Take Me All the Way Read online

  He wasn’t much of a beard guy usually, and he wasn’t much of a cat guy either—more of a dog man—but he found himself vaguely wondering what particular wars this cat had fought. He kept trying not to hear the loudmouth frat boys.

  The big cat padded slowly away from the restaurant’s back door, apparently striking out. Jeremy suspected the scent of fish from inside was probably torture, that the cat was like a thirsty man staring at an ocean—water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink. The lanky cat—too skinny for his size—took long strides across the parking lot and past the motel’s pool, approaching Jeremy.

  Stopping at Jeremy’s tennis shoes, he looked up and let out a plaintive meow. That was when Jeremy realized the cat was missing an eye, one permanently closed.

  “Sorry, got nothin’ for ya.” Truth was, he’d eaten a lot of seafood himself lately, because Reece wasn’t the only generous person in Coral Cove—Polly and Abner, owners of the Hungry Fisherman, had been more generous with him than they or anyone else had reason to be. Gotta get a plan, man.

  An image flashed in his head—him at a younger age, in his parents’ yard with his dog, Dakota. He’d gotten the German shepherd as a puppy when he was fifteen. Loved to play fetch, that dog. And acted like a big tough guy to outsiders, but he was more bark than bite—a big lovable hulk of an animal.

  Whenever Jeremy had come home on furlough or between tours of duty, Dakota had been one of those things that stayed the same for him, just like that old truck. Pulling into his parents’ driveway to see Dakota run out and greet him had always taken him back to simpler times.

  Dogs can only live so long, though, and Dakota hadn’t outlasted Jeremy’s dedication to serve his country. He’d gone in to the Marines at twenty-one and come out eleven years later. His dad’s email about Dakota’s death, only a few months before his discharge, had hit Jeremy harder than it should have. He still missed that dog.

  Since Jeremy had nothing to offer, the one-eyed tomcat moved on in more long, lanky steps, heading out onto the dock, still clearly seeking dinner. The cat must have been drawn by the voices, since he padded toward the cabin cruiser, and right up a small plank walkway onto it.

  And it was only a short moment later when the more obnoxious of the two boys barked, “What the hell? Get off my goddamn boat, cat!” with far more passion than the situation called for. Then he shot to his feet and kicked the cat, hard, catapulting it off the vessel.

  For Jeremy, the cat’s airborne body moved in slow motion. His chest tightened as he watched it strike the trunk of a palm tree just off the edge of the dock with a thud, then land at its base.

  The cat lay there, stunned and unsteady, disoriented.

  And Jeremy’s gut clenched as the frat boys both laughed, and the other one said, “Shoulda thrown the dumb thing in the water to see if it could swim.”

  More cruel laughter. “Maybe I will,” the first replied.

  Jeremy saw from the corner of his eye when the cat got its wits about it and finally darted away into the night. But it was too late. Something inside him broke loose, taking him back, to the darkness that hid inside people, to pointless cruelty, to other falling bodies—soldiers, friends. He never made the conscious decision to act—he only felt the ground beneath his feet and the fury filling his lungs and heart and head as he bolted from the picnic table into a full-on sprint toward that boat.

  All thoughts left him—it was only action now.

  And he never said a word—simply punched the quieter of the two in the mouth, knocking him from a chair onto the deck, just before he picked up the louder one by the throat, slamming him against the wall of the cabin with the words, “You messed with the wrong cat on the wrong night, pal.”

  THEY were drinking at the Hungry Fisherman.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Christy said to Tamra across the table. “We’re drinking at the Hungry Fisherman.”

  “You’re a mind reader,” Tamra said. “Thank God I got dressed up for this.”

  “I need to add ‘create nighttime hotspots’ to my to-do list,” Cami said, holding up one finger as she shifted into town planner mode. She tilted her head, clearly pondering it. “Though it would have to be a place with just the right blend of elements.”

  “A beach bar,” Christy suggested, wide-eyed and happy as always. “A fun, casual, open-air place.”

