by Tara Lush
I inhaled as Miles turned around. “He’s doing a story on Fab. The Italian consulate is looking into his death.”
“Oh Lana,” Miles said warmly. “Do you remember when we saw The Vapors together?”
I rolled my eyes. “No,” I answered truthfully.
He advanced on the counter, a frown crossing his too-perfect face. “You don’t. Oh, maybe that was before your time. Must have been back in the day when I was in college. You were a baby then.”
“Just as you like ’em,” I said.
He paused, blinking. “Now, I wouldn’t have come here to say hi if I knew you were going to be bitter.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Miles, you left me for a woman barely old enough to drink.”
“Babe, we need to talk.”
I shot him a sour glare. Babe? Talk? Us? Yeah, right. “Why’d you come into Perkatory?”
He blinked at me as if I’d thrown a hot demitasse of espresso in his face. “This place was so special for me. It had been your mother’s. I wanted to stop by and say hello. To her and you.”
The tips of my ears burned. How dare he mention Mom. She’d have been devastated by our divorce, and thank God she was gone by the time he left me for Yasmin. I glared at him.
“And I also wanted to talk with you about a few things.”
“I’m not going on camera for your story on Fab.” I folded my arms.
“No, no, I’d never ask that of you. Couldn’t do that, since we’re friends, er, have a personal relationship.”
“Had. Had a personal relationship. And we’re not friends. We’re not anything,”
He licked his lips. “Well, I’d like to share something I heard about Fab. Thought you might want to know. And talk to you about stuff.”
He knew I’d never be able to resist an interesting tidbit of information. I lifted a shoulder, feigning boredom. What could he possibly know about Fab? He’d been on the island for what? Six hours?
“I mean, I know you’re not a reporter anymore, but I can’t imagine that old fire isn’t still burning inside, right?” He unfurled that trademark flirtatious grin of his. “Yeah, I know all about that flame inside you.”
My face contorted as if in pain. Although I hated his innuendo, he knew exactly which buttons to push. Which irked even more. I pointed to an empty table in the far corner. “Fine. Want to chat over there?”
“I was thinking more like lunch. I’m doing this new paleo diet where I eat every three hours, and I need protein. Can’t live on Rice Krispie treats and coffee. Well, you can, but those of us who are in the public eye have to be more careful not to pack on the pounds.”
I turned to Erica, slipping off my apron. “Against my better judgement, I’m going to take him to Bay Bay’s. But there’s a fifty-fifty chance I might be arrested on homicide charges for real.”
“I’ll make sure I have the bail money ready,” she said, glaring at him. “Ride or die, babe.”
Yep, I’d found a true friend in Erica.
* * *
I held my head high as Miles and I walked into Bay Bay’s, a Devil’s Beach mainstay. Although it was two blocks from the actual beach, it still retained a waterfront vibe, with walls that were covered in dollar bills “donated” and signed by patrons.
Its slogan was: As Casual As The Beach. Sure enough, most of the people inside were wearing flip-flops and beach coverups. Or they were in bikinis and board shorts, and drinking piña coladas.
In jeans and Perkatory T-shirt, I was overdressed. In his suit, Miles stuck out like a porcupine in a nudist colony.
Like nearly every restaurant on the island, Bay Bay’s specialty was seafood. We were greeted by Emmy Botwin, a waitress and a lifelong friend of my mom’s. She’d been to our wedding.
When she saw us, confusion washed over her face. I was certain Dad had told her all about the divorce.
“Hey there, Lana. And … Miles?”
My ex-husband sprang into anchorman mode. “Hi, good to see you again,” his voice a half-octave lower than usual. He probably didn’t remember her at all. I rolled my eyes.
“We’re here for a quick lunch. He’s here working on a story.” I smiled, tight-lipped, hoping to exude a breezy, yet slightly pained attitude.
“Of course,” Emmy said, grabbing two menus.
She led us to a booth in the back of the restaurant. “I already know what I want. The grouper chowder,” I said.
