Far Cry: A Talbott’s Cove Novel Read online

  Annette: It's what you get. You unfucked my life.

  Brooke: Did not!

  Annette: I distinctly recall a conversation where you YELLED at me IN PUBLIC about how I am to proceed when there is a cock in my hand. I call that unfucking my life.

  Brooke: You needed permission to have sex. I need…a field of lavender and sage, a wheelbarrow of crystals, a shaman, a priest, a psychiatrist, Marie Kondo, Cesar Millan, and Jillian Michaels.

  Brooke: And some good dick. You don't even understand how much dick I need. The wheelbarrow I really need is a wheelbarrow of dicks. It's at crisis levels.

  Annette: I understand the sage, lavender, crystals, and dick, but why do you need a dog whisperer? You don't have a dog.

  Brooke: Cesar Millan just seems like the kind of guy who takes one look at you and tells you how to solve all your problems. Dog or otherwise.

  Annette: And Jillian Michaels?

  Brooke: She'd yell at me.

  Annette: Isn't her thing yelling at people while they exercise? You don't exercise. At all.

  Brooke: Yeah, but I'm sure she'd yell at me about anything I need for the right price.

  Annette: And why do you need someone yelling at you?

  Brooke: Same reason I need crystals and lavender. My life is a hot mess and I'm irrationally concerned about cakes and singing.

  Annette: Mmhmm. Okay. And Marie Kondo?

  Brooke: This house is full of stuff. It drives me bananas. For once, I'd like to open a closet and find it empty. One less pile of shit for me to deal with.

  Annette: She's going to make you touch all the stuff and decide if it brings you joy.

  Brooke: I'd really prefer she make those decisions for me.

  Annette: Not how it works.

  Brooke: All I want is one full day where I don't have to make the decisions or deal with the problems.

  Annette: And you'll have it. Birthday weekend, my darling. No decisions, no problems.

  Brooke: Will you be arranging the man meat as well?

  Annette: Excuse me, what?

  Brooke: That's what I thought.

  Annette: What are we talking about?

  Brooke: I need to get laid. Like, immediately.

  Annette: Brush your hair and go to the Galley. It's apple, pumpkin, and leaf peeping season. I bet there are some tourists in town.

  Brooke: The Galley? Really? Isn't that a little too close for comfort?

  Annette: Allow me to stress this point one more time—pick up a tourist, not a townie.

  Brooke: Yeah yeah I get that. But townies hang out there. Lincoln's ass print is permanently carved into his seat at the bar.

  Annette: So what?

  Brooke: So…one does not simply initiate a one-night stand with a Greek chorus of locals watching.

  Annette: One is more concerned with neighborly gossip than self-care.

  Brooke: We're calling hookups self-care now?

  Annette: You need to take some time for yourself. You know what they say about oxygen masks.

  Brooke: The bag might not inflate, but air is flowing?

  Annette: Yours first, everyone else second.

  Brooke: You're sure about the Galley?

  Annette: Believe me. You'll find someone there.

  Brooke: If I don't, can I borrow Jackson?

  Annette: I'll share just about anything else with you, but not him.

  Brooke: It would make things so much easier…

  Annette: I know you think so, yes.

  Chapter Two

  Brooke

  Derivative: a financial contract whose value is determined by the fluctuations in the value of underlying assets often used as an instrument to hedge risk.

  ”Don't even think about it."

  I stopped drumming my fingertips on my lips at the sound of his voice behind me. Rolled my eyes. Thought about throwing an elbow in his direction. "Think about what, exactly?"

  Still concealed over my shoulder, he replied, "Whatever the hell you're cooking up, don't do it. Stop cooking. Give it up and get the hell outta my tavern."

  I turned my head, but this dim corner of the Galley between the now-empty pay phone nook and restrooms didn't reveal more than JJ Harniczek's silhouette. Dark jeans, dark shirt, dark boots, dark mood. "You won't sell much beer with an attitude like that."

  "I don't have the patience for games tonight, Bam Bam."

