Page 85 of Stone Coast
“They didn’t do things to you in prison, did they?”
“No. Nobody did anything.”
“Some of those prison guards are cute.”
“There were no cute guards, and you need to stop reading those tawdry romance novels.”
“I need to get laid,” she said flatly.
“That shouldn’t be hard.”
“You’d think. But…”
“Lower your standards.”
She gasped, appalled. “I will not lower my standards. But it’s slim pickings around here. I say we escape to Coconut Key for a girls’ weekend.”
“Olivia, I’m in the middle of a major crisis right now.”
“I know. The best thing for you would be to get away. It’s not like you’d be leaving the county.” She paused. “Do you have one of those ankle bracelet thingies?”
“No. I haven’t been convicted.”
“We have a lot to talk about, and this is going to call for some serious day drinking. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll hit the Tipsy Turtle.”
“The last thing I need is to get hammered right now.”
“Well, then, you can just sit there and watch me drink. I don’t think you realize how much stress I’m under worrying about you.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
42
“I’m not going to ask you if you did it,” Olivia said. “But blink twice if there’s anything I need to know,” she said with a wink.
I gave her an incredulous look. “I didn’t do it!”
Her skeptical gaze persisted.
“I swear.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” she replied before taking another sip of her frozen margarita.
I had battled the horde of media outside theIntrepid, hopped on my bike, and successfully ditched the vultures—at least for now. We sat at the bar at the Tipsy Turtle. It was a reclaimed wood shack on the water near a marina. It looked like it was slapped together over a weekend by a drunk carpenter—a bean fart away from falling over. There wasn’t a right angle in the place, and that was by design. The next hurricane would probably take it out. But, according to Olivia,they had the best margaritas on the island. So far, I couldn’t argue. They were liquid felonies that hit like a sledgehammer. Made with enough tequila, after one sip your breath could strip paint. Halfway done, and my cheeks tingled.
The place smelled like salt, tequila, and popcorn shrimp. This was the kind of place that you could stumble into on a Tuesday and wake up Friday on a dinghy with a new tattoo and a missing tooth. A few regulars loitered around, and southern rock flowed from the jukebox. The walls were plastered with bits of Americana—road signs, pictures of sunburned tourists making asses of themselves, life preservers, photos of big catches, and a few shark jaws. A replica sea turtle hung over the bar. At least, I think it was a replica.
“So, what are you going to do?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t know.”
“We could go on the run,” she said, excitement sparkling her eyes. “You, me, a convertible, and a .45. What could go wrong?”
I laughed. “That’s got trouble written all over it.”
“Sounds like a good time. We could be reckless, make poor life choices, fall in love with questionable men.”
“This isn’t a movie. We’re not going to pick up Brad Pitt hitchhiking to California.”
