by Mary Frame
Maybe I can’t be fixed.
Maybe once you’re in with the bad guys, you’ll always be one.
Maybe Paige would be better off without our parents . . . and without me.
I stop picking up the mess and sit there, staring down at the shards of glass that litter the floor like so many broken dreams.
“Are you okay?” Her voice is hushed, like she senses the mental breakdown about to commence.
“I’m fine. I just . . .” I drop the pieces in my hand and they patter back to the ground. “I can’t do this.”
“It’s okay, we just need a broom and a dustpan and—”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t do this. I can’t do any of this.” I gesture to the entire shop. “I don’t know why I’m trying. I’m a failure, and I haven’t even started.”
“You’re not a failure.” Her voice is quiet and serious when she probably should be asking me to chill the eff out. “You only fail if you stop trying.”
Tabby, a woman I met literally hours ago, is crouched on the ground next to me, her hand on my arm, giving me more comfort than I’ve had from anyone in my life other than Paige. This stranger is treating me better than my own parents ever did.
I have no idea what to say.
“Come on,” she says, removing her hand from my arm. “Let’s clean this up.”
In silence, we sweep up the mess. She holds the dustpan as I gently push the shards of my life into the trash.
Then she slaps me on the back.
“We need booze.”
Chapter Seven
“I can’t leave Paige for very long,” I tell Tabby for about the thirtieth time since we left the house.
Not that Paige cares. She assured me that she would be fine, she’s not a baby, she’s practically an adult.
Then Tabby assured me that we would only be gone for a couple hours, tops. Castle Cove isn’t exactly crime-ridden—minus the mugging at the pier the other night—and with the door locked, Paige is as safe as the crown jewels. So she says. And we’ll be less than a mile away, at Ben’s Tavern.
The bar is loud and crowded. Even with all the convincing, cajoling, and assurances from both Tabby and Paige, I’m not sure that I should have agreed to this little outing, but it’s too late to turn back now. I’m still a bit raw from my emotional collapse, but Tabby’s exuberant presence has helped.
“I’m getting us a round,” Tabby yells in my ear over the loud hum of people talking and laughing. She disappears between bodies in the crowd, presumably heading toward the bar.
Everyone who lives in this town must be stuffed into the small space. As soon as Tabby disappears, I stand there like wood piling trying to withstand the waves of bodies crashing around me. I don’t know anyone. I don’t really want to talk to anyone. I haven’t had much luck with the residents so far.
There’s nowhere to sit; all the tables and booths are full of people. I shuffle over to lean my back against the wall and watch.
Ben’s Tavern is a mishmash of odd items and conflicting themes. The bar itself is gleaming wood, and it’s well maintained. There are some sports jerseys hanging on the walls next to black and white photos of old rock stars. There’s a stage for a band on one side, along with a karaoke machine stuffed in the corner. Then there are weird items hanging from the ceiling over the bar, from pictures and hanging dollar bills to plastic frogs.
There are a few pool tables with mostly guys surrounding them. I recognize Officer Reynolds—Troy—in his off duty clothes: a T-shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. I watch them play for a few minutes, taking note of their techniques and abilities. I wish I could watch with disinterest, but some habits are hard to break. Officer Reynolds isn’t bad, but he’s not great either. The guys he’s playing with are better, but they aren’t as good as me. Pool sharking is one of the easiest cons to pull, especially if you’re a woman. Women are eternally underestimated.
Before long, Tabby reappears, thrusting some kind of mixed drink into my hand.
“Drink quick,” she says, then takes a long swallow out of her own glass.
“What? Why?”
“Just do it.” Her hand circles, motioning for me to hurry.
I lift the glass to my mouth and she reaches up and tilts it even more, forcing the cold liquid down my throat. I sputter for a moment, pulling the glass away, but before I can ask Tabby why she wants me to slam it, there’s someone else standing in our little circle.