  That goddamn nickname. It was my mother's fault. She was nearly six years gone, but I still blamed her for this shit. She'd been fanatical about initials. If there was a bare inch of fabric, metal, or glass, she wouldn't rest until it got a serving of initials. I could've lived with this fanaticism, but my name was Brooke-Ashley Markham and she had B.A.M. embroidered on my backpack, lunch box, scarves, mittens, socks, sweaters, everything. There was no escaping it, and even in first grade, JJ knew a tease-worthy nickname when he saw one.

  I believed in karma and I knew it was real because JJ had been gifted the equally troublesome name of Jedediah Judson Harniczek. The torment flowed both ways. "I'm not playing games, Jed."

  "You're at my tavern without your sidekick and you're hidden away back here, watching my customers like a jaguar licking its chops before an ambush. I'd say you're playing something." He stepped into the light, turned to face me. "And I'm not interested in having it tonight."

  I gave him the I'm just a sweet, innocent girl and I don't know what you mean pout as I blinked up at him. He was tall and solid with a beard that meant business, only an ax short of achieving full lumberjack status. If you liked that sort of thing.

  "Annette is home with Jackson and I had a"—I paused, searching for the right word to adequately describe my experience with involuntary edging—"frustrating day, one might say. I just want to have a drink and unwind like everyone else."

  He crossed his thick arms. Scowled, blinked. "I seriously doubt that."

  "Doubt all you want, but you're making me a drink. I'm sure you can manage a vodka gimlet with extra lime." I tipped my chin toward the bar. "I'll be over there. Thanks in advance, Jed."

  I breezed past him and settled on a stool at the far end of the bar, a prime position. From here, I could scope out everyone seated around the three-sided bar without being obvious or drawing attention to myself. If I sat somewhere in the middle, I'd have to lean forward to check out the people on either side of me and I'd lose a good view of those seated at tables and in booths. There was no greater mark of an amateur dick hunter than getting caught in the process of assessing the territory. Eyeballing men required perfecting the air of disinterested disaffection—be bored and ignore everything around you.

  As much as I hated to admit it, Annette was right about the Galley. There were a number of new faces here, and the locals were busy watching some sportsball game on the big-screen television suspended from the ceiling. I could've stripped to my skin and offered lap dances to anyone interested without snapping the loyalists out of their sportsball trance.

  Come to think of it, that wasn't an awful idea. It was a quick method of assessing the responsiveness of this crowd.

  "One vodka gimlet. Extra lime." JJ plunked a glass in front of me. He rocked back on his heels and spread his arms out wide, planting his hands on the edge of the bar top as if he was doing his best to keep from strangling me. He was never more than a couple of steps away from second-degree murder. "Drink up and go."

  I knew that look well. Our interactions were fitting for people who'd known and teased each other since babyhood, shared one strange—and never spoken of since—kiss and some light groping the night after our high school graduation, and now found ourselves in the same small town we'd vowed to leave behind us forever.

  With my gaze locked on JJ, I reached for the napkin dispenser stationed two seats to my left. One by one, I pulled out ten napkins. My collection formed a small paper plateau, a landform that seemed to anger the barkeep as it grew, if his quiet snarls were any indication. Once my supplies were in place, I made a show of mopping
up the clear liquid that'd sloshed over the rim, down the glass, and all over my section of the bar. I was dainty about it too, using only the corner of a napkin as I tidied his mess.

  And it worked.

  "Fucking hell, Brooke, give me that." He gathered the used napkins in one hand, the glass in another. Without breaking his stare, he pitched the napkins into the waste bin and dumped the drink into the sink. "What do you think you're doing?"

  I gestured to the empty—but still damp—space before me. "I was attempting to enjoy my gimlet until you ripped it away from me. Honestly, Jed. It was rather rude." He responded with a smirk that only highlighted the splattering of freckles across his face. Some were faint angel kisses, others were as dark as his hair. "May I have another?"

