Chapter 8
8
Davis
It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to crawl out of my own skin.
About since Bro Code broke up, matter of fact.
But today, I can’t sit still.
I could go hunt for the treasure, but I don’t know where it fucking is . I need hands on the journal to see how the pages fit together, to fold them where they’ve been folded before, to inspect the binding and see if there’s anything hidden in the covers.
But after Saturday’s break-in, with me present for it, I can’t go talk to Pop Rock again about anything having to do with the treasure without him accusing me of trying to steal things.
So I’m stuck.
Worthless.
Useless.
And going fucking nuts.
It does feel like Denver.
Like I’m on the cusp of a new life that I’m not ready for, but my old life doesn’t fit me anymore and I can’t bend it and snap it back into place the way I want to.
Working out doesn’t help.
Meditating doesn’t help.
Complex logic puzzles don’t help.
Reviewing all the pictures Sloane took of the journal doesn’t help.
Keeping up over text with the upgrades to the Thorny Rock Museum’s security system doesn’t help.
Wondering if Sloane’s going to walk home alone after work doesn’t help.
Thinking about how she was clearly pissed at me when I refused to leave and wouldn’t let her walk to work by herself this morning doesn’t help.
Contemplating that she might dump me before we get fake married, which leaves an unusual sensation in the pit of my stomach, doesn’t help.
My inability to suppress the memory of kissing her Saturday doesn’t help.
Wanting to jack off and refusing to because that will only make things worse doesn’t help.
Wondering if she’s actually masturbated to thoughts of me doesn’t help.
And Beck showing up in the early afternoon doesn’t help either.
When the band split, Beck went into modeling underwear, then later launched a fashion empire. He’s mostly out of the game now while he and his wife, Sarah, raise their two babies.
Dude’s the best.
Annoyingly happy, but also the best.
He’s the original reason any of us knew Shipwreck existed. He got a weekend house up here years and years ago, and he’s hosted parties and get-togethers and he lets us all use his house anytime it’s free.
He has me by a couple inches, and he enjoys the metabolism—and appetite—of a goat. He has Ava, his oldest, who just turned two, with him.
They find me splitting wood outside the camper I drove up here when I quit my job after I realized how much attention Shipwreck and the treasure were getting because of Cooper’s wedding.
And how solving this treasure hunt needed to become my full-time job.
Beck takes one look at me, then does a double take. “Whoa. You’re up in some shi—shitake mushrooms, aren’t you?”
“Mush-ooms!” Ava yells from his arms.
Beck winces. “Whoops.”
“Whoops?” I ask.
“Mush-ooms!” Ava yells again.
“You just ate twenty minutes ago,” Beck says to her. “Peas and carrots and a banana and turkey rolls and a big grilled cheese sandwich. You ate, we changed your diaper, and then we left. Remember?”
She glares at him. “Mush-ooms.”
He looks at me. “Ah, you got any portabellas? She’s having a growth spurt. I packed applesauce and cheese sticks and toast and grapes and Cheerios and this really great bean salad we had for dinner last night, and she really did eat a big lunch just twenty minutes ago, and?—”
“Mush-ooms!” Ava interrupts.
“You had leftovers from dinner last night?” I ask. Beck doesn’t leave leftovers.
Ever.
It was one of the things that both amused me and annoyed me most when we were traveling together as a band. Sometimes a guy just wants leftovers.
He grins. “It was our fourth side dish.”
Of course.
Four side dishes are one too many for even Beck in a single sitting.
Apparently.
I jerk my thumb at the door. “Help yourself.”
“Seriously? You have mushrooms?”
Ava wiggles and dives for the ground. Beck does some gymnastics trick that should be physically impossible to keep her from landing on her head, and he comes up holding her upside down by one foot.
She giggles.
Then she growls at me, reminding me of Sloane, which makes my heart do that pitter-patter fucking annoying thing again.
Mind over emotions.
Mind over hormones.
Mind over wanting to be her hero.
I need to find this goddamn treasure and then figure out what’s next in my entire life.
And a woman will never be what’s next .
I do this thing where I get bored with something and move on. Not doing that in a relationship, so I just don’t do relationships.
Also, I’d have to trust a stranger with some of my deepest, darkest secrets.
Not happening. The end.
“Mush-ooms,” Ava says.
