by Natasha Boyd
“I’M CUTTING YOU off, Tommy.” Marjoe’s tobacco-saturated voice hammered out in unison with the palm she slapped down on the scarred bar top. The sound echoed around the large dimly lit tin-roofed room and the concrete floors dusted with tracked-in sand from outside. “I know the beginning of a bender when I see one. You’re out of here at three.”
Named for both her mother and father, Marjoe had blonde hair over streaks of gray, and her lined face was out of focus for a moment as I pulled myself from my reverie. She was right. I’d had enough. Thing was, I still didn’t feel like I’d consumed enough to obliterate the reality of my past catching up to me. My ass was numb from being on the bar stool since the place opened at noon.
“Fine. Give me a water. Rocks, lime, and a teensy-weensy straw so it at least looks like I’m having a vodka.” I winked at her.
“And you stink,” she added. “You been helpin’ Pete out this morning?”
I nodded. Normally, I’d head straight home to shower and change, but knowing what waited for me there, I’d decided Mama’s famous shrimp ’n grits sounded like a better option. And I could have a fucking drink.
It had been almost two weeks since Olivia arrived and I wasn’t handling it well. After my first slip of mentioning that I’d been in love with Abby, I’d gotten the hell out of there.
I’d ended up calling Pete from the Bloody Point Golf Club to come get me in the boat, and after the storm hit and churned up the water so bad, I hadn’t gone back to the cottage for two days.
Pete, bless his seawater-logged heart, hadn’t asked a thing, and I crashed on the harbormaster’s couch at the marina.
When I’d finally returned, Olivia didn’t say a word. She looked up from where she was kneeling on the floor with the contents of a box from the attic spread all around her—papers, books, old kids’ toys.
I’d never been up in the attic. I was too afraid of finding more of Abby. It was hard enough having the vision of her at eighteen branded in my skull. The last thing I needed was to learn about her as an innocent child.
Olivia slowly catalogued me from head to toe in a way that left me feeling like I’d just slithered in under the door then, humming quietly, shifted her attention back to her project.
I’d pulled out a chair, sat down, and watched her for a few minutes, refusing to let her assessment bother me. I knew what she was doing. Her words, her scowl, her clothes were all barbed armor she used to keep everyone away from her. That way they wouldn’t be close enough to disappoint her.
Her dark hair was tied away from her face, her blonde roots coming in, a tiny narrow white halo at her crown. From this angle her jawline reminded me so much of Abby, I wanted to reach out and run my finger along her cheek.
I struggled to form an idea of who this girl was. She was young and confused, defensive and wary. She should be bright and beautiful and excited about life. Instead she was here, hiding. Running away from God knew what.
I shuddered as the possibilities crossed my mind, and I shut them down quickly.
The guilt I’d been carrying around for six years had nothing on what I was wading through with the broken product of my actions, or lack of actions, kneeling in front of me. And she was broken. I could tell by her wariness, her distrust, her attitude, her fear and anxiety. The way she hid her obvious beauty behind the flat, dull hair dye and black makeup. Thank God she’d stopped wearing all her black clothes at once.
Olivia Baines needed something and seemed unilaterally unaware of it. Her need was tangible and almost vampiric; a vast, aching, vacuum of loneliness that pulled me forward every time I was around her. It had from the first moment I saw her on the dock, before I even knew who she was. Comfort? Love? Parenting? My blood? Fuck, I didn’t know. But I was the last person equipped to give it to her. She needed to be with family or something. But God, I didn’t want to send her away. This was Abby’s little sister.
As if she’d go anyway. And as far as I knew, her family wasn’t worth shit. And there was also no escaping my part in who she’d become.
She had as much right to be here as I did.
And so here we were.
Co-existing in this painful kind of hell.
ON DAY FIVE after arrival, when Olivia began going through the boxes all over again, I got the impression she was looking for something.