  He nodded at the damp, empty space. "I'm short-staffed. I have pressing issues to handle. I don't have time for your games tonight—"

  "Get a grip, Jed," I snapped. I drove my hand through my hair and sucked in a breath. "I'm not going to whip the townspeople into a fury and convince them to haul off and kill the beast. This obsession with my games, as you call them, is unhealthy. I take a lot of joy in busting your balls but if my presence in your tavern is truly disruptive to business, please escort me off the premises. Otherwise, I'd like a vodka gimlet, nice and limey, and a couple of moments where you aren't harassing me about my intentions. I realize I don't possess your barkeeping wisdom, but I cannot see how a nice lady enjoying a cocktail could incite the type of mayhem you're suggesting. But go ahead. Explain it to me."

  JJ regarded me for a second, the hard gaze of his hazel eyes giving nothing away. At first glance, they appeared brown, but I knew they were hazel. He worked his jaw, rocked back on his heels, dropped his hands to his lean hips. He seemed poised to say something, but instead, he turned and retreated to the opposite end of the bar.

  I stared at the strong, broad line of his shoulders. The dark, unruly hair gathered with a band at the nape of his neck. The jeans skimming his taut backside. It made for a pleasant, if not problematic, picture.

  "Ah, the pleasures of small town living," I called after him. "I'd pay three times as much for a bartender to chastise me in Manhattan. Then again, the only time a bartender would chastise me in Manhattan was if I asked for a side of ice with my cabernet."

  He didn't respond and I was content with forfeit by way of silence. It gave me an opportunity to evaluate my options. There were a handful of fresh faces, but the pickings were slim. Strategy was essential. The Galley was theatre in the round, wide and open for everyone to observe. I couldn't flutter around, visiting every guy with clean fingernails and no wedding ring like a hookup hummingbird. I needed an airtight plan of attack before my ass left this stool because I wasn't taking aim for a second shot.

  That left me eyeing a late thirtysomething man who seemed promising on looks alone. No rings, no grubby fingernails, and no one seated beside him. Other out-of-towners were scattered around him, a stool or two separating them. This one was working the "dress shirt with an open collar" angle to his advantage, even if the shirt wasn't appropriately fitted. His hairline was a pair of cul-de-sacs and his brows needed a trim. But his hands were big, wrapping around his pint glass like it was a pixie stick, and that counted for something.

  All things considered, my target was remarkably average. In these situations—and my entire life was composed of these situations—I always went for the average guy. The gorgeous ones knew they were hot shit and fucked like they were doing you a favor. While I was in desperate need of that exact type of favor, I wasn't interested in communicating it to anyone but myself.

  A few minutes later, JJ set a fresh drink in front of me. He didn't speak, didn't look at me, didn't slow down for more than the delivery. "Thank you," I called to him.

  His back to me, he lifted a hand in acknowledgment. This was how we did it: name-calling, senseless bickering, and low-key ultimatums followed by a cease-fire. He was going to his corner, I was staying in mine, all was well in Talbott's Cove.

  I sipped my drink until the ice melted to the point of diluting the liquor, all while JJ pretended to ignore me. It was amusing of him to think I could miss those side-eye glances.

  He circled back in my direction, busy organizing and polishing everything behind the bar as he went. When he edged toward me, his focus stayed on his work. I stayed focused on my work too. The work of poaching a man for the night.

  Without glancing toward me, JJ asked, "Did you eat? Tonight?"

  I swirled my glass, shook my head. "I don't think so."

  His brows shot up. "How do you not know?"

  "I don't know," I answered. "I don't keep track of these things."

  "For fuck's sake, Brooke." Grumbling the whole way, he bent down, reached into a cupboard, and retrieved a small bowl. He set it on the bar and motioned for me to take it. "Eat."

  I tipped the bowl toward me. Pretzels. "Thank you, no. I have no idea where this has been and who it's been with and I'm sure you know how people are about restrooms and hand washing and such."

  He snatched the bowl away, dumped it in the waste bin, and set a fresh refill in front of me. He drilled his finger on the shiny hardwood surface. "Eat."

  With an eye on my slowly balding target, I shook my head. "I don't like pretzels."

  Again, he muttered, "For fuck's sake, Brooke."

  My guy glanced at his watch and that was my cue. I leaned over the bar top, snatched a cocktail napkin and pen, and scribbled my phone number.

