Chapter Eight
“You’re over-pouring,” I vaguely hear Walter, one of the regulars, murmur, but I can’t focus on interpreting what it means with the sudden rush of blood roaring in my head.
The fucking nerve of them, Gannett and Micah, sucking face right outside.
It was bad enough that Gannett took Micah up on the date—I’ve been all out of whack about it all night—but this?
! Un-fucking-believab—“Gordy, you’re wasting perfectly good beer,” Walter notes more pointedly, nodding at where I’m currently spilling his pint to the point that it’s mostly topping off the overflow catch.
“Shit!” I pull the glass back, tipping it upright. “Well,” I sigh, “look on the bright side. You won’t get to bitch about the foam this time.”
Evan’s former father-in-law, one of the nicest guys to ever set foot in here, grins at me. “Hadn’t pinned you as someone who ever looked at the bright side, Masterson.”
I scoff. “That’s because I’m not.”
His grin softens. “My daughter would have begged to differ, you know. Miranda always said there was more to you than just what we saw on the outside, when you were just a whipper-snapper.” On that, he leaves me before I can even ask what the hell he means by that.
What the hell would Miranda Waters know about me? And why the hell would she defend me like that? Her husband hated me back when she was still alive.
Walter shuffles back down the bar, sitting back in his usual spot, passing the other beer in his hand over to his best buddy, Wagner.
I have to wonder if he too saw the show his own son just put on in front of the bar mere moments ago.
Probably not, since he’s not making a big spectacle about it.
That man is as verbose about gossip as they come.
Nah, instead it’s just me who is way more fucking perturbed about it than I have any right to be. Why, though? That’s the million dollar question, right there. Why does it bother me that the thorn in my side, Gannett Waters, went on a date and was just outside mauling another guy?
“Taryn!” I bark through the pass-through to the kitchen.
He looks up from the grill, where he’s cleaning up for the night. “Yeah, Dad?”
“You mind taking over for me out here?”
My son tosses the rag over his shoulder and pushes his way up front. “Sure. Everything alright?” he asks, brows pinched.
“Yeah, it’s fine. I just… don’t feel well, all of a sudden.
Headache. Think I need to head upstairs and sleep it off,” I lie.
Well, omit. The headache part is real, but I’ve got a half a mind to go upstairs and flatten Gannett the fuck out, instead of sleep.
Still unclear why the urge is there, however.
I should be ecstatic at the prospect of him leaving me the fuck alone, focusing his attention elsewhere.
Maybe if things work out well enough for him and Micah, he can vacate my fucking apartment and go have sleepovers at his place instead.
Hell, maybe it’ll right the off-balance I’ve been feeling having Wee-Waters in my fucking space for over a week.
This should be a good thing, but here I am getting all worked up over it instead.
On my way towards the backdoor, I am met with Wagner rising from his stool. “A word, son?” He nods towards the private hallway that leads towards the bathrooms.
I bristle at the word "son," but oblige him anyway. I like the old geezer well enough. He’s never done me wrong.
“I seen that look on your face, when my boy was out kissin’ on that other guy out front,” he tells me, keeping his voice low. “You and me, are we gonna have any trouble, Gordy?”
I shake my head. “Why would we?”
“I don’t know everything about what happened between you and Evan, but I know enough, and I want to make one thing perfectly clear here.
If you ever try to fuck shit up for Gannett, too, I promise you this…
you will regret it. I’ve come to respect that you aren’t a damn thing like Marlin to watch you flush that all down the pisser, now. Ya hear?”
I nod. Then, feeling like I owe Wagner an explanation, and despite the pins-and-needles feeling of unease prickling within me, I offer him a nugget of truth to give him some perspective before it leads to the sensation of being battered by wave after icy, cold wave of pure panic—threatening to drag me under.
“With all due respect, Evan being gay was never the true issue, sir. You knew Marlin. You know what an asshole he could be. Try living with it. What I did was a terrible thing, I know, but at the time?” I suck in a deep breath through my nostrils, and blow it back out through pursed lips—a trick I picked up in therapy, to help keep myself calm.
“At the time, as a fucked up kid, it seemed like the only way out. Being gay isn’t the issue, and it’s not an issue for me with Gannett either. ”
“Wagner! Will you get your crotchety ass back out here and stop harassing the barkeep?” Walter shouts out.
“Hold your damn horses!” Wagner shouts back. However, he keeps his eyes narrowed on me—studying me. Then, his hardened glare softens a touch, his head tilts, and finally, he scoffs in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be damned…”
“What?” my face contorts with the confusion I feel.