I bend over and look the toddler right in her blue eyes. “Life lesson, kiddo. Uncle Davis hears all, and he will always stock mushrooms for you.”
“You uggy,” she says.
Beck chokes and lifts her so her face is up near his face. “ Ava . Where did you learn that word? We don’t like that word. That word is ug—oh. That’s where you learned that word.”
She flaps her arms, still upside down. “I fwy! Mush-ooms!”
I toss my axe aside and lead them inside, where I dig mushrooms out of my fridge and hand them over to my honorary niece, who’s shoved my computer out of the way at my small kitchenette table.
I open the blinds on the window over the table so she can look out at the colorful fall trees too.
Vanessa’s never having kids.
I’m never having kids.
So my buddies’ kids are our nieces and nephews.
Like it this way.
Ava pounces on the mushrooms like she hasn’t eaten in four days.
I slide a look at Beck.
He grins again. “Yeah, good thing I have a little cash saved up. Both of the girls got my appetite.”
“Vanessa sent you.”
He pulls a milk box out of the diaper bag on his shoulder and hands it to Ava, who’s kneeling on the bench, one elbow on the table while she uses her other hand to shovel mushrooms into her mouth.
Then he looks back at me. “She said the Denver word. I didn’t know she knew the Denver word, but she said it.”
“Who else is coming?”
“Cash tomorrow, Levi this weekend, and Tripp next week. Wyatt and Ellie whenever they can clear their schedules. But I swear they still don’t know what Denver actually means. They just know, you know, the general Denver thing.”
“I won’t Denver again.”
Probably.
I learned my lesson.
And this is a completely different situation.
Beck hands Ava a stick of string cheese from the diaper bag that he’s set on the bench on the other side of the table.
“Mo mush-oom,” she says.
“But the cheese is yummy.”
She death-glares at him.
I suck in a smile. “Think your kid just called you a liar.”
“Cheese is delicious . Don’t insult cheese. It’s the pinnacle of all food groups.”
“Maybe brie. Some high-quality blue. Goat. Honey goat. Sarah’s magic cheeseball recipe that she perfected for you. But not that crap you’re trying to give her.”
“Not dat cwap,” Ava agrees.
“Mommy’s gonna love all of your new words,” he says to her with another wince.
She grins.
I grin too, knowing he’s wrong. Sarah’s pretty chill.
Not much better in life than watching your buddies fall in love and have kids who will grow up to be just like them.
We had a fuck ton of fun as kids.
Even when I felt like I was on the fringes, it was fun.
Love to see that legacy live on.
I squat next to the table and poke her in the foot. “Hey, Ava, you know what’s better than mushrooms?”
Big blue eyes turn to stare at me while she nibbles on a piece of a portabella.
“Dragon fruit.”
“Eat dwagon?”
“It has scales like a dragon, and it tastes like a dragon.”
Her gaze jumps between me and Beck.
“You better have dragon fruit too,” Beck mutters to me.
Like I’d torture his kid—or myself—by making her cry.
“Dwagon taste wike cookie?” Ava asks.
“Psh. Cookies are trash compared to dragon fruit.”
Beck’s already digging into my compact fridge, pulling out the dragon fruit.
He’s also giving me a look that’s pretty unusual on him.
It’s a serious look.
Beck doesn’t do serious.
He does funny. He does happy. He does oh, fuck, I screwed up .
But he doesn’t do serious.
“I know you’re distracting me,” he tells me while he starts cutting the dragon fruit.
“So easy to do.”
“Look, I don’t care what you do, so long as you don’t end up in jail. Jail is bad. We don’t want jail.”
“Your vocabulary is adorable.”
“We also don’t want me to throw this dragon fruit at you, because it’s food, and it smells good?—”
“Wike dwagon!” Ava yells.
“Yeah. It smells like a delicious dragon. Ava, please tell Uncle Davis we don’t want him to go to jail.”
She squints at me. “Uggy in jay-ah?”
“ Ava . Seriously. Not the ugly word. Uncle Davis isn’t ugly. He’s…hairy.”
Huh.
I suddenly want a two-year-old’s opinion on something. And not because I care that she thinks I’m ugly.
This is a new development.
I squat down to her level and stroke my beard. “Is this why you think I’m ugly?”
“No.”
