Chapter 7 #2
I just want to be his friend again. Driving past the Welcome to Siren’s Point sign had popped whatever delusional bubble I’d crafted around myself, and every feeling I’d spent the last seven years beating into submission came rushing back.
It had been hard to leave, harder to stay gone, and as easy as anything to come back.
It feels as though I’ve dug through my closet and found a beloved sweatshirt, soft with age, and still the perfect fit after so many years of neglect.
I glance up in the rearview, subconsciously reaching for another piece of him. The house remains dark and still, empty of Shiloh. Feeling a little maudlin all of a sudden, I laugh bitterly when I realize that’s also a pretty good metaphor for my life right now. Dark, still, and empty of Shiloh.
On my eighth day in Siren’s Point, I slip out of the Kelpie Kottage at 3:30 a.m. and walk down to the harbor.
It’s dark and cold and too fucking early to be awake.
It’s the same thing I’ve done the last few days, though, and already it feels like more of a routine than anything I had going in LA.
I can even sort of see why people like starting work this early.
There’s very little traffic, pedestrian or vehicular, and everything is just so…
quiet. Peaceful. The rock of the ocean against the pier is calm—barely a lapping of the water, as though even the sea takes a little rest during the night.
Huddled in my coat, shoulders hunched, I settle on a wooden bench.
The nearest streetlamp has a bulb out, which means this particular spot is in shadow.
Which is perfect for me, since my only purpose in being here is to creep on my best friend.
Former best friend. I huff, my breath puffing outward in a little cloud of cold, and frown.
Shiloh seems to be little more than a ghost that haunts the wharf, as I’ve not once seen him in town while I’ve been here.
I would wonder if he was avoiding me if I didn’t remember Shiloh being antisocial growing up, too.
Maybe it is a bit of both, though, and my presence in town has pushed him further into hiding.
Well, I can’t make him want to see me, but I can make an effort to see him.
Pulling my hands from the pockets of my jacket to ineffectually blow hot hair on them, I bounce my knee.
Hurry the fuck up, I think in Shiloh’s direction.
I’m going to freeze to this bench if I have to sit out here any longer.
Of course, I don’t have to be sitting out here at all.
But that is neither here nor there, and anyway, it’s a moot point.
Shiloh’s here.
I sit up a little straighter, tucking my hands back into my pockets and watching his truck swing into the lot, headlights arcing over the dark pavement.
Two other cars are already there, and I see Shiloh’s head turn toward one of them, his gaze catching.
I wonder if that’s Nils’ vehicle, knowing now that they work together.
Nils doesn’t seem like the type to drive something that fancy, though, and frankly, I’d be surprised to find he could afford it.
The Nils I remember from high school wouldn’t be driving a Porsche.
After a moment, he looks away and slams the door of his truck, the sharp noise loud in the otherwise silent morning.
Frowning, knee jogging a little faster, I watch him walk to the opposite side of the pier than where his boat is docked.
His slip is on the right. I know it is, because I snooped one day after he’d gone.
I know, because I’ve watched him go to the right every morning, and Shiloh rarely deviates from his schedule.
I can barely see him in the morning gloom, the lamps lighting the pier weak against the salty fog that hovers over the ocean.
He’s stopped next to a boat, that much I’m sure, but I can’t tell what he’s doing.
Talking to someone, I suppose, and my stomach clenches in some strange paroxysm of jealousy.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself and whoever caught Shiloh’s attention so completely that he detoured from his routine.
I’ll have to come back this afternoon and see if I can find out what boat that is, see if I recognize the owner.
Another vehicle rumbles into the lot, the growl of the engine breaking the quiet.
As though it’s a reminder of why he’s here, Shiloh walks out of view, and this time, I’m sure he’s heading over to the Drifter.
Unable to see the object of my stalking, I instead watch a blond man climb out of the new car and begin pulling things from his trunk.
I nearly walk over and offer to help when I see him fumble a bright red cooler.
A few moments later, he’s down the pier and out of view, hidden by the shitty lighting and the morning gloom.
Groaning, I rise to standing, shaking out my cold legs and hunching my shoulders. Back to the cottage for another fruitless attempt at sleeping. Back to the cottage, where the walls seem intent upon keeping my worst thoughts and fears contained—nothing but me and failure and Shiloh.
