Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3)

by Judith Arnold

  “A shot of bourbon and a glass of whatever you’ve got on tap,” Ty said.

  She named a few beers. No connoisseur, he asked for the first one she’d listed, then settled onto a stool and gazed around the room. A group of frat boys sat at one table, cheerfully arguing about the relative merits of Porsches and Ferraris. Three portly older men in faded Red Sox caps nursed their drinks at a table near the door. Two attractive women sat facing each other in a booth to his left, one with long, curly red hair and the other with black hair that ended in a ruler-straight line at her shoulders. They each had a glass of wine, and they bowed their heads together across the table that separated them, engaged in intense conversation. A couple of stools down from Ty, a guy three sheets to the wind slumped over an untouched mug of coffee.

  Against the wall opposite the bar stood a jukebox. It looked like something you might find in a catalog, or in one of those stores that specialized in selling new stuff designed to look old. A dome-shaped arch, buttons, fabric-covered speakers flanking a colorful façade of what appeared to be stained glass peacocks, of all things.

  He heard the thump of glasses on the bar behind and swiveled around on his stool to discover that the bartender had served his drinks. He tossed back the bourbon in one gulp, savoring its burn down his throat, then followed it with a sip of cold beer.

  He had money. He had time. He had liquid refreshment. Life was good.

  The din of voices rose slightly as more people trickled into the bar. Ty glanced at his watch: five fifteen. Rotating back around to view the room, he nursed his beer and watched the bar’s clientele drift in, most of them just off work from the look of it. Some wore the uniforms of their jobs: garage coveralls, medical scrubs, tailored outfits that included button-down shirts adorned with loosened neckties or colorful scarves, depending on gender.

  An energetic woman in tight black pants, her hair pulled into a pony tail, bounced over to the bar. “Sorry I’m late, Gus,” she shouted to the bartender as she laced an apron around her waist. “The traffic on Route 1 was a bitch.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” the bartender muttered sarcastically. Ty wondered whether Route 1 here in Massachusetts was the same road as Route 1 in Florida. He was pretty sure it was. Like I-95, Route 1 spanned the length of the country from Maine’s Canadian border to Key West. Pretty cool to think you could drive from the nation’s northern border to its southern tip on one single road. Maybe someday he’d hop on his bike and ride the distance, just for the adventure.

  The waitress grabbed a tray, shot him a quick smile and headed back into the room, circulating from table to table, checking on the patrons. Ty watched her for a while, then shifted his attention to the two young women conferring in the booth. The one with the black hair was dabbing her eyes with a cocktail napkin. The redhead leaned toward her, giving the dark-haired one’s free hand a squeeze. Dykes? Ty wondered. He’d hate to think that two good-looking women like them were unavailable to the male half of the population, but a hot little fantasy flared in his mind at the thought of them going at it. An even hotter fantasy placed him between the two of them, the meat in the center of the sandwich. He laughed at his crassness, told his balls to stop thinking for him, and took another sip of beer.

  “Share the joke?” The woman who’d addressed him had stepped up to the bar, blocking his view of the drunk guy with the coffee. She was probably within shouting distance of forty, nice looking and dressed for cruising in a short skirt and a low-cut blouse which displayed cleavage deep enough to swallow small items.

  “Just thinking about what an ass I am,” he said pleasantly.

  “I don’t believe that,” the woman said. Catching the bartender’s eye, she said, “Can I have a Cosmo, Gus?” Then she turned back to Ty. “You’re not from around here, are you.”

  “Is this one of those places where everybody knows everybody?”

  “Kind of. I guess you and I should get to know each other, so you don’t feel left out.”

  She deserved an A for effort, but Ty wasn’t interested. He smiled politely, drank a little more beer, and said, “I’m just passing through. Running an errand.”

  “If only all errands ended with a drink,” she said, accepting the cocktail glass the bartender handed her.

  He rotated in his seat to gaze out at the room again. Business was definitely picking up, more and more tables filling. Another waitress pranced into the pub, her apron already tied around her waist. Two of the frat boys wandered over to the jukebox.

