“Maybe,” West said. “I don’t know. We’re going to be really busy.”
The expression on Deputy Bobby’s face might have been the flickering light of the fire, but I didn’t think so.
“Keme won’t be too busy,” Millie said. “And Keme’s SO good with kids. He’d love to do it. Right, Keme? He can start whenever you want. He can start TONIGHT!”
“We’re not quite ready to start,” Jen said. “But we should be good to go by the spring.”
“It’s going to be a huge success,” Deputy Bobby said. “I know you weren’t actually competing, but I saw you out there today; anybody who comes here is going to be lucky to have you as a teacher.”
Jen laughed. “I don’t know about that, but it’s kind of you to say. It gets harder every year. That’s the whole reason I needed to make this camp happen now—I’m calling it my retirement in my thirties. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some of the other guys.”
She led Fox, Deputy Bobby, West, Keme, and Millie toward the crowd gathered around the bonfire. I hung back. Deputy Bobby must have noticed, because he turned to check where I was; I gave him a wave to let him know I was fine.
Fine, yes, but I needed a few minutes to myself. In part, it was because of all those people. The thought of smiling and nodding and trying to remember names and the need to say something clever or funny or cute, all of it getting sharper and sharper by the moment—no, thank you. Plus, everything with West had left me unmoored. So, I stayed at the edge of the square, my hand aching with the cold of the vodka cran, and watched.
I’d always been good at watching. Grist for the mill, you know? One day, I might write a story about Will Gower where he was nursing his drink (definitely not a vodka cran—probably a whiskey highball, although maybe we’d go back to gimlets) and watching a man across a darkened clearing. That man would have golden skin and broad shoulders and hair so dark it looked like each perfect strand had been inked into place. He’d have remarkable bronze eyes that widened when he had no idea what you were saying, but you could tell he still found it amusing. Found you amusing. And he’d be leaving. Going away forever. Maybe the mob, I thought. Maybe he’d gotten in trouble somehow. In a mystery story, you needed external problems as well as internal ones.
A footstep scuffed the ground, and I turned. The man seemed to take shape as he got closer: white, middle-aged, stocky build, hair and goatee the color of coal dust. Gerry, the real estate developer. Something about his walk looked a little…lubricated, if you know what I mean, and when he got closer, the smell of booze and sweat and wood smoke mingled.
“Gerry Webb,” he said and stuck out his hand. I shook. He had rough, dry skin—not calluses, but like he might need a good exfoliator/moisturizer combo.
“Dash Dane.”
“I know. I’ve had my eye on you.”
He held on to my hand a beat too long. Maybe his grin was supposed to be friendly, but I’d had other guys give me that grin before. Damian the bartender, if he were thirty years older, would have given me a grin like that.
“Nice to meet you.” And then inspiration struck, and I held up my drink. “Thanks for the drink. And for sponsoring the surfing competition.”
“Cost of doing business, cost of doing business. You want something to be a success, you’ve got to get people talking.”
“Is the surf camp one of your projects too?”
“Darn tootin’.” He patted himself down as though searching for something, and then he gave up. “You’re a very nice-looking young man, you know.”
“Uh. Thank you.” I scrambled for the right thing to say next and came up with “How do you know Jen?”
Gerry eyed me, wobbling under the influence of his drinks. I could feel the challenge—or the demand, or the insistence, whatever you wanted to call it—building. But then his face relaxed. “Don’t know her. We were both trying to get the city council to approve developments. She thought I was going to ruin her little camp. I showed her how helpful it can be to have somebody on your side—somebody who knows how to get things done. Somebody who’s got the money to make things happen.”
“And she brought you on as an investor?”
“Oh sure. She knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with her camp, not without some help. She needed a guy with some experience. A guy who knows how to take care of the people he cares about.” Another of those drunken wobbles. The firelight danced in his glassy eyes. He put a hand on my arm, and I tried to convince myself he was just trying to keep his balance. Then his thumb stroked lightly over my biceps. “That’s the advantage to having a mature partner,” he said, his voice gravelly with the drink and, maybe, something else. “I know how to take care of someone.”
I turned, doing my best to keep the movement casual, to glance at where Deputy Bobby and the others had joined the crowd around the bonfire. A long-haired surfer was trying to walk on his hands, while another surfer guy threw pebbles at him and tried to get him to fall. Everybody was watching. Everybody was laughing. Even if I shouted—the thought came dizzily up from somewhere inside me—even if I shouted, I wasn’t sure they’d realize it wasn’t just one more person shouting in the crowd.
The movement was enough to make Gerry drop his hand, but when I turned back to face him, he was watching me even more intently. “I wanted to talk to you, you know,” he said. “I told you I’ve had my eye on you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I just got out of a relationship—”
His laugh boomed out into the night. For a moment, he didn’t seem to be as drunk as I’d thought. There was something knowing in his face—a hard, sharp knowing that I didn’t like. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said, exaggerated amusement lacing the words, “about that sweet little piece you’re sitting on.” My mind could only conjure one horrifying interpretation of those words, which must have been obvious because Gerry laughed and said, “The land. That old house too, I suppose, but the land.”
“Oh.”
He laughed some more.
“Right,” I said. “The land. Well, see, I’m not sure Hemlock House really is mine. It’s a strange situation—”
“I know all about strange situations. I’ve got lawyers who love a strange situation. And I could make you a good offer. Girasol II – the second phase of development. I’ve already sold every lot of Girasol I. And you could use the money. It’s got to be tough, being a creative type. Creative types are like Jen, you know. They need a partner. They need someone to take care of them.”
His gaze was full of that demand again, and I remembered how his hand had felt clutching mine, and how it had felt when he’d caught my arm. I pulled my eyes away. I found myself looking over his shoulder, past him, at the palapa. Damian was still behind the bar, and he was staring back at us, his jaw set, his mouth a flat line.
“When I come to a new town,” Gerry said as he stepped closer, “I like to get to know the people there. Become part of the community. See, that’s how I know all about you. And you’re a little peach of a kid, easy on the eyes.” He touched my stomach, pawing at me through my shirt. “Just lovely.”
I took a step back. The paralyzing anxiety that had held me in place shattered, and I said, “Don’t touch me.”
“Hey,” Gerry said and grabbed my arm. “Don’t be like that.”
I started to pull away. Distantly, I was aware of the vodka cran slipping from my hand.
Gerry’s fingers tightened.
And then Deputy Bobby was there, shooting out of the darkness. He got between me and Gerry, planted both hands on Gerry’s chest, and shoved. Gerry stumbled back, arms windmilling. Somehow, he stayed upright and caught his balance. His mouth twisted into a snarl, and he said, “You’re going to regret that—”
Before he could finish, Deputy Bobby punched him.
Gerry dropped. It wasn’t a fall or a stagger. It was like someone had cut a puppet’s strings.
Deputy Bobby loomed over him, breathing hard, shaking out a fist. “He said don’t touch him!”
