Chapter 2
JASMINE
Relying on my most regular day-drinker to save my life was not a solid plan.
Glen could barely save himself from the ice melting too fast in his glass.
If this place went up in flames or I cracked my skull on the tile, Glen would probably make himself another rum and Coke before responding to the emergency.
But I needed someone to buy this painting I was trying to hang before rent was due.
Turns out making a go of it on my own in the Keys was harder than I’d imagined back in Minnesota.
Back then, it had sounded glamorous—bartending nights, painting days, island sunsets.
In reality, the bills piled faster than tips, and the air smelled more like bleach, stale beer, and fried fish than paradise.
Once I got the painting in position, I let the wire settle on the hook and finally exhaled.
The seascape with a pelican balanced on a piling looked out of place above the dartboard in a dive bar, but selling it made the difference between real food or ramen this week.
I scrambled down, dusting off my palms. “Thanks for your help, Glen.”
“No problem, Jaz. I’ll take another when you’re ready.” He grinned, rattling the ice in his empty glass. “This one seems to be defective.”
“I got you, Glen.” I chuckled, folding the ladder and lugging it toward the storeroom.
The wood banged against the doorframe on my way through, echoing like a warning bell.
This was a far cry from the galleries I’d imagined my paintings in when I’d cooked up the plan to move to the Keys, but you have to start somewhere.
By the time I returned, two more fishermen had saddled up to the bar, sunburnt and smelling of diesel and salt.
Their shirts were damp with sweat, sleeves stiff with dried spray, and the faint metallic tang of baitfish clung to them.
The Keys had a scent all its own—equal parts sea, booze, and exhaustion.
“Guinness?” I asked Brett, who was wiping his brow with a napkin.
That was his usual, but he sometimes started with a shot if he’d had a good day out on the water.
Or if he’d had a bad day. Alcohol didn’t actually solve anyone’s stressors, but it was still the first choice for coping with them, good or bad.
The longer I worked in the Whistle Stop, the more I saw the same rhythms: fish, booze, brag, repeat.
And underneath, the same hollow looks that told me the sea took more than it gave.
“Yeah, and a Pbr for Nolan,” he ribbed his buddy with his elbow. “Light beer pussy.”
“Sounds like somebody needs a J?ger to set them straight,” Nolan replied, a challenging glint in his eye as he leaned forward on his stool.
This was how it started. The tension, the ribbing, the one-upmanship.
I glanced out through the glass door to the parking lot.
Dusk was settling in, the last streaks of coral light bleeding over the horizon.
Too early for that shit. As the day slipped into night, the stories always got louder and the tempers shorter.
I popped a Pbr and slid it to Nolan, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Nobody’s judging you here. For the record, I love Pbr.”
His grin flickered into something genuine, less defensive.
I returned to the tap to top off the Guinness that had settled, watching the foam rise slow and thick. “Not everyone has a palate for a stout,” I told Brett as I set the perfect pour on a coaster in front of him. “And it takes all kinds to make a world.”
If there was anything this community needed reminding of, it was that diversity was a good thing.
I’d spent summers here growing up, but after moving full-time I’d seen the undercurrent of ethnocentric Keys pride more clearly.
Guys like Brett —lifelong Conchs—didn’t trust anyone from Miami.
Which was basically… everyone. Sometimes the line between good-natured ribbing and ugly prejudice blurred faster than a shot poured too heavy.
I’d learned to keep my tone light but my eyes sharp.
“You want to wait for that J?ger until after this beer?” I asked Brett, sliding the Guinness toward him with an encouraging nod.
“I’m holding out for Don Julio Reserve, but later.”
“What are you saving the good tequila for?”
“My buddy, Kai. He’s finally coming out to celebrate his square grouper catch.”
“Ah, he’s the one who found it?” The twenty kilo catch had been the talk of the town all week. I’d overheard snippets of it from tourists and regulars alike, the details swelling bigger with every retelling.
“Yeah, poor bastard,” Nolan chuckled, taking a big gulp of his Pbr, foam clinging to his mustache.
The simultaneous novelty and normalcy of massive amounts of narcotics floating in the ocean was something I hadn’t gotten used to.
It was the first real life case of a cocaine bale I’d heard of in my three months in the Keys.
Drugs washing ashore always seemed more like folklore, the kind of thing whispered about in warnings and old Keys stories.
The kind of thing that carried a dark intrigue no matter how many beers you wrapped it in.
But now that a real life square grouper was caught just a few miles off the reef, it was more like a local event, maybe even a point of pride.
It made me wonder if the town had ever moved on from the sordid past that gained Smugglers Cove its name.
The front door swung open, the bell jangling against the glass.
A rush of humid air rolled in, carrying the tang of salt and fried fish from the takeout joint next door.
The noise level dipped for a heartbeat, every head swiveling toward the door.
It was instinct — new arrivals always drew a measure, but this one carried a weight of anticipation.
“Speak of the devil!” Glen announced, raising his empty glass like a toast.
I looked up to see a shaggy-haired, tall and tanned hunk of a man stepping into the bar. My pulse tripped. Memory slammed into me—starlight, laughter, the slickness of water against bare skin years ago. My body remembered even if my mind tried to blur the details.