  “Brace yourself,” the Cosmo drinker said.

  “Why?”

  “That jukebox is crazy.”

  How could a jukebox be crazy? He braced himself, anyway, then let out a long breath when the jukebox began pumping music into the room. An old Beach Boys tune—“Fun, Fun, Fun.” Ty recognized it because his grandfather on his dad’s side was a huge Beach Boys fan. The old man owned the band’s albums, cassettes, even sheet music of their songs. He was a crappy guitar player, but he fantasized about becoming the next Brian Wilson. “If you live in California, this is your music,” he’d lecture Ty, who would nod solemnly. As a kid, he’d worshipped his father’s father.

  Throughout the room, people laughed. Some sang along, their voices screeching as they reached for the falsetto notes. A small cluster of revelers moved to the center of the room and started dancing, although it looked more like they were just jumping up and down. Pretty rowdy for a weeknight.

  The song ended. “Like I said,” the Cosmo drinker repeated, “that jukebox is crazy.”

  “What’s crazy about it?”

  “It only plays old songs. Really old songs.”

  “I guess that makes sense. It looks like an antique.”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t know why Gus keeps the thing there. I mean, if you’re going to have music, it should be music people listen to.”

  Ty could have argued that people still listened to the Beach Boys. But he didn’t want to get into an argument with his chatty new friend.

  Another song came on, another oldie. Ty didn’t recognize this one, but he thought his musically untalented grandfather could have mastered it. It had had only a few smashing cords, and the singer sounded as if he’d gargled with battery acid before laying down the track. The simple lyrics emerged in a harsh growl: “Wild thing…you make my heart sing…” The singer went on to growl that some woman made everything groovy.

  Groovy? Ty started to laugh—and then he stopped. The woman in the booth, the one with the black hair and the teary eyes and the solicitous friend, was staring at him. Staring hard.

  And damn, if he couldn’t keep from staring right back at her.

  Chapter Two

  Who was he?

  Monica knew pretty much everyone who was anyone in Brogan’s Point. She might have attended a big-city university, lived in Boston, learned how to navigate Beantown’s mass transit system, and mastered the art of marching down a busy street looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, aloof to the hubbub around her. But in her chest beat the heart of a small-town girl. A girl who, until yesterday evening, had dated the guy who’d been her escort to the high school junior prom. A girl who was being groomed to take over the family business—a landmark inn in town. A girl who behaved herself, who did what was expected of her, who was respected and admired. Who was predictable.

  A girl who could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as a wild thing.

  The man staring at her from his perch on a bar stool across the pub definitely looked like a wild thing. He was tall, his knit Henley shirt snug enough to hint at his broad shoulders and muscular torso. His hair was a long, windblown mess of dark blond streaked with the sort of glittering platinum highlights only the sun could create. His stubble of beard was a shade darker than his hair. His blue jeans were faded nearly to white and were torn across one knee. His eyes were almost as pale as his jeans.

  He was the sexiest man she had ever seen.

  One minute she was
whimpering and sniffling over Jimmy, and the next she was thinking she wanted to jump a total stranger’s bones. Which was completely not like her.

  But for some reason, as she gazed at that tall, blond stranger at the bar, the drone of voices and clink of glasses and shuffle of footsteps faded to nothing. Emma could have been a million miles away. Everything in the room blurred into shadow except for the man at the bar and the song blaring from the jukebox. “You mooooove me…” the singer howled.

  Monica felt wild.

  She flinched, trying to shake off the song the way a dog might shake water off its fur. She didn’t really believe that nonsense about the jukebox’s magic. She knew about it, she laughed about it, she humored Emma, who swore the jukebox had brought her and Max together and made them fall in love. But Monica didn’t actually think an old Wurlitzer could cast a spell on people. Certainly not with an insipid song like this one.

  Monica was sensible. Not susceptible to magic spells.

  Just to be safe, though, she slid out of the booth and bolted for the door.

  She’d barely caught her breath when Emma joined her on the sidewalk outside the tavern. “Monica, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Monica was too embarrassed to admit that a silly old rock song had spooked her.

