He did doubt, however, that Lucien was inclined to do them any favors. He’d been skeptical of Rafe moving in on his best friend. And even though Flynn and Kellan hadn’t so much as looked at Mollie sideways, he didn’t seem willing to cut them any slack.
Until then, Flynn ran a lot on the beach. Sparred with his brothers. And tried to unload twice as much of the delivery as Carlos did.
“I’m sweatier than a camel’s crotch.” His boss took a faded red bandana out of his back pocket and wiped his forehead.
“Should I ask how you know that?” Carlos dropped comments—like this one—that added up oddly. Someone who’d been in the Middle East, knew how to fight, but didn’t have the spit and polish of a vet. Walked with a hitch in his step at the end of a long shift that he refused to explain.
Not that Flynn would ever come out and ask him if he’d put his muscles and morals behind any cause that paid enough. Because that sounded waaaaay too much like his own choices with McGinty’s crew. Last thing he needed was a mirror pointed his way.
Carlos rubbed the bandana across his eyes. “Once you’ve seen one, it’s a sight you’ll never forget.”
Neither an acceptance nor a denial. Carlos was good. As someone who’d done the double-talk walk his whole life, Flynn appreciated the agility. He lifted the box of bourbon and put it on the top shelf of the storeroom. Without using the stepladder. Because that overhead push worked his lats and delts to a nice burn.
“Did you have a good time with Sierra last night?”
“Uh, yeah.” Flynn had been genuinely trying—as he’d promised Rafe—to not walk around with a stick up his ass. To actually talk to people. So he’d pumped Carlos for ideas for his date. “Thanks for suggesting the lighthouse. It was a big hit.”
Carlos moved a bunch of rum bottles to get to the back row, full of expensive imports he’d brought back from a Caribbean cruise. “I figured it would be, for someone who likes to draw as much as she does.”
Pride surged in his chest. Sierra’s talent was amazing. During their afternoon of brainstorming with the kids, she’d come up with a great new logo for the Cranberry Festival. Flynn intended to take it to Floyd himself and kiss as much of that flabby ass as necessary to get him to use it. “You’ve seen them, too? Her sketches?”
“Seen them?” Carlos batted away the question. “I asked her to paint real ones. I offered to hang them on the walls here. They’d probably all sell in less than a day. Good for her, and good for business.”
It was a great idea. Except . . . he remembered the way Sierra’s hackles went up when he first praised her drawing. The way she’d insisted that she didn’t do it for money. Which was crazy, because Flynn was certain she could make serious bank with her talent. “Will she?”
“I’m not sure. She bobbed and weaved better than Floyd Mayweather, but never gave me a straight answer.”
Flynn latched on to the name of the famous fighter. He hadn’t had anyone to geek out over fighters with since leaving the MMA gym in Chicago.
He missed it. Missed hanging out over beer and brats to watch a prize fight. Missed talking trash about MMA versus boxers versus those pansy-ass WWE wrestlers. “You follow boxing?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t go over well here, though, so I never have it on the TVs in the back room.” Carlos started doing the usual pre-happy hour bottle pull: one of every clear and dark alcohol. Basically a Long Island Tea right here in the storeroom.
Sticking two of the bottles sideways under his arm, Flynn said, “I’m into it, too.” Nonchalantly.
No big deal.
Not like he was fucking jonesing to talk about fighting worse than an addict in line at the methadone clinic.
“Boxing?”
Flynn bobbed his head. Figured he’d go for broke. Lay it all out. “And MMA. Big fan.”
Carlos narrowed his eyes. “That’s how you took down those punks who burglarized Coffee & 3 Leaves last month. You’ve got skills, don’t you?”
“Some.” And that was as far as he’d go. Going into detail was risky for a laundry list of reasons. The biggest being that Carlos might go nosing around the underground fight club boards to hunt up information on Flynn.
Not that he’d find anything.
Not as Flynn Maguire, anyway.
