Dredge
Harper
THE SUN GLARES DOWN MERCILESSLY on Main Street, the heat warping the air above the blacktop. I take a sip from my water bottle as I look down at the road and count the hanging baskets I still have left to go.
Twelve.
A groan rumbles in my throat. My forehead itches beneath my Taste of Terror ball cap. Sweat dampens the collar of my cropped T-shirt.
And as I shift my weight from one foot to the other, I become acutely aware of the butt plug lodged in my ass.
There’s a lot of other shit I should be focused on, like maybe that Tylor guy who I spot leaving A Shipwrecked Bean across the street with Emma, to-go cups clutched in their hands.
They’re heading in the direction of the library, probably to rejoin the search after a lunch break.
I spent a morning trailing them, hoping they would leave after Charlie’s death.
But no.
Instead, their ranks have swelled like a fungus, and I pull my cap down lower as I think about the other Sleuthseekers now staying not just at the Capeside Inn, but at the Lionshead Motel and the B&B on Ortolon Drive.
Tylor’s been summoning them on Discord like a fucking pied piper, getting them to dig into Sam’s and Vinny’s deaths and the disappearances while he and Emma try to mine for intel at the search.
The vial of poison I took from Arthur’s murder bag seems to sing to me from the confines of my backpack.
It would be so fucking satisfying to dump it into Tylor’s coffee and watch him writhe into the afterlife, even though the sensible thing to do is stick with Nolan’s “no more murder” edict.
The one he couldn’t stick to himself, which is yet another thing that plagues my thoughts.
My encounter with Yates at the cottage a few days ago is still weighing on me too, especially his disconcerting quip about Nolan’s attitude toward Arthur.
But the thing is, he’s not wrong. I noticed the flash of irritation in his eyes when Arthur interrupted us at the cottage.
I’ve seen the tension in his hands when they fold into fists every time he asks me to leave town and I tell him I can’t—that Arthur needs me.
But right now, I feel powerless to change any of it.
The best I can do is focus on the things I can control, like spraying Cookie Monster down daily with Piss-Off!
and then running actual wood through it for a change, just in case Yates unexpectedly pops by to pick up the woodchipper.
Or finishing this prep for the Taste of Terror festival next month, and then going back to lurking like a caged animal that’s craving a visceral release.
At the very least, an anal toy is a great distraction from the squall that seems to swirl around us.
I’m going to ravage every inch of you until you’re mine, including that tight little ass.
I clear my throat to wrestle my fantasies under control before Nolan’s promise blossoms into an ache in my clit.
It takes more effort than it should to focus on the endless arguing of the three Roberts—Bob, Bobby, and Bert.
At least, it does until I realize they’re debating Jake Hornell’s disappearance.
“It was Sharkimedes,” Bert says, running a hand over the beads of sweat that shimmer in his buzzed gray hair.
He jerks a nod toward Tylor and Emma before they round the corner toward the command center.
“That’s what I told those two snoopfuckers yesterday when they started quizzin’ me about Jake.
Shark got him. I’d bet my fishing license on it. ”
Bob snorts as he rolls his eyes. “I’ll take that bet.”
“Nah, I think Bert’s on to something there.
Jake used to surf out at the ’Murb,” Bobby replies, flicking a hand in the general direction of Melmurby Beach, which lies just south of the Cape Carnage promontory.
He unfurls a Taste of Terror banner heralding next month’s food festival and passes it to Bert, who takes it up the ladder to replace the Carnival of Carnage flag that hangs limply in the humid, breezeless air.
“What’s to say Jake didn’t head out there and get snapped up by Sharkimedes? ”
“Dick shriveling, that’s what,” Bob retorts, leaning against the water truck.
“He went missing in early June. It might be hot as the devil’s nutsack today, but you know as well as anyone that the water ain’t gonna warm up until August. But June?
His balls woulda climbed so far up his throat he woulda choked. ”
“There’s a lady present,” Bert objects.
“I’m not a lady.” I scoff, gesturing to my legs, my skin covered in streaks of dirt and a mist of sweat. I try to brush off the worst mark with my gardening glove, but it only ends up dirtier. “Please continue, Bob. I believe we were talking about dicks?”
“That’s right. Dick-shriveling cold. Too cold for surfing.”
Bert trudges back down the ladder, rolling his eyes when he turns to face Bob. “He probably had a winter wetsuit, dumbass. Julio Flores surfs there in March.”
