Cash Not Accepted
Griff
I wasn't in hiding. I was lying low, that's all.
I said nothing while Maisie Pickett stared like she'd just spotted Bigfoot making off with a bike.
I stared back. No moving. No blinking. No glancing away.
Finally, it was Maisie who broke the silence. "Well?"
If it weren't me being interrogated, I might have admired her persistence. But it was me, and I wasn't eager to say more. The whole thing was embarrassing as hell. And it would be even more embarrassing if the media showed up and started making it a thing.
Shit. Ryder would love that.
I wasn't exactly famous, but I wasn't an average Joe either. The last thing I needed was attention – especially now, while I was living in a dump and working for food.
It would make for a hell of a story, starring me as the village idiot.
No fucking thanks.
Finally, I replied, "No."
Maisie's eyebrows furrowed. "No?"
"I'm not in hiding." I said it calmly, but in a tone meant to end a conversation, not invite a follow-up.
But Maisie wasn't having it. "You sure? Because this whole no-name, no-paperwork thing feels a little sketchy."
This wasn't what I wanted to hear. "So you think I'm what? Dodging taxes?"
"No, because then you'd be wanting cash."
"Which I don't." I gave her a stiff smile. "End of story."
She didn't smile back. "Just give me a reason." Her voice grew quiet. "Because the last thing I need is trouble."
Trouble for Maisie wasn't my idea of a good time either. "With who?"
"I don't know," she said. "The law…the IRS…whoever."
Only an idiot wouldn't see her point. And me? Village or not, I was no idiot. Plus, the worry in her eyes was hitting me in all the wrong places. I sighed. Screw it. "Alright. You want the reason?"
She nodded.
Truth time. "Because I don't need the money." Sure, it wasn't the whole truth, but it was true enough.
She gave a little shake of her head. "But wait…that's not what you told me in the beginning…when you offered to work here, I mean."
"Oh, yeah? What'd I say?"
She paused as if thinking. "That you're living in a dump."
"Which I am."
"And that you have almost no cash."
"Which I don't."
"So how can you not need money?" She let out a laugh that sounded close to cracking. "You're not like a secret billionaire or something, are you?"
I gave it some thought. Depending on today's market, the answer could go either way. It was time for a dodge. With a scoff, I replied, "Sure, I've got a limo waiting down the street."
"Yeah, right." She smirked. "Except no limos are allowed. You know that."
I shrugged. "Well there ya go."
She didn't look amused. "Seriously, I need to know." Her eyes searched mine. "How can you not need money?"
Good question . It was the second time she'd asked it. And from the look on her face, she'd be asking it a third if I didn't offer a better answer.
The problem was, I didn't have one. In truth, some cash would be nice.
But I wasn't about to take it from Maisie – not when I saw firsthand how hard she was working just to stay afloat.
Plus, I was getting paid in other ways – and I didn't mean in sandwiches. I liked hanging out at the shop. I liked fixing things with my hands. I liked the satisfaction of doing something useful for a nice person who needed it.
Recent history aside, I hadn't been built for a life of leisure. If I weren't hanging out here, I'd have to find somewhere else, because I sure as hell wouldn't be spending those empty hours in a shitty boathouse that reeked of fish and fuck-knows-what-else.
And then, there was the hardest truth of all. I liked being around Maisie .
The realization hit like a thunderbolt.
Shit.
I wasn't ready to deal with that either, so I let it settle while I considered my response.
Finally, I said, "My rent's covered, and you're giving me food. The way I see it, that's enough." I shrugged. "I'm not here to make money."
"Okay, so why are you here?"
"You mean at the shop?"
"Or on the island," she said. "Because the whole thing seems a little fishy."
I considered the boathouse and its assortment of smells. Under my breath, I muttered, "Trust me, you don't know the half of it."
She shook her head. "Sorry, what?"
"Bad joke, don't worry about it." But from the look on her face, she was worried – and getting more worried the longer this went on. I didn't like it .
I let out a resigned breath. "Okay…if you want the story, I'll need a promise first."
"What kind of promise?'
"If I tell you, it's got to stay between us." I gave her a serious look. "Deal?"
"Honestly? I'm not sure." She bit her lip. "I mean…is it illegal?"
I paused to think. "Probably not."
She looked less than reassured. " Probably not?"
"Eh, call it a gray area." I met her gaze. "Now do you wanna know or not?"
"Yes, obviously . But I'm gonna be honest, if you're in trouble with the law – "
"Which I'm not."
