Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) Page 7

  He smiled crookedly. “I do carpentry. Restorations on buildings and boats. My father taught me a lot. I learned more on my own. There’s always work at marinas for someone who knows what he’s doing.” Another eloquent shrug. “The father of the kid who killed my parents was a wealthy power player in Hollywood. He was able to pull a lot of strings to keep his son out of jail. But he knew that if I sued his kid, the publicity would suck. Or—I don’t know, maybe he just felt guilty that his kid had destroyed my family. Anyway, he set up a trust fund for me. Hush money or whatever. I tap into it whenever I have to.” He sighed. “Like when I need to hire an expensive lawyer. This Solomon dude is expensive, isn’t he.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Monica replied anyway. “I’m sure he isn’t cheap. But the attorney who handles the inn’s business affairs said he was the best criminal attorney on the North Shore. One of the top in the Boston area. You’ll get your money’s worth.”

  “I hope so.” Ty set down his spoon, then surprised her by reaching across the table and capturing her hand in his. “I didn’t do it,” he said, his tone low and earnest. “Whatever that good man Nolan thinks I did, I didn’t do it.”

  Monica nodded uncertainly.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I…don’t know.”

  He sighed again, and released her hand. Her fingers felt icy and forlorn when he did. Whether or not she believed him, she wanted him. There was no getting around that. For as long as Ty was with her, until he wandered off to some other seaside town or landed in prison, she wanted him.

  She shouldn’t. But she did.

  ***

  She looked concerned.

  No, she didn’t. She looked stricken and shocked, like she was fighting the urge to cry. He almost wished he hadn’t told her his story. He didn’t usually discuss it. He didn’t dwell on the past. He’d lived it, he’d survived it, and now he embraced every day the way anyone grateful to be alive would. He wasn’t hideously scarred. He didn’t limp. He missed his parents and the happy childhood that had been stolen from him, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. You had to adjust your sails to capture the wind, whatever direction it was blowing.

  But Monica had asked him to share his story with her, and he owed her that much. The truth was, he owed her a hell of a lot more. She’d found him a lawyer. More importantly, she’d answered his desperate plea for help.

  He gazed across the table at her. Her fingers, wrapped around the stem of her wine glass, were pale and slender, her nails painted a muted coral shade that reminded him of the color clouds sometimes turned during a vivid sunset. He watched her sip her wine. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he apologized.

  “No. It’s okay. I’m just so sorry you had to live through such a horrible tragedy.”

  “I lived through it,” he reminded her. “I’m okay. Sometimes—” and this was something he definitely didn’t share with people “—I feel immortal. If I could survive that wreck—” and if he could survive that ghastly year in rehab, and the stifling, smothering years with his grandparents in Kansas, who had never forgiven their daughter for running off to California, marrying Ty’s father, and not living the life they’d wished for her, and who had tried to force Ty into their proper, stultifying life “—I can survive anything.”

  Monica gave him a watery smile.

  “I’ve bungee-jumped. I’ve sky-dived. I’ve climbed sheer rock cliffs. I’ve scuba-dived. I’ve tried hang-gliding. I ride motorcycles. I’ve sailed from San Diego to Honolulu—and from Key Biscayne to New England, but you already knew that. What’s the point of being scared? If your number is up, it’s up. May as well go all out, right?”

  “May as well live,” she murmured. At his questioning look, she nodded toward his shoulder. “Your tattoo.”

  “Yeah.” He’d gotten his tat as soon as he’d returned to California. It had been a celebration of all he’d survived, all the odds he’d beaten. He’d escaped physical death in the crash and spiritual death in his grandparents’ custody. He’d survived losing his parents.

  “So I guess sailing a boat all by yourself from Florida to Massachusetts is the sort of thing a person does when he’s fearless.”

  “It’s not that dangerous if you know what you’re doing. I hugged the coastline the whole way. I was never in international waters. The Coast Guard could have found me.”

  “It’s still dangerous,” she argued quietly.

  He conceded with a shrug.

  “More dangerous if you’re carrying a cargo of illegal drugs.”

