Chapter 9 #3
“Oh, are you here for the chickens?” she asks. I nod, trying to resist the urge to wipe at my forehead. I’m starting to sweat. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll page him and let him know you’re here.”
I move off to the side, pretending to find the shelf of cat treats interesting.
Shelby Dawson was as mean as an adder growing up, and age has only seemed to sour her further.
I’d forgotten she works here, or I might not have come at all.
As my mom would say, some people feel the need to put salt in your sugar to make theirs sweeter.
Never has that saying ever applied so well to someone as it does to Shelby Dawson.
“Not many fishermen left traps out this winter,” she says.
I close my eyes and wish for reprieve. I can’t do small talk. When I say nothing—which was likely what she expected anyway—she continues.
“Haven’t seen Shiloh around much. Suppose he’s busy with his new man.
” I look over at the sound of her tinkling laugh, and she winks at me, apparently thinking I’m the type of person to gossip about sex lives in the lobby of the vet clinic.
“Awful nice of him to keep you on, though. Especially through the winter.”
I nod, unsurprised. This has been the constant refrain since I started work hauling traps with Shiloh on the Drifter—“wow, how kind of him to hire you,” “I suppose the job isn’t all that hard, you’ll probably do fine,” “how good of Shiloh to take a chance on you, he’s such a sweet boy.
” On and on and on. If I had a dime for every time someone mentioned Shiloh performing charitable work by hiring an idiot like me, I’d be rich enough to buy the respect I’ll never be able to earn on my own.
A door behind the reception desk opens, and Rudy steps out. I nod in greeting, feeling like his appearance came not a moment too soon. I’m ready to get the chicks and go home. I’m not coming back to town until the day Shiloh puts the boat back in the water.
“Hey, Nils, thanks for coming. You can come on back.” Gesturing me toward him, he leads me to an exam room and points to the cardboard box. “They’re just in there. Only a couple days old.”
Peeking in, I look at the tiny balls of fluff. Two yellow and one black-and-white. They cheep up at me, voices strong for being so new to the world. Reaching a hand in, I touch one of them gently, thinking about Oliver.
“Ea-ea-early,” I comment, voice low. I feel as though I’ve exhausted my vocal cords and need to be silent for two days to recoup. I didn’t practice any of the sentences I should have before coming, and it’s showing.
“Little bit,” Rudy agrees, running a hand over the silver stubble on his jaw. “February is usually when we start seeing hatchlings, though, even if we’d prefer for them to wait until closer to the spring.”
Nodding, I remove my hand from the box, pulling the whole thing toward me on the stainless steel table.
Rudy smiles, and I try my best to return it in a genuine way.
Rudy, twenty years my senior, isn’t so bad.
He’d probably be the kind of guy I’d grab dinner and catch up with if I were the kind of person who did that with anyone.
“Thanks again for doing this for me. Here’s my card—personal cell is on the back. Reach out if you need anything. Also, if you find an additional three is too many, let me know, and I can help with rehoming.”
I nod, carefully lifting the box and trying not to jostle the chicks.
I won’t rehome them. And I certainly won’t leave them on the doorstep of the vet clinic in the middle of winter.
Sometimes—most of the time, truthfully—I wonder about the morals of people in this world.
Someone who can abandon helpless babies, be they chickens or puppies or humans, isn’t the kind of person I want near me.
Shelby calls out a halfhearted goodbye, which I ignore as I pass by on my way to the exit.
The chicks rustle around on ungainly legs, loudly proclaiming their dislike of this carnival ride.
Once the box is seat-belted in the front seat of my truck, I start the heat and point the vents toward them.
Checking my phone, I see two missed calls and a message from an unknown number.
Thinking it’s probably a scammer despite the Siren’s Point area code, I listen to the voicemail and groan.
“Hey, man, this is Ryan. I bartend over at the Tress. Listen, buddy, I hate to do this, but I know you live next to Oliver, and—” My fingers tighten on the cell at the mention of Oliver.
There’s a fuzzy scuffing noise as though Ryan pressed the receiver to his chest. After a second, he comes back with a sigh, although it’s obvious he’s no longer addressing me but a patron.
“Be quiet, I’ll be over there in a second.
Drink your water. Sorry. This job is like herding fucking cats.
Anyway, can you call me back or stop by and give Oli a lift home?
He’s a couple sheets to the wind, and I’ve got his keys.
