21. Chapter 20
Darcy
There are kids everywhere.
Kids on shoulders. Kids with popsicles. One kid asleep face-down on the bleachers with a foam bear claw still on his hand.
"Ah… Community Day," Josie announces beside me, hands on her hips, surveying her commercial kingdom. "Twelve hundred people, zero incidents, and Declan has signed so many jerseys his hand is cramping. I really am a genius."
"What did you promise him this time?" Rose asks, camera up, snapping a shot of Finn teaching a seven-year-old how to celebrate a goal with maximum disrespect.
Josie stares across at her boyfriend, sighing deeply. "Same as always."
"So, more back door action then?" Rose hums, clicking the shutter some more.
Josie nods thoughtfully. "Apparently we've found his primary love language."
I take another bite of my burger and absolutely refuse to participate in this conversation.
The Yard down by the boardwalk smells like heaven decided to open a barbecue stand. Smoke drifts continuously off the grill station, carrying char-grilled beef and caramelized onions across the whole outdoor rink.
The food trucks are lined up shoulder to shoulder along the north strip, with Rico's taco truck pulling a queue twenty people deep. Mack's manning the burger station, and both ice cream vans are currently engaged in a somewhat loud and annoying jingle war.
Overhead, the endless fairy lights are already glowing even though the sun hasn't fully committed to setting over the Pacific. The steady soundtrack of waves crashing from two blocks away soothes me, as salt air rolls in over a sea of tiny Bears jerseys.
"Darcy," Rose says, shooting me a look. "I seriously hope you're moaning at that burger right now. Not Josie's new love for anal—"
"The burger is good!" I interrupt, glaring at Rose. "Seriously, you two. There are kids around."
"Sorry, I can't help it. You just made the noise Rose makes when Mason wears those gray sweatpants."
"Hey," Rose says, offended. "Don't cheapen the sweatpants. They are a godsend to all women."
I laugh, and for exactly four seconds, I forget about the message Colin sent me. There was no waiting. The second the jet landed back in Beachside yesterday afternoon, he informed me that my report is due. Tomorrow.
After Vegas, it seems the Bears have seen enough, and a decision is set to be made.
A meeting has been set up for 9AM. At the Morrison Mansion, of all places.
The final decision about Beck Morrison's future in Beachside is sitting on my laptop at home, with the document open and still unfinished. I'm up to version nineteen. I know it's version nineteen because I named it so many times I feel like a college student having a breakdown.
Josie catches my face doing whatever my face is doing.
"Hey." She bumps my shoulder. "You finished it yet?"
"Almost."
"Darcy."
"It's finished. It's just not... finished-finished." I stab a fry into ketchup. "There's a difference."
Rose lowers her camera. "What does it say?"
"That's between me, the document, and the four hundred cups of caffeine that helped write it."
They exchange the look. The one they think I don't see. The one that says she's spiraling, deploy fries. Rose slides her basket toward me without a word, and honestly, that's friendship I never had in high school.
We drift toward the merchandise stall, where The Vault has set up a pop-up table stacked with jerseys, snapback caps, and foam claws.
Brooke Kessler runs the operation from behind a table like a girl who was born and raised in this town and is no longer impressed by it.
"No, ma'am, we don't do refunds on signed items," she's telling a woman, her blonde hair flowing in the wind. I love Brooke's hair. It's gorgeous. "That's Declan Morrison's actual signature. It went up in value the second he touched it. You're welcome."
Behind her, half the roster is signing merch in a line.
Declan signs with grim efficiency, clearly spurred on by Josie's… promises. Mason is next to him, signing with a smile that makes at least two moms adjust their sunglasses. And at the end of the table, Corbin Cole has apparently forgotten how pens work.
Because Brooke just moved in a little closer, smothering him with her perfume.
"You want the silver marker or the gold?" she asks him, blinking long lashes at him.
Corbin looks at the two markers like he's trying very hard not to look anywhere else. "I—yeah. Yes."
"That wasn't a yes-or-no question."
"Gold. No—silver. Um. Ah. What are you using, Brooke?"
"I'm not signing anything, Corbin. You're the famous one."
Brooke smiles slowly, clearly delighted by the fact that Corbin has now forgotten both his own name and the basic function of a marker.
"Silver," she finally tells him, tapping the pen in his hand. "You're doing great, superstar."
Brooke winks and wiggles her hips as she walks away. Corbin turns approximately the color of Rico's salsa.
"Dear God. I want to put that boy in my pocket," Rose whispers.