“My hair?” I touch the top of my head where I’ve tied my long hair up into its usual bun.
“No.”
“My eyes?”
She nods. “You eyes uggy. An’ nose.”
If Beck cringes any harder, he’s gonna turn his face inside out.
“So I should grow the beard over my eyes and nose?” I ask.
“Wike Wed?”
I squint. “Wed?”
“Red,” Beck says. “Red, the new panda on Panda Bananda . And again, Ava, not nice .”
Didn’t know there was a new panda. Apparently I need to brush up on my kid shows.
“You not nice,” Ava says.
“Are you sure you’re only two?” I ask her.
“I Ava,” she says.
She wolfs down all of the mushrooms that I have in the house, two string cheeses, and two dragon fruits before she announces she wants to play.
Beck bundles her in a little vest, and we head back outside so she can run.
“She gonna puke?” I ask Beck.
“Unlikely. You gonna puke?”
I glance at him.
He grins. “Or get yourself arrested?”
“I’m not going to get myself arrested.”
“You’re searching for Thorny Rock’s treasure.”
“Patrick Dixon is too.”
That thing where Beck’s always happy?
It stops when his sister’s ex-boyfriend is mentioned.
Fucker dumped Ellie at Christmas, which set off a string of events that led to her having a car accident where we almost lost her.
She’s good now—she married Wyatt Morgan, one of the few guys from the neighborhood who didn’t have any interest in joining Bro Code, and who’s always been tightest with Beck—but Dixon is one of maybe two people I don’t expect Beck will ever forgive and forget in his lifetime.
“The fuck?” he mutters, eyes on Ava—probably to make sure she’s too far away to hear him—while his expression turns grim.
Maybe a little pissed off too.
“Dude’s been in town for two weeks,” I tell him. “Caught him trying to break into the new museum this morning. Pretty sure he’s the guy who was in there Saturday night too.”
Beck slides a glance at me, then looks back at Ava again. She’s chasing leaves in the light breeze. “That’s all? You’re not gonna pull a Denver again? You’re just trying to beat him to the treasure?”
This is what I like most about Beck.
He’s not gonna question that I’m hunting for a treasure.
He’s not running a museum about the fucking treasure while pretending it doesn’t exist.
He’s not suspicious about why I know where a map came from and about how it shouldn’t be in Shipwreck.
He just says, oh, there’s a treasure and you want to find it? Cool .
“Just trying to beat him to the treasure,” I agree.
And also stop him from learning anything else he shouldn’t know about this area.
Some things are better kept quiet.
“And then what?” Beck asks.
My shoulders twitch.
“Don’t know yet.”
He slides another look at me.
I don’t heave the sigh that I want to heave. I don’t give him the knock it off, I’m fine eyeball of shut up .
“Is this a spy mission?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth. “Like, dude, I won’t tell anybody if it is. But also, can I help? In a safe way? So Sarah doesn’t get worried? Especially if I get to punch the blond caveman in the face?”
“I’m not a fucking spy.”
Ava’s head whips around.
“I said ducking,” I call to her. “I’m ducking the sky. It’s falling.”
She looks up as a bright red leaf floats down from one of the maples. “I catch sky!”
“Good job, Ava! Keep catching the sky,” Beck says.
Another leaf drifts down, and she chases after it.
Beck goes back to talking out of the corner of his mouth. “I never told anyone what happened in Denver. Even Sarah, and I tell her everything. If I haven’t told Sarah about Denver, you know I can keep a secret. We can all keep a secret.”
“You ducking know I’m not a spy. You visited me in college when I was getting my degrees. I gave you a reactor tour when I started my job. You know what I’ve done with my life for the last ten years.”
“Cover story. Plus, you quit the reactor. Vanessa told me so.”
“You know she works for the CIA, right?” It’s not actually a secret. She’s an analyst, not a spy who goes out and does spy things in the field.
Or so she says.
Which I believe about sixty percent of the time.
“See, I think you both tell us she works for the CIA, but in actuality, she’s your doppelg?nger for when you do missions. You have matching buns, and paste-on beards are a thing.”
I stare at him.
He pulls a pack of Goldfish out of his pocket and rips it open. “Dammit. Giving you shit about being a spy makes me hungry. So. You dating anyone? Vanessa also said you’re getting married.”
“She did not.”
