The Boathouse Blues
Griff
Home sweet home. If Ryder said it one more time, he was going in the lake. One good toss. That's all it would take – and a short one, too, with the water so close.
As I eyed the rickety building, I fought the sensible urge to turn and bolt. "It's not a home," I said. "It's a boathouse."
Ryder shrugged. "House, home, what's the difference?"
I flicked my chin toward the looming monstrosity. "A home is for people. That's for boats." I gave him a look. "You see an oar up my ass?"
He laughed. "No, but from the look on your face, I wouldn't rule it out."
Asshole.
The deal had included a place to crash, and I'd been prepared for the worst. Or so I thought. But then I'd seen this place – an old claptrap of a building straight from a horror flick.
And yeah, two stories or not, it was definitely a place for boats – two at the most unless they were canoes. Even its location sucked – too far from the main strip and too close to that fish smell coming from wherever.
But there it squatted – like it had crawled out of the lake when no one was looking. I gave the building another once-over, not liking what I saw – weathered siding bleached by too many summers, a sagging dock out front, and weeds so thick they'd need a machete to clear.
I looked upward and spotted a second-floor balcony overlooking the water. I craned my neck for a better look. The thing looked smaller than a broom closet and only half as welcoming.
I gave a silent scoff. Well, Ryder had promised a waterfront view. If I weren't so annoyed, I might have laughed.
Next to me, Ryder gave the key a cheerful dangle. "Home sweet home," he said yet again.
I eyed the water. Then I eyed Ryder. I was still holding the box of pastries, and I wasn't loving the idea of getting them wet. Plus there was the matter of the duffel. I hadn't wrestled it away from some stranger just to drop it in the drink.
Ryder chuckled. "Aw, don't look like that. Your place is upstairs."
My gaze returned upward. My place . But not my choice. I gave a slow shake of my head. I'd really stepped in it this time.
With Ryder leading the way, we circled around to the side, where a narrow door led to God-knows-where. The moment Ryder opened it, a wave of mustiness hit like a gym sock to the face, but I refused to back away.
The stairs creaked ominously as we climbed upward toward the so-called apartment. When we reached the top, Ryder swung the door wide open as if revealing a five-star suite.
What greeted me was no such thing. It was a horror show, minus the blood – a sparsely furnished studio apartment that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since Freddy Krueger had moved out.
The floor creaked beneath us as we entered the dusty space. My jaw ticked as I took it all in. This was a new low, even for Ryder.
The walls were a faded yellow, and the furniture was nearly non-existent. I counted three items total – a single twin bed shoved against the far wall, a cheap folding chair near the balcony door, and a small lopsided table that looked ready to collapse.
But Ryder was grinning. "Cozy, right?"
If I were delicate, I might have shuddered. "Yeah, cozy as a crime scene."
"Oh, come on," he laughed. "You've slept in worse."
He was exaggerating – and not just a little. And besides, I wasn't one to look back. I liked looking forward – except today I wasn't so sure. Looking forward now had me facing a month in exile from luxuries I'd come to expect.
I was still eyeing my new home. The bathroom door was wide open, revealing a sink wedged so close to the toilet that I could, in theory, wash my hands while sitting down.
And of course, Ryder was delighted to point this out. "Look, you can shit and shave at the same time."
Yeah. I could. But I wouldn't. Even I had my limits. Hell, I'd seen airplane bathrooms with more dignity. But I didn't say it, because Ryder was having too much fun already. Instead I stuck with the basics. "Please tell me there's a shower."
"Sure," he laughed, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. "It's behind the door, might be a little narrow though."
I pulled my gaze from the bathroom and took in the rest of it. In the far corner was a small kitchenette. It consisted of a two-burner stove wedged between a pea-green row of cupboards and an old, narrow fridge that sounded like it was dying in real time.
No way I'd be opening that .
But Ryder thought otherwise. He strode forward and yanked open the fridge's door, revealing a small bottle of no-name mustard, a half-stick of butter, and a single can of off-brand soda.
With the fridge still open, he turned to me with a grin. "Look, something to go with your pastries."
Whether he meant the butter or the soda, it didn't matter. And forget the mustard. I wasn't touching any of it. No, all of this would be going straight into the trash.