  Cami’s gaze brightened at the inspiration. “In the empty lot across from the Happy Crab, at the end of the beach,” she added with a smile, pointing vaguely in that direction. She’d already talked Christy’s handsome fiancé, Jack DuVall, into buying a long-closed used car lot and opening a miniature golf business there, on which construction was just starting. Jack wanted to mostly just be the money behind the project, so he’d hired Cami to organize it all, and she in turn had hired Tamra to design the course and oversee the building of it.

  “That would be perfect,” Tamra agreed, liking the idea.

  But then Cami’s smile began to fade. “Now all I need is someone to finance and run it.”

  Perennially cheerful soul that she was, Christy said, “Well, the more the town gets refurbished, the more new businesses it will draw. And look!” She held out both her hands to motion around them. “Outdoor seating at the Hungry Fisherman! If you can make Polly and Abner change, you can do anything.”

  True enough, only a month ago, the patio they sat on just across from Coral Cove Beach had been pockmarked asphalt, part of the parking lot. But Cami had succeeded in getting the owners of the seafood restaurant to put in a small patio enclosed with a wooden fence draped with fishing net and a few white, round life preservers, and also to add a festive new drink menu, designed with Cami’s help. Music, another new feature, played over newly installed speakers—at the moment Bastille sang about flaws. And since then, business had picked up and they’d even started staying open later.

  “And at least we’re not drinking beer!” Christy announced triumphantly with a short nod in Tamra’s direction. In fact, Tamra was drinking her second Ahoy Mateys, a rather tasty tropical rum concoction, while her friends both sipped on a couple of All Hands on Decks, the Hungry Fisherman’s version of a Long Island iced tea.

  “You know what else?” Christy said in her merry way. “The more good changes that keep taking place around here, the more new people there will be to meet.”

  Tamra glanced absently across the table at Christy—just in time to realize the statement had been targeted directly toward her.

  So she arched one eyebrow in reply. And decided it was time to address the elephant on the patio. “Christy, I know you mean well—but why do you think I want to meet new people?”

  “Well, I just thought—”

  “And given the resorts up the road”—which kept Coral Cove’s beach and Sunset Celebration thriving despite the businesses in this older part of town needing a boost—“there are already plenty of new people coming and going all the time. So as much as I’m on board with sprucing up the area, I don’t think it’s going to have any impact on my social life. Which is fine just the way it is—promise.”

  The women across the table from her went quiet. And Tamra realized she’d probably sounded annoyed. Crap. “I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “Maybe rum makes me defensive or something. And I don’t mean to sound unappreciative. It’s just that . . .” She let out a sigh. And, for lack of any better options, blurted out the ugly truth. “Okay, I know everyone feels sorry for me because I have no love life. And that’s nice of you all, but it’s really all right.”

  “It’s not that we feel sorry for you,” Cami rushed to say.

  “It’s just that . . . well, wouldn’t you like to find someone?” Christy asked. “I mean, deep down, isn’t that what everyone really wants if they’re honest with themselves?”

  Whoa. This had suddenly turned into a deep conversation. Or deep by Tamra’s standards anyway. Being an artist, she certainly had the capacity to be deep, but . . . she didn’t always let it
show. It was easier that way.

  Both Christy and Cami really did have great lives. And she didn’t begrudge them that—but she often wondered if they really understood how different their existences were from hers. They were both so outgoing, whereas she tended to be a little more reserved, even guarded. They were pretty and perky and vibrant, while she was just more . . . well, average in all those ways.

  She’d never been the life of a party, or “the hot girl,” or even “the pretty girl.” And she was fine with that really, because the one time in her life when she’d truly felt pretty and special had ultimately ended up making her feel ugly inside, and she’d begun to suspect that being pretty was sometimes actually more of a detriment to a woman than a help. So she was good with who she was.

  “The fact is,” she began slowly, thoughtfully, “some people just aren’t meant to have the whole big dating-and-relationship thing. And I’m not interested in chasing after it. And I really do think you guys feel sorry for me—but stop, okay?” She tried to laugh, like it was all fun and games. “It’s really fine.”

