Wild on the Rocks

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

  Intoxicating.

  She wasted a few minutes in worship, then broke free of its lure and loped back to her car. Moments later, she zoomed back out onto the interstate. Settling into the left lane with the cruise button locked on eighty miles per hour, Quinn let her mind sift through her limited options.

  Cuba was open these days. She could see herself as an ex-pat in Castro’s backyard. Bikini top and sarong. Fedora. Rum glass ever at hand.

  But again, passport required.

  She could scoot down to Key West, get a job in some dive on the beach that claimed Hemingway drank there and hang with the Jimmy Buffet wannabes while she filed for a passport. Spend her days soaking in this glorious sun and her nights swimming in Margaritaville.

  She ran that through her head again and sniffed wryly. For limited options, they didn’t sound half bad.

  Her brow furrowed when she sped past a highway sign for Naples. Naples was in that Casa Blanca pamphlet. Something about…right. Closest mainland city to Mimosa Key.

  Yup, there was a sign for the Mimosa Key Causeway. The graphic emphasized the island’s curve that made it look like a large question mark.

  A fucking question mark.

  Wild furled in her gut.

  New choices at every exit.

  She streaked across three lanes of traffic, got off the interstate, and followed the signs to the causeway.

  * * *

  Coronado

  Same day.

  “This is bullshit.”

  Twist wasn’t completely wrong.

  Jasper glanced over his laptop screen to see his friend sprawled in the captain’s chair before it and sporting an uncharacteristic scowl while nursing a glass of bourbon. “Two men are dead, Twist.”

  “I was there, Roy.”

  Jasper ducked his head back to the computer screen. Cramming half a year’s worth of evaluation updates and mission reports into the two hours he’d been given before he had to vacate his office was no cakewalk. He felt ridiculous doing the work in summer whites, which were not required uniform for getting your ass reamed by superior officers. But Twist had wanted to make a statement.

  Jasper had felt foolish doing it—he didn’t need strategy for a situation with a foregone conclusion—but he followed Twist’s advice if only to make his friend feel useful. Not that what they wore made a damn difference. Probably made things worse.

  “You didn’t have to stand with me,” Jasper quietly reminded. “Probably would’ve done better if you’d let them punish us separately.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  Jasper returned to his reports and left Twist to his brood. Officially, Twist was there to witness Jasper’s action reports, but really their CO wanted both men under wraps in the same place and beneath the eye of the MP standing guard in the open doorway of Jasper’s office. The same MP who would escort them off base when Jasper was done. Not that either of them were men who’d breed dissention in the team, but in Jasper’s experience, clear thinking didn’t play when politics were the driving motivation. His CO had been ordered to contain the situation and make it so the press could be told involved parties were being suitably disciplined.

  The truth didn’t count for much in that scenario.

  “I should’ve never called you out that night.”

  Jasper closed his eyes. Finally. Twist had been chewing on this for a week.

  But he wasn’t prepared when Twist threw his untouched glass of bourbon against the wall.

  Immediately, the MP went for his sidearm, but the silent command in Jasper’s raised hand arrested him mid-move.

  “Some psychologist I am, huh?” Twist snapped. “Oxford DPhil. Clinical work at Yale. Years in the private sector, but Mav slipped right past me. No fuckin’ clue he was suicidal.”

  “It sucks, but someone always gets missed, Twist. No one can catch ’em all.”

  “I fuckin’ specialize in PTSD, Queen,” Twist pointed out. “I got into this to get to the Mavericks before they implode.”

  Shit.

  Five years ago, Twist had given up a cushy private practice to pursue his calling: counseling soldiers who returned from combat zones broken in body and mind. He’d enlisted in order to be side-by-side with those men and maybe stop a downward slide before it ended in horrors like Fort Hood. When the Navy had wanted to keep him counseling behind a desk, Twist joined the SEALs to stay on the front line.

  “You’re the best shrink in the field and one helluva a SEAL, but it’s still not your fault.”

  “Yeah? Whose then?”

