by Rachael Wade
It would have to wait.
***
“Oh thank God, you’re here,” Whitey heaved a deep breath, tossing a pile of trash into a garbage bag. She was standing there in the kitchen, looking exhausted.
“Long day?”
“You have no idea. I had to clean double the rooms I normally clean because the season is starting to pick up, and on top of that, I had three of my biggest money-making rooms this week stiff me on tips.”
“Ouch.”
“My thought, exactly.”
I reached over the kitchen counter to help her collect all of the empty chocolate ice cream containers. “Emma’s still drowning in ice cream, I see.”
“Yup. And once again, I can’t get her out of her room. I’m starting to think she’s locked up in there in some sort of ice-cream-induced coma.”
I laughed, although it wasn’t really funny. Poor girl would be puking her guts up soon if she kept up with that diet. “So what are your plans for luring her out of her cave this evening?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said thoughtfully, tossing the last ice cream box in the trash bag. I hadn’t bothered asking why Whitney asked me to come back over tonight. Once again, it didn’t seem like Emma needed double babysitting duty. But one look at Whitney’s stressed demeanor, and I knew the “why” didn’t really matter. She still needed the help. Even if I was only there to give her a little support while she helped her friend, then I was happy to be there.
“You’re exhausted. How about you go take a bath and kick your feet up, and I’ll finish cleaning up here.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course I would. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t ask you here tonight to play housekeeper, Montgomery.”
“I know you didn’t. I’m going to clean up anyway. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Her stubborn look softened and the tips of her cheekbones revealed a reddish tint. “You know what would really help me?”
“What’s that?”
“A night out.”
“A night out?”
“Yeah, like, a night out of this apartment. I need a drink and some fresh air. I want to hang out, just me and you, minus all the Emma drama. You wanna take a stroll on the beach with me?”
For some reason, her words made my heart leap with excitement. Damn, I could use that, too. “Sure, but what about Emma?”
Whitney’s shoulders rolled in complete resolution. “She’s in there, passed out. I’m not sure what else I can do for her today. I’ve cleaned up, held her, loaded her Kindle with a ton of new releases she’s been waiting for, and made her soup.” Setting the trash bag at her feet, she exhaled and chucked the wet rag in her hands on the counter, eyeing the sparkly granite in tired satisfaction. “My work here is done. I’d rather go out than sit here for the rest of the night.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“I’m positive.” She clapped her hands and gave a little hop—a very girly hop that sent her breasts bouncing against her frilly t-shirt. Fuck, she was sexy. I stepped behind the counter and discreetly adjusted my groin, hoping this hard-on business wouldn’t be a problem for the rest of the evening. One glance at the curve of her neck and that wild mass of black, silky hair on her head, though, and there was a twitch in my pants, assuring me the problem was here to stay.
After a quick shower, Whitney joined me outside while I finished a smoke and then we walked down to the beach, removing our shoes to let our toes hit the sand. The black sky was littered with bright, vibrant stars and the shore was filled with all kinds of seafood aromas and boisterous swells of festive music. Hotel bar after hotel bar illuminated sections of the shoreline, just enough to give us some light as we walked the beach. We didn’t make it very far before Whitney was pulling me over to one of the hotel’s patio Tiki bars. Stringed lights hung above us and margarita menus lined the bar counter, while the warm Gulf breeze brushed my skin. The sound of gentle, lapping waves instantly relaxed me, and I gratefully accepted the beer Whitney had ordered for me.
“You’ll have to visit the Keys now that you live here,” she said, leading me back out onto the beach, margarita in hand. She took a big sip, moaning in appreciation. “That’s what I like about where we live. It’s not like Miami, not like the Southeast coast. Here, it feels like the Keys. Laid back and easygoing, through and through.”
“The Southeast is different?”
“Oh yeah, way different. Miami’s a party spot. The whole area has a different energy. It’s more relaxing here. Cozier.”
