Tall, Dark, and Difficult
Maisie
After hearing my suggestion, neither man looked happy. On the deserted ferry dock, they both stared at me for a long, tense moment until the tourist broke the silence by asking, "You want us to what?"
Oh, for God's sake. It's not like I'd suggested a trial by combat. Had they not understood?
I pointed to the bag, which neither man had relinquished. "Just open it." When their grips only tightened, I helpfully added, "Then you'll know."
In unison, they both turned and eyed the bag in question as if the big black duffel contained a trove of illicit drugs – or worse, a severed head.
The tourist gave a bark of laughter. "But I already know what's inside."
I tried to smile. "Yeah, but – "
His tone grew accusing. "Why do you need to know?"
I drew back. "It's not about me. It's about establishing ownership." In desperation, I turned to Mister Wall Street in hopes that he at least would see my logic.
My hopes were dashed when he asked with obvious annoyance, "You ever hear of privacy?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Look, you called me over here, not the other way around."
His eyebrows lifted. " I called you here?"
"Alright, fine," I muttered, gesturing toward the other guy. "He called me over, but it's not like you objected."
"Fair enough." He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "So I'm objecting now."
I felt my own shoulders tighten. Jerk. I didn't care how broad his shoulders were or how good his jawline looked in the morning sun. A jerk was a jerk.
The other guy spoke up. "Same here." His gaze grew flinty. "Just what are you hoping to see?"
I started to sputter. "Me? Nothing."
He gave the bag a sly glance. "If stuff is private, it should stay private."
Private stuff? Forget the severed head. The way he talked, he'd stashed a dozen dildos and maybe a sex swing or two – assuming, of course, that the bag was his. No wonder he didn't want to give it up.
But what about the other guy? What did he think was in the bag? Guns? Knives? A fat wad of cash?
I didn't think it was dildos, because let's face it – a guy like that looked capable of satisfying a woman all by himself. No toys needed.
Good Lord.
Had I really just thought that?
I was just giving myself a mental slap when the tourist turned to Mister Wall Street and said, "And you . You're just pissed about the seagull."
A seagull? Unable to stop myself, I looked toward the guy in question. He was giving the tourist a cold stare, the kind that should've sent the shorter man packing – with or without the bag.
I heard myself ask, "What seagull?"
The tourist turned to me with a grin. "A big one. It attacked him on the boat. Craziest thing you ever saw."
I felt my brow furrow in confusion. "Seriously?" Having lived near the water all my life, I'd seen more than my share of seagulls – or flying rats as we sometimes called them. But during all these years, I had never heard of one attacking a human before.
But the tourist was nodding. "Dead serious."
Wall Street's forearms gave a dangerous little twitch as he gritted out, "The bird wanted the chips. I was in the way. That's all."
I tried to picture it. "Chips? You mean potato chips?"
Through clenched teeth, he replied, "Yes. And before you ask, no, they weren't mine."
Nosy or not, I couldn't stop myself from asking, "So, whose were they?"
The guy looked annoyed by the question. "Don't know, don't care." And then, at my questioning look, he grudgingly added, "They were spilled on the deck."
"Oh." I was still trying to picture it. "So…the bird was aiming for the chips, not you?" I guess it made sense. The way it sounded, the guy had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And we all knew what that felt like.
No wonder he was cranky. Heck, I'd be cranky, too – especially before coffee.
The tourist gave a loud scoff, and his tone grew sarcastic. "Oh suuuuure. Blame it on the chips." He gave me a knowing look. "I'm telling ya, the bird was out to get him." He chortled as he hitched a thumb toward his opponent. "You see his sunglasses?"
At the mention of sunglasses, Mister Wall Street's mouth tightened, as if biting back a curse.
I gave him a quick scan but saw no glasses of any kind – not on his obnoxiously handsome face nor anywhere else. I looked back to the tourist and replied, "Uh, no?"
"Exactly!" he said. "Because the bird knocked 'em off – right into the water. They looked expensive, too." He laughed. "Am I right?"
I wasn't quite sure who he was asking – me or his fellow bag-holder.
When the silence stretched out too long to be comfortable, I filled the void by murmuring, "Probably." And it did make sense. If the guy's clothing was expensive, he would hardly skimp on sunglasses.
Wall Street pinched the bridge of his nose. "Forget the glasses." He turned to the tourist and practically growled, "Now let go of my bag."
The tourist blinked. "You really think it's yours?"
"I know it's mine."
The tourist looked perplexed for half a beat and then slapped his own forehead. "Wait, I know the problem," he said with a laugh. "It's your glasses."
But Wall Street wasn't laughing. In a clipped voice, he said, "What?"
"Your glasses," the tourist repeated. "Maybe you don't see too good without 'em. What were they? Prescription or something?" He gave his opponent the squinty-eye. "Because my eyes are twenty-twenty, and I'm tellin' you flat-out, this bag's all mine." He offered up a smug smile. "Sorry, pal."
Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the air. The tourist reached into the front pocket of his baggy shorts and pulled out a bright blue cell phone. He consulted the screen and said, "Hang on. I gotta take this."
He tapped the screen and started talking. "Hey babe, you're not gonna believe this, but some four-eyed fudgie is trying to steal my bag."
I almost snorted. Fudgie. The term was all-too-familiar. It was what some locals called tourists who went hog-wild for the island's world-famous fudge. But this was the first time I'd heard the term from an actual tourist.
And he wasn't even done. Into his phone, he said, "I mean, he's not wearing glasses now, but he was . And trust me when I tell ya, the guy's blind as a bat without 'em."
Once again, my gaze shifted to Wall Street. He pressed his fingers to his temples like he was regretting every life choice that led him to this dock. Under his breath, he muttered, "Damn Macallan."
Macallan?
Who the heck was that? The tourist?
Not likely. It's not like the guys had been calling each other by name. No. It had to be somebody else. But who?
His broker? His butler? I tried to think. Surely, he hadn't named the bird?
"Yeah," the tourist continued. "And I'm like five seconds away from calling the cops." But then he paused. "Oh?" He frowned. "No shit? Right there in the room?" He turned away, and his voice grew hushed. "You sure it's mine? I packed that gizmo you like, so you'd better make sure."
Slowly, my gaze drifted back to Wall Street. Our gazes locked and held – even as the tourist mumbled into his phone, "Uh, yeah. I'll be there in five minutes." He gave a nervous chuckle. "I mean, it's not like I'll be lugging a bag or anything."
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
Mister Wall Street didn't. His face remained stony, even as the tourist released his grip on the bag and mumbled to no one in particular, "Sorry for the mix-up." And with that, he bolted past me, heading toward the main strip.
I didn't even turn to look. My eyes were still glued to the stranger who had yet to crack a smile. His gaze shifted to the street behind me, and he gave a slow shake of his head. More to himself than to me, he said, "What a tool."
"Oh, come on," I said, trying to brighten his mood. "He did apologize." I paused. "Sort of."
But the guy didn't even glance at me, much less smile. If anything, his expression only darkened as he continued to stare off into the distance. In a tight voice, he said, "I wasn't talking about him."
I stiffened. "What do you mean?" He wasn't talking about me , was he? I was no tool, especially since I lacked the basic equipment. I mean, I'd never heard a woman called such a thing before, and heck if I wanted to be the first.
At my question, Mister Tall, Dark, and Difficult didn't even blink. No acknowledgment. No nothing. It was like I wasn't even there.
Fine. Whatever. I could definitely take a hint. And besides, I had plenty of my own troubles without taking on his – troubles that were bigger than a duffel bag and several times more serious.
I was just turning to leave when he muttered, "Who invited you here?"
That did it. I stopped in mid-motion. "Hey! I didn't need to be 'invited.' I live here. And yeah, the whole thing with the bag was probably annoying, but to me, it looked like an honest mistake."
Finally, his gaze returned to mine. "Listen – "
"No, you listen," I said. "I was only trying to help.
I don't know what it's like where you come from, but around here, people actually stop to help one another.
" I straightened to my full height, which granted, only came up to his shoulders.
"So excuse me if you're having a bad day, but that's no reason to take it out on someone you don't even know. "
I spoke from experience. My own morning had been full of disappointment, and I'd still managed to be polite – well, until now, that is.
Now I was glaring like I could skewer him with my eyes – although in my own defense, he was the one who'd started it.
With something like a sigh, he said, "Just chill, will ya?"
"Chill?" I sputtered. Who was being a tool now? "Are you freaking serious?"
"Yeah, chill," he repeated. "I wasn't talking about you."
I glanced around. Already, the tourist had disappeared into the crowd on Main Street, and even the dock workers were long gone. This left only me and him.
I stated the obvious. "Well, I don't see anyone else here, so unless you've got an invisible friend, your story's a load of bunk."
At this, the corners of his mouth actually quirked. "Bunk, huh?"
Oh, so now he looked ready to smile?
I wasn't having it, especially because I just knew he was mocking me and my small-town ways. "You know what? Just forget it." And with that, I turned and did what I should have done earlier. I walked away, leaving him and his stupid bag alone on the dock.
Did he call out or apologize?
Of course not.
Good. It's not like I'd wanted him to.
I didn't bother looking back – even if a tiny part of me was sorely tempted. But screw that. I knew his type all too well. He was too slick, too impatient, and way too rude for the small-town vibe that made Mackinac Island such a nice, friendly place.
What was he doing here, anyway?
My grandma would've called him a city-slicker. And she would not have meant that as a compliment.
But me? I had a better word for him.
Jerkwad.
No. Total jerkwad. And that was me being nice.