16. Your exclusive sneak peek at Try Me
“Don’t be a butthead, Jake. Wear the damn pirate costume.”
Of all the demands I’ve heard from my bossy baby sister, this takes the cake.
Cake made of sticks and mud, iced with dog doo frosting.
“No.” I steer my truck around a pothole on Beachcomber Road, lifting a hand to greet Mabel McCall. She’s walking her wiener dog and waves before scooping Beanie’s cake frosting into a bag.
“No?” Lucy’s voice lifts an octave. “What do you mean, no? The customer’s always right.”
“Not when the customer is a spoiled twelve-year-old dickhead with an entitlement complex.” I brake for a family of tourists at the crosswalk, then crank down my window when I spot Luke Lovelin by the bakery. He’s the ranch hand for some fancy-pants movie star, and since the movie star shares a fence with Mabel, I need Luke’s help fixing her broken gate.
But Luke points to the phone at his ear. “Sorry,” he mouths, and I give the universal sign for “I’ll catch you at poker night.”
Pretty sure there’s a universal sign for that.
There’s definitely one for “your back tire’s low,” and Luke gives it as I cruise through the intersection. Crap, the rear left must be leaking. I wave so he knows I got the message, then focus on my sister. She’s still chattering about costumes and kids’ cruise parties.
“You can’t call children dickheads.” Lucy huffs out a breath. “It’s just not done.”
“Of course it is.” I was once a twelve-year-old dickhead. Not an entitled one, and definitely not spoiled. “Some kids are dickheads. It’s a fact.”
“Nice, Jake.” A ca-ching in the background reminds me she’s working the bait shop today. “Would you call your niece a dickhead?”
“Of course not.” I steer around a pothole. “Because Harper isn’t a dickhead.” Am I the only one who gets this? “We’re getting off topic. I’ll do the tour. I’ll take the little dickheads out on the bay and let them fire fake cannons and chase each other around shouting ‘aaarrr’ or whatever the fuck pirates say. But I’m not wearing a damn costume.”
A guy’s gotta have some pride. Even if mine’s taken a beating lately.
“No cannons,” Lucy says. “No guns of any kind. Didn’t you read the RFP?”
For fuck’s sake. What kind of twelve-year-old’s birthday party requires a formal Request for Proposal?
A dickhead. That’s what kind.
“I skimmed the RFP.” I grit my teeth and hang a right on Pacific Crest. Harry Hartman stands hunched by the hardware store, feeding day-old bagels to a swarm of seagulls. I make a mental note to visit Mrs. Hartman at the nursing home. She babysat all of us Spencer-King siblings for three summers. God knows the woman deserves some damn flowers.
“How much?”
My sister’s question feels like a trick. “How much what?”
“How much of the Fleetwood family birthday party RFP did you read?”
“The first twenty pages.” Maybe the first ten.
“It’s right here on page twenty-six.” There’s a rustle of paper on Lucy’s line. “No weaponry of any kind, insinuated or realistic, including pistols, archery equipment, hatchets, trebuchets, rifles, cannons?—”
“Okay, okay.” My head starts to throb. I grab the mug from my cupholder and gulp some coffee. Cold. It’s that kind of morning. “What about cardboard swords?”
“Wouldn’t that be insinuated weaponry?”
“Hell if I know.” Rich people and their damn rules. “Can they point fingers at each other and say ‘pew-pew,’ or is this party just for hugs and cruelty-free cake?”
“Gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free…” She’s reading from the RFP. “Doesn’t say the cake has to be cruelty-free, but I think it’s implied.”
At this point, I might take a whole birthday cake—candles included—and chuck it at the parents pulling the strings. If I can’t blame the kid, they’re next on my list. They’re the reason I’m stuck hauling spoiled tweens in my 40-foot custom aluminum trawler. A ship that’s served my family proud for five decades of commercial salmon fishing. Now, the mighty Sarah Lou’s stuck hauling rich snobs on pleasure cruises.
“Look, Jake.” Lucy must read my thoughts because her voice softens. “You’ll be back to fishing soon. The drought can’t last forever.”
With my luck? “It might.”