That night, I awoke to the sound of screaming. I leapt out of bed and stopped outside her door. My instinct was to go right in, but then I heard a soft whimper and the rattle of a pill bottle. Pausing, I took a breath, my heart hammering from reacting so swiftly. I knocked softly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Go away.” Her tone was measured, with a wobble that told me she was moderating it carefully.
Clenching my fist to avoid reaching for the doorknob, I leaned my forehead against the door, letting the adrenaline ebb away. “Are you sure? Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine. Good night.”
“Night,” I echoed, but didn’t move. It was the most conversation we’d had in days, and it was through an inch of wood. What would Abby do if her little sister were having nightmares? Maybe if Abby were here, there wouldn’t be any.
Olivia’s pills wouldn’t last forever. I wondered whether they were just for anxiety.
Minutes ticked by.
Suddenly the door creaked open in the darkness and Olivia gasped upon seeing me, hand to her white T-shirt clad chest. Light from the cracked door of the bathroom illuminated her small frame in the long shirt, her legs bare. Despite her shocked expression, exhaustion was etched into her features, like she’d been fighting all night.
I stepped back, unfolding from where I’d been hunched forward, hand braced on the doorframe. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her eyes morphed from widened surprise to narrowed irritation, then slid down from my face. Too late, I realized I was standing there in the darkness, only in boxers.
She visibly swallowed, fear back on her face, her breath hitching.
I turned and headed back inside my room, closing the door firmly, and let out a long, slow breath. Having Olivia in the house wasn’t like having another person around. It was like playing host to a whole horde of demons just waiting to let loose.
MARJOE PLACED THE water disguised as vodka in front of me. I took a small sip and winced. “Why are you such a hard ass, Marge?” I grumbled, but it was a halfhearted jab.
I was extremely fond of the woman who had basically been my bartop therapist for the last five years. Marjoe, or Marge for short, had seen me at my happiest and at my worst. She’d seen me as a scared and haunted kid who was drinking underage and trying desperately to become an alcoholic and as the quiet, reclusive, older and slightly wiser young man.
And as the one who was now drinking again in the middle of the day. “I need you to be sweet to me, offer me some down-home comfort,” I added, for the benefit of Pete who was next to me, watching the golf tournament down in Florida on the TV behind the bar. No reaction.
“Ah, Tommy, my beautiful boy. You let me know when you’re ready to tell me what’s got you picklin’ the eggs while the sun is high. In the meantime, no more drinky for you.”
“Oh, Marge. Let me stay and drink,” I whined, winking. “I’ll tell you all about it. You can comfort me against your ample bosom.” I earned a glance and a raised eyebrow from Pete.
Marjoe let out a booming cackle. “As much as I’d love you to drink me young and pretty, it would only end in tears. I’m far too much woman for you, Thomas. You’d never survive me.”
“C’mon. Pete wouldn’t have to know.” I grinned and placed my arms on the bar, inhaling a deep whiff of hushpuppies and French fries as the door to the kitchen swung open. I attempted to lean forward and give her a good smoldering furrowed brow. It was our standard banter and helped divert her from questions about was on my mind today.
“I’m sure I could handle you, honey,” Pete cut in, winking at Marjoe. “You wanna give me a whirl? You’ll b
e wonderin’ Pete who by mornin’.”
Pete’s loud guffaw at his own joke almost drowned out the sound of the wooden door to outside screeching open. But it let in a white slice of winter light, and I glanced to my left. The silhouette of a woman came in, along with a cool gust of fresh, salty marsh air. She had slim and smooth bare legs. It was too cold to show that much skin. My eyes recovered from the light assault she’d brought in, and I was left staring at Olivia, her ugly dyed black hair pulled away from the porcelain skin of her face that held those accusing and cold pale blue eyes. Eyes that had probably seen far too much for their age.
My brief good mood popped and fizzled.
The door closed behind her and she stood, shifting slightly from foot to foot, looking around. It would take a moment for her eyes to adjust to the interior. I was not ready for this—for questions from the people I’d come to know here on this island. I had a fast decision to make. Pete and Olivia would recognize each other. But as of right now, Pete didn’t know anything about how we were linked.
