Page 14 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
The guy groans, leaning against the bartop like it’s the only thing holding him upright. “Slow down? Buddy, I’m just trying to survive the week with Whitaker’s brat breathing over my shoulder. Kid’s greener than a seasick tourist and about as useful as tits on a tuna.”
The bartender, bless him, senses entertainment. “Oh yeah? That bad?”
“Worse.” The guy lets out a loud, drunken guffaw, warming to his rant. “He just shuffles around the place mumbling to himself. Doesn’t trust anyone to do their job. I got dandruff older than him. Lord help us if they actually let him run the place.”
“Hey,” cuts in a deep, gravelly voice two stools down. Jackson swivels subtly and spots the speaker: a man built like someonestuffed a grizzly bear into a Carhartt jacket. “Watch your mouth. Ben’s alright.”
The drunk visibly shrinks, suddenly six inches shorter and considerably less bold. “Ah, sorry Lou.” He lets out a weak chuckle. “You know how it is, just blowing off steam.”
“Then blow it off somewhere else. I’m trying to drink in peace.”
The guy gives Lou a stiff, embarrassed nod, grumbling quietly as he pays his bill and gathers his coat before slinking away. Jackson sighs. So much for loose lips at the bar.
Jackson quickly signals to settle his own tab, wondering if he can catch the man outside. Surely without Lou looming over him, he would be back to ranting freely in no time. A little bruised pride might be exactly what he needs to start spouting off about what the Whitakers are up to. Before he can follow the drunk toward the door, though, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
The notification is from a dating app he hasn’t touched in months, mostly because the Silver Shoals dating pool is about as deep as a birdbath. Another buzz. Then another.
Curiosity wins out. He opens the app, and there, front and center, is Ben Whitaker’s familiar gym selfie, cheeks pink, T-shirt vacuum-sealed, expression frozen halfway between“Please look at me”and“Oh God, please stop looking at me.”
Below the picture are three rapid-fire, increasingly desperate messages:
I need to talk to you.
Please.
Sorry, I realize this is literally the weirdest way possible to contact you.
Jackson’s gaze flicks back and forth from the drunk who’s stumbling out the door to his phone, where a frantic Ben Whitaker waits anxiously in digital form. It’s not really a choice, but he’s going to be irritated if Whitaker is wasting his time once again.
He makes his decision and taps a quick reply, already half-regretting it:
Not the weirdest message I’ve ever gotten on here, trust me. Meet me at Twice Told Tales in half an hour.
Chapter 12
Ben
Half an hour? Oh sure, fine. That gives Ben enough runway to rehearse twelve different apologies, envision three separate federal indictments, and second-guess every career choice he’s made since kindergarten, when he abandoned his life’s first calling: Astronaut who never leaves the planet (space was too scary, but he loved the suit.)
He’s parked outside the used bookstore downtown, motor idling, the radioactive binder sitting in his lap. Snowflakes drift lazily by the windshield. The scene is pretty and painfully indifferent. He checks his watch again: 10:43 pm, still seventeen minutes early. Because of course he is. Panic loves punctuality.
He stares down his reflection in the mirror, telling himself that this is a person about to take back control.
The reflection does not look convinced.
Here, Ben’s anxiety helpfully starwipes to another slide in the ongoing horror-powerpoint entitled ‘Absolute Worst Outcomes of this Meeting’ that’s cycling in his brain: Jackson simply laughs at him and tells him to stop wasting his time.
He’s mid-fantasy about reversing down the block when knuckles rap suddenly against his driver’s side window. Ben flinches hard enough to head-butt the visor.
Window down, cold air in, along with Jackson James: snow-flecked hair, eyes crinkling above a scarf wrapped high against the chill. “Evening. Are you planning on loitering out here all night, or just until someone calls the neighborhood watch?”
“I didn’t realize you were already here. Thanks again for meeting me, Mr. James. And, uh, sorry about the dating app thing. It was kind of a desperation move.”
“‘Desperation move,’ huh?” Jackson repeats with obvious delight. Ben silently blesses the scarf for obscuring Jackson’s too handsome face, even as another, less helpful part of him regrets missing out on seeing that smile in full. “Exactly how every guy dreams of being described.”
Ben’s laugh cracks like ice. “I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously. I just didn’t really have a lot of options. Not that you’re a last resort. I just meant you’re...special.” He closes his eyes, briefly debating jumping out and running directly into the ocean. “Specialized! I mean specialized. Your skillset.” His brain is begging his mouth to stop to little avail.
A faint snort escapes Jackson. “Keep digging, Fish Prince. At this rate, we’ll hit bedrock in no time.”