  “We can’t just leave. We didn’t pay for our wine.”

  “That’s all right. Gus knows me. She knows I’m good for it.”

  “No—I mean, I can pay for the drinks,” Emma assured Monica. “But I don’t want to go back inside without you. You’re freaking me out.”

  “I’m fine,” Monica lied. “Just…you know. The whole Jimmy thing. I’m a little weirded out.”

  “Five minutes ago, you were sobbing about that son of a bitch,” Emma reminded her. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m okay.” Monica let out a long, steadying breath. The song had probably finished playing; she could go back inside. Except that if she did, she would see that guy at the bar again, tall and ripped, with his mesmerizing eyes and his bemused smile. He’d stared at her. He’d witnessed her becoming transfixed by the song. Maybe he’d even read in her expression the uncharacteristic surge of lust she’d experienced while looking at him. She couldn’t possibly go back into the pub.

  “Look. Here’s some money.” She pulled her wallet from her purse and unsnapped it. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

  Emma waved the money away. “I’ve got the drinks. But what about you? Where are you going?”

  “Home. I think…I had a funny reaction to the wine, that’s all,” she said. The explanation made sense to her, more sense than the possibility that a song from the jukebox had briefly taken possession of her. “I just need to go home and lie down for a while. I’ll be fine.”

  Emma didn’t look convinced, but she knew Monica well enough not to argue further. “Keep your phone handy,” she said. “I’m going to call you in fifteen minutes to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Okay. Call me.” Monica gave Emma a swift hug, then hurried away, heading toward the Ocean Bluff Inn as if she were running a race.

  She sprinted up the entry drive to the inn, then slowed to a walk in the parking lot, its gravel and crushed shells crunching against the soles of her shoes. The main building loomed before her, a sprawling Victorian with white clapboard siding, black shutters, a steeply peaked roof and a broad veranda stretching the width of the building in front and wrapping around the sides. The azaleas beneath the porch railing were dotted with scarlet buds, the rhododendrons blooming with splotches of pink, and dark green yews filled in the spaces between the blossoming shrubs. A staff of groundskeepers maintained the twenty-five acre property, but Monica’s father often regaled her with memories of his own childhood at the inn, when it had comprised just this one main building and he’d been responsible for weeding the beds in the summer. Now, with several smaller residential buildings and cottages, the Olympic-size pool, hot tub and pool house, the gazebo at the edge of the bluff, overlooking the inn’s private beach, and the industrial buildings housing the laundry, maintenance equipment, lawn tractors, snow plows, and massive recycling bins, the inn was practically a village unto itself.

  It was also her home. She’d grown up there, as her father had before her. She’d lived in the six-room owner’s suite with her parents and spent her childhood believing the pool, the beach, the modular jungle gym, the tennis courts, the patios and hallways and dining rooms all belonged to her. In a sense, they did—or at least, they belonged to the Reinhart family. With ownership, her parents had taught her, came responsibility. She could play in the pool or climb on the jungle gym, but she also had to treat the folks who paid to stay at the inn as her own personal guests. In her teens, she had to help out wherever she was needed, folding the pool towels, gathering abandoned dishware, and when she was old enough, making beds and scrubbing sinks with the rest of the housekeeping staff. After college, she’d been moved through a variety of administrative positions. Her parents wanted her to learn the hospitality business inside and out. Someday, she would be running the Ocean Bluff Inn. It still belonged to her, and would as long as she wished—and as long as she took responsibility for it.

  She loved the place. Running the inn had always been her dream. Simply standing before the three steps leading up to the veranda, basking in the bright, lantern-shaped lights flanking the front door and the amber glow spilling from the windows, soothed her.

  She was home. She was safe. That ridiculous song hadn’t done anything to her.

  ***

  He continued staring at the empty table where she’d been sitting, unable to shift his focus until the next song boomed from the jukebox, that U2 song about Martin Luther King. From his grandfather’s favorite rock band to his father’s, Beach Boys to U2, with that odd little song tucked in between.

  Wild thing, I think I love you.

  Where had she gone? Why had she raced out of the bar so abruptly, leaving the redhead to chase after her?