Safer to change the subject, though. Flynn hooked the stepladder over his shoulder and backed out into the hallway. “You should poke at Sierra to make those paintings for the Gorse. I think she could use the money.”
“Figured that out, huh?”
It didn’t take Kellan’s years of advanced learning to do the math. “The woman’s only form of transportation is a bike. In a state where it rains approximately four hundred days a year. And she’s far from stupid.”
“Agreed.” Carlos locked the door. Couldn’t be too careful. People would do anything for a free drink—including liberating the alcohol themselves.
“She’s happy, though. Even without a car. Which is a fucking mystery. I have to share my car, and it makes me grouchier than a grizzly.” Flynn had heard Mick say that at lunch. It sounded . . . appropriate. He didn’t know for sure if there were grizzlies or brown bears or if they fucking shit in a gold-plated cave in the woods together, but following Mick’s lead was a safe bet. Flynn thought it made him sound like he fit in. Like he belonged here. Fake it ’til you make it, right? Delaney would be proud of him for the attempt.
So his mouth twisted viciously downward when Carlos laughed at him. “Why are you talking like a pioneer lumberjack?”
“Just trying on a local colloquialism for size.”
“Take it from me, it doesn’t fit you.” Then he veered off to check the dishwashing sprayer.
Whatever. He’d tried. One small step for Flynn, one giant step for ex-mobsters in WITSEC everywhere . . .
His phone vibrated in his back pocket. Flynn stowed the bottles behind the bar and took it out.
S: Whatcha doing?
Flynn had to admit he liked getting that simple check-in from Sierra. It felt . . . normal. Nice. Something his life had been lacking for six months. Plus, it didn’t suck to know that a pretty girl was thinking about him . . .
F: Came in early to help Carlos prep for the onslaught. Fishing tournament this weekend means this town’s bursting at the seams. Your tips should be epic.
S: Here’s hoping.
There was no emoji for a sigh but Flynn swore he heard one, anyway. He didn’t like the thought of Sierra worrying about money. Of course, he didn’t like that she lived in a shoebox, either. A good fart could blow in her front door, let alone a burglar. Or worse.
And Flynn knew there was a lot of “or worse” skulking around where you least expected ’em.
F: Are you on your way over?
S: Almost. I need to finish a sketch. But it’s hard to get right.
No way. With her talent she could probably draw the inside of a cloud. Frowning, his thumbs raced over the screen.
F: How come?
S: I’m trying to get down last night. The two of us on the shore. You didn’t keep your shirt off long enough, though. I can’t quite remember exactly if your abs are a six-pack or an eight-pack.
He’d be damn happy to let her look at them as long as she wanted. Hell, Sierra could do an old-school rubbing of them with charcoal, if it floated her boat. But answering her question would be too easy. For her. Flynn wanted to tip the scales back in his direction.
F: Well, I still don’t know where you stand on the T Swift/Katy Perry debate. Guess we’ve both got some studying up to do . . .
S: When is class in session? I might need some extra tutoring.
Was it too early to call a sick day? For both of them, so he could race over to her? If this had been any one of the last handful of towns where Delaney had—unsuccessfully—dropped them, Flynn would’ve pulled that stunt. Even after working for less than two months.
But those were places where he didn’t give a shit. About the town. About the people.
&
nbsp; Flynn wasn’t willing to blow their chance of sticking in Bandon. The town was growing on him. He liked the people. Well, most of ’em. The ones he didn’t like at least made it interesting.
He liked his job. So much that it surprised the fuck out of him. Liked his boss. And now he really, really liked Sierra. Would, in fact, do anything for her. Except for the one thing that would be best for her—keeping his sorry, dangerous self away from her.
F: We’re gonna be in the weeds the whole weekend with this tournament. No chance to hang until Monday.
S: Guess I’ll just have to hope that you’re wearing a very, very tight shirt tonight.
Flynn dropped the phone like a searing hot potato.
Carlos opened the ice drawer. Gave its level a check. As Flynn tied his apron around his waist, he asked, “Would it be okay if I borrowed your truck? I need to pick up the supplies for the Cranberry Festival float.”