Brett and Nolan both turned, grins wide. Brett hollered, “Fisherman of the year with that million dollar catch!”
My mouth dropped open when I recognized the new local celebrity.
We’d met at Hog Heaven when I was down with my parents for summer after my junior year, three years ago.
That night had ended with skinny-dipping under the stars after the bar closed.
Heat rose to my cheeks before I could stop it.
Fuck. I gripped the bar rail, grounding myself, praying he didn’t remember as vividly as I suddenly did.
Was his name Kai? It didn’t quite ring a bell, but the details were fuzzy.
I’d left in a hurry after our naked romp, slipping away before dawn.
Not my proudest moment. He’d asked for my number while we waited for Ubers, but I’d blown him off.
He was hot, and we had some drunken fun, but I wasn’t about to fall for some fisherman in Florida while I was still in college in Minnesota.
“Yeah, yeah,” Kai said bashfully as he settled onto the stool beside Brett. “Can we NOT talk about the bale?” His tone was half a joke, half a plea, but the stiffness in his shoulders told a different story.
“Come on, dude. You gotta celebrate the wins,” Nolan added.
“Whatever. I wish it’d been you who won this one.”
Brett laughed, slapping him on the back hard enough to make Kai’s shoulders jolt. “I wouldn’t have called it in.”
“Didn’t have a choice,” Kai said, shaking his head before his hazel eyes finally found mine across the bar. His gaze pinned me, sharp and curious. “Can I get a Stella please?”
I blinked at him, waiting for recognition to dawn. My face burned hot as a live coal under my skin, but Kai just stared back like I was a stranger. The breath I’d been holding rushed out, equal parts relief and disappointment.
“Sure,” I said quickly, grabbing a frosty mug from the cooler. My hand trembled under the tap as I poured, foam nearly spilling over the rim. I counted to five, drawing in a deep breath, pasting on a smile. “There you go,” I said, setting the beer on a mat in front of him.
“Thanks.” His grin softened, but his brow furrowed as his gaze searched my face. “You’re new, huh? How long have you been at the Whistle Stop?”
“Three months as of last week.”
“You don’t know Jasmine?” Brett laughed under his breath, nudging him. “Dude, you gotta get out more.”
“Apparently, you’re right,” Kai said, eyes still studying me. “Pleasure to meet you, Jasmine. I’m Kai Rodman.” He reached across the bar, hand extended.
“Nice to meet you too, Kai.” My palm brushed his, and the heat of it lingered too long. I had to fight the urge to pull away too quickly, terrified he’d feel my nerves buzzing under my skin.
“So is that three months living in the Keys? Or did you work elsewhere before landing in this fine establishment?”
“Nope. I moved down from Minnesota in February.”
“That sounds like a good time to leave Minnesota,” he laughed, the sound low and warm. “What a coincidence. The guys on my boat the day I found the square grouper were from Minnesota." His dry laugh seemed forced, like he didn’t find it funny at all.
“Is that so?” I asked, wiping a splash of liquor off the bar. “I suppose we’re good luck then.”
“Pff. Yeah,” he muttered. And then, apparently eager to change the subject, he asked, “How you liking the Keys?”
“Oh, I love it. My parents have a condo here, so I’ve been coming down for years. Spring breaks, summers,” I held his gaze, desperate for some flicker of recognition. But there was nothing. Not even a hint. It stung more than I wanted to admit, like our night together had dissolved into sea foam.
“Sure beats the snow,” he said, smiling.
“Yeah, yeah. Enough about the weather,” Brett huffed, waving his Guinness. “Come on, man, tell us the square grouper story.”
Glen piped up from across the bar, polishing his glass like a referee’s whistle. “Don’t be a party pooper, Rodman. Let us live vicariously through you.”
Kai’s shoulders slumped. “Nothing much to tell,” he said, not masking his annoyance, eyes rolling as he drew in a deep breath.
“On our way back from the Humps, my client—from Minnesota,” he added, shooting me a look, “spotted the bale and insisted that we call it in. So we did. And after two hours of dealing with the Coast Guard, it was finally over. Not exciting, at all.” He slugged half his Stella, the muscles in his throat working as if he wanted to drown the conversation with the beer.
His tone was dismissive, but his eyes shuttered for a split second, a flicker of something darker he didn’t want them to see.
“I don’t know, it’s been the talk of the town all week,” I said, admiring his humility.
Most guys would brag about facilitating a drug seizure.
Part of me wanted to ask more, to peel back the layers, but another part whispered to leave it — because in the Keys, sometimes curiosity was a dangerous habit.
“Nothing more exciting than real life smugglers in Smugglers Cove,” Kai chuckled, the sound hollow. “Small town life.” He drained the last of his beer and tapped the rim of his mug. “I’ll take another when you have time,” he said before sliding off his barstool and heading for the john.
I followed him with my eyes as he strolled past the pool tables, his stride loose, confident, slightly aloof. My stomach flipped. Was it humility…or was it supreme cockiness? Was he too cool to be a local hero? Was the drug bust as forgettable to him as our one-night stand?