He said I could call you since apparently you’re…
no, Oli, I’m not saying that…since you’re friends. ”
He cuts off again, the noise once more becoming staticky as he hides the receiver from whatever Oliver is trying to say.
I don’t bother listening to the rest of the message but check the time it was left and groan.
He called right when I’d gone inside the clinic, which was thirty minutes ago.
I call him, closing my eyes and leaning my head back.
If this day wanted to end already, I’d be happy.
“The Temptress, Ryan speaking,” a deep male voice picks up after two rings. I inhale. Here we go.
“It-it-it-it’s Ni-i-i-i-i-i-ils,” I stutter, clenching and unclenching my fist resting atop my thigh. Next to me, the chicks scuff around in their box, chirping softly.
“Oh, hey, man. Thanks for calling me back. Sorry about this. You able to come pick him up? I have to say, I had no idea he was such a lightweight. I’d have stopped pouring two drinks ago if I knew.”
I’ve never seen Oliver drink anything but water, and I’ve not seen liquor at his house the times I’ve been there.
Him being a lightweight doesn’t surprise me at all.
I would be, too. The chicks raise their voices a little bit, reminding me I’ve got babies to take care of, as well as, apparently, a drunk person.
“Hou-ou-ou-r?” I ask, nails digging into my palm.
“Sounds good,” Ryan readily agrees, thankfully able to pluck full sentences from single words. “See you soon.”
He hangs up, and I put the truck in gear to head home.
Having thankfully set up the area prior to leaving, getting the chicks settled doesn’t take much more than removing them from the box and making sure they eat.
Kneeling next to the bathtub, I carefully pick them up and place them next to the starter feed, watching to be sure all three figure out what’s there.
I’ll need to pick up more tomorrow, but for now, this will do.
By the time I get back to town and enter the Temptress, it’s late. The sun is long down, and I am long past the point of wanting to be home and staying there. One look at the packed bar and I’m cursing silently to myself. This is not my idea of a good time.
Ryan, easily discernible in any crowd, given his height and breadth, isn’t behind the bar.
Instead, a younger man I don’t recognize is there, eyes on a group of people, listening to them order.
I scan the crowd, looking for Oliver. It doesn’t even matter that the bar is nearly full enough to be standing room only; I find him almost immediately.
Oliver is sitting at the end of the L-shaped bar, elbow on the wood and cheek resting on his palm as he stares at the man sitting next to him, back to me.
His silver-blond hair is bright in the lower lights of the room, and even from here, I can see the flush on his cheeks.
He’s slouched against the bar like that elbow is the only thing keeping him propped up.
He’s talking so intently to his companion that it’s not until I’m directly behind the man that he sees me.
“Oh!” Oliver says, sitting up and grinning. It’s a slightly sloppier version of his usual smile and just as cute. Oliver, the miracle relaxation balm that he is, soothes some of the tension I’d picked up at Caring Claws. “Nils is here!”
I flinch at the volume, even though the bar is loud from so many voices. Oliver just continues to smile, watching me as I move a little closer to him. The man he’d been chatting with frowns at me, a deep line between his eyebrows as he looks between us. I don’t recognize him.
“Nils, this is Bud. Budrow. Buddington. Budrigar. I’m sorry, what was the full thing?” Oliver asks politely. I swallow down a laugh. Buddington.
“Just Bud is fine,” the man—Buddington, as I fear I’ll never be able to think of him as anything else—tells him, a slight bite to his tone that I don’t particularly like.
Oliver doesn’t hear it, smiling and reaching for his drink.
I put a hand on his shoulder. Hadn’t Ryan cut him off? That doesn’t look like water to me.
“Home?” I ask him, squeezing gently. He sets the glass back down obediently.
“We were just about to leave, actually,” Bud says, bumping against me as he rises from the barstool.
I have to take a step back as Oliver stands as well, a little less fluidly.
He’s not wasted, but he’s definitely not sober either.
There’s red surrounding the turquoise of his irises, pupils wide, and he’s moving with the careful deliberation of someone who doesn’t feel like they’ve got full motor control over their body.
“Yeah, let’s leave,” Oliver agrees, to nobody in particular. Bud smiles and grasps his elbow. I refrain from grabbing the other side, not wanting this to become a tug-of-war fight over him. Although judging by the appreciation in Bud’s gaze as he looks Oliver over, it very well might come to that.