With a clap on Flynn’s back, Carlos answered, “Hey, I’m a card-carrying proud citizen of Bandon. Anything you need for the Festival, I’m in.”
“It might take more than one trip. I need to get the lumber and stain to make a bookcase I promised Sierra.”
Carlos started mixing the pre-rush, single Jack and Coke he had every Friday night. “Same answer. Anything to make her life easier, I’m in.”
That sounded . . . like Carlos knew something. Not just that she lived off her tips. Like Carlos knew for sure that Sierra had a rough life. Or at least one with a hell of a speed bump in it before she’d landed here.
Flynn grabbed a stack of napkins and started rolling silverware. “What’s her story, anyway?”
Carlos stopped, mid-pour. Only after a couple of long beats did he finish filling the highball glass. And only after that did he slap a cool glance at Flynn that hit him with the strength of a six-foot wave. “Everyone’s got a story. Not everyone wants to share it. Do you?”
“Hell, no.” The words burst out of him. Probably way too fast to sound innocent or nonchalant or hell, normal.
And that’s probably why Carlos pushed his drink to Flynn and made another for himself, chuckling the whole time.
Flynn chugged the first half of it like he was trying for a brain freeze. Why was it so damn hard to lie to everyone here? He’d been doing it in Chicago for half his life. Never bothered him there.
Of course, most of the people he knew back then were in McGinty’s crew. The guys he knew from the fight club were in gangs. Nobody there expected the truth. Or wanted it.
Shit. The realization spiked, much worse than a brain freeze. The truth had never mattered before. Not in the circles he ran in.
Now it did.
Now that he’d found a place he could settle. Make a new life, entirely of his choosing.
Unless things fell to shit when they went back to Chicago. And that was a pretty motherfucking big “if.”
“Got a question for you.”
Flynn made the shape of a gun with his thumb and finger. “Shoot.”
“I heard you and your brothers talking about trying to find the best Oregon beer. Since you’re not from here.” Carlos held up one hand as he sipped his drink. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask where your old favorite local beer is from.”
“So that first night we crossed the border, we had . . . I don’t even know how to describe it.” Flynn shuddered at the memory, only half for effect. “Some fruity shit show that probably didn’t even have hops in it. But since Oregon’s known for its beers, we decided to take the plunge. Risk our taste buds—and our manliness—and keep drinking until we found awesomeness.”
Carlos shook the ice in his glass. “I own a bar. You could ask me for a recommendation or twelve.”
“Where would the fun in that be?”
“Well, it’d be a lot more painless.”
“Like I said, where would the fun be? Making my brothers miserable is always a good night’s work.” The milky white bottle of Malibu behind Carlos caught Flynn’s eye. He ignored it most of the time, seeing as how he wasn’t a twenty-year-old coed looking to get drunk.
But it gave him an idea. A specialty cocktail for the Cranberry Festival. Mix it with cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and skewer some sugared cranberries for a garnish. It needed . . . something else. Good thing he had almost three months to work on it.
Carlos rubbed the back of his neck. “If that’s your take on local beer, I’m not sure if I should ask my question.”
“Sorry.” Flynn shifted his attention back over. Looked like this was going to be something more serious than a shooting-the-breeze way to kill time until the first wave arrived. “I’m just pulling your leg. Ask away.”
“There’s a craft beer dinner next month. Up in Coquille. I thought you might want to come along. If you don’t mind hanging out with the boss. Which, in a town as small as Bandon, can’t really be a hang-up.”
Flynn took a long, slow sip of his drink to cover his surprise. Hanging with the boss. Back in Chicago, that was a big deal. A private dinner with Danny McGinty—well, they were never private. But a dinner with just his inner circle was a big fucking deal.
Carlos was so different from McGinty. McGinty didn’t ask—he issued commands. Whereas Carlos sweated gratitude out his pores every time Flynn refilled the ice or made a suggestion about the drink menu.