  Jasper slapped the laptop closed. “Mine.”

  Twist shot him a nasty look. “Not playin’ the blame game, brother.”

  “No game,” Jasper agreed. “Maverick was my responsibility. So are you. So is every man on that Team. I failed them, but especially Maverick. And I failed you, too, by getting you hooked up in my shit.”

  The two men stared at each other. They’d been swim buddies through BUD/S and together through SEAL qualification training, then assigned to the same team after receiving their tridents at graduation. There was damn little they didn’t know about each other. Even less that had to be spoken between them.

  “I should’ve never called you out that night,” Twist repeated.

  “Twist, I should’ve already been there.”

  Comprehension dawned. “That’s why you took that bullshit censure, let them send you on unpaid leave without objection.”

  “And you stupidly stood with me, jeopardizing both our careers instead of mine alone.”

  “Brother, that’s my place. By your side.”

  The words punched Jasper in the chest like always. And, like always, they required no response.

  He reopened the laptop and got back to work.

  Twist slapped his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed to his feet. “Booze, beaches, and babes,” he said, walking over to where he’d stashed the bottle of bourbon in Jasper’s bookshelf.

  Jasper’s assessing gaze followed him across the room. “Did you crack and I missed it?”

  “Shrinks start off mad as hatters. Makes us better therapists.” He pointed the glass at Jasper. “You, my stalwart friend, are overdue for a break, and after this clusterfuck, so am I. Booze, beaches, and babes are what we both need to flush this mess outta our system. And I know just the place to get ’em.”

  Jasper rubbed his eyes. “I’m not really in the mood to carouse.”

  “Carousing is exactly what you need. Doctor’s orders. That doctor being me.”

  “We live and work at the beach. Not like any of what you’re prescribing can’t be found right here.”

  “We need a fresh field of engagement, brother. And I’ve already reconned the perfect place.”

  “Can’t wait to hear it. Hang on. Yes, I can.”

  “Mock me now; tomorrow, you’ll be on your knees in thanks.”

  “Never gonna happen.”

  “Oh yeah? Ever hear of a place called Barefoot Bay?”

  “No. But then, I don’t have a vagina.”

  “Har har. It’s on Mimosa Key off the coast of Florida. Got a high-end resort right on the water.”

  “Sounds like a nightmare.”

  “Yeah, sure, a nightmare with ocean breezes, bikini-clad babes, and not a single IED in the sand. Horrors.”

  Jasper studied Twist for a moment. Actually, it didn’t sound too bad. He hadn’t had a vacation since that trip to Vegas last year and hadn’t been laid since his divorce.

  This Barefoot Bay could be a neat two for one.

  “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch, unless you object to getting paid for your vacation. Got a buddy who can offer us a deal.”

  “Yeah? Is this like the ‘buddy’ you said would get us ring-side seats in Thailand for the Muay Thai match, and instead we got a bulls-eye view of a woman shooting ping pong balls from her snatch?”

  Twist grinned, though he didn’t commit to it completely. “Good times, man.”
>
  “Not good times, and none for a while after either. It was months before I could go down on a woman without seeing ping pong balls.”

  Twist burst out laughing. Jasper felt the tension in his shoulders ease at this sign of his friend’s usual good humor.

  “Brother, you are not the only one with legit contacts. Nick’s a retired SEAL who got injured in the field and is now writing the great American novel. He knows a guy who runs security out of the resort. Used to be in the French Foreign Legion.”

  “A merc?” Jasper didn’t trust men who did what he and Twist did for profit, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of their usefulness. They’d worked with mercs in the field when they had to—or were ordered to—for intel or deeds that members of the United States military couldn’t be known for doing, but still had to get done.

  “Was a merc,” Twist emphasized, well aware of Jasper’s feelings on the issue. “Now he’s McBain Security. You two can bond over your Scottish ancestors. Seems there’s a political wedding happening there this weekend. Lots of big names dragging press and paparazzi with them. He’s looking to round out his force with some extra men. Reached out to Nick. Nick gave me a call.”