We’ve been shut down since March, since the Sacramento River slowed to a trickle. Most Oregon Coast salmon swims up and down that chute, so my livelihood’s kinda screwed at the moment. It doesn’t help there’s one helluva ticking clock on our family fundraising. A clock set by none other than?—
“It’s a temporary thing,” Lucy says in her best mom voice. It works, since there’s no other mom in the Spencer-King family. “Then you’ll get the Sarah Lou back to doing what she’s meant to do.”
“Which is not hauling entitled dickh?—”
“Goodbye, Jake!” Lucy sings, probably plugging her ears the way she used to as a kid. “I’ll have the pirate costume sent here to the bait shop,” she adds.
“You will not.” I crank the wheel into Kaleb’s auto shop. Luke’s right, that left rear tire feels low. Third one this month that needs patching. “I’m not wearing the damn pirate costume,” I argue, since Lucy’s still on the line.
She sighs. “How about just the eye patch?”
That’s when one of Kaleb’s guys yells “patch?” from the garage and I call “sure” without thinking.
Goddammit. Lucy’s got the upper hand.
“Great! I knew you’d get on board.” There’s clicking as she types something. “And the patch won’t look right without the pointy pirate hat, and you might as well have the blousy pirate shirt to go along with?—”
“No.” We’re still having this conversation?
“I’d better just buy the whole costume.” There’s a click on Lucy’s end and I know she’s placed the order. “It’ll be here early next week.”
“Don’t you dare—” But she’s gone. The dial tone says our conversation’s done. No surprise. Lucy mastered the art of having the last word the day she ran over my foot with her trike and cried so hard I wound up apologizing.
Good thing I love her more than life itself. Lucy and her twin, Mason, plus our brother Noah, and Parker, the youngest. Even Kaleb, who’s striding toward my truck with a wrench in one hand and a shit-eating grin.
“Hey, asshole.” My brother sticks his head through the driver’s side window. “Tire’s low.”
“Thanks, Einstein.” I eye him up and down. “Why do you look like you had a hot date last night?”
“Because I had a hot date last night.” The grin gets bigger. “Funny how that works.”
“You’re a dog.”
“Because I date and you don’t?” He tosses the wrench from one hand to the other. “Woof.”
I drag a hand through my hair. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. “Did you see they put up a for sale sign?”
Kaleb’s grin goes flat as my tire. “Yeah. Luce told me when she came by with donuts.”
“She didn’t bring me donuts.” She also didn’t mention the sign.
“She knew you’d freak out.” Kaleb’s not talking about donuts. “How’d you hear?”
“Pop told me last night when I took him to Big One’s.” Our brother’s brewery might have a stupid-ass name, but he makes great beer. “Guess they got approval to move forward.”
Kaleb frowns. “How close are we to having enough?”
“For the asking price?” I searched the listing last night, choking when I saw all those dollar signs. “Maybe halfway.” That’s if he’ll come down about sixty grand. I’m banking on that hope.
“I’m raising my rates,” Kaleb says. “And Mason’s adding a second trivia night at Big One’s. We’ll get there, Jake. Don’t freak.”
My gut twists at the sacrifice. We’ve all been making them, but I hate it. “Between Lucy pitching in at the bait shop, plus Noah sending money from overseas, and whatever Dad and Parker bring back from Alaska?—”
I stop because, even then, we might come up short.
“We’ll figure it out.” Kaleb tips his chin to my back tire. “You want a patch job, or can we put on new fucking tires and be done with it?”
“Just the patch for now.” That back tire’s shot, but this rig’s all-wheel drive. Gotta do all four or it’ll burn out the drivetrain. “I’ll get the tires when we get the land.”
“Stubborn asshole.” He says it like a compliment. “You’re gonna end up stranded, and if I’m not the one towing your sorry ass, it’ll cost a lot more than tires.”
I let out a long breath. “I’ll buy the tires when I get the fat check for this stupid-ass birthday party I’m doing.”
“There’s the sunshiny big brother I love.” Kaleb makes like he’s gonna hug me, but I swat him away. “You know I’d give you the tires for free, right?”
“And you know I don’t take charity, right?”