“That’s all?” Miles asked. Usually I ordered that and a salad. It was a little shocking that he even remembered.
“I’m in a hurry,” I said briskly. “I’m a business owner, and I have a lot to do this afternoon.”
“Miles, do you need a minute?” Emmy asked my ex. She’d probably seen him do his morning live shot from the beach, since the TVs at the bar were tuned to his station.
“Ahh …” Miles studied the menu.
“No. He doesn’t need a menu. Can you bring him something paleo caveman friendly? No carbs, no sugar? Meat and a piece of lettuce. Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” Emmy hustled off.
Miles tilted his head. “Lana, baby, you don’t need to be so bitter and hostile.”
I leaned in. “Miles, baby, stop calling me baby. I’m not your wife. And yeah, I’m still a little hostile, considering you left me for a woman half your age. We haven’t talked since that day in divorce court.”
He waved his hand in the air. “I thought we were friends.”
“For the second time. We are not friends.”
He reached for my hands and I snatched them away. “What did you want to tell me about Fab?”
“In a minute. First, I need to apologize.”
I crossed my arms. “For what?”
“For Yasmin.”
My eyes were rolling back in my head so hard that I could almost see my brain. “Please. Spare me the song and dance.”
“We’ve broken up.”
“What? You all were so lovey-dovey at the banquet last week.” I grimaced at the memory of them smooching, and yet didn’t feel triumphant.
His shoulders slumped as his entire body sagged against the back of the booth. “She’s pregnant.”
I blinked, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t startled. “Wow. Well, congrats.”
“It’s not mine.”
The tension left my muscles. Somehow, I fought back a smirk and pasted on a sad expression. “I’m sorry. I know you always wanted to be a dad.”
“I wanted to be a dad for your child, Lana. Our child. This whole drama with Yasmin made me realize that. She told me this past weekend and moved out. I made a mistake with you. A terrible one.”
Oh boy. Miles was up to something here. I inhaled deep. No way was I in the mood for his shenanigans. He fiddled with his napkin and I stared at his long, tapered fingers. I felt no attraction to him whatsoever. A little surge of triumph went through me.
Progress!
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’d like to see if we could give it another try.”
Here we go. My eyes narrowed to slits. “You want to get back together because you found out your barely legal girlfriend was knocked up by another man?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I miss you, Lana.” His voice was a pathetic wail.
I groaned. “No. Absolutely not. Gah.”
Emmy arrived with glasses of water. Seeing the sour expression on my face, she scurried away. I took a long sip, marveling at the uncomfortable tension between us. Small droplets of sweat had formed on Miles’ graying temples. My skin was as cool as one of Erica’s iced lattes.
Probably I should get up and leave, but watching him squirm was too enjoyable.
“I didn’t think you’d say yes. I figured I should share with you my thoughts, that’s all.” He seemed offended, as if I was the guilty party for turning him down. Typical.
“You broke my heart when you had the affair with Yasmin. That’s why I divorced you. I’m only now getting my bearings. And you come waltzing in, wanting
…” I threw my hands up in the air.
“I was kind of hoping we could spend the night together, because I miss you,” he murmured. “You look hot.”
If my gaze could kill, Miles’s heart would have stopped.
“Sorry, Lana. I meant pretty. You look pretty today. You haven’t aged a day since we met.”
My gaze snagged on a dark splotch on my T-shirt, where I’d earlier spilled hazelnut syrup while juggling three drinks. “Yeah, right. You came to my island wanting a booty call?” I tossed my napkin on the table. “You are unbelievable. No. I’m no longer available for people that make me feel like crap.”
“Fine. Forget I said anything, okay? You can’t fault me for trying.”
“I can, and I do.”
“Are you seeing someone? Is that it?”
Laughter bubbled out of my mouth. “Stop. Let’s change the subject. Do you have anything to say about Fabrizio, or was that a lie to get me to have lunch with you?”
“I do have something to tell you, actually.”