"Or if someone was hurt…"
At this, I couldn't help but laugh. "If there was a victim, you're looking at him."
She gave me a funny look. "So you're the victim?"
"Yeah. Of my own stupidity. I should've known Ryder held all the cards."
"What cards?"
"Do I have your word or not?"
"You mean that I won't tell anyone?" She hesitated. "Fine."
"And that includes your roommate," I warned, thinking of Ryder and whatever trail he was onto.
Her mouth tightened before she said it again. "Fine."
"Alright, here it is." I reached up and rubbed the back of my neck. "I lost a bet."
She squinted like "lost a bet" was code for "on the run." She said nothing in reply.
"With friends," I added.
Her expression cleared. "Ohhhh…with Macallan."
Huh? "Macallan who?"
"I don't know, but you mentioned his name…you know, that first day on the dock."
Oh. That. Recalling how I felt during the ferry ride over, I swallowed hard enough to choke down a Buick. "Macallan's no friend of mine."
Her brow wrinkled. "So…you had a falling out?"
"You could say that."
She paused to think. "Lemme guess. Because of the bet."
"No." I smiled. "Because Macallan's a brand of whiskey."
She blinked. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." What I didn't mention was that we'd been drinking Macallan 30, named for its age. At three decades, the bottle we'd polished off during the game had been older than Maisie and worth more than a month's wages – at least at a bike shop.
And it wasn't even close.
I finished by saying, "And yeah, we did have a falling out." I grimaced. "Maybe five glasses in." Hell, it could've been ten for all I recalled. Regardless, I'd had a lot.
"Oh. I guess that explains it." She gave a shaky laugh. "I mean…you did seem kind of mad at him."
Mad wasn't the word. "Trust me, you have no idea."
"So…about this bet. What kind was it?"
"Poker."
"So you lost money?"
I snorted. "I wish."
"What does that mean?"
"We weren't playing for money – at least not in that final hand."
"Why not?"
My stomach turned at the memory, fuzzy as it was. "Because of Ryder. You know, the guy who sent the Raisin Gram?"
She nodded.
"Anyway," I continued, "he wanted to get creative. And like a dumbass, I went along." Of course, the whiskey hadn't helped. By the end, I'd found myself well beyond the point of making good decisions.
"Creative how?" Maisie asked.
Now that I'd started, I might as well finish. Reluctantly, I said, "The loser had to go away for a while."
"And you picked here?"
Now that was funny. But I didn't laugh. "Hell no."
She frowned. "What's wrong with here?"
"Nothing. But I didn't get to choose."
The frown was still there. "But I don't get it. You're saying you were able to just pick up and leave your normal life? Just like that? For a whole month?"
I shrugged. "Pretty much."
"But what about your job?"
"I don't have one."
She looked stunned. "At all? So you're what? Unemployed?"
That was one way to put it. With a scoff, I replied, "Yeah, that's me…livin' the dream."
"But…how do you live?"
"Right now?" I said. "On as little as possible." Ten bucks a day to be exact. In Chicago, it was a different story, but I saw no reason to muddy the waters with details she didn't need.
"Oh." A light flush settled across her cheeks. "The first time I saw you, I figured you had a really great job."
"Nope. Never had one." It wasn't that I had never worked. It was just that I had never worked for anyone else. And the reason for this was simple. I didn't like anyone else calling the shots.
"But that's not true," Maisie said. "I mean, you work here ."
I grinned. "Hey, don't hold that against me."
She looked more pensive than amused. "And you seriously don't want to get paid?"
"What I want is to keep it simple. No cash, no paperwork."
She shifted her weight, uncertainty flickering across her face. "What you really mean is no name, no address, no background information."
"Why bother?" I said. "I'll be gone before you know it." And yet, even as the words left my lips, I wasn't so sure.
The place was growing on me. Or maybe it wasn't the place. Maybe it was the person – the girl standing in front of me looking more troubled than relieved.
Even so, she gave me a tentative smile. "Alright…well…just let me know if you change your mind."
And with that, she grabbed the papers and turned toward the front of the shop. She took two steps, then paused like she might turn back.
But she didn't. Instead, she picked up the pace and kept going.
I watched her go, wondering why I didn't like it. Hell, I didn't like any of it – the disappointment in her voice, the set of her shoulders, and the feeling that I'd failed some sort of test.
And I liked things even less later that week, when a certain blast from her past blew into the shop looking for the wrong kind of trouble.
Yeah, I meant her ex. And, coward that he was, he'd done it when I wasn't there.