  All right. She still didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him. He couldn’t really blame her. Who was he, after all, but a footloose stranger who’d literally sailed into town and bedded her on an impulse.

  No, he hadn’t bedded her. He’d made love to her. It had been more than sex. And it hadn’t been on an impulse. It had been because of that song he’d heard in the bar. The jukebox had been playing, and he’d been enjoying his drink and the come-ons of that stacked woman on the bar stool next to him, and suddenly that song had started playing. Wild Thing. His eyes had met Monica’s, and he’d felt as if their minds had met, too. Their hearts. Their souls.

  He’d done crazier things in his life than make love to a beautiful woman whose name he didn’t even know. But he’d always kind of recognized that they were crazy while he was doing them. The craziness had been part of their appeal.

  When he’d kissed Monica last night, when he’d stripped naked and pulled her onto him, and come deep inside her while she’d come around him, he’d believed it was the sanest thing he’d ever done.

  Quite possibly, the craziest thing he’d ever done was to trust Wayne MacArthur. If the guy had heroin stashed on his boat, Ty was going to have a hell of a time proving he didn’t know about it. He’d also have a hell of a time convincing Monica of his innocence.

  Her expression right now, her dark eyes still glistening, her head tilted slightly as she regarded him, her fingers still tense around her glass, told him she wasn’t convinced of it now. He’d told her his story, and she clearly wasn’t sure whether she bought it.

  “I should find another place to stay tonight,” he said, even though he couldn’t imagine any place he’d rather be than next to Monica, his arms around her, his head nestled beside hers atop the plush down pillows on her bed. “I guess there are some motels down Route 1.”

  She continued to measure him with her gaze, her indecision visible in her expression. After a minute, she said, “We have some open rooms at the inn right now. We’re booked pretty solidly from Memorial Day weekend on, but this week we’ve still got rooms.”

  “Okay.” Apparently, her ambivalence would allow him to spend the night close to her, but not too close. Either that, or she wanted to fill the inn’s vacant rooms. She was an executive there, after all.

  She insisted she wasn’t hungry for anything more, and the big bowl of chowder on top of the tasteless ham sandwich Nolan had scared up at the police station were enough to fill Ty’s stomach. He paid the bill and they left the restaurant, which sat on a broad wharf jutting out into the sea. Further up the wharf, he saw the silhouettes of a couple of commercial fishing boats docked and rocking lazily on the gently rippling waves. No wonder the Lobster Shack had a big sign beside its front door reading “Fresh Fish Daily.” He supposed the chef just walked down the wharf to the boats when they steamed into port and bought their catch right out of their nets.

  Monica remained silent as she and Ty climbed into her car and she started the engine. He knew better than to disturb a woman when she was thinking things over, but the tension pinching her lips and shadowing her eyes bothered him. “Are you all right?” he finally asked.

  She managed a faint smile. “I don’t have the law breathing down my neck, so I guess I’m in better shape than you.” The smile vanished when she added, “We’re just so different, Ty. You bop around the country, doing this,
doing that, tapping into your trust fund and moving on. I’m the opposite. I grew up here. My family owns a hotel. A place where people stay.”

  He was surprised to experience a twinge of…was it envy? The thought of actually staying somewhere seemed alien to him, probably because he hadn’t really had a home since the accident. The house where he’d grown up in Pasadena had been sold and emptied after his parents died. His grandparents had sold or donated most of the furniture, too. Because he’d been in the rehab hospital at the time, they’d packed what they felt he needed—clothing, books, his baseball glove, his Discman and a few CD’s—and discarded the rest. When he’d finally been released, he’d discovered all his other treasures—his comic books, his water pistol, his trading cards, the sea-polished rocks he’d gathered during trips to the beach with his parental grandfather, his Frisbee, his Swiss Army knife, the drawers full of silly junk that meant nothing to anyone else but everything to him… All of it gone. He’d lost his parents and he’d lost his belongings.

  From that moment on, he’d never had a home. No wonder he never stayed anywhere for long.

