6. Quite the Handful
SIX
QUITE THE HANDFUL
GIGI
Jackson and I arrive at the new Zephyr Cruises office near one of the docks. The very first—and only—person we encounter upon entering is the man Dad had mentioned, his new fishing buddy. His blue shirt matches the cap Dad wore at breakfast, with Guy embroidered under the logo. The rugged man looking to be in his forties, bears the marks of a hard life with scars up and down his tatted arms and one under an eye.
I start off with the truth. “Hi, I’m Bill Baymont’s daughter and owner of the Love Beach Buzz. He just raved on and on about your fishing cruises over breakfast. We had to come check you out. Congratulations on your new business.”
“Nice to meet you.” He directs the gruff greeting toward me, but keeps a wary eye on Jackson.
“Oh, and this is, um…” I begin, uncertain what to say as I point at him—something I hadn’t prepared for on the ride over.
“I’m her boyfriend,” Jackson cuts in, placing his hand on my lower back. I stiffen at his touch, my pulse quickening instantly.
“Anyway, I’ve just learned about your bourgeoning venture today. I wondered if you’d be interested in the business advertising package we have at the Love Beach Buzz. Our paper is the best way to spread the word around the county about your cruises to both locals and tourists.”
While talking, I see a chance to develop a bigger story and a featured article in the Buzz. In my next breath, I pitch the idea to him. He seems open, and it would give me the perfect opportunity to stay in his orbit, gain his trust, and potentially gather more details.
“What kind of fish do people catch on your cruises? Sharks?” Jackson asks.
“Some—only the legal ones, of course,” the man replies briskly, rattling off a list of species he targets. He then even offers to take us out on the water and show us his shiny new boat. “The two of you could take a cruise together and then leave a review online.”
Jackson ducks his hands into his pockets and moves over to a wall adorned with a dozen framed photos.
“That’s great—I can snap some excellent photos for the article while we’re on the water,” I say, though my memory of the attack makes me shudder, worried about being out on open water with him. Changing the subject, I ask cautiously, “How did you get into fishing, if you don’t mind me asking?”
With a hint of a grin, he explains his father used to take him on fishing trips down to the Gulf of Mexico while riding motorcycles with a club. “That’s when I fell in love with the sport,” he adds.
Before I can ask another question, Jackson abruptly cuts in, his impatience obvious as he eyes one of the photos on the wall. “Is this you pictured here among the Mississippi Mudrunners, wearing their patches? Weren’t they notorious for all sorts of illegal activities?”
I peer at Guy, who shifts uncomfortably. “Well, no—at least not the club. I, er, I mean, my dad was involved with that.”
Jackson returns to my side. “Have you been approached by parties willing to pay big money for the catch of illegal fish?” My eyes double at his cocky questioning; I thought we had agreed to deal with this carefully under the guise of my newspaper opportunities.
“No, never.” He swallows hard. “Are you a cop? Look, I run an entirely above-board operation. I’d never break the law here.” The fisherman grows defensive.
“What about as a member of the motorcycle club?” Jackson’s jaw clicks and doesn’t give up his questioning.
Before I realize what’s happening, the man bolts out the back door with Jackson hot on his heels. It all escalates so quickly, it takes me a moment to process the situation. Then I sprint after them, quickly overtaking Jackson in my haste.
“Jeez, G. You never could keep up with me in track and field back in school,” Jackson calls out.
“I’ve been training this past year because the Buzz is the main sponsor for the new Love Beach Marathon this fall, and I’m determined to finish it,” I reply, not out of breath yet.
We might both be chasing after Zephyr with the same goal in mind, but now our running becomes a contest—each of us trying to outdo the other. Although as Zephyr reaches the chain-link fence surrounding the property and attempts to climb it, I hit my limit. A fence climber I am not.
“Let me show you how a hero gets it done, darlin’,” Jackson boasts, his cockiness both infuriating and oddly alluring. My hands on hips, I gulp deep breaths as I watch him scale the fence with the agility of a monkey. In mere seconds, he brings the man down and cuffs him, executing the move as if he’d practiced it all his life.
Later that day at the police station, we learn that Zephyr’s alibi clears him for the night of my attack—a local woman he’d been seeing had invited him over for dinner while her folks were in town. Add in a sighting from the liquor store clerk where he’d stopped to buy a bottle of wine before meeting them for dinner, and I strike him off my list of possible attackers.
“Well, Zephyr swears he’s been trying to keep a low profile, rebuilding his life and staying out of trouble here, and that he wouldn’t get involved in illegal fishing. Although he does have an outstanding warrant in Mississippi. He’s scheduled to be sent back there tomorrow morning after spending the night in jail,” Jackson explains, finally finding me in Davis’s office where I’ve waited for a couple of hours.
My shoulders slump. “I was so sure this was going to lead somewhere.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself yet,” Jackson says, leaning a hip casually on the desk a few feet in front of me. “He did mention one more thing—as a demand for leniency in his case. At the docks, he overheard some chatter among boat captains and crew. One night, a few deckhands grumbled about not getting paid enough for what they called ‘the shark job,’ and they even discussed roughing up the manager at the Love Beach Yacht Club, blackmailing him for more money or they’d turn him in.”
“Yacht Club? Do you think that’s worth investigating?”