“I wouldn’t know, I guess,” I laughed, taking a big gulp of my ice-cold beer.“I’ve never been to Florida, so…”
“Are you starting to feel at home?”
“I think so.” I shrugged. Truthfully, I wasn’t really sure. “I still feel like I’m going to have to pack up and go home soon.”
“You feel like you’re on vacation.”
“Yeah, a little,” I admitted with a shy grin.
She nodded and took another sip of her drink, stopping to sit down in the sand. I followed, easing my way down and pulling my knees up to lean on them. We faced the Gulf, watching the moonlight shimmer over the pitch black mass of water.
“Are you liking your job?”
“It’s okay. Keeps me busy. Just wish I hadn’t stolen Jackson’s hours. I feel bad about that.”
“Stolen them how?”
“Eh, he got me the job at the boat shop and did me a favor by giving up some of his hours so our boss could accommodate me on the schedule. Only, now our boss wants to basically can Jackson altogether to give me more hours.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Not really sure. Something about him catching word that Jackson has another job. He seems to think I could use the hours more than Jackson could.”
“Could you?”
I sighed, recalling my earlier conversation with Jackson. I shouldn’t have agreed to pass on those hours. I needed them, damn it. “Yeah, I really could.”
“But you won’t take them,” she said, her tone knowing. Her head tilted as she pinned me with narrowed eyes.
“I can’t do that to Jackson. He’s in a financial jam and he needs the money. I owe him.”
“Sounds like you’re in a jam, too, though. You need to put a roof over your head as much as he does.”
“Uh, yeah…about that.”
Whitney swiveled to face me head on and pulled her knees tighter to her chest. “What is it? Spill, Montgomery.” She tapped my shoulder with her glass and waited with curious eyes.
“He doesn’t exactly have a roof over his head right now. More like a…cabin. It’s a long story, and I probably shouldn’t say anything. It’s not my news to tell.”
“Oh, now you have to tell me.” She gave me a playful shove and I laughed lightly, sipping at my beer.
“I can’t tell you. Then Emma would find out, and it would blow up in my face. It’s not my business, so quit being nosey, lady.”
“If I pinky swear not to say anything to Emma, will you tell me?”
“Pinky swear? Are you serious? What is this, first grade?”
“Hey.” She stuck her pinky finger in front of my face and leaned forward to look me straight in the eye. “I might joke around about a lot of things, but I don’t play around with pinky swears. They mean business.”
“You’re like a sister to Emma. You’d be breaking some kind of girl code if you withheld this kind of info from her. I’m not looking to make enemies. I’m new in town, remember?”
“Mr. New Guy,” she mused, looking dreamily into the distance. “Yeah, yeah,” she snapped out of it, “normally you’d be right, but this sounds like it also involves you. And you, Mr. New Guy, are my friend now, and therefore I’m invested. I want to know. Please, come on.”
My cheeks puffed out as I held my breath and let it go harshly, knowing for certain I’d probably regret what I was about to do. But when she looked at m
e like that, all damn determined and sexy, with smoked-out green eyes, I just couldn’t say no to her.
“Fine. But you have to honor the pinky swear to keep this quiet or I’ll never forgive you.”
“Deal.” She reached down with her little finger and hooked it around mine, kissing our fingers as she linked them tight. Her lips were soft and moist as they brushed my knuckles, making me wish I could taste them.
“Jackson’s been living on his dad’s old sailboat down at the marina.”
“What?” Her head jerked back and eyes widened. “Why the hell is he doing that?”
I contemplated telling her the whole truth, but I figured fewer details were better. I didn’t want to spill Jackson’s business entirely, even if this was a pinky swear. “He’s having money troubles.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You said something about him having another job?”
Oh, for the love of Britain.
“Shit,” I mumbled, turning my head slightly as I tried to figure out how to talk my way out of this one. “Some…some theatre or something out in Cape Coral. I’m not sure.”
“A theatre?” Whitney cocked her head, pondering the possibilities. “What, like a dinner theatre? I don’t think we have any of those out that way.”