“You know we’re family, right?”
“You know this is a stupid way to have a conversation, right?”
Kaleb snorts. “Go gaze pensively at the ocean and be pissed at the world. I’ll have the tire patched in ten.”
I start to tell him I don’t gaze pensively at anything, because I’m not in a goddamn romance movie, but on second thought… “Being pissed off sounds good. Want a coffee from Ugly Mug?”
“Nah.” He turns and walks off, wiping grease-stained knuckles on his coveralls. “Go away and let me work.”
Gotta hand it to the guy; he’s done well with this garage. Folks as far north as Astoria and as far south as Bandon drive up and down the Oregon Coast to have Kaleb fix their cars.
He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s good at what he does.
I stalk across the two-lane road, squinting at the rock formation Lucy says looks like a giant boob. Spencer’s Rock. And yeah, it’s named for our mom’s side of the family.
My gaze shifts to the fancy iron sign staked at the beach entrance. The sign that wasn’t there yesterday.
Cherry Blossom Lake.
I scowl at the curlicue writing. It’s all part of our “community rebrand,” a flowery way of saying someone took a swath of Oregon Coast farmland and turned it into a tourist town filled with lakefront mansions.
Lake.That’s what they call the old gravel pit now.
At least the rich assholes don’t have dibs on the scenery. Even from this parking lot, I’ve got sweeping views of the sea. I stand for a second, watching seagulls dive bomb a pile of French fries. A hundred yards down the beach, giggling kids scan tidepools for treasures. There’s a couple in cuffed jeans wading in waves frothed like the lattes Lucy likes to drink.
I’m lucky to live here.
Lucky I own the trawler that lets me make a living.
Lucky the Coast Guard gave me permits to run it as a charter rig while salmon season’s screwed.
Lucky my bait shop and these stupid cruises give us hope for buying our land back.
Lucky I haven’t punched Owen in his smug, stupid?—
“Hey, fuckface.”
I turn, because of course I do. Goddamn Kaleb. “Tire’s done?”
“Yep.” He shoves a wrench in his pocket as we amble back across the road. “Do me a favor?”
“Depends.” I’d remove my own kidney with pliers if he asked for it. “Does it involve a pirate costume?”
Kaleb frowns. “Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“You need to get out more.”
No, I don’t. “What’s the favor?”
“Got a call from the owner of Shithouse.”
“Yeah?” Someday we’ll stop using that name for the biggest, most pretentious new mansion on the lake. Today isn’t that day. “What do they want?”
“A generator for their outdoor heaters,” Kaleb says. “Apparently, they’re just realizing you don’t have an outdoor garden party on the Oregon Coast in June.”
Jesus. There’s a storm rolling through this weekend. “Tell me they at least have a tent.”
“They have a tent. That’s where you’re taking this. Head up Driftwood Drive about half a mile and look for the obnoxiously big house with an obnoxiously big tent out back.” He points to the bed of my truck. “Generator’s loaded.”
Because he knew I’d say yes. “Thanks for the patch,” I say, slinging myself into the driver’s seat. “I’ll come buy new tires next month.”
“You’ll come by tomorrow when your new ones arrive.” He slugs me in the shoulder. “That patch won’t hold forever. I ordered all-season radials for your birthday.”
“My birthday’s not until November.”
But he’s already walking away.
As I fire up the engine, I spot an envelope on the dash. Even before I see Kaleb’s scrawl, I know what it is.
“Goddammit.” I drag out the cash, plus a note slashed with more of his loopy writing.
You’re taking this goddamn money and putting it toward the property if I have to shove it up your ass. We’re all pitching in, Jake.
I cramit back in the envelope, fuming. So Kaleb did it. He sold the classic Bronco he rebuilt from scratch. His baby, his project since he was fifteen years old.
We’ll fight it out later. Right now, I need to get this damn generator delivered so I can drive up to Newport and grab the new bait tank pump I ordered with the hope I’ll be back to fishing soon.
Steering my way along Seaspray Avenue, I turn on Driftwood Drive. Half a dozen McMansions line the road in various states of construction. Four more march the edge of the east bank, with a few occupied full-time by various rich residents. Most sit empty, waiting for wealthy owners who show up twice a year to host dinner parties for their rich friends.
