Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
I’ve been lucky, I guess.
“Sure, I can do that,” I relent. As much as I hate the idea of working two jobs tomorrow—morning at the dealership and then afternoon at the yacht club—I know Mom would enjoy a picnic at Starfish Cove. And I’m one of those assholes who likes making my parents happy.
“Thanks, kid. I owe you one. Oh, and keep an eye out for a man named Alfred. Or Albert? Can’t remember. Anyway, he’s coming in around nine to look at the fifty-foot Beneteau that Sam Powell just brought in.”
“What? Sam’s selling the Beneteau?” I ask in dismay.
“Already did. We closed the deal on Friday.”
“Shit, really? Didn’t he just do a refit in 2019? And he spent a chunk on that new teak deck, no?”
“That’s why he’s selling now—the refit upped the value. This is the time to sell.”
“But Sam loves that boat.”
“Loves his kid more. And she got into Harvard. Gotta pay for that Ivy League tuition somehow, right?”
“That’s rough.”
We chat for a few more minutes before hanging up. As I turn left onto the main road leading downtown, my mind is still on Sam Powell parting with his beloved sailboat. Man, I never want to be in the position where I need to choose between my kid and my boat. Not that I have either one of those yet, but my goal is to at least start working toward securing the latter. I could probably buy a used forty-foot Bristol, maybe even a Beneteau Oceanis in the next couple years if I’m able to save more money.
After that, well, ideally I’d be sailing her around the world, although that’s more a dream than a goal. A pipe dream, at that, because there’s no way I can just fuck off for months on end. Dad already has it all planned out—he wants to retire early, and once he does, I’ll be taking over Bartlett Marine, selling other people their dream boats rather than sailing my own. And while I can’t deny the dealership turns a serious profit, it hasn’t exactly been my lifelong dream to run it.
Main Street is already packed with cars, not an open space to be found. I end up having to pull into one of the gravel beach-access lots and hoof it half a mile to the Rip Tide, where I find my friends gathered around a high-top table near the stage. Our buddy Jordy and his reggae band play this venue most weekends, but they’re not here tonight. In their place is a metal outfit with a lead singer who’s scream-singing unintelligible lyrics as I sidle up to the boys.
Cooper, clad in a black T-shirt and ripped jeans, is sipping on a beer and wincing at the ungodly noises coming from the stage. His other half is nowhere to be found, and by that I mean Evan, his twin. Mackenzie would be his better half, the chick who got Cooper to smile more times in the last year than in all the years I’ve known him combined. Genuine smiles, too, and not the cocky smirks he’d flash right before we used to fuck shit up.
Chase is next to Coop, engrossed with his phone, while Danny listens to the band with a pained expression.
“These guys are awful,” I say, wondering who the hell decided to book them. The singer is now making strange breathing noises while the two guitarists whisper into their microphones. “Why are they whispering now?”
“Is he saying my skull is weeping?” Cooper demands, wrinkling his brow.
“No. It’s my soul is sleeping,” Danny tells him.
“It’s both,” Chase says without looking up from his phone. “My skull is weeping/my soul is sleeping. Those are the lyrics.”
“Deep,” I say dryly, and my own skull nearly weeps with relief when the song—if you could call it that—ends, and the singer—if you could call him that—announces they’re taking a ten-minute break.
“Oh thank fuck,” Danny breathes.
My peripheral vision catches the blur of a waitress, and I twist around to signal her before she can disappear. “Becca,” I call, because everyone knows everyone in this town.
“Tate! Hey! What can I get ya?”
“Could I trouble you for a Good Boy?” I ask, naming one of our locally brewed beers.
“You got it. A Good Boy for a good boy.” She winks and hurries off.
Cooper sighs. “Between you and my brother, I don’t think there’s a waitress in town who hasn’t seen your dicks.”
“And?” I counter, grinning. “Are waitresses off-limits now?”
“Only if you break their hearts. I don’t need anyone spitting in our drinks.”
“Ha, talk to your brother then. I’ve never had a hookup end on anything other than good terms. Can’t say the same for Evan. And speaking of Evan—where is he? Wasn’t it his idea to come here tonight?”
“Yup.” Cooper rolls his eyes. “But then he got the better idea of locking Genevieve in their bedroom after we got home from work, and nobody’s seen him since.”