  “Oh, God, I hate this song,” the woman next to him muttered, her expansive bosom barely an inch from his elbow. “There’s politics and there’s music, you know? Keep the politics out of the music, that’s what I say.”

  Ty courteously refrained from telling her she was an idiot. He had a lot more respect for a song about a martyred hero than for one about a wild thing. He discreetly moved his arm away from her chest and drained the beer from his glass. He ought to get something to eat, but he wasn’t hungry. Not for food.

  He was hungry for the dark-haired woman. He wanted her. He wanted blazing hot sex with her. He wanted her under him, on top of him, naked and wet.

  But she was gone, and her friend was gone with her, and he was probably a bigger idiot than the woman beside him at the bar. For all he knew, the woman whose gaze had locked with his while “Wild Thing” played was someone’s girlfriend, someone’s wife. Hell, the redhead’s lover.

  And he was a horny bastard who’d spent the past week all by himself on a boat. That might explain why his mind had filled with all sorts of X-rated ideas when he’d spotted the dark-haired woman. That, and the hit of bourbon. He hadn’t drunk anything harder than ginger ale while he’d been sailing Wayne MacArthur’s boat up to Massachusetts.

  Still, the dark-haired woman had looked at him—practically looked through him. Her eyes were as dark as espresso, and every bit as intense. Who could blame him for entertaining the thought that, at least for a couple of seconds there, she’d been as hungry for him as he’d been for her? He wondered if she’d spent the last week all by herself on a boat, too.

  Yeah, sure. If he wanted to get his rocks off, the woman by his side seemed like a better prospect. But he wasn’t a sex-starved kid, willing to get it on with anyone who happened along. He didn’t want sex. He wanted sex with that dark-haired, dark-eyed, wild-thing woman.

  A total stranger who might be a bitch or a prude or a million other things that would make her a lousy bed part
ner. Forget it, he ordered himself. Forget her.

  “Gotta go,” he told the woman on the adjacent stool as he stood, pulled out his wallet and slid out a ten and a five. He had no idea what his drinks cost, and he didn’t care. He just had to leave, fill his lungs and his brain with some fresh night air, and regain his sanity. “Nice talking to you.”

  The woman looked pissed, but she managed a faint smile. The pub was continuing to fill with patrons. Surely she’d find someone more receptive than he’d been, if she put some effort into it.

  Outside, he took a few deep, bracing breaths. The bar was close to the shoreline; he could smell the ocean’s briny perfume. In the deepening gloom of dusk, the temperature had dropped a few degrees. He hoped the evening air would work on him like a cold shower, jarring him back to rationality.

  He still wasn’t hungry, but he knew he had to get some food into him. He’d last eaten hours ago as he’d sailed past Long Island’s north fork, a quick peanut-butter sandwich and a bottle of water. He ought to be ravenous.

  Heading back down Atlantic Avenue, he recalled having noticed some dining establishments on his walk over to the Faulk Street Tavern. As he neared the retail area, he gazed down a street and spotted a place called Riley’s. It looked like a diner, but since he didn’t have much appetite, he saw no point in spending a lot of money on a gourmet feast. All he needed was something more substantial than a peanut-butter sandwich.

  The place wasn’t too crowded. He ordered a lobster roll—he figured he might as well try the local cuisine. While he ate, he searched his smart phone for car rental places in Brogan’s Point. If he was going to stay a few days before flying back to Florida, he ought to explore the area a little. He wondered if any of the places listed on his phone’s screen rented bikes. One place seemed to have some Harleys available, but he didn’t want anything that big. Something like his Honda Rebel back home, compact and fast, would be perfect.

  He made a note of a couple of the rental places, paid his bill, and headed back outside. The lobster roll had filled his body, but the only thing that filled his mind was the image of that woman in the tavern. Her hair was so straight, so dark, like a silk scarf’s fringe. She’d had a slight build—not the sort of cleavage he’d enjoyed an up-close view of at the bar—and a delicate face. Narrow nose, thin lips, eyes that were almost too big for the rest of her. It wasn’t that she was so beautiful. It was just…