“Then let’s get to it. I’d rather talk about a death investigation than rekindling our romance. If you say one more thing about getting back together or hooking up, I’m leaving. I’m a busy woman. I run a business now.” I glared at him while drumming my fingers on the table. What a jerk.
Miles sighed. “Fabrizio Bellucci a big topic of discussion at the Italian embassy in Miami. And among the Italian expat community, too.”
“Italian expat community? Didn’t know you were so plugged in there. You’ve really expanded your range from The Shore Club’s pool lounge parties,” I sneered. That had been another thing he’d done in the waning months of our marriage. Instead of hanging out at home and playing board games with a few close friends like we used to, he started spending hours at “lounge parties” with c-list celebrity DJs. I’d gone exactly twice, declared it ridiculous, and never went again. He’d continued on without me, declaring me “a fun sponge.”
Miles cleared his throat. “Yasmin’s dad is a bureaucrat at the Italian embassy.”
I let out a chuckle. Now it all made sense. This was likely a favor to the bigwigs at the embassy, probably in exchange for theater tickets or party invites or some stupid crap. His speed was viral video of toddlers, dolphins doing tricks, and reuniting long-lost siblings. He’d never been good at hard news, and the first couple of months we were together, I’d been convinced he was sleeping with me just to get story leads.
“Of course,” I smiled. “But why do you care about impressing her dad now that she’s scooted off with someone else? Oh, I forgot. You never met a powerful person you didn’t want to butt-kiss.”
“What?” he yelped.
“Nothing.” My phone, which was on the table, vibrated. I turned it over to see if it was Erica.
SHERIFF HUNK, it said. I stifled a laugh and turned the phone over. I’d read Noah’s text later.
“So, what do you know about Fab?” Miles said, using his professional voice.
“Don’t use the anchorman tone with me,” I said.
He groaned. “Can you help me with this? Please? I’m trying to impress my editors.”
“I don’t know much,” I said, feeling a little sorry for him. “He worked for me. Dad hired him. I only knew him for a few months. He was an incredible barista. He’d gone to work for his girlfriend’s dad shortly before he died.”
Shortly, as in, hours. But I wasn’t about to give Miles the full timeline because I didn’t feel like answering more questions.
“Anything else?”
I twisted my mouth to one side and turned away, pretending to think. “He was a hit on social media; everyone loved him.”
“Some people on the island said you were quite nasty to him the day before he died.”
“Me, nasty?” I pointed to myself.
“You do have a temper. But I liked that feistiness when we were in bed—”
“Stop.” I shut my eyes for a second, then opened them.
“Fine.” He smiled. This was a flirting tactic to wear me down. No way was it working today.
“I might have a temper, but do you think I’d kill someone?”
“Doubtful. You’re too conscientious.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I was in Miami the night he died, at the awards ceremony. Remember? You and Yasmin and I posed for photos together. Hey, was that her baby daddy, the old network executive who kept leering at her?”
Miles squirmed. “I’m going to ignore that remark. What do you know about this man?”
He reached for his phone, tapped and swiped, then held it up for me to see. A frisson of awareness went through me as I studied the photo.
It was of Lex Bradstreet and Fab. They were shirtless and on a boat. Both were grinning and doing that stupid thing that certain bro-dudes do—holding up their index and middle finger. What did that mean, anyway? Peace? Victory? I’m a playboy whose brain is located in his genitals?
“Hmm, he doesn’t seem familiar.” I wasn’t about to tell my ex anything.
“Lex Bradstreet’s his name. I think he and Fab were friends.”
“You think? They appear to be having a bromance in that photo,” I responded.
Ignoring my sarcasm, Miles tapped again on his phone and studied the screen, “Someone told me he works at the Devil’s Surf Shop here on the island. They were closed when I stopped by this morning.”
“What’s unusual about any of that?”
“I’ve heard some extremely interesting things about Mr. Bradstreet.” Miles set the phone down.
“Like what?” I studied my cuticles. Maybe Miles had finally learned how to use the Interwebs for reporting and had stumbled on the story about Lex’s mafia ties.
