Sydney
Getting from Panama City to Florida isn’t difficult…unless you’re traveling with three giant dogs. Oh, and are an international fugitive. Not to mention the hurricane ravaging the eastern coast of the state.
Of course, I’ve got multiple IDs, so I can travel incognito. The bad weather and three big-ass dogs are the larger problems.
Not even Robert Maxim can change the weather, but flying around in his private jets solved the dog issue for me in the past. Now I’ve either got to travel over land, convince a commercial airline I need three emotional support animals, or hire my own private jet.
I go with the jet.
Time solves the hurricane issue for me. Miami still faces record flooding, but the air is clearing, and I’m headed well to the north.
The plane is a rental, so not as fancy as Robert’s but still… it is a private freaking jet. The flight attendant who brings me my soda water with a slice of lemon grins at the dogs. “They are so cute,” she coos. Frank eats it up, sitting on her foot and making a fool of himself. The disdain on Nila’s face is practically human. Blue sighs and leans against me. Will Frank ever learn?
I hope not. Let him maintain his innocence for as long as possible.
Tallahassee is low-slung strip malls and flat pavement scented of rain and ozone. I drive south toward the gulf, wind buffering the outside of the rental SUV. The town that Mulberry has made home is small and tacky, with neon signs, T-shirt shops, and brightly painted buildings. A motel on the outskirts has vacancies, and the man behind the counter—bulging belly and gold chain nestled in graying chest hair—accepts the dogs for an additional nonrefundable deposit. “If it’s nonrefundable then isn’t it just a fee?” I ask, leaning on the counter.
He holds out a key with a seashell dangling from it, the number three painted on it. “You want the room or not?”
I accept the shell in exchange for a wad of cash. It’s off season, so I don’t see any other guests as I make my way to the room. It is decorated in seaside motif, with fish nets and loops of thick rope hanging from the walls. The bed creaks under my weight when I sit down on the quilt printed with blue anchors.
Blue and Nila perform a perimeter check, ears swiveling, nose to the floor, while Frank goes to drink water out of the toilet. I sigh. “There’s water right here.” I point to the bowl I’ve put out for them. Frank looks up at me, his jowls dripping on the toilet seat.
Nila goes into the bathroom and nips his heel, chasing him out. “Thanks, girl,” I say. She comes over for a pet and rests her chin on my thigh, looking up at me with her ice blue eyes. Her snout is shorter than Blue’s—her mother is a white Kangal Mastiff, so her face is in between the squared-off structure of her mom’s and the long, elegant collie snout of her dad. I rub between Nila’s eyes, and she closes them, sighing appreciatively.
“You’re such a good girl,” I tell her. “Look after your brother for a while. Blue and I have to go see someone.”
My heart slowly climbs into my throat as I navigate to the bar where Mulberry is working. It’s got dark wood siding, the windows thick with neon signs for beer and booze.
I park across the street, the engine still running, and stare at the door, a lump in my throat keeping me from swallowing. Blue, sitting in the passenger seat, his ears brushing the ceiling, whines softly.
“Mulberry is in there,” I say. “Or maybe he’s not working today.” A small blip of hope. Maybe I can hold off on this conversation a little longer. But dread follows just as quickly. I have to get this over with.
How in the hell is he going to react? Will his anger evaporate in the face of his impending fatherhood? Or will it seem like one more betrayal in a slew of them?
I wet my lips and then bite down, trying to ground myself. Shit.
Blue and I start across the street toward the bar, and I stop in the middle of the road as if my feet have morphed into cement and joined with the paved surface.
Blue noses my hand, questioning what’s going on. My vision tunnels onto the bar door, and my heart hammers. I can’t do this.
I have to do this.
A horn honks, breaking the spell, and I jerk my gaze to the driver. He’s got a greasy ponytail and is gesturing at me to move the fuck out of the way. Friendly town.
I back up, returning to my SUV, and the car pulls forward, turning into the bar’s parking lot.
I close my eyes. The briny sea breeze plays across my face, and I turn to look down the block. The beach is close. “How about a quick walk?” I say to Blue. He wags his tail, always up for a stroll, especially when the ocean is involved. “Come on,” I turn away from the bar and toward the beach.
I’m going to tell him—but not right now. Not this exact moment. Soon…
Mulberry
It’s Saturday, so we’re open earlier than normal, catching day drinkers who work during the week. Shirley stopped opening at noon on weekdays in the off season because it got “too damn depressing”. And the bar’s rocking night business makes her plenty of cash. Maybe I’ll buy a bar someday. Yeah, open a margarita shop in paradise somewhere. I’m smiling to myself at the fantasy when the bell above the door jingles.
