Page 5 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle
The smell of salt and fish oil is stronger here, but under it is something sharper. Brine and metal. Something other, like rain that hasn’t fallen yet. I know it’s him.
I watch him for a minute, because I want to see what he’ll do, but he just continues gutting fish. I didn’t know bait shop owners had that particular pleasure, but apparently dead fish can prove rather attractive bait—except, as Cal has told me, you have to get the guts out, because they spoil fast, and they can ruin the rest of the fish.
The more you know.
I hop off the counter and wander toward the back, like I haven’t done this exact circuit already. Like I didn’t stand right hereyesterday, watching the water in the tank flicker with a light that didn’t come from electricity. Today I don’t touch it. I just lean over the rim and let my fingers trail the smooth, glass lip.
“What’s down there?”
Cal doesn’t look up. “Live bait.”
“It’s deeper than it looks.” I flick the surface of the water and watch it ripple.
He flinches. “It is.”
I squint. Something shifts beneath the surface, slow and deliberate. Not the darting scatter of fish, but a curl. A stretch. Like something waking up. “Some of it moves weird.”
He goes still. Not a big reaction, just a fractional pause, like someone hit mute inside his chest. Then the knife keeps moving, but slower now, like he has to concentrate harder to control it. The air feels tighter. I shouldn’t be fucking with his stuff. I know that. He doesn’t like it.
He doesn’t likeme.
“You shouldn’t be back here,” he says.
I straighten slightly, slurping my iced coffee. “Am I bothering you?”
“Yes.”
I glance over my shoulder, grinning easy. “You don’t look bothered.”
He sets the knife down like it weighs more than it did a second ago, then wipes his hands on a towel, slow and methodical. “Go upstairs, Neviah.”
Oof. I’m not immune to the way he says my name. I still don’t move, though. “You’rereallynot good at customer service.”
“I’m nottryingto be.”
I tip my plastic juice box up, popping the lid to get the last of my coffee. “So whatareyou trying to be?”
His eyes flick toward mine, finally. I can’t read them. “Alone.”
I let out a little breath, surprised and not, as I press the lid back onto my juice box. “Alone,” I echo, like I’m rolling the word around in my mouth to see how it tastes.
“That’s how I like it.”
I tilt my head, study him. “Nobody likes being lonely.”
I know that isn’t what he said, but I kind of want to see how he reacts.
Most people would argue that they didn’t say “lonely.”
Cal doesn’t even blink. “That’s not true.”
“No.” I lift a shoulder. “Some people like beingalone. People don’t like being lonely. That’s different.”
Something in his posture shifts. A flicker of attention sharpens behind his expression. Like he’s seeing something I didn’t mean to show. Something hollows out in my chest.
He steps out from behind the counter, and I suddenly feel crowded. His body takes up more space than it should. I feel it like gravity—and I brace.
“Is that why you’re here?” he asks.
