by Daws, Amy
Copyright © 2018 Amy Daws
All rights reserved.
Published by: Amy Daws, LLC
ISBN-13: 978-1-944565-23-7
ISBN-10: 1-944565-23-X
Editing: Jenny Sims with Editing4Indies
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
Cover Design: Amy Daws
Cover Photography: Wander Aguiar
Cover Model: John Michael Dewall
This book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is by quoting short excerpts in a review. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please go to www.amydawsauthor.com to find where you can purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
More Books by Amy Daws
Acknowledgments
More About the Author
Dedicated to my dad for answering the question:
“Dad, what’s a cool place for a book setting that’s similar to the weirdness of a tire shop?”
“A bait shop?”
And then a book was born!
And Dad, sorry to shut down your “Lucy Goosey from Camp Watoosi” story idea, we’ll workshop it next time I’m home.
Fish Out Of Water
“Next in line!” Marv shouts gruffly as he plunges his white-haired arm back into the basin full of fresh chubs.
An older gentleman shoulders past me with his clear plastic tub, ready to collect his bait as though it’s the body of Christ being passed out by the pope himself. Several other men press up against my back, all anxiously awaiting their turn because finally…ice fishing season has begun.
Boulder, Colorado, hasn’t seen a winter this warm in years. Normally, we’re ice fishing before Christmas. But it’s already early January, and there haven’t been enough cold days in a row to make the ice safe enough to venture out on.
Until now.
I tug at my short beard impatiently as I itch for the smell of my nylon fishing tent. After being ignored for months now, it misses me. I can tell. The smell of the icy lake water permeates my nose as my imagination takes flight. I swear I can even feel the rubbery stiffness of my silicone gloves.
Ice fishing is my escape. It’s my sense of freedom. It’s something that’s only mine.
Marv hollers for the next patron, and I can’t help but shake my head at how this eighty-year-old man is still alive and kicking. Every year. Every season. Every weekend. Marv is here.
Marv’s Bait and Tackle is an institution in Boulder. Located on a dirt road outside of town and boasting the best bait and burgers within a hundred miles, the restaurant/bar/bait shop is always brimming with die-hard Colorado outdoorsmen from near and far, looking to chew the fat with the infamous Marv.
Marv was a pro fisherman and even had his own television show for a while, but when his father, Marv Senior, passed away, he quit touring and took over the bait shop. Now, he’s the go-to guy for the best places to fish around Boulder. He gives advice on the proper bait for the weather, and he’s always getting demo rigs in the shop before the big box stores. He’s a fishing legend tucked away in this dilapidated old shop.
“I’m next in line,” a female voice exclaims as she clicks her heeled boots on the damp concrete floor.
I frown, wondering where this chick came from because there’s no way I would have missed the likes of her in a place like this. She doesn’t exactly blend in with the old, weathered, smelly fishermen. Myself excluded. I may be out of my twenties now, but my balls aren’t sagging to my knees like most of these guys.
The girl is tall and slender with a backside on full display in a pair of tight leggings that cling to her ass. Her very supple ass. An ass that every guy in here is now staring at. She flips her silky black hair over her shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of her profile. Damn, her face is just as beautiful as her ass…which sounds fucking weird, but my dick is doing all my thinking at this point.
Marv spits his toothpick out, letting the wood drop to the floor as he looks the girl up and down. “Next in line for what?” he asks, his voice sounding like he smokes a pack of Marlboro Reds a day…probably because he does.
“I need the fish!” she replies, jutting her chin out defiantly.
“Do you mean bait?” Marv asks, scratching his white whiskers that makes a noise like sandpaper.
“Yes, they are little fish, right? Used for bait?” The girl shifts nervously, fiddling with a piece of hair draped over her shoulder. When she notices the whispering around her, she drops her hair and stands tall.
Marv’s face scrunches up like the girl’s words just hurt a piece of his soul. “They are chubs, darlin’. And they are used to catch muskies. Big muskies.”
“Perfect. That sounds great…I’ll take them.” The girl crosses her arms and waits expectantly.
Marv shakes his head. “They’re heavy.”
“They don’t look heavy,” she retorts with a quizzical brow, looking down into the basin of live bait.
“The muskies, not the chubs,” Marv corrects, plastering a painfully polite smile on his face.
“Get out of here, little girl!” an older guy shouts from behind me. “Go back to the mall or whatever nail salon you fell out of. We’re actual anglers here, not playing make-believe.”
The girl turns on her heel to eye the man behind me, and I get a full-on assault of just how beautiful she is. She has a heart-shaped face and the most vibrant blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Dark hair and light eyes are like catnip to me. And my dick agrees.
The girl licks her lush, peach-tinted lips before replying to the man. “You can go…” She falters for a second, glancing around at her audience once before adding, “Fuck yourself!” She blanches at the sound of that word leaving her lips.
