Chapter 4

There was only one register at the front, manned by a middle-aged man with a round, red face and thin, graying hair. “Afternoon,” the man said. “Help you find anything?”

“Uh,” Andy said. He’d come in here for something, and he was going to remember it as soon as—Oh, right. “You got anything to drink? Soda or juice or something?”

“Sure, there’s a cooler just there.” The guy gestured laconically toward the wall. “Hot out there today, ain’t it?”

Why was he still talking? Andy managed a half-smile and trudged over to the cooler. Oh, juice, thank God. He pulled out a bottle, not even caring what flavor it was. He cracked it and started chugging it without even closing the cooler door.

“Hey, Harry-Rex,” a man said, “you got any of that spray roach killer—” He stopped dead just before he slammed into Andy, all but windmilling his arms like a cartoon character. “Whoa, sorry! Didn’t know there was anyone else in here. Where the hell’d you come from?” He had a basket in one hand and was carrying two cans of paint balanced precariously in the other.

“New York,” Andy answered without thinking, still half-dumb from thirst and the heat. The guy was good-looking, with messy dark hair and pale eyes that sparkled under his ball cap, and the kind of broad shoulders that suggested he did some lifting, or maybe a lot of manual labor. There was the barest suggestion of a cleft in his slightly scruffy chin, and when he grinned at Andy’s answer—it hadcome out a little snarky, Andy supposed—it seemed nice. Friendly, not like Nick’s smile, which always seemed at least halfway to mocking. “No harm done.”

The man gawked at Andy then, and his eyes widened. “Woah, Big City, where’d you pick up that shiner? You shoulda had ice on that hours ago.” He put his paint cans down on the counter and without waiting for permission, tipped Andy’s head up to inspect the injury.

Andy flinched at the touch, but the guy didn’t prod at the bruise, just gently turned Andy’s face toward the light.

“Bar fight, I bet,” chuckled the cashier—Harry-Rex, apparently. “Cops were out in force last night. College students on the beach again. Eh, what can ya do, right, Scooter? Lemme see, I might have a cold pack in the kit. An’ I’ll get that pesticide for ya. Just keep an eye on the door?”

Beyond a doubt, this was the weirdest thing that had ever happened to Andy. “It’s fine,” he said belatedly. “I don’t need the ice, I can’t—” He huffed a breath and made himself step back away from—Scooter, really?—Scooter’s grip. “It’ll be fine,” he said.

“Sure,” Scooter said, easy. “But it’ll be fine faster with an ice pack and some aspirins. That’s gotta hurt. Besides, Harry-Rex’ll just fuss if you don’t. He used to patch me and Jase up all the time when we were kids.” Scooter leaned his hip against the counter and started unloading his supplies: paint, brush, some wire, and a couple of hinges. “Damn door blew off in the last windstorm, now I gotta fix it. Which’ll be fun; I ain’t exactly handy with tools. You here on vacation?”

Christ, people around here talked a lot. Who just struck up random conversations with strangers? “Not really,” Andy said. “More like relocating, I guess.” He considered the hinges. “Hanging a door isn’t that hard,” he offered. “I’ve done a couple. You can probably find some good tutorials on YouTube.”

Harry-Rex came back, crushing an ice pack in one massive hand. He dropped two packets of generic ibuprofen on the counter and kicked a plastic container of pesticide toward Scooter. With nothing like what Andy would consider efficiency, he started scanning in Scooter’s purchases, talking about his garden, which was looking good for zucchini, apparently.

Andy tuned out the chatter and instead ripped open one of the packets and washed the pills down with the last of the juice. God, that was good. Too bad he couldn’t afford more. Couldn’t really afford that one, if he had to be honest. He eyed Harry-Rex sidelong. “Don’t suppose you’re hiring?” he asked.

Harry-Rex shook his head. “Nah, we don’t get enough custom for’t.”

Scooter spoke up. “If you’re looking for work—Hey, get this, Harry-Rex, guess who showed up day before yesterday? Debbie flippin’ Clark!”

“Aw, so you’re short-handed again, I guess. Jeff never did have sense where that woman was concerned.”

“Would serve him right if I replaced his sorry ass,” Scooter said. He turned back to Andy. “I need a dishwasher, busboy, broom-pusher, basically, you know. It’s not much, but it is full-time. Two meals a day. I own Dockside, down in Sandbridge. Fried fish and burger joint.”

Andy had never worked in a restaurant—he’d mostly worked as a mechanic since he’d left home—but washing dishes and pushing a broom wasn’t exactly rocket science. And it came with meals, which the ache in his stomach found damned appealing. If nothing else, it was something he could do while he figured out what to do with his new life. Not like he could give job references or a resume. “That sounds pretty good,” he told Scooter. “Though I, ah, kind of lost my ID, so…”

Scooter raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t ask. “That works out for everyone, then. I can pay you under the table an’ nobody’s gotta worry about forms and taxes. What’s your name, Big City?”

“Andy,” he said without thinking, and barely stopped himself from grimacing at the stupidity. If Nick reported him missing…Well, at least Andy was a common enough name. He didn’t dare give his real last name, though. “Andy Trevor.” There, his middle name would serve, and was close enough to the truth that he wouldn’t startle if someone used it.