  “Dunno Twist. Probably not a good idea for me to be anywhere near the press. Your buddy could get blowback for employing a disgraced SEAL.”

  “You’re on enforced leave, not disgraced. And my buddy wouldn’t set us up with McBain if he was so much of an asshole as to let that bother him. Look, you’ll get two weeks at a fancy resort and be paid well enough for two or three days’ work to cover it. Doesn’t get better than that.”

  Jasper wasn’t quite ready to agree, but he had to admit hanging around here when he couldn’t be out with his team was going to suck big time. Spending that time on the other side of the country wasn’t the worse idea Twist had ever come up with. A brief hiatus where, for once, he wasn’t responsible for anything. Or anyone.

  He made a final note on the report, hit PRINT, and signed off. “Call your buddy,” he said, slamming the laptop shut as the MP stepped back into the office. “Tell him you’ll do the wedding. And you’re bringing a plus one.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic. The second, intimate. The third is routine.

  —Raymond Chandler

  Quinn drove over the causeway to Mimosa Key with the windows down, moon roof open, and the music up. Only way to drive, to her mind, when the weather was this glorious. Her head banged along with the welcomed assault of Shinedown as the lead singer screamed about seeing the world through diamond eyes. It felt fitting given the sun glittering off the waters of the Gulf like diamonds, sparking flares that were almost too bright even for her dark sunglasses.

  Probably, she should keep a low profile, close up the windows, play classical music, and try not to do anything memorable.

  But here, alone on the highway, she was going to take one more moment for herself.

  She eased up on the pedal as the causeway ended and turned onto Harbor Drive. Quinn lowered the volume as she pulled into the town proper of Mimosa Key. No need to announce her arrival in a way that was sure to piss off the locals before they even met her.

  The town had the feel of old school Florida with the aftertaste of quaint. She passed an ice-cream parlor at the edge of town marked by a red and white awning and a gaggle of teenagers out front that screamed “hangout.” She noted the credit union’s location (always good to know where to bank even if she was sticking with cash) and glanced around as she pulled up to the stoplight at the cross-section of town.

  The names of the various businesses made her mouth quirk. Beachside Beauty. South of the Border. Bud’s Buds. It all spoke of a self-aware community who didn’t mind making the best of the evident Florida beach town charm.

  Quinn didn’t do quaint—nothing about her said small-town chintz, thank God—but she could respect pride and appreciate confidence. Plus, it wasn’t so bad an idea to hang for a while in the one place in which she’d never fit.

  Since she was there for the resort, it’d be a good idea to figure out how to get to it. She flipped on her blinker as the light turned green and pulled into the Super Mini Mart Convenience Store conveniently positioned in the center of town. Kitty corner to the store was the Fourway Motel, which looked to be her only option in town, provided she could get past the juvenile urge to snicker at the name.

  Down the street, a sign for The Toasted Pelican caught Quinn’s eye. If the resort didn’t pan out for work, maybe they had a bar and needed a bartender—and hopefully didn’t serve pelican as a delicacy.

  The bell jingled as she entered the mini mart. Quinn stopped mid step, pinned in place by the intense stare of the skinny, sixty-something, bleached blonde woman perched on a stool behind the counter, gossip magazine spread before her, cigarette dangling between heavily painted lips. The woman sized Quinn up with beady eyes, pursed her mouth, and said, “Don’t want or need your kind of trouble.”

  Quinn stepped fully into the store and held up both hands. “All I did was walk in the door.”

  “Uh-huh.” The woman poked out a long, cherry-red nail sharpened to a point and swept it up and down Quinn’s figure to conduct a chorus of criticism. “Your jeans are too tight, you’re showing too much of what God gave you in that tight shirt, and nobody should strut around wearing motorcycle boots in weather this hot.” She nodded her head once as if that last statement irrevocably proved her point. “Trouble.”