I round a corner and spot a big white tent in the yard of the modern monstrosity decked out in white brick. The Maison de la Mer sign greets me, and I grimace.
Huckleberry shrubs skim the fancy slate walkway, and I grudgingly approve the use of native shrubbery. They’ve got five or six detached buildings that look like guesthouses or servants’ quarters or whatever the hell people in mansions need. There’s also a garage big enough to store six sports cars and a yacht.
A hazy memory tickles the back of my brain. Did Lucy say something about this place? Some Hollywood mogul owns it, though hell if I remember who. I don’t do celebrity gossip. I’m just here to make this damn delivery and be done with it.
“Hello.” I call out again and unhook the tailgate of my truck. “Anyone home? Got your generator here.”
I use the toe of my boot to straighten a crooked slate paver. There’s a slug beside a rhododendron, and I watch it inch over damp moss. Huh. Even rich folks have slugs.
“Hello?” I shout louder this time, moving toward the big white party tent. “Anyone home?” I’m kicking Kaleb’s ass if he sent me on a wild goose chase. “Generator’s here.”
Footsteps tap the damp slate and I turn. A woman with thick, dark hair yanked back in a bun rounds the edge of the house and keeps marching. She wears tall boots and a snug skirt that shows a perfect peek of pale thigh. Her leather jacket matches the boots, and that silky red shirt looks expensive and soft.
So does what’s under it.
I stare as she strides toward me. Hazel eyes flash like sunshine on sea glass as she barks a simple command.
“I need you to take me right now.”
I blink. My dick twitches at the invitation. “Ma’am?”
“I’ll call you right back.” She taps her ear, then slips out an earbud and sticks it in a slot on the clipboard she’s holding. “Apologies for that.”
My dick doesn’t accept. The rest of me feels annoyed that rich people can’t just say “sorry” like normal folks.
But I’m not a complete asshole, so I settle for nodding. “No problem.”
“You’re here for the sabrage?”
Er, what?
My dick perks up again. Did she say ménage?
“Uh—”
“Look, I’ll be honest—I’ve only done this one other time, and I mostly just watched, so I’m not really sure how to audition you.”
I stare. She’s straddling the line between frazzled and take-charge, which is strangely hot. Or maybe that’s just her. The bright hazel eyes, the curve of her waist— “You’re auditioning me?”
“I guess audition’s not the right word.” She looks at her watch and winces. “You want to whip out your sword and show me what you can do, or do you have video of your?—”
“Sword?” My dick does a confused twitch. Is this about sex parties or pirates or are rich people just really fucking weird?
“Sorry. Would you prefer I call it a saber?”
We can call it whatever she wants if she licks her lips like that again. “Sure.”
She hooks the clipboard between her elbow and chest, and I definitely don’t watch her breasts swell between the buttons on her top.
Her eyes take a long, slow journey up my body. As her cheeks flush pink, she clears her throat. “I guess I should ask if you have one of those really long ones or the kind that’s shorter and blunt.” She frowns toward the tent. “I might need to move things around a bit.”
Dead. I’m dead.
But my dead mouth manages to make words. “My sword’s…above average.”
“Great!” She smiles, and it’s like the goddamn sun coming out. “Everyone will love that. I mean, any size would work. It’s all about technique, right?”
“Right.” That seems like the safest response.
A feather of dark hair slips from her bun and she brushes it back. “I was reading up on this and the whole thing’s so fascinating. It’s really not about brute force, or just whacking away or whatever, right?”
“Uh—”
“I mean, it’s more about hitting the right spot. Just sliding the saber along the body seam all the way to the lip and then?—”
“Guh.” That’s the noise I make.
“—and then I guess you break the neck and—well, I’ll stop talking so you can show me.” She smiles and smooths a hand over her hair. “Sorry, I’m a little frantic today. Let me start again. I’m Cassidy Brooks. I didn’t catch your name.”
I blink a few times to get blood back in my brain.
Then I blurt the only words I can manage. “What the actual fuck?”
***