Chapter 4
Four
Ain’t No Man — The Avett Brothers
CALLIOPE
O ne of the many things I hated about small towns—beyond the lack of Postmates options and good Chinese food—was that word traveled fast.
I’d excepted it to happen at some point, but not the same fucking day. I didn’t peg Elliot Shaw as a loudmouth. He had a quiet strength, nobility underneath that cheerful veneer. I reasoned if you cut him open, he’d be good, right down to the core.
But I could’ve been wrong.
I’d just poured myself a drink in the hopes of erasing the memory of Elliot Shaw’s smile from my mind. Since when did I get horny from a man smiling ?
“Calliope,” Rowan growled. I knew he was mad because he hadn’t bothered to knock and had slammed the front door on his approach.
Dramatic much?
I glanced up from my laptop to see him stomping into the house, face a mask of fury. His bearded jaw was tight; large, muscled body taut with tension.
“I told you to fuckin’ let it go ,” he snarled at me, not bothering to open with small talk.
I closed my laptop, keeping my expression unchanged in the face of my brother’s wrath.
“And that’s your mistake since you know me well enough to know I never let things go.”
Rowan glared at me, laying his hands flat on the kitchen counter. “This isn’t the fucking place for your bullshit, Cal.” Rowan glared at me. “This isn’t Wall Street, where you get to tear apart people, uncaring of the carnage you leave behind. This is a small town of good fucking people.”
I regarded him, pretending his opinions of me didn’t hit me like a blow. He was correct, after all; I did tear people apart for a living. “I wouldn’t call delivering an invoice tearing someone apart ,” I finger quoted. “And Elliot didn’t seem torn apart whatsoever when I gave it to him.”
Sipping my martini, my mind flickered back to what Elliot had seemed. Confident. Laid-back. Perceptive. Sexually attuned to his body in a way that he radiated that he was a good fuck with nothing but a twinkle in his eye.
“Of course, he fucking didn’t,” Rowan’s nostrils flared on a heavy exhale. “Elliot Shaw is a good man, as is his father and his brother. They won’t match what you give them. They’ll treat you with the respect you didn’t afford them.”
Another hit.
Closer to the bone this time.
“Good people have to pay their bills too, Rowan.” I was untouched by my brother’s nobility act. “You can stay the good guy if you like. I’m happy to be the bad guy to ensure you get paid.”
His brows narrowed, his expression turning more hostile by the moment. “I don’t give a shit if I get paid. I give a shit about good people keeping their businesses and lives afloat.”
“The boat was still floating last time I saw it… Though barely,” I replied dryly. Somehow, my memories of the boat, the sunshine, the scent of the ocean and coffee—was already a fond one.
I didn’t have many fond memories that were just mine, that didn’t include my brother, my friends, my nieces and nephews.
Rowan’s eyes were thunderous. “This isn’t a fuckin’ joke, Cal. You’re going to deliver this,” he slammed a check down on the counter, “back to where it came from.”
I craned my head to look at it, though I could deduce what it was.
Elliot wasn’t a loudmouth. He just paid his bills.
Noble. Responsible. “I’m not in the habit of doing stupid things,” I informed my brother.
“And I’m definitely not in the habit of giving back money owed. What is the big deal? They paid you.”
“With money they need,” Rowan gritted out. “Beau—Elliot’s brother—his four-year-old girl has leukemia. He’s a single dad. The bills are fucking astronomical. This…” he tapped the check. “Is not going anywhere but to her. Return the fucking check, Cal.”
I might’ve been a breed of a heartless monster, but even my chest cavity contracted when Rowan said what he said.
A little girl. With leukemia.
The horrors of this world never ceased.
“I won’t cash the check,” I promised him, relenting immediately. Poison crept up my throat. Regret. Shame.
Being a cold-hearted bitch had paid off more than not, and there were not a lot of situations when my whole ‘ask for forgiveness not permission’ thing made me regret my personality. This topped them all.
Rowan shook his head. “You’ll return the fucking check.”
“I don’t need to do that.” I jutted my chin upward, not letting my expression waver. Yes, I felt exceptionally ashamed that I’d essentially shaken down the uncle of a sick girl, but that didn’t mean I was going to let my mask slip.
Rowan narrowed his eyes. “You absolutely fucking do. And if you don’t, consider yourself out of a job.”
I widened my eyes at my brother. “Is that a threat?”