“Tabby, I told you you’re not allowed behind the bar anymore.” It’s a guy. He’s tall and slender with sandy-blond hair and an annoyed expression. I think it’s the same guy I saw Tabby talking to at the hardware store.
“I’m not behind the bar,” she says.
“You’re going to be behind lots of bars if you don’t pay for your drinks,” he insists, but the words lack heat.
“Whatever, Ben.” She flips her hair over one shoulder. “You know my brother won’t arrest me. If anything, he’ll defend me and probably pay for my drinks. Not that he should. You totally owe me.”
He sighs and shakes his head before he seems to realize that I’m standing there, watching the exchange.
“Hey.” He nods in acknowledgement.
“This is Ruby,” Tabby introduces me. “She owns the new shop over on Norfolk. Ruby, this is Ben, the owner of this fine establishment and a total pain in the ass.”
“Oh right, I’ve seen the sign. Ruby’s Readings.” He ignores Tabby and sticks his hand out.
“Nice to meet you.”
He turns back to Tabby, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction. “You owe me ten dollars for those drinks.”
“I owe you dick. And ten dollars? Really? This ain’t the Bellagio.”
“Ruby.” Someone else enters the conversation, stepping between me and Tabby and slinging an arm over my shoulder.
“Officer Reynolds,” I say, stiffening slightly. I suppose it’s normal when you’re in a bar to be overly familiar with other patrons, but I’m not sure I’ve ever willingly been this close to a cop in my life.
“I’m off duty, call me Troy. I’m here to rescue you from these two losers and their never-ending bickering. It’s cute at first but it slowly turns into wishing you could burn your own ears off. How about a game of pool?”
“I don’t know how to play.” The response is automatic.
“I don’t want you to play, I just want you to watch,” he says with a grin.
I glance over at Tabby, but she’s still arguing with Ben.
“She won’t even notice. They get into it and it’s at least an hour before they come back to the real world. Trust me.”
Out of excuses, I relent with a nod. I follow him to the pool table, where he puts aside my now empty glass. Then he pours me a new glass of beer from a pitcher on a nearby stool.
“You don’t have to be a psychic to know who’s going to win this game,” Troy says, puffing his chest out and then pointing both thumbs toward himself. “Me,” he mouths.
I can’t help but laugh.
He starts racking the balls, glancing over his shoulder to ask, “Seriously though, can you predict if I’m gonna win? Because I want to know if I should put money on this.”
I glance down at his opponent. It’s an older gentleman standing on the other side of the table, holding a cue stick and talking to someone else.
“I don’t know. He looks pretty skilled.”
The man in question chooses that moment to belch loudly.
“Yeah. He’s a real shark,” Troy says drily. “Are you sure you’re psychic?”
“I told you—”
“I know, not an exact science. Don’t worry, I won’t be all judgey like my partner. I might tease a bit, but,” he shrugs, “sometimes things happen that can’t be explained, and I’ll never rule any explanations out, paranormal or otherwise.”
“That’s very open-minded of you.”
“I’m a pretty cool guy,” he says with a grin.
“You can ask anyone.”
Just then, there’s a cacophony of shouting from across the bar. Troy morphs into cop mode, the fun-and-games expression immediately replaced with seriousness. He stalks toward the commotion.
I can’t see what’s happening from here, but whatever it is disperses quickly and the sound level returns to the normal laughing and clinking of glasses.
Within moments, he’s back.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine.” He grabs a pool cue from a nearby shelf and chalks it. “Typical Friday night in Castle Cove. Wouldn’t be complete without the Newsomes getting into some kind of argument.” He shrugs.
I have no idea who the Newsomes are, but it’s too loud to ask and Troy is already breaking the balls.
I sit there and watch the pool game for a while, keeping a side eye on the rest of the bar. Most of the patrons are older than me. And Troy. And Tabby. In fact, we might be the youngest ones in here by twenty years. Tabby wasn’t kidding about that median age thing. The music starts up, and even the band is over fifty.