“Pfft,” Bob snarks. “You’re conveniently forgetting that Julio Flores also survived a skydiving accident when the chute didn’t fucking open, and then went on the following week to set the Taste of Terror chili-eating contest record when he still had two broken legs, for god’s sake.
He’d punch that shark in the fuckin’ face and surf its corpse back to shore.
He can’t be used as a benchmark for the shit that normal people do. ”
“Well, I still think it was Sharkimedes. But you have a point about Julio. That kid would single-handedly kick Thanos’s ass.”
Bobby’s head tilts. “Who’s Thanos? Is he the new bartender guy at the Buoy and Beacon?”
“No, you dumbass. He’s from The Avengers.”
“What’s The Avengers?”
“The comic series? And the movies?”
“We went to that movie, Bobby,” Bert interjects. “We were literally sitting together in the theater—”
“He fell asleep—”
“I don’t remember a fuckin’ thing about it—”
“Look,” Bert says, his palms up and facing his two best friends in a bid to shut them up. “The point is, Jake Hornell was eaten by a great white shark, and Julio Flores would punch Sharkimedes in the fuckin’ face in a real-life version of Sharknado, and Harper should therefore start dating Julio.”
The water I was just about to swallow comes shooting out my nose. The Bobs are already starting to veer into a new argument before I finally cough out the words, “Excuse me?”
“Gotta admit, Harper and Julio has a ring to it,” Bob continues. “But she’s into that topiary fella.”
“What topiary fella?” Bert asks, scratching his stubble.
A long-suffering sigh heaves past Bob’s lips. “The tourist guy, dumbass. The one with the fancy trees you trucked over to Arthur’s.”
“Yeah, dumbass,” Bobby snipes, elated to finally not be the sole target of Bob’s good-natured jabs. “His name’s Riddick.”
“Riddick . . . ?” Bob snorts, shaking his head as he pivots to face Bobby. “From The Chronicles of Riddick. Are you fucking serious?”
No one notices the blush that flames my cheeks to shades of crimson. All eyes are on Bobby as his head tilts like a confused dog. “What’s The Chronicles of Riddick?”
Bob lets out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before he turns to a confused-looking Bert. “She’s hooking up with the Search and Rescue tourist guy who pulled her from the water. And his name’s not Riddick, for Chrissakes. It’s Rhodes.”
Bert scratches his head. “Says who?”
“Says anyone who was at Nightfog the other night, for one—”
“Ooh, Nightfog, that’s serious.”
“—And Rhodes, probably. And Harper too if she could get a word in edgewise between you two dumbasses.”
The moment “dumbasses” exits Bob’s mouth, three pairs of eyes turn to me expectantly. My focus shifts from one Bob to the next, my cheeks heating. “What . . . ?”
“You hooking up with that Rhodes tree guy or not?” Bert says.
I shift my weight and goddammit, that anal plug virtually screams Nolan’s name. “I’m . . . he’s . . . it’s like . . . complicated.”
Bob snorts a laugh. “That sounds like the kind of bullshit someone says when they’re trying to convince themselves it’s more casual than it really is.”
Fuck. That arrow hit a little close to home. I brush off my arm as though I can scrape those words from my skin. “Or maybe it’s just complicated, Bob.”
“You could always try something uncomplicated,” Bert declares. “Maybe a town boy like Julio. He’d punch a shark in the face for you, guaranteed.”
“Nolan could punch a shark,” I say, tipping my chin up.
“What about Lukas? He’s a nice boy.”
“No. No way.” I shake my head, dropping my gardening gloves to count the reasons off my fingers. “For one, he’s like my brother. Secondly, he’s still pining for Maxine. Third, it’s Lukas.”
Bob grins like he’s caught me in a trap, a smile that’s echoed on Bobby and Bert’s faces. I’m starting to think this whole conversation was a ploy from the jump. “So, what we’re hearing is that maybe things with this Rhodes fella aren’t so complicated after all.”
A little tang of blood hits my tongue as I free my lip from my teeth. Maybe he’s right, though he doesn’t realize that in this case “complicated” comes with a lot more challenges than your typical situationship. Murder. Secrets. An occasional interest in killing each other.
But maybe things aren’t so complicated, despite the reasons that brought Nolan to my doorstep.
With every day that passes, it’s harder to remember the terror I felt that day Nolan stalked around the side of my cottage with Jake’s severed hands clutched tight in his grip.
At least, it’s hard to remember that fear without the desire that’s become stitched into it.
And now he’s living in that same cottage.
Making my coffee. Leaving me notes. Cooking dinner with me. At least . . . he is for now . . .