When I get back to the little cottage, I tug the blinds down to fight the rising sun and kick my shoes into the corner.
Tired as I am, the moment I lie down, I feel wide-awake.
I wait, and wait some more. Finally, after what feels like hours but is really only fifteen minutes, I give up.
Curling onto my side, I bring up the Scrabble app Daniel made me download and start a new game.
When I see Shiloh’s truck parked on the street outside of the Temptress, I quicken my steps.
I’ve already gotten into the habit of coming to the pub every evening.
I’m not coming to get sloshed but to have a beer and food that doesn’t come with oven instructions on the box.
I have to admit, it’s also nice to be able to sit at the bar and chat with someone other than Daniel.
Apparently, between my PA and the bartender, I have to pay people to interact with me.
Trying to tone down the somewhat frantic beating of my heart, I pull open the scarred wooden door.
My eyes immediately bounce around the room like a pinball, searching for Shiloh.
Maybe we can have dinner together. Or even just a drink.
Hell, I’ll be happy if all we do is exchange a few pleasantries and go our separate ways.
I haven’t talked to him since that day in his kitchen, and I feel strung out with the need to hear his voice, to stand close enough to smell the sea.
Ryan is behind the bar, like he’s been every evening I’ve come in. He raises a hand in welcome before going back to wiping down the glass in his hand. I barely manage a nod of the head back, too focused on the men standing together at the end of the bar.
Shiloh’s back is to the door, but it’s not as though I need to see his face to know it’s him.
He’s got a ratty sweatshirt on, the blue mottled and aged from too many washes, the neckline ripped in places, and a hole near the hem.
Knowing him, it was probably his dad’s. Shiloh never had an interest in fashion—function was more his speed, and if something was still wearable in some way, he’d never spend the money to replace it.
The man next to him grabs my attention when I hear the low rumble of Shiloh’s laugh.
I feel that laugh low in my belly, like our bodies were pressed together when he did it.
I want to hear it again. I want to be the one to make that sound come out of him.
I want to shove the man who did incite that laugh back a few steps, because he is far too fucking close to my friend.
The stranger is facing Shiloh, one elbow resting on the bar top in the sort of practiced lean that is meant to look effortless.
He’s handsome in the polished sort of way I’m used to seeing in LA—an artful layer of scruff, clear, unblemished dark skin, and closely shaved hair.
He’s got nice, shiny, straight teeth and a beautiful smile, which I know because he’s currently aiming it at Shiloh.
Looking between them and where Ryan is waiting, watching me with a raised brow, I try and decide what to do.
Casually sit in my usual spot and pretend not to notice them?
Act surprised if Shiloh sees me? Or should I just go over and ask what the fuck pretty-boy thinks he’s doing, putting his hand on Shiloh’s arm like that?
Both of Ryan’s eyebrows climb his forehead as I make a decision and beeline over toward the pair.
He sets the glass down and leans his hands on the bar top, watching as I skirt a pair of tables.
He probably thinks I’m about to make a scene.
I’m not, though. I’m merely a friendly guy, on his way over to say a friendly hello to an old friend.
It’s the polite thing to do, after all, and I’m a polite sort of person.
“Hey!” I greet them brightly, coming to a stop so I’m situated between them. Shiloh turns his head in surprise, eyes widening when he sees me. His friend, whom I’m annoyed to find out is even better-looking up close, has a little smile playing on his lips like he’s gearing up to have some fun.
“Oh,” Shiloh says, staring at me. After a second, he adds, “Hi.”
A somewhat awkward silence descends as we all wait for someone else to speak. Pointedly, I look between Shiloh and the other man, but Shiloh either doesn’t understand the nuance or has no interest in introductions. When he clears his throat, I know it’s the latter.
“You must be the new guy in town,” the handsome stranger says, somehow managing to speak around the smirk.
“I’m a local,” I correct. He tilts his head to the side, the corner of his mouth still lopsided in a way that speaks of a suppressed joke. It’s a grin that says I’m laughing at you, not with you, and I want to wipe it right off his pretty face.
“My mistake,” he replies smoothly, rising out of his lean and holding a hand out to shake. “Dryden Roy.”
