Page 18 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“Palmer. Stevie Palmer.” I finish the soda and rise. Thankfully, I’m feeling steadier. “Thanks for the soda. What do I owe you, Big Boy?”

Big Boy shakes his head. “Nothing.”

I set the cup in the sink next to other unwashed dishes. “Thanks.” I glance toward Nikki. She’s grinning, but it’s strained with a nervous vibe. Most would be more rattled by what happened in the alley, but I sense she’s used to that kind of treatment. “Thank you.”

“Sure, no worries,” she says. “There’s no rush for you to leave, right, Joey?”

“Orders are backing up, Nikki,” Big Boy, a.k.a. Joey, says.

Nikki’s attention shifts to the door leading to the bar. She looks like she’s waltzing into the lion’s den. “Right. I’m on it.”

I watch Nikki push through the swinging door. Again, red neon flashes. “Thanks again, Big Boy.”

He raises a brow. “Name’s Joey, Stevie.”

We’re on a first-name basis. “Good to meet you, Joey.”

His gaze slides up and down me. His energy radiates calculated assessment, and maybe a hint of attraction that has him wishing he were thirty years younger. “You have a job, Stevie?”

“Not at the moment.” I’m not even sure what town I’m in. I think it’s Nags Head, but I wouldn’t bet on anything right now. But I’ll figure that out quickly.

“What are you doing tonight?” Joey asks.

Some might have heard a loaded question, but I hear hints of desperation. The labor market is hungry for workers, and that gap in the employment landscape has worked well for me. It allows me to jump from job to job on a whim. “Not much. And before you ask, I have experience bartending.”

Short of exposing my breasts, I don’t think I could’ve done anything sexier. “Do you?”

“I work for tips. I don’t do applications and official offers. Cash and carry.”

“Works for me.”

“If there’s a restroom, I’ll wash up. Give me five minutes.”

Joey looks toward the cooks, who haven’t bothered to glance in our direction. “Cookie, make her a sandwich.” He doesn’t ask what I like because he must figure food is food.

“Restroom?” I ask.

“Through the door to your left.”

“Back in five.”

The bar is packed, as are the two dozen round tables on the floor. The decor has aThe Old Man and the Seavibe that’s reinforced by dozens of framed black-and-white pictures on the walls. Most look like fishermen holding up big catches or shipwrecks buried in the sand. A few are images captioned in Nags Head, North Carolina. Okay. I’m in Nags Head. I’m not familiar with Joey’s, but places come and go down here all the time.

Judging by the crowd, I’d say these aren’t your family beach vacationers. This crew is working class. Construction, electricians, plumbers, military, or ex-military. The room’s noise level tells me everyone is at least two to three drinks into the night.

I find the restroom and push inside. I lock the door behind me. It’s a tad quieter in here, and I’m grateful for a moment to hide and regroup.

The wood-paneled space is small but clean. The walls are covered in framed photographs featuring people standing on the beach over thelast thirty years. I scan the photos, half expecting to recognize one of the sun-weathered faces. I don’t.

I pee, and then I step in front of the sink and turn on the hot tap. As steam rises, I pump soap on my hands and wash vigorously.Clean your hands. Clean your hands!Even to this day my dead mother’s voice still echoes. Despite all efforts to resist, I scrub harder. Logic is no match for ingrained past punishments.

I wash my face, grab a handful of paper towels, and press them to my cheeks. I’m not wearing makeup, which isn’t my norm, but I don’t analyze my appearance. I operate better if I don’t dwell on my features. I’m attractive enough, and when I smile, or show a little cleavage, the tip jar on the bar fills. That’s all I need to know. My balled-up paper towel lands dead center in the trash can. Score. I feel better.

As I cross the room, I glance at the black-and-white pictures, the fishnet draped from the ceiling, and the ship captain’s wheel on the wall, all of which have a familiar vibe. If I haven’t been here before, I’ve been in a place just like it.

I glance toward a frazzled Nikki and step into the kitchen long enough to grab an apron from a hook and half of the sandwich Cookie has left for me beside the six-burner gas stove. The white bread is toasted and cut on a diagonal. Lettuce and tomato peek out along with turkey. I take a bite.

“Fancy,” I say. “Really good, Cookie.”

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