Chapter 31
Yacht Club Confidential
Ryder
This wasn't snooping. It was recon.
I slowed my pace in front of a certain bike shop, with my hands in my pockets, playing it cool while silently kicking myself that I hadn't come sooner, under the cover of crowds.
Earlier today, the street had been packed. Now, not so much.
The time was only nine-thirty, but Main Street was fading fast. The shops were mostly dark, and even the restaurants looked ready to tap out, with their patio chairs flipped and stacked, like they were thinking of tomorrow, not today.
Here and there, a few scattered tourists lingered, strolling alone or drifting in packs.
But it was nothing like the commotion of earlier, when horses and bikes competed for space. Now, there wasn't a single horse in sight. Hell, even the manure was gone.
As far as bikes, I saw plenty, except most of them weren't moving. Instead, they were parked along the curb – unlocked and unattended like theft here wasn't a thing.
Weird.
But this wasn't half as weird as what I saw at Pickett's Pedals behind the decorative fence – some custom bikes that stood out like clowns at a crime scene.
There were maybe a dozen, parked in a tidy row just past the standard fleet. The regular bikes, I'd expected. But those custom bikes? They had me stopping to stare.
Silently, I took them in. A bicycle bumblebee, complete with black-and-yellow stripes and insect antennas, was overshadowed by something even wilder.
This one looked like a cross between a Harley motorcycle and a dominatrix's dream, all leather and studs like its favorite catchphrase was Ride me harder.
A different bike had oversized donut tires and hot pink tassels, while another was wrapped in – what the hell – snakeskin?
I squinted across the distance. Fake snakeskin?
I sure as hell hoped so, because unless the bike had mated with an Anaconda, the dimensions didn't add up.
I was still staring when a male voice off to my left said, "Pretty whacked, huh?"
I turned to look and spotted a guy in his twenties sporting a yacht club jacket and Fortune 500 hair.
When I replied with only a shrug, he sidled closer to say, "And you know which custom bike just went out, don't you?"
Shit.
I probably did.
Still, I said nothing because, Why encourage the guy?
He leaned in, like he was delivering breaking news. "Shark Attack."
I gave him a look. "You don't say."
"The hell I don't." After glancing around, he lowered his voice, like it was all hush-hush. "Word on the street is—"
"Hang on." I held up a finger. "What street?"
He frowned. "You know…the street, street."
I glanced at a nearby sign. "You mean Main Street?"
"Whatever," he said, looking suddenly annoyed. "I'm just saying, there's like this VIP-cage fight going on over this special bike."
Well, that was new. "A cage fight."
"Yeah," he said. "Apparently one VIP reserved Shark Attack, but this other VIP got there first. I think there's some sort of lawsuit."
I stared. That had to be the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. "So, pistols at dawn?"
His eyebrows furrowed. "What do pistols have to do with it?"
Dumbass. "Better than fisticuffs."
His eyes narrowed. "You're messing with me, aren't you?"
No shit. With a laugh, I reminded him, "Hey, you came up to me."
"Yeah, but not on purpose." He let out a smug little snort. "I mean…I'm not here because of you." He jerked his chin toward the bike place. "This shop belongs to my ex."
"Lemme guess. She got it in the divorce."
He stared like I'd just sprouted yellow antennas. "Shit, dude, I'm barely old enough to be married, forget divorced."
No kidding. And yet, if he mentioned something useful, I might be all ears. "So an ex-girlfriend, huh?"
He gave a satisfied shrug. "Yeah. She was a sweet girl, but I had to move on, you know?"
What a douche. "She must be devastated."
"Don't you know it," he said. "If you want the truth, I'm a little nervous."
Was this guy for real? "About what?"
"Like…I haven't seen her since college. What if she begs me back? I mean, I'm already engaged to someone else, so…I'm just saying, it could get messy."
I smiled. "Or maybe she's moved on."
He stiffened. "Moved on?"
"Yeah, got someone new."
His mouth thinned. "Maybe."