This invitation was a big deal. McGinty’s invites always had an angle. This invite from Carlos was just . . . nice. He’d paid attention to some side chatter at the bar and acted on it. As a favor to Flynn, really.
And it was fucking nice. Thoughtful.
McGinty had used Flynn. He’d poured money into his college education—but not out of the kindness of his heart for a trio of orphans. No, he’d done it to ensure a loyal soldier running his side company. He’d valued Flynn as a commodity. As another way to rake in profits and keep his ass covered.
Carlos valued Flynn as a person.
It was very, very cool.
Flynn swallowed hard, because there was one hell of a lump in his throat. “That sounds great. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“I’ll send you a link to the Facebook event page.” Carlos ambled back toward the kitchen. Flynn braced his hands on the bar—his domain, now, rather than a glass-topped executive desk—and took a fucking minute to accept this was his life now.
Or it could be.
Too bad that just made Flynn worry twice as much.
“Hey, F-man.” Kellan waved as he sauntered in the door. He was in his jeans and red Bandon Cooperative Cranberry Facility shirt.
After a quick glance at the clock over the jukebox, Flynn asked, “What are you doing here so early? It’s only four.”
“There’s a barbecue on the beach tonight to kick off the fishing tournament. Half the plant’s working it. Either schlepping food or drinks, playing in the band or pitching in with their personal boats for the day-fishers.” Kellan toed out a stool and dropped onto it. “Instead of fighting it, they closed the plant early. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about fishing, so I came here to drink with my favorite brother.”
“Since when am I your favorite?”
“Ahh—since I know you could dropkick me halfway to the ocean with one foot?”
“Please. I could do that with just my big toe.”
“And since you can pour me a Guinness without moving so much as a step.”
Flynn took the hint and grabbed a glass mug with the gold and green harp logo. “You know I’m working tonight. We won’t be able to drink together.”
“Somebody will sit down next to me. If it’s a guy, I’ll drown my disappointment in beer and talk about the rumored new iPhone. If it’s a woman—a hot one—I’ll thank my lucky stars and start the ball rolling to the inevitable moment when I take her outside to make out.”
“Good to know you’ve got a plan.”
“I don’t, really. But sitting here people watching won’t suck. Better than summer TV. Watching you drool all over Sierra also promises to be prime ent
ertainment.”
Sierra. Yeah, it had been all of four minutes since Flynn had thought about her. But she was another reason, the biggest reason, why he was happy and, at the same time, freaked the fuck out about how things were going for them here.
The faint clatter of pans from the kitchen wasn’t enough noise to cover their conversation. So Flynn lifted the pass-through at the end of the bar. “I’m making you earn this draft. Come help me check the sound system.”
As soon as they got to the small stage, Flynn crouched to fiddle with the wires coming out of the speaker. Or at least, make it look like that’s what he was doing. “Kellan?”
“What?” His brother tapped on the microphone. “I don’t think this is on.”
“Get over here.” Once Kellan knelt beside him, Flynn asked the question it’d been too risky to voice at the bar. “Do you ever worry about what happens next?”
“I told you, I’m hoping to lock lips with a luscious lady. Brunette, I think.”
“I’m serious. Do you worry about getting settled here, making it home—and then it all gets yanked away after Rafe and I testify? If our identities are made public? Or worse, if McGinty’s crew finds us before we go back?”
“Sure. All the time.”
Thank God it wasn’t just him. “It was easier before. When I didn’t give two shits about anything except being mad. But I think I’m starting to care.”
“About Sierra?” Kellan gave an exaggerated wink that drew up half of his face.
“Yeah, but not just her.” She’d just wiped the bitter blinders from his eyes. The more Flynn though about it, he’d fit into Bandon from day one. He’d just ignored how easy, how comfortable it was out of habit. “About doing the right thing for everyone here. About doing a kick-ass job at the Gorse. Not letting Carlos down. Helping a great bunch of kids learn how to build a float.”
Never Been Good Page 12
