised his arm, braced it on the doorframe. An octopus wrapped itself around his bicep and over his shoulder, and a little round bird with a long beak lived on his flank. "What the hell do you want?"

  I glanced down at his jeans. "Take off your pants."

  His brows pinched together. "Come again?"

  "I'd love to, but I'm going to need you to drop those jeans first." I ducked under his arm and stepped into his home. "I trust you have a condom or two."

  JJ stayed rooted at the threshold while I explored the
living room. Dark blue sofa, white walls, hardwood floors. There was art and photos too, but I didn't stop long enough to take them in.

  "Two?" he called. "What gave you the idea I want to have sex with you twice? Or even once?"

  I wandered into the dining room and circled the table. It was an old, battered, family-style table, and none of the chairs matched. I kind of loved that. A laptop and stack of file folders sat beside a glass of water.

  "Your dick was on my thigh like it was drilling for oil thirty minutes ago," I replied. "I don't think I'm the one overselling here."

  He pushed the door shut and flipped the locks, but didn't turn around for a long moment. When he did, he leaned back against the slab, his arms folded over his chest. Making me stare at him while he stood there with his tattoos and chest hair on display was the most outrageous thing he'd ever done to me.

  "What are you doing here, Brooke?" His voice was low and rough but free of all the hostility he often aimed at me.

  "I'm telling you what I want."

  He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "And what's that, sweetheart?"

  I gestured to his jeans. "Off."

  Shifting on bare feet, he brought his hands to his belt. The fabric dipped, highlighting a trail of dark fuzz and muscular grooves. Now, that was truly outrageous. "I'm not playing another game with you."

  "No games. No bullshit," I said, blinking away from the belt-to-belly button region. "Just you, me, a condom or two."

  "Lose the sweater."

  I reached for the hem. "Fine." It sailed through the air, landing in front of his feet. "Your turn."

  JJ charged across the room and curled both hands around my waist. "Let's get something straight. You tell me what you want, I tell you what to do. You're not the one issuing orders here."