The exact moment I decided to get the hell out of there was the same moment she caught sight of me. Her eyes widened in recognition and I looked away, scraping back my stool. “I gotta hit the head,” I said to Marjoe and slapped Pete on the shoulder. I hoped my dismissal and lack of acknowledgment would let Olivia know I didn’t want to be bothered.
Winding my way through the sparsely occupied restaurant, it was hard to miss Tyler Graham sitting at a back table staring at Olivia’s legs. I hadn’t even known he was in here.
I stopped. “Hey, man,” I said in an effort to draw his gaze away. “I didn’t see you there.” I was never this civil to Tyler or friendly at all for that matter. About my age, he was a douche of epic proportions. He thought of himself as insanely attractive to women, half of whom couldn’t see the flicker of crazy in his eyes. I glanced back at Olivia, seeing her shift her confused eyes from me to Tyler. Shit.
Tyler slid his gaze away from Olivia, but not before winking lazily, then looked at me. “What up?” He nodded. “You know her?” he asked, motioning his chin back toward her and flicking a long black lock of hair from his forehead.
Hmmm. A conversation with Tyler. How did that go? “Not well,” I hedged, trying hard not to look back at her. “And she’s too young for you. So what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be over on Hilton Head Island selling pot to the school kids?”
Tyler’s father had a plantation here on Daufuskie Island, ostensibly growing organic vegetables to sell to the resort kitchens. But I knew for a fact that a large part of their crop was weed, and probably a few more serious things.
Tyler grinned, unfazed by my public mention of his less than savory business practices. “Taking a day off. And those high school girls don’t think they’re too young for me.” He licked his lips.
Douche, cornhole, asswipe, dickhead. I came up with as many synonyms as I could to avoid reacting.
He went on, “Still hopin’ to do some business with you and Pete. You know I’d make it worth your while.” Savannah had the customers; he had the supply. All he was missing was a reliable boat, with legitimate business, to get it over there.
“Well. Keep hoping,” I said, dismissing him and heading into the men’s bathroom. God, he was a prick. But he was also desperate to break into the Savannah market. And in my experience, desperate men did unforgivable things. That made Tyler Graham dangerous to me. And as I looked briefly back at Olivia saying something to Pete, I realized it made Tyler dangerous to her too.
I exited the bathroom and saw that Tyler had relocated and was now leaning against the bar chatting up Olivia. Shit. And that wasn’t the surprising part. I could have seen that one coming. The surprising part was watching the unrecognizable and confident woman smile and laugh, tuck her dark hair behind her ear and look up under half-lidded eyes. Olivia was in full-force flirt. I’d never seen a transformation like it. Jesus Christ.
I swallowed hard and headed over to them.
And then, Goddammit, she reached out and ran a hand down Tyler’s arm. If I told her we needed to leave, I’d give everyone the idea we were more than acquainted in one fell swoop. Opinions would be made, questions asked, and judgments cast. And Tyler would double his interest.
I walked up and slapped a hand down hard on the bar at my spot, making everyone jump. “Sorry,” I said, unapologetically.
“Let’s go sit somewhere we can talk,” Tyler murmured to Olivia.
I grit my teeth and looked over to her.
Olivia cast her pale eyes over me, then shrugged and smiled back at Tyler. “Sure.”
I waited until they were out of earshot, focusing on relaxing my tense shoulders. “I need help,” I said quietly to Pete and Marjoe, “keeping her away from Tyler.”
“That boy’s trouble all right, but why your interest?” Marge asked, never one to beat around the bush.
“I know—” My throat seized up.
I’d only told Pete and Marjoe about Abby and my situation with the house once, many years ago, and we’d never spoken of it again.
Marjoe laid a hand over mine.
I cleared my throat and started again, my face hot and my chest tight. “That’s Abby’s sister, Olivia.” Livvy she called her. I closed my eyes at the memory.
Pete started in surprise and glanced over his shoulder. “Did you recognize her on the boat, son? Why didn’t you say somethin’?”