  Well, it looked as if he would be staying in Brogan’s Point at least until he cleared his name and the cops decided he was no longer a person of interest. Glancing at Monica as she steered her car along Atlantic Avenue, the road paralleling the coastline through town, he was struck by the odd thought that even if he didn’t like the reason he was trapped in Brogan’s Point for a while, the thought of spending time here appealed to him.

  Not that he expected to regain the intimacy he and Monica had shared last night. That had been a fluke, inspired by some alcohol consumption and an ancient rock song.

  Even so, there were worse things in life than to be stuck in a pretty New England hamlet like Brogan’s Point for a while. Maybe, after he met with the lawyer tomorrow morning, he could follow through on his plan to rent a bike and motor around the region. He wouldn’t go far. He’d check in as often as necessary. It wasn’t as if he had an electronic bracelet strapped around his ankle.

  Monica turned onto the driveway of the Ocean Bluff Inn and parked in one of the empty spots in the lot. He hauled his duffel and laptop out of the back seat and followed her up the steps, across the broad veranda and into the building.

  The lobby looked like something from a movie set his father might have worked on: old, solid furniture, brass lighting fixtures, cream-colored walls, genteelly faded rugs. The hotels he’d been to in Florida generally featured light, airy lobbies with sleek leather or wicker furniture, and planters filled with ferns and palms. Those hotels were painted swimming-pool blue or flamingo pink, and they had cool tile floors. This inn, with its warm woods and golden lighting, and the fireplaces he glimpsed in the rooms flanking the lobby, shouted that he was no longer in the tropics. There was a permanence about the décor and the building that housed it, a sense that if a hurricane ever did make it this far north, it wouldn’t leave much of an impression on the inn. The place had lasted a long time, and would last a long time more.

  He liked it.

  “Hi, Kim,” Monica greeted the young woman behind the counter. “My friend here needs a room for the night.” She stumbled almost imperceptibly on the word friend.

  The clerk didn’t seem to notice. She ran an appreciative gaze over Ty, but he wasn’t in the mood to be appreciated. If he couldn’t spend the night with Monica, he wanted to check into a room, take a long, hot shower, and sack out. A night of uninterrupted sleep wasn’t as appealing a prospect as a night bouncing around on Monica’s mattress, but his body could use the rest.

  Apparently sensing no reciprocal interest, the clerk tapped her computer keyboard. “Room 27 is open. So is Room 34. Twenty-seven is nicer,” she told Ty. “It’s got an ocean view. Thirty-four is up an extra flight of stairs and it overlooks the pool.”

  “If 34 is cheaper, I’ll take it,” he said. God knew what the lawyer was going to cost him. No sense burning any more money than he had to.

  “Great. I’ll need a credit card impression,” she said, tapping some more on her computer. As worked, she turned her attention to Monica. “How’s the mess at Rose Cottage?”

  “Don’t ask,” Monica muttered. “Mess is definitely the operative term.”

  “Is it going to be fixed in time?”

  “It has to be,” Monica said, sounding exasperated. “The cottage is booked for Memorial Day weekend. If we’ve got to work night and day to get it fixed, we will.”

  The clerk swiped Ty’s credit card and returned it to him, along with a reservation folder with “34” scribbled onto it and a key card tucked inside. Ty thanked her with a nod and stepped away from the reservation desk. “What kind of mess?” he asked Monica. They’d spent the evening focusing on him. It occurred to him that Monica had a life, too, and things might not be gliding a smooth course in it.

  She sighed and shook her head. “A mysterious leak in one of the residential cottages. The plumbers haven’t located it yet, even though they’ve torn apart the wall and a bathroom vanity.”

  “I can do walls,” he said.

  She peered quizzically at him.

  “Plumbing is beyond me. But walls are easy.”

  “They can’t be that easy. The construction crews here charge a fortune.”

  “I can help. As soon as the plumbers are done, I can do the walls for you.”

  She opened her mouth and then shut it. “You don’t owe me anything, Ty.”

  He owed her everything, but even if he didn’t, he’d lend a hand. “You’ve got a tight deadline. I’m just saying—if you need help, I can help.”

  A low, humorless chuckle escaped her. “If you’re not in jail,” she muttered.