The guy was more transparent than glass, and I couldn't resist tweaking him. "Be a huge relief, huh?"
"Oh, yeah." He coughed up an unconvincing laugh. "I mean, totally."
Just then, my cellphone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to look. Griff. Not a call, but a text.
I looked to the stranger and said, "Sorry, dude, I've gotta take this."
Newsflash. I didn't. But it beat listening to some douchebag lie to both of us about Maisie Pickett – whether he'd referred to her by name or not.
Sure, I had never met her. But she was Tessa's roommate and apparently Griff's boss, which meant I'd be choosing her side over the douche's any day.
The guy gestured toward my phone. "Sure, go ahead."
How magnanimous. "So you're sticking around?"
"Well, you are," he said. "Why shouldn't I?"
Just then, a blonde in a tight black dress came striding toward him in stiletto heels. She looked downright livid as she barked out, "Devon!"
Devon froze, looking ready to shit his pants.
She snapped his name again and began marching forward, her heels clicking like a warning.
With a hard swallow, he slowly turned to face her, croaking out, "Oh, there you are. I've been looking all over."
I almost laughed. What a load of bullshit.
Judging from her face, she knew a smoking pile when she heard it. Everything about her screamed expensive – the hair, the dress, and especially the attitude. Her eyes narrowed. "All over? Seriously?"
He rocked back on his heels. "Uh…yeah."
"But why here?" She jabbed a manicured finger toward the bike shop. "Is it because of her?" She said "her" like the woman in question was straddling that Harley bike and giving her the finger.
The douche named Devon let out an exaggerated scoff. "Relax. I don't even know who you mean."
Yup. He was a dumbass, alright.
Sure enough, his lady love went nuclear right there on the sidewalk, bringing up last night, last month, and some chick named Amber from Pilates.
With a shrug, I turned and began walking toward my hotel. As I walked, I read Griff's text. "What, no lighter?"
I had no idea what he meant, so I replied with a question mark.
He texted back. "The duffel. One candle. No lighter. Asshole."
I smiled. Right. This had to be about his duffel bag. Under the terms of our little wager, all Griff could bring to the island was that one black duffel, prepacked, courtesy of me.
Except I didn't pack it.
Call it a kindness, because if I'd packed it, the thing would've been filled with stuff that would only piss him off – like forty pounds of raisins and a framed photo of me.
It would've been funny as hell – until Griff had to walk down Main Street naked because I'd packed him no clothes.
On second thought, that would've been funny, too.
I was still chuckling when I texted him back. "I'll tell her you said so."
His response was instant. "Who?"
"The bag packer."
I waited several beats, and when he didn't reply, I sent a follow-up. "What, you thought I packed it?"
"You didn't?"
Maybe I should've, if only for the laugh. I kept my response simple. "LOL."
"WTF does that mean?"
Feeling charitable, I decided to put the guy out of his misery. "It wasn't me. It was your housekeeper."
He replied with a single word. "Bull."
I knew why he thought this, so I had to lay it out. "No bull. Had to pay her extra to come in after hours." Before he could reply, I sent another follow-up. "You owe me."
"How do you figure?"
"I had two choices. The housekeeper or…" I waited several beats before completing the thought. "Your mom."
Like a twelve-year-old, I laughed as I sent it. Griff's mom didn't even live in the city, but the thought of her packing his briefs was too funny to ignore. I texted again. "You're welcome."
He replied with a finger emoji and nothing else. But hey, that was fine by me. Tomorrow, I'd be meeting him for dinner. He just didn't know it.
But I did.
I had questions. About his boss. My favorite barista. And his side gig as a killer for hire.
If I was lucky, he'd have answers. Plus, I wasn't a complete asshole. If the guy was so hungry, he was working for food, the least I could do was throw him a bone.
As I kept walking, I could still hear the couple bickering near the bike shop. Soon, they'd be attracting a crowd.
Recon time was officially over.
But tomorrow?
Yeah, I was gonna be busy.