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I hesitate. “Yeah,” I say, turning to Cash.
He stares at me like he can see right through me, and brushes his hand over his jaw.
“What time do you need me here tonight?”
Ten
CASH
Last night wasthe first night June slept under my roof, in the bedroom right fucking next to mine, and it took everything in me not to imagine her in bed. Imagine my body on top of hers, the way she’d react to my touch, the way she’d taste.
This morning, I’d rushed the fuck out of there before anyone was awake and headed to the bar. I didn’t want to see June in her pj’s.
I’ve had my fair share of heartbreak. I want Alex to grow up with a good foundation, and that means not taking the risk of another woman in her life. One who will leave.
I pack away the last of my tools in my toolbox. There are more important things to worry about.
I walk over to the neatly sanded counter in the bar and run a palm over it. The silence here is deafening. The lights are on, the interior is stripped bare.
When my father mentioned he was thinking of selling the place, I knew I had to step in. It’s the pain talking. The pain of losing Mom. So, we’re spending the summer fixing it up so he can run it again because this bar is all he has left of Mom that’s tangible. Maybe if he has it to run, he’ll come back to us again.
“I’m done for the day,” I call out.
Dad’s been in the back for the past half an hour. The office is his private space, the only area he won’t let me change.
“Dad?” I walk around the bar and toward the door that leads into the tiny room, stacked with a filing cabinet, a desk, and two chairs so old that they squeak when you look at them.
Things have been downright fucked up since the funeral. Only time my father is happy is when he’s peering into an empty bottle.
He looks up from behind the desk, his cheeks gaunt, and it’s like looking into a mirror of my future. Old, alone, unhappy, broken. His blue eyes are dull. He runs a tan hand over his graying beard. “Cash,” he says, “you’re still here? Figured you would’ve gone home to Alex.”
“I’m finishing up.”
He nods, turning away from me to look at the laptop on his desk.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
“Nothing important.” He shuts the laptop and rises, groaning and knuckling the small of his back. “You hear about that new family in town? Living out in those fancy houses along the beach?”
I grunt. I have heard about them, and I don’t like it.
“They’re buying up property left and right,” Dad says. “Tourism as it is in this town, they want a slice of it. I’m surprised they haven’t come knocking yet.”
“They won’t,” I say. “And if they do, we’ll tell them where to shove it.” The Deverauxs have been on a tear through Heatstroke, buying up property along the beachfront. Chuckles Bar, my dad’s place—Mom chose the name—is practically an institution in town and it happens to be on the rise overlooking the beach. Prime real estate.
“Yeah, well.” My father sounds noncommittal, and I don’t like it. “Only a matter of time.”
“Dad?”
He forces a smile. “Nothing, son. Nothing.”
“You need a ride home?”
“Naw,” he replies. “I’ve got the Jeep.”
“You haven’t had anything to drink.” I state it rather than asking, and Dad gives me a look.
“Come on, now, son. You know me better than that.”