  He didn’t take the dig personally. Grinning, he said. “Right. If I’m not in jail.”

  Chapter Eight

  Caleb Solomon’s office was a long walk from the Ocean Bluff Inn, but Ty could manage a long walk, especially after a quiet night spent in a comfortable bed. He’d awakened early, showered again—after a week of washing beneath the spitting, erratic spray of the Freedom’s cramped shower, he appreciated the showers he’d enjoyed in both Monica’s apartment and the cozy third-floor room at the inn, his current home. His clothing was wrinkled from having spent too much time rolled up inside his duffel, but at least some of the garments were clean. He donned fresh jeans and a button-front shirt, the most presentable apparel he’d brought with him, and after a breakfast of scrambled eggs and rye toast in one of the inn’s dining rooms, he slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and hiked into downtown Brogan’s Point for his morning meeting with his lawyer.

  If the sign outside the colonial brick building that housed Solomon’s office was any indication, the guy had two partners. “Chase, Mullen and Solomon, Attorneys-at-Law,” it read, block letters on a classy brass plaque. Entering the building, Ty was assailed by the aroma of fresh coffee.

  After the week he’d spent on the boat slugging down instant in the hope of a caffeine rush, fresh-brewed coffee was as much a luxury as showers with steady water pressure. The coffee at the inn had been good. This coffee would be good, too. Neither would be as good as the coffee he’d drunk in Monica’s apartment yesterday morning, but that coffee had tasted wonderful because he’d been able to gaze at her while he’d consumed it.

  Once Ty identified himself to the receptionist, he was led to a conference room and served a steaming cup of the beverage he’d smelled. He had barely settled into one of the chairs surrounding the oval mahogany table when Solomon entered. Like last night, he was wearing a suit and shirt with no tie—a navy blue suit this time, but it looked as rumpled as last night’s suit—and he was toting his battered leather briefcase. Ty stood out of courtesy to the two women who accompanied Solomon: one a tall, too-thin woman wearing eyeglasses and carrying a laptop, the other an attractive blond woman in a silky beige suit that looked a lot pricier than Solomon’s. She carried a yellow legal pad and a fountain pen. Solomon gave Ty’s hand a shake,
then introduced the women: “This is Annie Adler, a paralegal, who’s going to be taking notes. And this is Heather Chase, one of my partners. She’s got better connections in South Florida than I do.”

  Thank God for the trust fund, Ty thought as he waited for the women to sit and then settled back into his chair. Two lawyers were probably going to cost him twice as much.

  And he hadn’t even done anything wrong. It seemed ridiculous that he should have to hire two hot-shot lawyers to defend him when he was innocent.

  They arranged themselves around the table, the paralegal fired up her laptop, and the receptionist brought in more coffee. Solomon didn’t seem to need caffeine. He was already firing on all cylinders. “Here’s what we’ve got so far. Wayne MacArthur does exist.”

  “Not on Google, he doesn’t,” Ty said. “I did a search for him last night, but I couldn’t find anything. I’ve met him, though. He paid me.”

  “He could have been using a false name. He could’ve taken a powder. But fortunately, he didn’t. He’s still down in Key Biscayne. And he really does own a house up on the north end of Brogan’s Point. I talked to a couple of his neighbors up here and they hardly know him. They said that when he’s in town, he keeps to himself. The staff guy at North Cove Marina knows him more for his boat than for himself. They said he pays his bills on time and never causes any trouble.”

  “Has it occurred to anyone that maybe there aren’t drugs on his boat?” Ty asked. “Like, maybe he’s just a nice guy?”

  “A nice, very rich guy who supposedly owns a few laundromats in Miami,” Heather Chase said, giving Ty an expensive-looking smile—straight, white teeth framed by plump, glossy lips. “A few laundromats don’t generate the kind of money that buys a fancy sail boat and two mansions.”

  “His houses are mansions?” Ty asked.

  The pretty lawyer nodded. “His Brogan’s Point house is valued at more than one-point-five million on Zillow. His house on Key Biscayne is closer to two-point-five million. And the boat.”