  The other two women stayed quiet for a moment, until Cami asked gently, “Then why don’t you look like it’s fine?”

  Oh hell. It was the rum. She’d forgotten to keep laughing, keep her smile in place. And maybe the rum was bringing out something else, too, something she’d just been trying to ignore. And she’d been doing a pretty good job of it . . . until this very moment.

  Trying to concoct a reply, she peered out over the beach as a sea breeze lifted her long, wavy, auburn hair, which she’d pulled back in a low ponytail lately to keep it at bay. And she wasn’t sure how to account for her expression other than with . . . stark honesty. An honesty and awareness suddenly bubbling inside her, almost actually wanting to come out. Damn rum.

  So she took a fortifying sip of her Ahoy Mateys and said, “You want to know the truth?”

  “Of course,” Christy said.

  And Tamra dropped her gaze to her colorful drink, another wistful sigh escaping her. “I really am okay with the situation, except for . . . the sex part.” She’d muttered the last few words. More to herself than to her companions. Then realized she’d really, truly said that out loud, and added, “Oh crap. Apparently rum makes me spill my guts, too.”

  “Wow,” Christy said, looking as stunned as Tamra felt.

  But . . . didn’t women talk about sex all the time? Not her, ever, until now—but wasn’t this normal? “Wow?” she asked, a little embarrassed, worried. Had she breached some social protocol she didn’t know about?

  “It’s just that . . . you’re usually so reserved and—and straitlaced, I guess,” Christy mused, flashing a little grin. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but you just don’t seem like someone who thinks about sex. Or at least you never talk about it.”

  Tamra sheepishly lifted her glass. “It’s the rum talking.”

  Christy’s smile broadened. “Then I think maybe I like you drinking rum.”

  All three of them laughed, but Tamra was quick to move forward with more of an answer. Even if she didn’t know exactly what she wanted to say now that she’d opened this personal can of worms. “Well, normally I’m not someone who thinks much about sex.”

  Only then she decided that was enough, right there. Because sure, there was more she could say on the topic—much more—yet why put herself through that? The rum, apparently, had decided to shut up now.

  “But . . . enough about that. Let’s talk about your wedding,” she said to Christy with an enthusiastic tone she hoped would catch on. “Are all the plans set? What’s left to be done?”

  “W-h-h-hait a minute,” Cami said, sounding a little intoxicated. “Not so fast.”

  Tamra just blinked.

  And Cami went on. “You can’t say what you just said and not tell us the rest.”

  “Well, sure I can,” Tamra insisted. “And there is no rest. Not really.”

  “No,” Christy argued. “Cami’s right. I like this side of you.”

  Tamra’s back went a little more rigid, though she worked to keep sounding casual. “What side of me? I’ve really said very little if you think about it.”

  “But just enough,” Christy pointed out, “to make me feel like we’re . . . getting to know you more. I mean, I know we know you, but . . . you don’t open up a lot. This is probably the most personal conversation we’ve ever had about you. And I already feel like I know you way better than I did just five minutes ago.”

  Tamra could have responded to that in many ways. There were plenty of reasons she wasn’t as open and trusting as a lot of other people. She almost envied the quick way Christy and Cami bonded with people—whereas Tamra’s bonds formed much more slowly.

  And she supposed it was that which made her choose the simplest reply, the one she thought she could just spit out and get over with the quickest—which was, yet again, frank honesty. And yeah, it felt super personal to tell them this, but maybe the rum’s gut-spilling effects were on the upswing again.

  “Okay . . . here goes.” Though she paused, nibbled her lower lip a second, and then made the mental push forward to share the things she was just now admitting to herself. And it all came out in a rush, like a big bucket of words being dumped out of her mouth. “Like I said, usually I don’t sit around thinking about sex, but lately I’m just feeling . . . those urges. A lot. As in it’s driving me crazy. Yesterday I saw a hot construction worker out on Route Nineteen and practically drooled.

