Chapter 92

“Oh, absolutely, it’s going on the wall,” Scooter said.

Andy squirmed his way through the crawlspace and sat up. “What’s that?” Scooter turned the frame toward him, and his eyes got big. “Oh, shit.” He gaped at Kat. “Why. Why would you do this to me? Tell me you’re not going to hang it here.”

“Well, your form is not what it should be. You have not been practicing your pops, but I will excuse this, as you have had very little time. Next season, you will look better, or it will reflect badly on my teaching. But it is certainly worthy. You look very pretty, Andrushka.” Kat held out her hand to retrieve the photo from Scooter.

Andy turned his eyes on Scooter, big and round. “You’re not going to let her do that to me, are you?”

“‘Course I am,” Scooter said. “You think I want to watch her sulk for the next two weeks if I don’t let her? Besides, you’re part of the family; we keep everyone’s positive press on the wall.” He kept his smile in place, trying not to remember the scads of articles about his arrest he had carefully clipped and saved after the fact. He wasn’t sure why; they were a malignant reminder of everything that happened and he never read them if he could avoid it, but still, he kept them all, tucked away in a sealed envelope. But the wall was for triumphs and smiles, and had such other treasures as D’ante’s casual, his arm around his wingman just in front of their fighter jets; Scooter’s high school graduation; and Sarah Anderson with her arm around a much younger Jason, when he’d gotten an award in grade school for art. They had a few of Kat from her student days, clipped from the college newspaper. And of course, dozens of his parents and their friends from back when Dockside was new.

“Ugh, you’re awful,” Andy complained, pouting. Scooter was pretty sure he was bitching just for the sake of bitching, and that if he really objected, he’d say so more seriously.

Andy hoisted himself out of the floor with a flex of muscle that hadn’t yet failed to make Scooter’s mouth water. “Where the hell did they take that from, anyway? There wasn’t anyone else on the beach.” He washed his hands and splashed his face. “If we’re taking a break, I’m getting a water. You want one?”

“We’re out in here,” Jason said, finishing his inventory of his kitchen. “There’s a couple flats out in Scooter’s truck.” He flipped a page. “I think we’re gonna need to call the cheese a loss, Scooter. There’s water in the packaging. Need to find that leak.”

“Ugh, hot water,” Andy grumbled, but he pushed out the back door angled for the parking lot anyway.

A car pulled into the lot as Andy headed out, but Scooter dismissed it. If it was a friend, they’d come in, and Andy would turn away any tourists stupid enough to show up in a storm-stricken town just because they’d already paid for vacation. They did that sometimes. Most of the rental properties had strict no-refund policies, storms or no storms, and sometimes out-of-towners would insist on staying anyway. Usually the owners would put ‘em to work with storm clean up and they’d quickly decide to vacation elsewhere. Renters who actually pitched in and helped would get big discounts for the next year or jumped to the top of the list for the next available slot. It all worked out in the end.

Scooter reviewed the inventory sheet that Jason held out to him, opened his mouth to say something, and inhaled sawdust. He coughed and looked around for Andy and the bottles of water. He wasn’t back. Either some tourist was giving him shit, or he’d been trapped into one of those maundering conversations with a local who’d want a full report on damage here, and to tell Andy all about the damage at their place, and…

Scooter shoved himself to his feet. Ugh. He was already tired, and it was barely lunchtime. That was probably his own fault, as he’d teased Andy into a little secret rendezvous—well, not really secret, but it had been past two before they’d finally collapsed in sweat and exhaustion. He pushed the door open, walked down the porch ramp and—stopped.

Andy’s body was held rigidly, his arms at his sides like sticks, hands clenched. His back was to Scooter. The person he was talking to was standing close, too close, his hand on Andy’s shoulder, talking quietly, earnestly. Blond. Tall. Muscular. Not quite as tall as Jason, but close, and he was looming over Andy in a possessive manner that made Scooter’s protective instincts kick into overdrive. What the hell was going on?

Scooter took a few steps closer; the blond man’s voice was low, intimate, wheedling, but Scooter still couldn’t catch the words. “Hey, Andy,” Scooter said. “You need help bringin’ that water in?”

* * * *

Andy was going to hide Kat’s ice cream or draw a stupid cartoon face on her surfboard or…something. Mostly for that stupid picture, but also because she’d apparently taken the last cold water out of the fridge without replacing it again. God, she was such a brat. And it was even hotter and morehumid under the crawlspace than outside. How was that fair? It was shaded, it should have been a littlecooler.