“You’re just as thick-headed as he is, for crying out loud. If it’s jealousy that’s eatin’ away at ya, then we just got our wires crossed here. Git on outta here, and go take care of that headache.” He shakes his head and chuckles as he walks away.
What the fuck? Me? Jealous?
When I get to the top of the landing, my heart lurches in my chest. Instead of the charged energy I was about to come barging in with, I’m heated for a whole other reason instead—panic.
I hear the sound of alarms beeping. When I open the door, I find Gannett, poised and ready with a fire extinguisher pointed at the microwave, black smoke billowing out of it.
“What the absolute fuck?!” I yelp, racing towards him and wrestling the red cylinder out of his grip. “Open the window and throw whatever it is you’re cooking out, now!”
“Right, yeah!” Gannett exclaims, and with the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth in one hand, he pinches something, and pulls it out. “Patio door’s closer, get that!”
The corpse of a charred bag of popcorn whizzes by my head and plops into the thin layer of snow on the floor of the balcony.
I scrub a hand down my face and groan, while he attempts to fan the rest of the smoke out with the shirt he yanked off himself. It takes a bit before the smoke alarms stop blaring. It takes even longer for the ringing in my ears to subside and my heart rate to drop back to normal.
Fucking Gannett, though, acts like this is an everyday occurrence for him—which it actually might be, knowing him.
He chuckles as the same small seagull from the first morning swoops in and starts tearing open the still-smoldering bag.
“Damn, that was a close one, huh? Well, at least I know Gulligan won’t starve tonight.
” Shirtless, he wanders out onto the deck.
“Wow, slow down, buddy,” he tells the bird, scooching down near it.
“Eat too much too fast, you’ll burn your beak off.
Trust me, the last thing you need is to lose your pecker. ”
All pretenses about why I was formerly annoyed with Gannett melt away, replaced with newer, fresher agitation. “Are you seriously trying to pat a wild animal right now? You know they’re called dump ducks for a reason, right? They’re fuckin’ dirty sky rats.”
He gasps, placing his hands up like he’s trying to cover the bird's ears.
Alarmingly, the gull lets him, as if he trusts Gannett now or something.
Hell, he might, since the dingbat has been out there feeding it every day.
“You watch your mouth, Masterson. Gulligan can understand your insults. Besides, he let me pick him up earlier today.”
“Tell me you didn’t bring it inside with you,” I mutter.
“Oh, hell yeah I did! After I got back from work, I found re-runs of Gilligan’s Island on your TV,” he admits. “He and I chilled for a bit before Micah came and picked me up. He pooped on your area rug, but I think I got it all cleaned up. Gulligan pooped, that is—not Micah.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and make a valiant attempt at another calming breath. “I can’t do this right now,” I say, heading back inside to try to bring some order back to my kitchen.
Gannett stands and follows me in, but not after telling the damn bird, “Come back tomorrow, bud. Daddy’ll give you some donuts. Don’t let what Gordy said get to ya. I don’t. It’s just his resting bitch personality.”
I spin on my heels and glare at Gannett. “The fuck’d you just say?”
He wipes his snow covered bare feet on the rug, then shrugs, brushing past me to help pick up his mess.
“Resting bitch personality. It’s like… the face, but when the face is your whole personality.
You’re crusty, like a goddamn barnacle… only you don’t latch onto anything. So, maybe you’re like—ooh, a crouton.”
I blink at him. How the fuck do I even respond to that? Sure as hell can’t deny it.
“Aren’t you even going to ask me how my big, gay date went, Croot?” he asks.
“Croot?” My brow furrows.
He chortles. “Because you’re a crouton.”
I shake my head. “No on the nickname, and no, I’m not going to ask about your date, Wee-Waters. Pretty sure I saw enough when he dropped you off.” Just the mental replay of it leaves me awash in that feeling of, I guess, jealousy again.
“Yeah, about that,” he drawls, gripping the back of his neck. “So, um, is it going to make things awkward between you two, if I politely decline a repeat date?”
“Decide you aren’t into men after all?” I reply. “Because, judging by how into that make-out session you were, I’d say you are…”
“Oh, uhh,” he stammers, “yeah, so I um—the kiss itself wasn’t bad. Blackbeard approved, but Micah and me? Yeah, pretty sure I find him visually appealing, just not… romantically appealing. If you catch my drift.”