I took a drink of my beer, stifling a laugh. “Yeah, something like that. Anyway, Jackson still needs the extra hours to make ends meet and to save up money, and I don’t want to get in his way. So I’m going to turn down the extra hours.”
“No way,” Whitney dropped a hand to her side, digging her fingers into the sand. “You can’t do that, Montgomery.”
“Can you, uh, stop calling me Montgomery? It’s kinda makin’ me feel like a detective or an assassin or something.”
That comment earned me an arched brow and a saucy smirk. “When in the hell have you ever heard of an assassin named Montgomery?”
“It could happen.”
“No. No it most definitely could not.”
“Fine, then. What do you think Montgomery sounds like?”
“I dunno,” she shrugged, bunching her lips, “a little league coach or something?”
I burst out laughing, wiping beer from my lips. “Wow.”
“It could happen.”
“No,” I objected on a lingering chuckle, “definitely not. Other Montgomerys, maybe. Me? Never.”
“You never played any sports when you were a kid?”
“Hell no.” I pointed to my thin frame to emphasize my point. I was in shape, but I sure as hell wasn’t an athlete. I did not sport the Ryan Campbell swimmer abs, much to my chagrin. “Do you see this physique? Come on, woman, seriously?”
“There you go again, talking yourself down.” She reached over and poked at my torso. The poke turned into a gentle pet, her fingers brushing my abdomen. “You’re fit!”
“Healthy, maybe. Lean, yes. Cut like an athlete? Please, no need to stroke my ego. I’m not like Jackson—or your friend Ruben, for that matter.”
“Oooohh don’t even call that asshat my friend!”
My body shook with laughter, watching this tiny little thing get all fired up over something so trivial. “You’re really fun to get a rise out of, you know that?”
The creases in her forehead softened and she laughed along with me. “So I’ve been told. Anyway, back to more important matters, sir. I don’t think you should pass up those hours. You need them.”
“So does Jackson.”
“Jackson will be fine. He has a second job.”
“I already told him I’d talk to our boss and turn them down. I don’t want him to lose this job because of me, Whitney.”
“Hey.” She suddenly bolted up, standing to her feet. One hand flew to her hip and she glared down at me, her look hard and determined. “If he does lose the job, that’s not on you, do you hear me? Jackson made his choices. And he knew exactly what he was doing when he helped get you that damn job. Now, he’s a good guy—despite his dumb douche baggy ways—and he’ll understand if you choose to accept the extra hours. He might kick and pout at first, but he’ll get it. He’s a lot of things, but he’s not spiteful.”
“So what do you propose I do,” I glared back up at her, grinning, “just tell him I changed my mind and take his job right out from underneath his feet?”
“No, you just march your happy ass up to your boss tomorrow, tell him you need all the extra hours he can give you, and then tell Jackson it’s nothing personal but you have to do what’s right for you. I promise, he’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, then let me know and I’ll kick his tan, trouble-making ass into next week. Deal?” She thrust out her right arm, her hand straight and firm, waiting for me to shake and agree. “Are ya with me, Montgomery?”
“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
“Ha. Okay, okay.” I gave her my hand and she dramatically helped launch me up, bringing me straight to my feet. We wandered back to the hotel bar and had another drink, and then another. Before I knew it, we were racing down the shore, a little more than tipsy, laughing hysterically. At what? I had no damn clue.
“Oh, oh!” Whitney reeled in her giggles. She was jogging backward, facing me, and I was jogging after her. “Do you hear that?”
“Other than me, gasping for air?” I panted, slowing as she came to a stop. “No.”
“‘Paint it Black!’” she shrieked, as if I were crazy for not recognizing The Rolling Stones over the labored sound of my ragged breathing.
“Shit,” I coughed, reaching into my pocket for my cigarettes. I lit up, and released a contented sigh. “If you don’t kill me first, woman, then these will.”