  Reflexively, Quinn glanced down at her clothes. Honestly, she’d opened, what, maybe two top buttons, which, okay, did show the swell of her breasts, but only because of the matching embroidered shelf bra underneath, something the woman would need unholy powers to have seen.

  Besides, they were nice breasts.

  “Thanks for the fashion critique, Tyra.”

  Her leathery face creased with suspicion. “Name’s Charity. Charity Grambling. Don’t know no Tyra. Bet she’s trouble too.”

  Quinn bit her bottom lip and eyed the crazy stranger over the tops of her shades. “Ho-kay then. Look, I’m gonna go to that back cooler and grab a water and supplies. You think you could take your meds to throttle back the crazy before I come back to pay?”

  The woman shot up straight on her stool. “Gonna add lippy to that list too. You always this rude to people you just met?”

  Quinn snagged a hand basket and headed toward the cooler. “Nah. Usually takes me at least an hour, but you’re special.” She said “special” in her best Church Lady impression. Glancing up into the security mirror she thought, she wouldn’t swear on it, but she was near certain Charity was barely hiding a grin.

  “You got a name to go with that lip?” Charity called after her.

  “Yup. Goes with the rest of me too.” Quinn got her water and a couple bottles of soda, then snagged a bag of chips, a box of wet wipes, assorted fruit, Funyuns, a box of crackers, protein bars, a bar of cheese, and a handful of Three Musketeers bars on her way back. She was on the run for her life (probably). Now was not the time to skimp on chocolate.

  She dumped her haul on the counter and waited for Charity to ring her up. Instead the woman stared pointedly at her. “Well?!” Charity demanded, clearly put out at having to ask a second time.

  “You this nosy with all your customers, or only the ones passing through?”

  “Girl, there’s nothin’ and no one in Mimosa Key I do not know. You’re hardly special.” And Quinn bit her lip to keep from laughing when Charity employed her own Church Lady impersonation.

  There was another staring contest until Quinn asked, “You gonna ring me up?”

  “You got a name?” Charity snapped back.

  Quinn considered her options. Giving her name to a woman who was probably the Gossip Queen of Mimosa Key was an arguably stupid move for someone running from a mob murder. And really, how far could it be to the closest 7-Eleven? Bet the clerk there wouldn’t give Quinn the third degree like some crotchety maiden aun
t.

  But she was thirsty.

  And she really wanted the chocolate.

  And she still had to find Casa Blanca.

  She sighed and gave in, but what came out when she opened her mouth rocked her in her boots. “Quinn McQueen.”

  The hell was that? She hadn’t used her married name since signing the divorce papers last year.

  Ex married name.

  Charity sniffed and pressed buttons on the register with her long nail while Quinn’s personal foundation quaked. “Sure held on to that one for no reason.”

  Actually, I let him go all too easily.

  Oh, no no no no no. She was not going to think about Jasper McQueen. Not when she missed him. Not when she thought she’d pass out from wanting him. And definitely not now when she absolutely, 100% needed him to walk in that door—all gorgeous and brimming with muscles, oozing Mister Responsibility pheromones all over the place—and get her the hell outta this nightmare! Because she had no freaking clue what the hell she was doing on an island in Florida with everything she owned of merit piled in the SUV at the curb and her name probably at the top of a mob hit list.

  But she knew better then to long for Jasper McQueen.

  Take a valium, Forrester.

  Quinn breathed deep and tried to look like she wasn’t freaking out while Charity checked her out with insistent beeps from the register. Her eye caught on a pile of newspapers in the magazine stand. “Is there a want ads section in the Mimosa Key Gazette?”

  “Looking for work?”

  “And maybe a place to stay.”

  Charity shot Quinn’s cleavage a suspicious look and asked “What kind of work?” like she expected Quinn to stake out a spot on the corner.

  “I bartend.” That wasn’t a lie. She’d worked many the bar in her day, slinging drinks and beers for locals and professionals, co-eds and bikers, whoever bellied up before her mixologist business took off. Wherever the wanderlust took her, she could always get a gig behind a bar.

  Mimosa Key shouldn’t be any different.