The men behind me erupt into shocked laughter, and I watch Marv wince and dry his hands off on his dirty apron. “Young lady, that language.”
“What?” she exclaims, turning back to Marv. “This is a bait shop. Are you telling me you’ve never heard that word before?”
Marv shakes his head. “Not from a young lady.”
“So because I’m a female I can’t curse? What kind of sense does that make in this decade? Please, I’ve been driving for a long time, and all I want to do is go ice fishing. I’ve got cash, so just sell me a bucket of fish and I’ll be on my way. Easy peasy.”
“When?” Marv asks quietly, twisting his face in discomfort as if it’s been years since he’s been around estrogen.
“When what?” the girl asks.
“When are you going ice fishing?”
“Right now, of course!” she retorts, putting her hands on her hips. “I’ll need a pole and a fishing h
ook as well, please. And whatever you use to break the ice.”
Marv looks down the girl’s body, slowly shaking his head back and forth. “Do you have more clothes than what you’re wearing?”
“I have gloves,” the girl replies, digging into her pockets and producing a pair of fingerless gloves. They look like children’s gloves, gold sparkles and all. She puts them on and waves her fingertips to Marv, who does not look impressed.
“Darlin’, I can’t let you go ice fishing in that getup. You’ll freeze to death, and my old heart can’t be worrying over you out there all alone in a spring jacket.”
“This has down feathers!” she exclaims, pulling her black jacket tight around her body. “It’s really warm. It just has the illusion of being lightweight.”
He tsks. “Those boots there are worse than a pair of summer waders. Your feet would get cold in those if you were fishing from the shore in the spring, darlin’. I’m sorry. I won’t be selling you bait and tackle today. You look more like a warm weather darling anyways.”
The girl lets out a strange noise from her throat. “Oh, come on. I’m trying to step out of my comfort zone here and I am so tired of being labeled, I could just scream.”
“I’d like to hear her scream when I’m balls deep in her,” a man old enough to be her father mutters not so quietly from behind me.
My teeth crack as I clench my jaw and turn around just as his buddy high-fives him. Toothless smiles greet me as if they think I’m joining in on the joke. I open my mouth to say something but am pummeled in the shoulder by the young girl as she launches herself at the two men.
Everyone erupts into shouts as she shoves the big guy with all her might, but she only ends up knocking his camo hat off. Big guy looks scary pissed, so I quickly wrap my arms around the girl’s waist and lift her off the ground to yank her back away from him. He leers at her, almost perversely turned on by her attack.
“Easy, sparky,” I murmur into her ear as a whiff of her floral shampoo invades my nostrils.
“Say that to my face, you old pervert!” the girl shouts, flailing her arms as if she’s going to claw the man’s face off. One benefit of her fingerless gloves, I guess.
The two assholes blink slowly at her, clearly feigning innocence as I struggle to hold her back. She’s a wiry one, for sure. A lot tougher than she looks.
“Come with me,” I urge, pulling her away from the group of men who clearly just want to entertain themselves with this spectacle. I move around to face her with my back to the guys. I grab her shoulders and look her square in the eyes. “They’re fucking dicks and not worth it. Your actions are just encouraging them, so I’m asking you to please come with me.”
Her eyes resemble burning sapphires as they connect with mine for a split second before I hear the man say in a deep tone, “I’d kill to see her come on my cock.”
As soon as she hears his words, the girl stills beneath my hands, her bright irises fading right before me. She curls into herself as she looks around, taking in our audience. Her eyes begin to water around the edges—and a familiar sense of unease creeps up in my belly.
I have three sisters.
I know that fucking look.
And I don’t like it.
Clenching my jaw, I release her shoulders, turn on my heel…and deck the ass-fuck square in the jaw.
The satisfying punch propels him into his buddy, and they both topple to the floor, clearly not expecting my swing. My pulse thunders in my veins as men begin pushing in on us to break up the fight. What they don’t know is there won’t be a fight. I knocked that fucker out.
Without a word, I do a one-eighty, grab the shocked girl around the waist, and practically carry her away from the swarm of men all grappling for a look at the fallen prick.
I suck in deep, cleansing breaths, trying my hardest to lower my blood pressure so I don’t turn around and knock out his high-fiving loser of a friend as well. It’s been a decade since I hit someone. Apparently, it’s like riding a bicycle…you never truly forget. I’d worry about someone calling the cops, but I’m ninety percent certain everyone in that bait shop wanted to deck the fucker too. Something tells me no one is calling anyone.
I guide the girl through the tackle shop and into the small attached diner. It’s decrepit like the rest of the place, and full of old folks slumped into the worn booths and wobbly, mismatched chairs. Thankfully, the smell of grease and musty vinyl is calming, and I need to be calmed right now.