Nothing in his expression changed. My brother had his own mask that he wasn’t letting slip. Except it wasn’t a mask. This anger, this disdain, this lack of respect, this was what he thought of the person I truly was. “No, Calliope, it’s a fucking promise.”
I could feel the wrath in Rowan’s words. He wasn’t fucking around here.
“Why do you have to make the big statement?” I pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Just so you can say you got me to do what you wanted me to do for once in your life?” I tried to add a teasing edge to my tone, if only to try to file down the point of a little girl who didn’t deserve her fate.
Rowan’s expression didn’t so much as crack. “I know this is hard for you to digest, but this isn’t about you, Calliope.”
I didn’t wince, but somewhere deep down, that smarted.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, this is about how you, Rowan Derrick, are a good and noble man.” There might’ve been an edge of bitterness to my tone that time.
Rowan’s gaze was still steely, but the edges of his mouth softened somewhat.
“You, Calliope Derrick, are good and noble too. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.
” He tapped his finger on the check. “As long as you return this. And your niece wants to extend the invitation to a tea party tomorrow afternoon.”
I stared at the check on the counter, not answering my brother, digesting what I’d done and how Rowan must’ve been rusty if he didn’t notice he was staring a villain right in the face. Or maybe he was a really good liar.
Rowan hadn’t moved. I could feel the heaviness of his gaze even when I wasn’t looking directly at him. “Can I tell her you’ll be there?”
Although I was mildly pissed, no way in hell would I do anything to offend my favorite person in the world—or one of them, at least.
“You can RSVP me yes,” I snapped.
“Good.” I could hear the smile in Rowan’s voice.
Then he walked out, leaving me with the check and a heavy conscience.
The next day, before my tea party, I pulled into the parking lot of Shaw Shack.
I’d tried to go back to the docks, but a friendly fisherman—one who looked a lot more like I’d envisioned, with stringy, gray hair and a weathered face that could’ve put him at fifty or seventy—informed me Elliot was working at the Shack today.
It was only a mile or so from the docks. I could’ve walked if I wasn’t wearing six-inch heels and didn’t have to traverse over sandy beaches.
It might’ve been endearing for some woman to take off her heels and wistfully enjoy the ocean and nature, picturing herself as a main character in a Nancy Meyers movie.
Not me, though.
I didn’t wistfully enjoy anything. Only empty-headed idiots did that.
And I didn’t like the things that rattled around in my mind when I stopped to smell the proverbial flowers.
I preferred the low hum of my car and the thump of bass in the heavy rock that was always playing when I was driving.
Plus, I was the main character in my own movie.
The parking lot was empty since the restaurant wasn’t open yet.
It looked kitschy enough from the outside.
Exactly what you’d expect from a restaurant with the name Shack in the title.
Fisherman themed. But not one 100 percent tacky.
The outside was weathered but well maintained, blue shutters on the windows, the sign itself blazing red script written on an old surfboard, fishing nets hanging from the door in a way that wouldn’t draw me in, but a tourist might’ve deemed charming.
Flowers adorned the small walk, and the door handle was fashioned out of a large anchor.
It was perched on the rugged beach, a small pier stretching into the ocean, likely for photo ops more than anything.
Not bad.
Still, I wouldn’t have walked in there in one thousand years if that check wasn’t burning a hole in my Birkin.
As much as I was an asshole—and proud of that title—I wasn’t about to go back on my word. Wasn’t about to fuck over my brother on something that was important to him.
Yet every Machiavellian cell in my body—of which there were many—was screaming at me to rip up the check, throw it in the ocean then go about my day.
A smaller amount of those cells were telling me not just to do that but to pack up my shit and go back to where I belonged—New York—back to Jasper and the misdeeds I was running from under the mistaken assumption that I was a good person deep down.
I almost did it too. My fingers put pressure on the envelope, a second away from tearing. Yet I didn’t.
Instead, I got out of the car and walked on the cobbled walkway—which wreaked havoc on my heels—blood-red nails clutching the anchor on the handle of the door and yanking it open.
I’d expected it to be dark and dingy inside, as most American restaurants were.
Like casinos, the lack of windows encouraged patrons to stop checking the time, get one more drink, one more plate of deep-fried food while staring at one of the ten TVs mounted on the walls while not having an original thought.
Light streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows that encompassed the entire back of the restaurant, giving an unobstructed and frankly stunning view of the ocean and the rugged Maine coastline.