Chapter 3
KAI
Ididn’t really have to pee; I just wanted to end the conversation. I was sick of telling the story, of everyone acting like finding a floating bale of drugs made me some kind of hero.
Tired eyes stared back at me from the mirror, bloodshot and salt burned. It had been a long week. I’d become a recluse, ducking the attention whenever I could. Every retelling of the story felt like a fishing line wrapped tighter around my throat, pulling me into waters I didn’t want to tread.
“You should have stayed home,” I muttered to myself, splashing water on my face.
Cool droplets slid down my cheeks, washing away the sweat but not the tension.
The reflection didn’t lie: dark circles, sun-creased lines, and a weariness that went deeper than muscle.
I decided I should at least try to piss before heading back out there.
Leaving the faucet running to coax it out, I let my head fall forward, focusing on relaxing my clenched jaw and tight shoulders.
Finally the stream started to flow, and my eyes wandered to the painting hanging crookedly above the urinal.
“Hmm. That’s new,” I said under my breath. The painting seemed out of place beside the EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS plaque. I squinted, leaning closer to read the little card pinned to the corner of the canvas.
Alligator Lighthouse, Local artist Jasmine Cline, acrylic on canvas, $75.
“Jasmine, huh?” I chuckled under my breath, shaking off before zipping up.
The name sat warm on my tongue, familiar in a way I couldn’t pin down.
Maybe it was the way it matched her sharp green eyes, or maybe it was the simple fact that she was the cutest girl I’d seen in a long while.
She was more than just a bartender slinging beers. She was an artist.
By the time I stepped back into the bar, the place had filled up.
The crowd’s hum wrapped around me—clinking glasses, laughter, the jukebox cranking something too loud for conversation.
The air was thick with beer foam and fried food, voices layering like surf.
Every time the door opened, a wash of humid night swept in, reminding me how small and close this island world really was.
Behind the counter, Jasmine was in motion, slinging two mugs down the polished wood with one hand while shaking a cocktail tin in the other. She moved like she owned the place — not tentative, not meek, but with the steady rhythm of someone who knew how to bend chaos into order.
I reached for my mug, realizing it was still empty. “Did you forget about me?” I called, ribbing the cute new bartender.
Her green eyes snapped up, flashing anger. “No, Kai, I didn’t forget you. That would be rude.”
The words hit sharper than I expected. I flinched as she set the drink down in front of a guy two stools to my left, her jaw tight, her smile nonexistent. Heat crawled up my neck. I hadn’t meant to hit a nerve, but apparently, I’d stepped square into one.
Apparently she was not in a joking mood.
“I waited to serve your beer because I didn’t want it to get warm,” she added, undeniably annoyed. Snatching my empty mug, she strode away with brisk efficiency. Her ponytail snapped against her shoulder like punctuation.
“Thank you, that’s sweet,” I called after her, raising my voice over the din. “Take your time.” I tried to smooth it over, if that’s what you call patching an innocent remark gone sideways. The grin on my face felt forced, brittle at the edges.
When Jasmine returned with the fresh beer, she set it down without looking at me. Definitely pissed.
I tried again, softer this time. “Is your last name Cline?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I never told you my last name.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking if it’s Cline…” I lifted a brow, amused despite myself. This chick might have issues. Or maybe she just had boundaries, which in this town was a rare trait.
“But how did you know it was Cline?” She asked with an interrogator’s skepticism.
“Saw it on the painting in the bathroom,” I said with a grin I hoped would melt her icy tone. “The way you did the light on the water is magical.”
Her lips parted, surprise replacing irritation. “Oh, thanks.” Color rose in her cheeks, her face finally easing into a smile. The shift was like sunrise over the flats—subtle, then undeniable.
Progress.
Glen, who’d been half-watching while nursing his drink, jabbed his finger toward the painting over the dartboards. “I helped her hang that one tonight.”
Jasmine shot him a look, half embarrassment, half exasperation, before shrugging like she didn’t care. “I’ve been in a seascape phase. Tourists seem to like them.”
“Sell many here?” I asked, raising my mug.
“Not enough.”
She was gone again a moment later, called down the bar by a line of waving hands.
I leaned back on my stool, sipping, watching her weave through the crowd with an efficiency that was half-grace, half-grit.
Her laugh floated over the din once, light and unguarded, and for a second I forgot about the square grouper, the Coast Guard, all of it.
Nolan nudged me, eyes glinting with mischief. “What’s up with the secrecy, Kai? Is there more to tell about the bale?”
I groaned, rolling my head back. “No, goddammit. There is nothing more to tell. There’s no conspiracy, dude.
It was a pain in my ass and I’d rather forget about it.
” But even as I said it, my chest tightened.
The word bale felt like an anchor dropped into the room, heavier than anyone else seemed to notice.
“You should milk it, dude. That shit will get you laid.”
I snorted. “Whatever. I’d rather lay low.” The last thing I needed was attention over something I wanted no part of. Or smugglers thinking I was proud of turning their product over. Attention was gasoline on a fire I couldn’t control.
“That’s ’cause you look like that.” He waved a finger up and down, gesturing at me like I was a billboard. “I, on the other hand”—he turned the finger toward himself with a flourish—“would milk that shit.”
I shook my head, amused despite my annoyance. “Then I hope you find the next bale. I don’t ever want to see another one again.”
“Nah,” he laughed, tossing back his beer. “I’ve never seen a square grouper twice. They always disappear when I look away.”
The conversation shifted back to the game on TV, but my attention kept drifting to the bar. Jasmine was out of earshot, bent over the sink rinsing a shaker, her ponytail slipping loose. The sight tugged at something I didn’t want to name — familiarity, maybe, or just trouble wearing a smile.
I leaned closer to my friends. “You guys are here all the time. What’s the scoop on this Jasmine chick?”
Nolan raised his brows. “She’s cool. I mean, what do you want to know? Like, does she have a boyfriend?”
“No, asshole. We’re not in high school.” I scowled, though I couldn’t stop the grin tugging at my mouth. “I just wondered if you’d gotten to know her?”
“Because you want to get to know her?” Nolan teased, sing-songing.
“Okay, maybe we are in high school,” I groaned.
He shrugged, smirking. “She seems solid. Smart. A little sassy.”
With possible anger issues, I thought. “She seems to have a short fuse. I don’t know how, but I think I pissed her off.”
“She was literally just smiling at you,” Nolan argued.
“After I complimented her art,” I countered.
“Well played,” Brett chimed in.
“It wasn’t a play! She’s talented.” I nodded toward the painting over the dartboards.
Nolan studied it, chin in hand like some gallery critic. After a long pause, he shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He tipped his chin at the bar. “You ready for that Don Julio?”
Against my better judgment, I agreed. Mostly because it was an excuse to call Jasmine back over. And because watching her work the bar had started to feel like the only thing worth focusing on in the room.
I lifted a hand, catching her eye. “A round of shots, please. Top-shelf Don Julio. And join us for one.”
Her brows arched, skeptical, but she grabbed the bottle and set up the glasses anyway, including one for herself.
When she slid the shot glass toward me, I caught her gaze. “Add that to my tab. And while you’re at it, put the lighthouse painting on there too.”
Her nose crinkled, disbelief clear in her expression. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. I’m always looking for cool art for my apartment.” That wasn’t entirely true — my walls were bare, my apartment a mess of gear and takeout containers. But I wanted something of hers, something more than just a smile or a passing glance.
Her lips curved, softening into something that looked like surprise mixed with gratitude. “Nice. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“I appreciate you,” I said without thinking it through. The words had come out far sappier than I meant for them to, and I drowned them with tequila before she could read too much into them.