After a little while, Tabby reappears with a couple of full shot glasses in her hands, and her clothes are a little more rumpled than I remember.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says quickly.
I glance over at the bar where Ben emerges from somewhere in the back. His hair appears more artfully disarrayed than it did before they disappeared.
“You and Ben fight a lot, huh?” I look at him and then back at her meaningfully.
“He’s a punk-ass little shit.”
“Your shirt is on inside out.”
“Dammit.” She hands me one of the shot glasses. “Here, drink some more.”
Whatever’s in the glass is dark purple. “What is this?”
“Don’t ask questions, woman. Drink!” She clinks her glass to mine and shoots it down.
“I can’t drink too much, I have to get home to take care of Paige soon.”
“Oh c’mon. She’s not an infant. She’ll be fine. We’ll send Troy over there later to make sure she’s not burning the house down or having orgies.”
“Orgies?”
“Relax, I’m kidding. Look, Ruby, we take care of each other here. You’ve had a rough time of it, moving, raising your little sister. You deserve a night off to let loose a little. Trust me.”
My eyebrows lift. I don’t even know her. I’ve never trusted anyone other than Paige.
At the expression on my face, she rolls her eyes. “Troy!” she yells over the noise.
“What?” he yells back.
“Tell Ruby to drink and that her sister will be fine.”
“Drink, your sister will be fine,” he obliges and then frowns. “You have a sister?”
“Ruby, seriously,” Tabby says, ignoring Troy’s question. “I will make sure you don’t get too drunk and that you get home safe to Paige. Scout’s honor.” She holds up three fingers in salute.
“Promise?”
“Pinky swear.” She holds up a finger and I shake it.
“Just this one drink.” Then I shoot it.
Tabby claps her hands and throws an arm around my shoulders. “Now let’s dance!”
Time passes. I’m on the dance floor, surrounded by mostly strangers, old strangers, and Tabby until we’re both sweaty and laughing.
The band finishes their set. Some of the crowd disperses with the music. Since there are open spots now, Tabby drags me to the bar.
“Garçon.” She bangs on the bar top. “Gimme a shot of something.”
“I think I should cut you off,” Ben grumbles, but he puts two shot glasses on the bar and fills them with a clear liquid.
“Don’t be such a party pooper,” Tabby says, then takes the shot back.
She puts the glass back on the bar, a frown twitching at her lips. “Was that . . . water?”
Ben’s shoulders shake with laughter.
Tabby climbs on top of the bar to get to Ben, who backs away quickly, his hands up. “No need to get violent. And get off my bar.” He commands but doesn’t do anything more than flick the bar rag at her and run in the opposite direction.
A loud shout and then a crash from somewhere down the bar distracts me from Tabby’s antics. I can’t see over all the heads between me and the commotion, but a crowd of people by the pool tables shifts and gets louder. A male voice yells, “I will kill you if you touch my wife!”
Another voice, female and just as loud, yells back, “Ex-wife!”
Ben is already jumping over the bar. Troy pushes his way through the crowd to break up whatever kerfuffle is happening.
“The Newsomes again,” Tabby says. She’s on the other side of the bar. She must have made her way over while I was trying to see what was happening.
“Who are the Newsomes?” I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the infamous couple. When the crowd parts, I get a momentary peek. They aren’t as exciting as I expected, both likely in their sixties. Mr. Newsome is balding and mostly gray, and the ex-Mrs. Newsome has dyed red hair with gray roots and lipstick on her teeth.
Tabby puts a drink in front of me, pulling back my attention. I eye it warily. This one is lime green.
“They’ve been separated for years, but they always do this. At least once a month they go out when they know the other one will be here and start a ruckus.” She waves her hand. “It’ll be fine. Troy will break them up.” There’s another loud crash and an inarticulate yell. She shrugs. “Maybe.”