As far as the pastries, I still hadn't opened the box, not even during the ride out here. And I didn't mean a car ride. I meant a horse-and-buggy ride. Apparently, people paid good money for such things. But me? I liked a car just fine, thank you very much.
Or better yet, give me a bike. And I didn't mean a bicycle. I strode forward and shut the fridge. "Where's the fish?"
"What fish?"
"The place reeks of it." No lie . And I didn't mean fresh fish. I meant fish that had been rotting in the sun – or hell, in somebody's basement.
He grinned. "Hey, I did say waterfront."
Waterfront shouldn't smell like this . But I let it go. No need to encourage him.
Looking smug as hell, Ryder took a leisurely look around. "Just like your place in Chicago. Am I right?"
My jaw clenched. Don't say it.
Don't fucking say it.
But then he did. "Home sweet home."
I glanced toward the nearest Ryder-launching point – the thing that might be called a balcony. Through the grime of the glass patio door, the view beyond was actually kind of nice. Water glittered beyond the dock, boats bobbed in the distance, and…I blinked. What the hell?
A familiar-looking seagull was perched on the balcony railing – not looking out at the water, but inward toward me. More to myself than to Ryder, I murmured, "It can't be the same one."
"The same what?" Ryder asked.
I pointed. "That seagull."
Ryder turned to look. "Yeah, what about it?"
I gave it some thought. "Nothing." There had to be thousands of birds on the island. No way it was the same. I looked back to Ryder.
He was still staring at the bird. His eyebrows furrowed as he asked, "What's it looking at?"
I turned to face it. It was looking at me , that's what. Blame it on the hangover, but I swear, I saw its eyes narrow. To Ryder, I muttered, "Don't ask."
He was quiet for several beats before asking, "So…you ready to quit?"
Once again, I turned to face him. "Hell no."
His eyes flickered with a hint of surprise. "You sure?"
"Positive."
He frowned. "So I've gotta ask, how much money was in your wallet?"
I didn't want to say. But hey, a bet was a bet. Grudgingly, I admitted, "Just over three-hundred."
"Dollars? For thirty days?" He burst out laughing. "No fucking way. I figured you'd have a grand at least." He glanced toward the pastry box in my hands. "Damn, I should've bought you two dozen."
Yeah, two dozen raisin whatevers. Like that would be a treat. I didn't bother with a reply.
"Aw cheer up," Ryder said, "At least you've got a roof over your head."
I looked up and spotted a big water stain just above my head. "Yeah, a leaky one."
"Eh, better than nothing." But then his voice turned serious. "You sure you can live on ten bucks a day?"
I shrugged like it was no big deal. "Hey, I've done it before."
"Yeah, but not lately."
For some reason, his concern – or whatever it was – only pissed me off. "I'll be fine – not a big deal."
"If you say so."
"Yeah, well I do." In fact, I'd laid some serious clout on the line – as Ryder damn well knew. There was no way I'd be quitting now.
Ryder said, "Good thing you have your phone."
No shit. It was about the only thing I had. What I didn't have were credit cards or any other sources of funds. Absently, I said, "Yeah? And why's that?"
He grinned. "So you can call me when you quit."
I summoned up a grin of my own. "Dream on, fucker."
Just then, the sounds of clomping hooves echoed from somewhere outside. I didn't bother going to the window. I knew exactly what it was. It was the same horse and carriage that had delivered us here maybe ten minutes ago.
Ryder had tipped the driver a cool hundred to circle back and pick him up. I knew exactly where Ryder would be going next – to his private jet, which would carry him back to Chicago, where all of this had started.
But me? I was stuck here for a whole month – or until I gave up and called it quits.
Screw that.
After a final glance around, Ryder headed for the door, only to stop short and turn back with a smirk. "Need a ride?"
"In the carriage? No thanks."
His eyebrows lifted. "I meant in the jet."
Nice try, asshole. I forced a laugh. "What? And leave this place?" I grinned. "Home sweet home, right?"
With a shake of his head, he turned and walked out the door. A moment later, his voice carried from somewhere on the stairs. "You won't last a week."
He was wrong. I'd last as long as it took.
Me – I wasn't a guy who lost. Correction – I wasn't a guy who usually lost. Last night had been a rare exception.
But I wasn't gonna lose this one. Not here. Not now.
Not a chance.