“Ewan Fate.” I don’t squeeze the shit out of his hand, even though I sort of want to. I don’t like this guy. He’s smug and slimy and probably a dick. He stands way too close to Shiloh.
“Right,” he agrees, as though he already knew who I was. Shiloh clears his throat again, and Dryden Roy’s eyes flick over to him. The smirk drops a bit, becoming a little softer around the edges.
“How was the haul?” I ask Shiloh, smiling when he meets my eye. He doesn’t return it.
“Not bad. You here for dinner?”
“Yeah. Want to join?” I offer. His guarded expression drops for a second, but he looks away and back at his companion before I can figure out what replaced it.
“We ordered out,” he explains, and the smirk slides back into place on Dryden’s face. For a second, nobody says anything. It’s Dryden who breaks the silence, tone satisfied and expression arrogant.
“Then back to my place,” he fills in. Shiloh clears his throat yet again, discomfort rolling off him in waves.
Back to his place? Dryden watches me try and fit those pieces together in a way that doesn’t mean what I think it means.
Something sick and twisted and green with jealousy claws at my stomach.
“Are you together?” I ask. It’s probably not an appropriate question, and the tone I used most definitely isn’t.
But my tongue is operating on a different wavelength than my brain right now, all systems alarming as I look between them.
Shiloh meets my eye, a pull between his eyebrows as he frowns at me.
“Yes. I told you that.”
Told me that? I stare at him, adding confusion to the spin of emotions currently taking me on a ride right now. We’ve had exactly one conversation in the last seven years, and not once did he mention a Dryden Roy. A fucking boyfriend. Swallowing down the sudden urge to be sick, I shake my head.
“No you didn’t.”
Dryden snorts, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like here we go under his breath. Crossing his arms, he leans back against the bar, legs stretched in front of him as though he’s settling in to watch the show.
“I did,” Shiloh tells me, sounding irritated. There’s a hint of color on his tan face. Embarrassment or anger, I don’t know. Shiloh was so very rarely either of those growing up, and certainly not aimed in my direction.
“No,” I correct, “you didn’t.”
He turns to face me fully, Dryden behind him still with arms crossed, as though he’s waiting for Shiloh to need backup.
I want to tell him to leave, want to ask Shiloh to go outside so we can talk in private.
There’s a touch of worry worming its way into my consciousness, and I’m very aware of the presence of people around us, close enough to listen in.
“Yes, I did,” Shiloh repeats, and now I can hear the anger hardening the words just fine. “Two years ago. Hell, Ewan, are you really so self-centered that you can’t remember anything I fucking told you?”
I rock backward on my heels, subconsciously reeling away from the force of his words.
It feels like he shoved me in the chest. His eye contact is almost aggressive now, the flush of his cheeks more apparent.
Without even looking over, I can feel Dryden Roy’s unwelcome presence beside us.
I pitch my voice low in a modicum of effort to keep him out of the conversation.
“We haven’t talked in seven years, Shiloh. You never told me you were seeing a ma—someone.” Flustered, I feel my own face heat. My heart is pounding so hard right now.
“You didn’t even read them,” Shiloh says, eyes bouncing between mine and voice dropping. He sounds hurt, and I’m apparently not the only one who hears it. Dryden reaches out and puts a hand to the back of Shiloh’s arm.
“Read what? Listen, can we go outside for a second and—”
“Food’s ready,” Ryan interrupts, looking between all of us with interest. He slides a couple of bags over the counter.
“Shi—” I start again, but Dryden cuts across me without even looking my direction.
“Change of plans. You take yours, Loh,” he says. I flinch at the nickname, ice flooding my veins. Loh. “You’ve got your hands full tonight, and I think you and I were about done anyway, weren’t we?”
“What?” Shiloh looks nonplussed, blinking at the other man as he’s handed a bag of takeout.
In answer, Dryden cups a hand under Shiloh’s chin, thumb brushing over his short beard. He smiles, but it’s a cold, detached sort of smile, completely at odds with the gentle gesture. Leaning forward, he kisses Shiloh on the mouth, short and quick.
“Do me—and yourself—a favor, though.” He drops his voice like he’s trying to speak to Shiloh alone, but not low enough that I can’t hear when he adds, “Give him hell.”