I glance up and see a figure silhouetted in the sunlight. Oh, shit.
Robert Maxim steps into the bar, the door swinging shut behind him. His eyes find mine, and he gives me a subtle nod before crossing to a stool at the far end. I let him get settled, elbows on the wood, hands clasped in front of him, eyes trained on me.
I make my way slowly to him, scanning the almost empty room as I go. “What can I get you?” I ask.
“Do you have any decent whiskey?”
“Johnnie Walker Black.”
He gives a nod. “Neat.” I take a step backward, keeping my eyes on Robert as I pull the bottle from the shelf. He smirks at me. I place a glass on the bar in front of him. "Make it a double."
“What are you doing here?” I ask once his drink is poured.
Robert wraps his long fingers around the squat glass but doesn’t lift it. “What are you doing here?” he asks back, meeting my gaze and holding it. My lips tighten, and I don’t respond. He’s living with Sydney Rye. They're probably more than friends by now. Fuck, I should have dragged her out of there. No, she— I cut myself off, refusing to run around that maze again.
“I’m working.” The bell above the door jangles, as if to prove my point, and a small man with a greasy ponytail comes in out of the sunshine.
Robert lifts the glass and gives it a subtle sniff before taking a sip. He puts it back on the bar and lifts a brow. “You need money?”
“You think money is what motivates me?” I can’t help the huff of a laugh that escapes me. “For a smart guy, you’re pretty dumb sometimes, Bobby.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Who said I wanted anything?”
“Hey, bartender, can I get a beer over here? Jesus!” Greasy Ponytail wants my attention. I grab a Bud from the ice bucket and turn my back on Maxim—a dangerous move, but I like to live dangerously.
“Sorry about that,” I say, popping the top and putting it on a fresh napkin. “This one’s on me.”
Greasy Ponytail gives me a smile as he grabs the beer. I take in a fortifying breath before returning to Robert.
The bar is mostly empty and dusk dark. Sunlight ekes through the windows, tinted and littered with neon signs provided by beer and liquor companies.
Robert’s spinning his glass on the bar. “You know Sydney’s been looking for you.”
“Well aren’t you a supportive friend, coming to find me.” My voice is thick with sarcasm. He wants her to be his. But she’s mine. Hard to say that when you’re hiding behind a bar and haven’t called her since you left in the middle of the—stop thinking.
Robert is watching me, probably reading my damn mind. His eyes drop to the bar. "You're no good for her." He says it as if it's a fact. One I'd agree with. But I don't.
The bell above the door jangles again, drawing my attention. I squint against the sun. Speak of the devil.
Sydney walks in, Blue by her side—his nose grazing her hip as the door swings shut behind them. “Damn!” Greasy ponytail blurts out. “That's one hell of a dog.”
Sydney doesn't look at him. Those storm-gray eyes are on me, shimmering in the low light. Her brows raise, asking an unspoken question.
Robert stands, drawing her attention, and surprise flits across her features, quickly replaced by anger. She's pissed at him. Excellent.
The smug smile I'm sporting doesn't last long as Sydney returns her attention to me. She crosses the near empty room, Blue’s nails clicking on the floor.
“Hi,” she says, giving me a weak smile.
“Hi.” So lame.
Sydney glances over at Robert. He is staring at her with those eyes of his, that strange blue-green—the heat of the jungle and the frozen recess of an iceberg. He raises his brows and shrugs. Not repentant.
“I need to speak to you,” Sydney says, returning her attention to me. “In private.”
“I’m alone here today,” I say, gesturing to my few customers. Jesus, so lame!
Shirley comes in the back door at that moment in a swirl of heavy perfume and thumping boots. “Tyler,” she says, slapping me on the back.
“Yeah,” I answer, not taking my eyes off Sydney. It’s like I can’t. She’s different somehow. As mesmerizing as ever but something… My mind flashes back to the last time we saw each other… the heat and the anger and the…love. “I need a break,” I say to Shirley, still staring at Sydney. She’s staring back. Not running. Not hiding. My heart gives a loud, pathetic thump of hope.
No. I won’t let her break me again. Sydney Rye is dangerous. Our whole relationship, she’s warned me off her. My love is a death sentence. Well, Sydney, I’m not gonna let you kill me slowly anymore.
“Sure, take fifteen,” Shirley says, giving my back another slap.
“Want to walk down to the beach?” Sydney asks, her voice low, gentle—like she’s afraid of my answer.
“Okay.” I take off my apron and come around the bar—hardening my heart against her. It doesn’t matter what she has to say. I can’t love her anymore. Not if I want to live.