From my perch on the barstool, the crowd still seems a bit agitated, but that changes when the door swings open and Deputy Reeves strolls in.
He’s in uniform, but even if he weren’t wearing the badge, he has such a presence that the crowd parts for him, bodies shifting back as he cuts through the throng of people.
When Tabby sees him, she laughs. “Jared will fix it. He fixes everything in this town. Ready for this? Just watch. Or listen.” She holds up her fingers and counts down. “Three, two . . .”
As if she’s the psychic, the melee dies down and the hum of conversation returns.
“See? Now take your drink like a good girl.” She nudges the glass in my direction but I shake my head.
“I think I’m done for the night.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
“Tabby. You’re not supposed to be behind the bar.”
Jared’s voice next to me sends a shiver up my spine. I’m not sure if it’s a sexy shiver of awareness or a scared shiver of anxiety.
Tabby’s expression is wounded. “Et tu, Jared?”
He sighs. “Just make sure you get a ride home.”
“Do I look like an idiot?”
“I think it would be better if I didn’t answer that question.”
Tabby laughs. “My girl here, we’re just having some fun. You’ve met Ruby, right?”
She knows that he has.
He glances over at me. “We’ve met.”
He doesn’t sound super excited about the connection, but I try not to take it personally.
“She’s awesome, right?”
I have to smile at Tabby’s enthusiasm on my behalf. He doesn’t answer that question, either.
“Did you settle the Newsomes down? What was it this time?” she asks.
“Apparently Sheila came here with Doug, and then Paul and Doug had a disagreement.”
Tabby snorts. “Never fails.” She explains for my benefit. “Sheila and Paul, a.k.a. Mr. and Mrs. Newsome, were married for twenty years. But they’ve been ‘separated,’ ” she makes air quotes with her fingers, “for the last two years. Doug was their neighbor. Sheila only brought him to make Paul jealous. I swear those two are worse than a soap opera and just as predictable.”
“Speaking of predictable,” Jared looks at me, “make any more predictions recently?”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the way he’s watching me and the tone of his voice. He asks like he already knows the answer.
“
She’s not working right now, Jared. Lay off,” Tabby says.
“That’s funny.” Jared glances over at her. “She was willing to open for business when Cassie Graham offered her two hundred dollars the other day.”
I swallow.
He’s not wrong.
Tabby gives a low whistle. “You really charge that much for a reading? You must be good! Do I get a friends and family discount?”
I don’t answer her right away, instead engaging in a battle of wills with Jared while we stare each other down.
The best way to tell a believable lie is to believe what you’re saying. You have to be confident and assured. They’re called confidence men for a reason.
Keeping my eyes locked on his, I answer Tabby’s question. “No. And I didn’t want to give Cassie a reading the other night either. She was very insistent. So I charged extra for the inconvenience. Is there something illegal about that, Deputy?”
I raise my brows in challenge, inwardly pumping my fist because I finally formed a full, coherent sentence in front of him.
He shakes his head. “Not illegal. Not exactly ethical, but not illegal either.”
Tabby changes the subject, probably sensing the tension between us. She says something about a weekly dinner at Grandma’s and blabbers about some kind of drink that she wants to make me.
I’m not really listening. I take a sip of the drink she placed in front of me and enjoy the scorch as it goes down, the heat nearly as intense as the burn on my face right now.
I know what the heat in my face means. It’s shame. Deputy Jared Reeves is closer to the mark than I’m comfortable with. After a minute, he steps away to talk to Troy, nodding at both of us because of course he’ll be polite even if he thinks I’m the worst person on this planet since Stalin and Joseph Goebbels combined.
As soon as he leaves, I turn to Tabby, lifting my now empty glass. “I’m going to need another one of these.”
Chapter Eight
I wake up to a splitting headache and the sound of snoring in my ear. Oh shit. Did I go home with someone?
Blinking against the bright light streaming in through unfamiliar pink curtains, I spy a dark head on the pillow next to me.