“Dance with me, Montgomery,” she rushed forward and grabbed my free hand. I shook my head and smiled, letting her tug me back and forth as she hopped around in pure bliss. I moved and bobbed with her, smoking with one hand while I eyed her moist, glistening skin under the moonlight. Her free-flowing black hair billowed around her shoulders, sticking to her sweaty skin, and her sparkling eyes were positively wild. Full of light and a spark I’d never seen. Right then, I knew I wanted—no, I needed—to know more about this girl.
“I thought we nixed the Montgomery business,” I said, twirling her under my arm and watching her move.
“Shush, you’ll ruin the moment.”
“Did you just…shush me?”
“Shush!” She sent a faux karate chop to my neck and I stumbled back. “Come on,” she yanked me forward, toward the shore’s hotels, “we need to find which of these bars is playing that music.”
“Uh, Whitney…there is no way on God’s green Earth I’m drinking another drop tonight.”
“We’re not going to drink, we’re going to dance!”
Before I could object any further, I was hoisted forward. She towed me behind her, her smooth, bare legs tearing over the sand. We found ourselves face to face with a wall of sweaty, rowdy bodies, jammed into an open-air, wraparound bar at the base of one of the shore’s hotels. Palm trees lined the patio’s perimeter, and just about everyone in the crowd was wearing shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. Many were bare foot. If this wasn’t a sight straight out of a travel ad for a tropical island, I didn’t know what was.
That’s when it hit me just how homesick I truly was. The beer probably intensified it, but there was no mistaking the feeling.
“Look!” Whitney shouted to me, pointing to the small stage past the crowd of people. It was tucked back into the corner of the bar, where three guys who looked like they could’ve passed as Jimmy Buffet’s neighbors sat on stools, playing the Stones cover we’d just been dancing to out on the beach. She laced her fingers through mine and I quickly stomped out my cigarette, tossing it in a nearby ashtray, letting her drag me through the crowd. We slowly worked our way to the front, off to the side, and she resumed jumping and waving her hands around like a maniac. I joined in, allowing my relaxed limbs to kick and jump around, surrendering me t
o a night of fun I hadn’t had in a really long time.
Images of Kate and Dean threatened to surface and invade my buzzed, happy state of mind, but I pushed them back, telling them to screw off. They weren’t welcome. Not tonight.
“Paint it Black” came to an end, and the three musicians stood, announcing to the crowd that the mic was open for business. The crowd clapped and the bar filled with hoots and hollers. It was then that I registered the tugging on my shirt sleeve. Whitney was gesturing for me to look at the wooden sign hanging to our right.
It was open mic night.
“Get up there, Montgomery!” She moved fast, jumping behind me to place her palms on my back and shove me forward. I was shocked at her coordination, considering she’d had far more to drink than I had.
“What?” I felt her fingertips dig into my back. “No way, you crazy woman. Nuh-uh.”
“You said the stage is your element. Come on, play me something good, damn it. This is my night out. Entertain me!” She beamed at me and succeeded in shoving me to the edge of the small platform. My eyes roamed around, watching the crowd begin to bustle as people headed for the restrooms and to the bar for another round. No one else seemed to be stepping onto the stage at the moment, so I stepped forward, nodding to the guys walking down from their set.
“Uh, hey man, mind if I borrow that for one song?” I was prepared for a big fat “hell no,” because I knew how most musicians, including me, were about just handing over their baby like that. But something in me was fueled by the little firecracker raven at my side, and I found myself asking, hoping he’d say yes.
Much to my surprise, he didn’t think twice. He handed me his guitar with a big, warm salty smile and nodded. He leaned in so I could hear him over the bar noise and let me know he’d be there until 2 a.m., and that he’d already played his share for the evening, so his baby was mine.
I thanked him and took my place on one of the empty stools, quickly testing the mic and tweaking the guitar to make sure everything was just right. Or as right as it could be, for a guitar that wasn’t Liz. Pulling at my bottom lip while I ran over which song I wanted to play, the halo of tranquility and intoxicating excitement settled over me like a blanket, letting me know I had arrived.