“She did. You should’ve seen our other group text—the one you’re not in—when she dropped that bomb. Who’s the lucky lady?”
“You’re right. I’m a spy.”
He cackles, then chokes on a Goldfish.
“Dada o-tay?” Ava asks.
I pound him on the back.
“Daddy made a poor decision,” I call to her. “He’ll be fine.”
He’s coughing and sputtering.
He won’t die.
I get him a glass of water from inside, along with a full-size bag of chips.
If giving me shit about being a spy makes him hungry, the Goldfish won’t cut it.
He gulps the full glass and is still coughing a little after he’s done. And then he looks at the chips.
“Wheat germ and flax chips? Wha—what is this? Is this real food? I eat just about anything, but this—this looks suspicious. This looks like you’re trying to distract me from asking about your lady and your wedding.”
“Doing a friend a favor. That’s it.”
“What friend? You don’t have friends except us.”
If Beck had spent five minutes in town, he’d know the answer to that. So he’s clearly been holed up at his house and hasn’t seen a single solitary soul in Shipwreck since Cooper and Waverly’s wedding.
Tillie Jean did a good job of keeping that gossip quiet until the wedding was over.
She was fucking serious about not upstaging her brother.
I shrug at Beck. “It’s a generalized term for someone I know who needs a favor .”
“And a wedding is a favor?”
“You remember when Ms. Wilson didn’t want Tripp and Levi to know she was dating the Fireballs’ manager?”
He grins. “And you told them she was dating the car guy.”
“Car guy was in on it. He did Ms. Wilson a favor being the fall guy until she was ready to tell them the truth. My lady and my wedding are just a favor.”
“With or without benefits?”
Fuck me, now I’m thinking about the way Sloane kissed me again.
Her soft curves pressed against me. The scent of cinnamon in her hair. Soft lips that tasted like a top-shelf margarita.
Been a while since I kissed a woman.
Been longer since I kissed a woman and didn’t want to stop.
And now I’m in danger of being indecent in front of a toddler. “Your daughter’s eating dirt.”
“Probably tastes better than these chips. Hey, Ava, want to try something gross? Uncle Davis thinks these are real chips. Also, he’s getting married. Want to be a flower girl?”
“That’s low, man,” I mutter while Ava comes running.
“What a fower-grr?” she asks.
“It’s when you wear a pretty dress at a wedding.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Ew. No dwess.”
Good answer.
The fewer wedding guests, the less likely someone will let it slip that the whole wedding is staged.
I don’t want to make more trouble for Sloane.
Her situation seems complicated as hell.
Know a thing or two about that too.
And it’s bothering me that I want to know very specifically what all of her complications are. Not just the ones I’ve put together with context clues, but all of them.
How I can help.
What more I can do to keep her out of harm’s way.
What’s next? my sister asked.
We know how this goes.
I get obsessed with something, I achieve it, I move on.
I won’t do that to a woman.
She won’t be the next obsession.
Because I won’t hurt her when I move on if I don’t let her in in the first place.
Even if the way that Nigel fucker has treated her makes me want to do things that would result in jail time.
Which I won’t do.
Came close enough to jail once before. Not interested in needing another cover-up.
I hold out a fist to Ava. “You know what’s up, don’t you?”
She stares at my fist like she doesn’t know she’s supposed to bump it. “You uggy.”
“That’s what my lady friend says too.”
Beck sighs. “How about we say that’s not for me instead of calling things ugly?”
“Dat uggy,” Ava replies.
“ That’s not for me is a lot of words,” I agree.
“It’s four words,” Beck says. “One syllable each. Only one R in the whole bunch, and no L’s at all.”
“One of those words is a contraction. It’s like five words. Very confusing.”
Ava looks between us.
Beck offers her a piece of a chip.
“Dat dirt?” she asks.
Okay, yes.
Beck visiting is helping me feel a little more comfortable in my own skin. Especially since he’s easily distractible.
It’s like a game.
But he and Ava can’t stay forever.
And I need to make sure the security system at the museum is good.
So when the two of them pass out for an impromptu nap on my couch, I climb onto my bike, put on my helmet, and head down the mountainside and into Shipwreck.
Sloane isn’t my responsibility.
But no matter how many times I tell myself that, I can’t help but arguing back.
Yes, she is .