“Illegal big game fishing is backed by wealthy patrons, and the Yacht Club fits in perfectly.” Jackson runs a hand over his chiseled jaw and scruffy beard as his hair falls into his eyes. If he ever caught the eye of Hollywood, he could star in one of those action thrillers, causing women to fall instantly for him.
“Did Zephyr say which boat the deckhands worked for?” I fire off, my mind already racing ahead.
He grins. “Why am I not surprised you know the right questions to ask? Yep. Believe it or not, the boat is named The Jailbird.”
“Then it might be docked at the club. We could go look. Dad and I have a membership there to keep abreast of news and events.”
“Hold up. We’re keeping the name of the boat a secret for now. Only Davis and us know about it. If you go snooping around, you could set off all kinds of alarms with the wrong people.”
“Come on, we have to check it out. It’s our only lead.” I declare, rising to my feet. Jackson follows.
“Do you think I have time for your little news investigation, G? I’m busy running an operation to catch—” he begins, but stops as I arch an eyebrow.
“Catch who?” I press since he’s off guard.
“Not going there.”
“Then I’m heading to the club,” I announce, moving toward the door. But Jackson grabs my arms, pulling me back.
“No way, G.” I glare at him. “Seriously, if looks could kill, your eyes would burn me to a crisp right now,” he teases.
He’s right—only there’s something even more intense between us, a heat I’m not ready to fully acknowledge. I shrug off his hold and cross my arms defiantly. His gaze drifts down to my chest as he licks his lips. I can tell I’ve rattled him, and I like that I have. But I’m determined not to let him have his way.
“I never said you had to be involved in my investigation. But your bosses clearly think I need babysitting. Do they pay you enough for that?” I challenge, cocking my head.
“Considering you’re quite the handful, absolutely not,” he replies with a snarky tone.
I scoff as I head toward the door, only for him to come up behind me and slam his hand on it, shutting it forcefully. His lips hover dangerously close to my ear as he murmurs, “Goddammit, woman, you drive me crazy.”
“The feeling is very mutual,” I answer breathily, tilting my head so close that our breaths mingle for a moment—if only that moment could last.
A knock at the door startles me, and we quickly break apart. Davis peeks in, eyeing us both. “I’ve got a hit on the fingerprints from Gigi’s house. You’re going to want to see this, Jackson.”
He follows Davis out, but when I try to join, his raised hand stops me like an immovable barrier.
“Nope. You stay here. I’ll be right back. Then… fine, we’ll check out that boat at the Yacht Club—but this time, we do it my way. Clearly, your method with Zephyr today didn’t work,” he declares.
“Only because you charged in like a bull in a china shop, the moment you saw that motorcycle club photo,” I huff, pacing the office.
“I trust my gut and never regret following it. You can’t tell me you don’t have those instincts too, G. We’re very similar in that regard, except you should learn to trust yours more often.” Our eyes meet for a split second, as if silently acknowledging our shared quirk.
“Whatever,” I grumble.
“Look, I’ll run the Yacht Club manager through our system and check for any previous records or warrants. Then we’ll go to the club and see what we can uncover. Now sit down—this won’t take long,” he orders, pointing toward the chair. I don’t move. He snaps his fingers and points again.
I snort and sit, and finally he leaves. My thoughts scatter in a hundred different directions, until I focus on Jackson… The way he’d called himself my boyfriend in front of Zephyr. What was that about?
I can’t deny what I felt when he stood behind me at the office door a minute ago, though. Before Davis interrupted us, sparks flew up and down my spine. Even now, Jackson’s body heat lingers on my skin as if he wrapped himself around me. I hug my arms, then I catch a whiff—a scent that unmistakably smells like me.
Ugh. I’ve been wearing these same clothes for nearly two days now. Bled in them, slept in them, and ran in them. I hope Jackson hasn’t noticed… not that his opinion matters much. But if we’re going to show up at the Yacht Club, I can’t look like this. I need him to take me home so I can shower, change, and be surrounded by my own things.
Jackson takes longer than I expected. When he returns with a scowl on his face, he waits until we’re in his truck before he breaks the news.
“The fingerprints match a rough Central American guy—a real intimidating character you’d never want to cross. Now, unless you’ve been dating this type of guy, there’s no reason for him to have been at your house, right?” he asks with a sidelong glance.
“I don’t know a single soul like that.”
“It means he’s likely the one who attacked you, since you said your purse was missing. I think we can assume he found your keys and address on your ID and went to the house next.”
“Why? Just to warn me away? What does it mean?”
He doesn’t answer, but grips the steering wheel tighter. I can tell there’s more to this that bugs him. But I don’t have time to seek it out, when the turn off for the Yacht club is ahead, while my house lies in the other direction.
“Wait, we can’t go to the club like this. There’s a dress code. I’m begging you—please take me back to my house so I can shower and change. This sweatshirt reminds me of the attack,” I plead, tugging at the hem. “There’s even blood on it.”
“Yeah—on my sweatshirt. Admit you swiped it that one night during the party Beau and I had, and I’ll take you home,” he retorts.
My head snaps toward him. “What makes you think it’s yours?”
His glare says he knows the truth. I don’t know how he knows, but yes, it was me. It wasn’t that I desired him back then or anything. But I loved this band in high school, and I didn’t think he deserved to wear it more than me.
“Okay, I took it. Happy now? I’m desperate for a shower and change of clothes, so please, if you don’t mind.” I gesture toward the direction of my house. He turns and I endure his not-so-subtle chuckling all the way home.