  "No fucking way." JJ reached for a dish towel. "I warned you, Brooke. No games."

  "Stay out of it, Jedediah," I replied under my breath.

  "My bar, my business," he snapped, wrapping the towel around his palm.

  "Why can't your business be stocking more than one shiraz? That would be smart business. Interfering with my Thursday evening is not."

  I hopped down from my seat and made my way to the opposite end of the bar, my gaze steady on the visitor. I slipped between him and the empty seat to his right. No one looked good climbing up onto a stool, and standing at this angle allowed me a swift exit. It also gave him a clear view of my cleavage, not that there was much to see.

  "Hi. I couldn't help but notice you," I said, brushing my palm over his forearm. "Visiting from out of town?"

  From the corner of my eye, I saw JJ toss his towel to the floor. He pushed through the storeroom door with force, leaving it to slam shut behind him.

  "Yeah, up from Manchester," the tourist replied. "New Hampshire."

  "All by yourself?" I cooed. "You must love those autumn leaves. Or is it pumpkins you're after? Maybe apples?"

  "Mostly leaves, but I think we're stopping at a pumpkin patch too." He dipped his head, laughed. "I'm meeting up with my—uh, a group of people. They left for dinner before I arrived, so I have some time on my hands."

  JJ didn't last long in the storeroom. He returned with a case of wine and dropped it on the bar with enough force to rattle glasses and draw the attention of everyone seated there.

  "Listen," I said, reclaiming the visitor's attention and forcing my lips into a flirty smile-pout. "I think you're really hot and I'd like to get to know you better."

  "I'm really—me? Yeah?" he asked. "Okay. Yeah. I'm—"

  I pressed my finger to his lips and dropped the napkin on the surface in front of him. Patted it twice. "Shh. Tell me later."

  I stepped away from the tourist—and JJ—and sailed out of the bar without a backward glance.

  Shot fired.

  Chapter Three

  JJ

  Fungibility: the ability to interchange one asset with another, similar asset.

  I stared at the door for a solid minute.

  Staring was safer than running through it, ripping it off its hinges, or throwing bottles of liquor at it. Those were the only options as I saw them.

  Motherfucking Brooke Markham.

  From behind me, I heard, "You saw that, right? That really happened?"

  The
re were a lot of things I didn't have tonight. Not enough staff to cover the dining room and bar.

  Another man said, ”If I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn't believe it."

  Not enough time to hammer out updated financial projections before meeting with my business partner tomorrow morning.

  He asked, “Do you think it's legit? If I text this number, am I gonna find out it's the local pizza place?"

  Not enough tolerance for out-of-towners here for an authentic autumn weekend in Maine. Especially the ones who took off their wedding rings while ordering a Moscow mule.

  Other man replied, ”A certified dime piece was sitting in your lap. Even if it is a pizza place, you're still winning."

  And not even an ounce of patience for Brooke Markham and her bullshit.

  He said, “I’m gonna text her. Can't pass up an opportunity like this one."

  Something inside my head snapped. Whether it was the muscle keeping bad choices from overruling good sense or my tenuous hold on everything I'd tried to keep in check, the seal was broken.

  I gave the door one last scowl before turning and snatching the napkin out of that asshole's hand. "Not a chance in hell."

  For a second, he had the decency to look guilty. But assholes bounced back quick and this one was no exception. "Does this involve you?"

  From the other end of the bar, two of my regulars, Bobbie Lincoln and Rhys Neville, shifted away from the televised baseball game. Their concerned expressions seemed to ask whether I needed assistance. I shook my head. I had this well in hand.

  "Yeah, it involves me." More than you'll ever know. "Get the fuck out of here."

  * * *

  The main door banged open five minutes before midnight and I knew it was Brooke before glancing up from the evening's receipts. No one flung a door quite like Ms. Markham.

  I knew she'd come back. A masochistic part of me had spent the past four hours craving it. There was no other explanation for me leaving the door unlocked long after my last customer settled up for the night. But this knowledge was more than a basic understanding of her operating system. The air changed when she was around. It was charged, unpredictable, almost dangerous. No, always dangerous. There was no trusting this woman.