The girl appears to be in shock as she slides into the red corner booth out of sight from the rest of the bait shop. I picked this spot on purpose because I definitely don’t need that fuckwad eyeing her or me while I try to figure out what the hell to do with this spark plug.
Looking down at her, I watch her pick at her nails nervously, her hair sheeting her face so I can’t see her expression. She’s clearly freaked out, and I can’t say I blame her. That scene was ugly.
However, I’ve been to Marv’s hundreds of times, and I know it’s a safe place. What happened today was not the norm around here. But since it did happen, there’s no way I’m letting this chick out of my sight until things blow over.
I pull off my Carhartt winter coat and wool hat, running a hand through my copper hair before hanging them on the hook alongside the booth. I silently offer to take her coat, and without looking up at me, she quickly slips out of it and hands it over. Her jacket feels as light as air as I hang it on the hook with mine. Marv’s assessment was probably spot-on about not letting her go out in this thing.
I slide into the booth across from her and do my best not to check out her tits beneath her fitted gray sweater. “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice deep from the spike of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
She nods woodenly as she tucks her hair behind her ears.
“Are you sure?” I ask again, noting the tremble of her gloved hand. Her fingertips look cold as ice. “That guy was a fucking dick, so I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t.”
She swallows slowly and stares down at my hand fisted on the table. My knuckles have some faint red splotches where my fist connected with his face. Nothing I haven’t seen before.
“I’m fine,” she mumbles and wrings her hands together.
I exhale heavily. I just knocked a guy out right in front of her. Of course, she’s going to be scared of me. “I’m sorry for what I did. And I’m doubly sorry for what he said.”
She looks up at me with narrowed eyes. “Do you know that guy or something?”
“Fuck no,” I reply, jerking back. “I’m just apologizing for all mankind, I guess. We can be dicks. But I want you to know the other guys who frequent Marv’s here are nothing like those two fuckwads. I’ve never seen them before, so I know damn sure they’re not from around here.”
She half smiles and looks around the cozy diner, her eyes sliding from one old fisherman to the next. “It looks like a retirement community in here.”
I follow her gaze to the elderly man in a wheelchair who’s playing cards with few other blue-hairs. “I think you mean a nursing home for Colorado’s finest,” I murmur out of the side of my mouth. When I hear a small huff of laughter come from her, I’m somewhat relieved to see she’s not totally shook up from everything.
The wheelchair man catches us looking at him and gives us a big toothless smile with a delicate wrist flick of a wave. I find myself smiling back at the sweet old guy. Looking at her, I see she’s smiling too. It’s a genuine smile that’s so sweet it could give me a toothache. And somehow, with just that one look, I can tell this girl is good people. She may seem a touch crazy today, but deep down, she’s a decent person.
She turns her head to face me, her eyes lingering on my whiskered chin. “I’ve never had a man punch anyone for me before,” she states curiously. “Let alone a stranger.”
I cross my arms over my chest and lower my chin. “Are you about to yell at me for interfering in your business?”
“No,” she retorts, her
brows knitting together in the middle. “I think I probably owe you a thank you.”
“I’m shocked,” I reply, shooting her a lopsided grin. “I have three older sisters who would have my head if I meddled in their business and freaked out like that.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Three older sisters? How did you end up so…?”
“Masculine? Virile? Rugged and courageous?” I waggle my brows at her and puff out my chest.
She pulls her lips between her teeth as she attempts to conceal her laughter, and a deep dimple emerges on her left cheek. “So what, you just go around knocking assholes out to impress girls?”
“No,” I reply simply with a shrug. “Impressing girls is just a fringe benefit.”
“Seriously, though, how’s your hand?” she asks, whipping off her gloves and reaching for my hand.
When her skin touches mine, the connection can only be described as electrifying. Like feeling the pins and needles sensation in your hand after it’s fallen asleep. She quickly grabs a paper napkin and fishes some ice out of the cup sitting on our table to put inside it.
“That water was from whoever sat here before us,” I state, my tone flat.
Her nose wrinkles, but then she shrugs one shoulder. “Oh, please. If you can handle fish guts, you can handle some secondhand ice.”
She holds the ice to my knuckles, and I prop my chin on my free hand, watching her with rapt attention as she tends to my battle wound. She catches me staring at her and shoots me a mischievous smirk. “I feel like I know you.”
I lift my brows at that. “Did you grow up in Boulder?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I have this…I don’t know…comfortable feeling around you. Like you remind me of someone I know really well. Do you ever meet people, and feel like you knew them in a past life?”
“I don’t know if I believe in past lives,” I reply honestly. “I think you just hit it off with some people, and others you don’t. You’re just totally hitting it off with me because I’m so incredibly charming.”