  “But I’m not the sort of person who just wants to hook up with someone, and even if I was I have no idea where I’d find a suitable guy, so no matter how you slice it, it’s . . . frustrating.” She stopped, giving her head a nervous little shake, predictably uncomfortable with the topic. Time to shut up again. “And that’s really it—all there is to it.”

  Though she was quick to lift a finger high into the air then, because she needed to make something perfectly clear. “But that doesn’t mean I’m desperate to meet men, okay?” After which she lowered her voice, since a woman at another table glanced over. “Which is good, since there are so few around here who aren’t taken.”

  The truth was, even most of the vacationing men were usually married. Coral Cove drew families and couples. Occasional groups of young women or college boys, but mostly it was a crowd of matched pairs.

  “Happy now?” she asked.

  And she was just gearing up for the next assault, preparing to defend her position—since well-meaning people who were parts of happy couples always seemed committed to convincing everyone else they also belonged in a happy couple—when the blare of a siren cut through the Coral Cove night.

  A siren in Coral Cove was as rare as . . . well, as rare as sex for Tamra—she was pretty sure she hadn’t heard one in all the years she’d lived here. So it halted the conversation instantly, and they all looked up to see the glow of bright blue lights atop one of Coral Cove’s three police cruisers as it came screeching into the Hungry Fisherman’s freshly paved parking lot.

  Two of the town’s half dozen cops rushed from the car, running into the space that separated the restaurant from the Happy Crab, toward the dock that lined the bay a short distance behind the buildings.

  Polly hurried out the front door in the same rust-colored waitress uniform she always wore, the outdated beehive hairdo atop her head slanting this way and that as she struggled to see what was happening. “What in the Sam Hill?” she asked, looking after the cops.

  She turned to the girls and other patrons on the patio, as if they knew what in the Sam Hill, but of course they didn’t. Christy held her hands up in silent reply to Polly, as if to say, Who knows?

  A few minutes later, both cops reappeared, coming from the direction of the dock, but now they escorted between them a scruffy, bearded guy in handcuffs. Leading him to the cruiser, they pushed him into the backseat as everyone on the patio gaped.

  “Lord, who on earth is that?” Tamra asked.

  And Cami
said, “Uh oh. That’s the guy Reece has been letting stay at the motel for free. I’d better call him.”

  And as the police car’s blue lights faded into the night, leaving the Hungry Fisherman quiet and peaceful once again, Tamra said, “Well, there you go—case in point. If that’s the best this town has to offer me in the way of new men, I think I’ll just stay celibate.”

  What could you do for a boy like that?

  Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

  Chapter 2

  “THE THROAT? You picked a guy up by the throat?”

  Jeremy sat on a hard cot in a small holding cell in the Coral Cove Police Station, looking through the thin bars at Reece Donovan, who’d pulled a folding chair up close on the other side.

  “Yep,” Jeremy replied. He wasn’t exactly proud of what he’d done, but on the other hand, he still thought the punk had earned it.

  Reece, however—sitting there in his usual flip-flops and cargo shorts—just shook his head, looking perplexed. “Why?”

  Jeremy kept it simple. “He kicked a cat.”

  “A cat?” Reece blinked.

  And Jeremy nodded.

  Reece squinted, clearly trying to make sense of this. “You a big cat lover or something?”

  “Nope. But the guy had no cause. Kicked it so hard it went flying into a tree trunk.” Just then he noticed the two cops who’d arrested him standing on the other side of the room gawking at him like he had horns sprouting from his head. He knew he didn’t look good lately, but damn. He switched his glance from them back to Reece. “What the hell are those two staring at?”

  Reece looked over, too, then back through the bars. “I’m guessing it’s the first time in a while they’ve had a prisoner in here. They probably don’t quite know how to handle it.”

  “My first time being one, too,” Jeremy informed him. Then muttered, “And I’m starting to feel like an animal in the zoo.”

  “The cops were asking me if you had an anger problem,” Reece informed him.