"I want to put that boy in therapy," Josie says. "Poppy does group rates, right?"
The microphone squeals across The Yard, pulling our attention. Then, like a warning siren sounding across the entire boardwalk, I hear the voice that lives rent-free in my head every damn night.
"BEACHSIDE! Who wants to see some JUSTICE?"
Beck Morrison is standing on a picnic table in board shorts and a Bears tee with the sleeves shoved up, holding a megaphone he absolutely was not authorized to have.
Beside the equipment shed, someone has constructed a fucking chain-link cage with a hand-painted sign that reads:
THE PENALTY BOX — $10 LOCKS UP A BEAR FOR 2 MINUTES. ALL PROCEEDS TO THE COMMUNITY SKATE PROGRAM.
"For TEN dollars," Beck bellows like a carnival roadie, "you can sentence any Beachside Bear to hard time! Two full minutes behind bars! They can't escape! They can't argue! They can only sit there and think about what they've done!"
The crowd goes absolutely feral.
Kids are already dragging parents toward the donation bucket by their sleeves, and one small child has climbed the fence to get a better look at the cage. A dog is barking at the sign, and three teenagers are already filming.
Naturally, Declan gets locked up first.
Forty dollars is pooled together in no time by four kids who then stand outside the cage making faces at him while he sits on the bench inside, arms crossed, radiating the energy of a man doing time for a crime he'd commit again.
Josie takes a million photos and immediately admits she'll use them for blackmail later.
Mason goes in next and simply reads the graffiti on the shed wall like he's at a gallery opening.
And then Beck, megaphone still in hand, scans the crowd, and finds me.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, pointing directly at my face, "I've just spotted a member of Bears management. And you know what management loves? Accountability!"
The crowd boos.
"I know, I know." Beck nods, enjoying the spotlight as always. "But look. They're not all bad people. Especially one particularly attractive staff member."
"Do not," I whisper under my breath. "Do not even think about it, Beck Morrison."
Josie cups her mouth beside me. "Oh my God. He's not going to put you—"
Beck's gaze locks onto mine from across the lawn, and he winks.
My stomach does something completely unauthorized.
What is he up to?
I narrow my eyes at him. He grins wider.
This is never a good sign.
"What do we say, everyone?" Beck asks the crowd, eyes never leaving mine. "I think it takes a little more than ten dollars to put me in the box. But maybe for… shall we say… fifty? A hundred?"
The crowd takes this as a personal challenge.
Bills appear from pockets, wallets, the bottoms of bags. A woman in a Bears jersey fishes a crumpled twenty from her sports bra. Two teenagers pool their lunch money.
The bucket fills up in under ninety seconds while Beck stands there with the megaphone and the expression of a man who has never once in his life doubted that a crowd would show up for him.
"I genuinely thought you were going in the cage," Josie breathes beside me.
"So did I."
"Were you scared?"
I turn to look at her. "I was ready to be furious."
"I'd have gone in with you, babe." She tips her head. "He's good, though. Like, annoyingly good at this."
I look back at Beck, who has now recruited two kids from the crowd to do a celebratory dance beside him. The kids are screaming with laughter. Their parents are recording it. Someone's absolutely already posting it to their socials.
I can't help but smile, my heart pounding inside my chest.
He's very, very good at this. But I already knew that, because I've been watching him do this for weeks now.
How on earth can I recommend we trade this man?
When the last bill lands, he clicks the megaphone back on.
"Alright, alright! We've done it! But," he says, holding up one finger, "it takes a very special person to turn the key. Someone with experience in..." he pauses, letting the crowd lean in, "...professionally assessing whether a man should be removed from the premises."
The crowd turns to look at me. Every single set of eyes.
Rose is filming again, like she didn't learn her lesson from the goddamn boardwalk incident.
"Come on! Ten more dollars, Spreadsheet. Ten more dollars for the community fund, and you can finally put me in the only place management hasn't tried sending me yet.”
Josie shoves a ten-dollar bill into my hand. "Go and lock him up. For the children."
I start walking across The Yard while an entire town cheers, holding a ten-dollar bill scrunched in the palm of my hand, while Beck Morrison steps into a chain-link cage, pumping his fist in the air and grinning like this was his plan all along.
I drop the ten in the bucket. He backs into the cage with his hands raised.
"Book me, officer. I've been very bad."
"You have no idea." I swing the door shut and click the padlock, and the crowd roars before wandering off toward the taco truck, because in Beachside, attention spans last exactly as long as the next food smell.