“I didn’t recognize her. Well, not at first. God, she was only eleven or twelve or something when I last saw her. I think. And her hair color… well, I was in total shock, and I didn’t know what to say…” It was her eyes that I’d never forgotten.
Marge squeezed my hand briefly then let go before I became uncomfortable. “Pete told me she seems a bit lost. She’s staying with you, then.” It wasn’t a question. “Does she know who you are?” Marjoe’s brow pinched together.
I shook my head. “I thought she did, but no… I think she thinks I’m a caretaker for the cottage.”
Pete raised his eyebrows.
“I know,” I said. “I’ll tell her.”
I ENDURED TWENTY-FIVE more excruciating minutes at the bar, straining to hear over the music, the clink of restaurant activities, and the low lunchtime conversations for any clue as to what Olivia and Tyler were chatting about.
Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. Marjoe agreed to get Olivia to go outside while I went to the john again, then I would meet them there. I passed their table in time to see Olivia finishing off Tyler’s pint out of the corner of my eye.
After zipping my fly and washing my hands, I ran my wet fingers through my hair by habit. Stopping midway, I grabbed two fistfuls and looked up, staring myself straight in the eyes. They were bloodshot from my lack of sleep and my early morning, and also glossy from my boozy lunch. And Marjoe was right—I stank like a fishery. Running my hand over my facial hair, I realized I’d kind of forgotten what I looked like under there. I hadn’t shaved clean in almost six years.
I needed to come clean with Olivia and tell her everything. The extreme scenario was she left. Good, right? Not good. But why? And why had she come here? That’s what I needed to focus on.
Every day she was here, I noticed her relaxing incrementally more. She no longer hugged her arms around herself so defensively. But she still cried out at night. I needed to do for Olivia what I’d failed to do for Abby. Be there for her, keep her safe, get her back on track if she’d dropped out of school, see if I could help her avoid the Tyler Grahams of this world who preyed on human weakness. I needed to be her father figure or her older brother.
I HEADED OUTSIDE.
Marge and Olivia were chatting in the cool afternoon sun, trailing off as I approached.
“Let’s go,” I said to Olivia, harsher than I intended to, and hopped in my golf cart that she’d driven here.
She scowled at me and turned back toward the restaurant. Marge stepped in front of her. “Sorry, honey. You’re too young to be drinking
in my bar.”
Olivia swung back to face me. “Are you kidding me right now?” I could tell she knew full well that if that had been the reason, Marge would have stopped her when she first started drinking Tyler’s beer. No, she knew a setup when she saw one.
“Nope. No joke. You’re leaving. Now.” I reached forward and took her arm.
She jerked away with a hiss. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
“Get in the fucking cart,” I growled, mimicking her expletive. Why was I handling this so badly?
Marge looked from one to the other of us, her brow furrowed.
A gull screeched overhead, and a cold gust of wind rustled through the trees at the water’s edge. Olivia shuddered in the cold and then sighed. “Fine. I’m freezing anyway.” She stalked past me and hopped into the passenger side of the cart, staring straight ahead.
I let my shoulders down from where they’d been bunched up and smiled thinly at Marjoe. “Thanks. See you later.”
Marjoe nodded and headed inside.
I started the cart, and we pulled off, crunching over the pine needles and crushed shells.
Olivia crossed her arms over her chest.
In a perverse moment, I swerved to avoid a small rock so she had to unwrap her arms and hold on to the side of the cart.
She glared at me, and I pressed my lips together.
“I don’t understand you,” she tossed out, looking away. “You hardly say a word to me but don’t want me talking to anyone else?”
That’s not what this was about. At all. “You don’t need to be talking to Tyler Graham.”
“Why? You can’t tell me not to see him.”
I clenched my jaw. Only when I saw her staring at my hands on the wheel did I realize my knuckles were white. I consciously tried to relax and breathe deep.
“You planning on seeing him again?”
“And? If I was?”
“I would object.” Vehemently.
“In vain.”
“He’s a drug dealer, and a fucking oxygen thief,” I snapped.