Anyway, I had a solid idea of who was the most likely suspect in Fab’s death: Gary Leon Knowles. And I wasn’t telling Miles that.
“Lex is close with a known mafioso in Tampa.”
Bingo. I almost wanted to praise Miles for his progress. That was probably what he wanted though, and thought it would impress me enough to invite him back for an afternoon romp between the sheets.
“Hmm. Really?”
“And my sources at the consulate say Lex has ties with some drug dealers in the Keys. Jeez, Lana. I’m surprised you’re not all over this. I half-expected you to have begged the local paper to write a story.”
I clenched my fists under the table. “Lots of people have ties to drug dealers in the Keys. This is Florida, for God’s sakes. How does that factor into Fab’s death?”
“Apparently Fab went with Lex on one of the drug smuggling missions. There was an Italian on the boat, leaving the island. He said Lex threatened to throw someone overboard during the journey from Havana to the Keys. Fab saw everything.”
I sat up straighter. This was interesting, if Miles’s reporting and sources were correct. Which were questionable, to be sure. But if Fab saw Lex threaten someone, maybe Lex didn’t want Fab to tell anyone … Still. It was a threat, not an actual murder. Maybe I needed to investigate Lex a little more.
Emmy bustled over with our food. “Enjoy.” Her brow furrowed, because enjoying anything didn’t seem on the cards for me or Miles, not with the way my mouth was set in a slash.
“Have you talked to Chief Garcia about this?” I asked.
“You know how I do that thing where I say on live TV that someone will be appearing later that night, even though they haven’t confirmed?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I slurped my chowder.
“Well, I did that with the chief, and I expected a call. Expected to be yelled at, then he’d agree. That’s how it usually goes. But this guy here told me no and hung up.”
I shoved more chowder in my mouth, not wanting to chuckle in Miles’s face. Noah had taken my advice. That’s my man.
My man. A little flush of happiness rippled through me. Then I eyed my ex across from me, primly cutting into a naked chicken breast. He never used to be like that. His eyes went to my creamy, fat-laden chowder and flashed
with a hot, hungry leer that used to be reserved for me when I wore the white lace lingerie he liked.
He sighed and speared a dry hunk of chicken. I stirred my soup slowly, savoring the rich, milky scent, then scooped up a hunk of grouper.
“Too bad. I’ll bet he could have really helped on this story.” I slowly ate a spoonful while letting out a pleasurable little moan. This lunch wasn’t all bad, not when grouper chowder was this tasty.
“Yeah, and I was called off tonight’s live shot because he cancelled. New York wants me to do a taped stand-up here, then get to Naples. It’s been a crappy reporting day. Crappy day all the way around, now that I know you don’t want to take another chance on us.”
“What’s in Naples?” I took another heavenly spoonful into my mouth and ignored his plea.
Miles’s face brightened. “The botanical garden. There’s a corpse flower and it’s supposed to bloom tonight or tomorrow. They want me there until it opens. It’s supposed to stink like hell. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll get a hotel.”
He looked positively thrilled to be covering such fluff. I smiled. Poor Miles. He’d tried so hard to put on his big-boy reporter pants and break a story about a dead Italian.
“The answer’s still no.”
He gazed at me with sudden focus. “Hey, you don’t happen to still have one of those gas masks you had to cover those protests at the Republican National Convention in 2012, do you? Wouldn’t it be funny if I wore one of those for the live shot?”
“Sorry. I think I left that behind in Miami when I moved. I didn’t think anything on Devil’s Beach would stink, unlike my life in Miami,” I said, happily tucking into my soup.
And happy was the best way to describe what I was feeling, because for the first time in years I realized I didn’t love Miles Ross anymore.
Chapter Seventeen
After calling Erica and telling her I didn’t need to be bailed out of jail for committing an act of violence, I cruised on over to the Devil’s Surf Shop, a place I’d driven by several times but had never actually been inside. While I loved to dog paddle around the Gulf, I wasn’t much for watersports. A surfer, I was not. Intensely curious? Absolutely.