I take her hand in mine and lead her through the trees to the waterfront. There is a total of about thirty people in attendance, I’d guess. Some are in the water playing chicken, some are lined up to try out their acrobatic skills on the tire swing that hangs from a tree, and some are lounging on beach towels in the dappled sun.
I see lots of tan skin revealed by lots of skimpy bikinis, which is just the way I like it. Makes me wish Laney had something else to put on.
I glance at the three guys sitting on a fallen log at one end of the beach. Two are playing guitar and one is thumping his leg in time with the music as he sings backup to the lead guitarist. He’s the drummer. Drum-less, of course.
Since they’re in the middle of a song, I steer Laney toward the table set up at the edge of the trees.
“You hungry?” I ask as we approach.
She nods.
“Somebody always brings a shitload of food to these things so everyone can help themselves.”
“Should we have brought something?”
“Nah. He who throws it feeds it,” I tell her as I walk up behind the “chef” and tap him on the shoulder. “Can I get two hot dogs, man?”
When he turns around, I see a face that looks vaguely familiar, but like most of my life here in Greenfield, I’ve tried (and have mostly succeeded in) blocking it out.
“Sure thing, Jake,” he answers. He starts to turn around, but does a double take when he sees who’s at my side. “Holy shit! Laney Holt. I never thought I’d see the day . . .”
I watch the guy’s eyes slide slowly over Laney from the top of her shiny head to the pink-painted toes peeking out of her shoes.
“See what day? When she’d take her chances on a guy like me?” I ask amicably.
The guy’s eyes flicker back to me and widen for a second before his cheeks turn bright red and he starts fumbling through an apology. “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant to say . . . um . . . what I really meant was . . .”
“It’s all right, Marshall,” Laney jumps in, sweetly rescuing the poor bastard before he makes things worse. “I knew what you meant. I guess we all grow up and start living our own lives after a while, right?”
Marshall, who I can almost remember but really don’t want to, laughs uncomfortably. His eyes dart over to me a few times before he finally just gives up and turns around to stab us each a fat, blistered hot dog.
I grab a couple of plates and buns, and hand one to Laney. We walk along the table, putting condiments on our dogs and taking a handful of chips before we make our way back past Marshall whatever-the-hell-his-last-name-is.
“What’s to drink, Emeril?”
“Beer on tap in the barrel over there and purple people eater in the cooler right beside it. Take your pick.”
I nod my thanks, snag two cups, and lead Laney over to the drinks.
“What’s your poison?” I ask as I set my plate down to fix our drinks.
“Uh, what’s a purple people eater?”
“Pure grain, grape pop, and fruit.”
“Mmm, that sounds good. I think I’ll have that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, why?”
I shrug. “No reason.” I think she has no idea what pure grain is.
I fill her glass and then pour myself a cup of beer from the tap. We head to a grassy spot in the shade, right at the edge of the sand and sit down to eat.
By the time Laney delicately picks her way through her hot dog and chips, I’ve already gone back for seconds and thirds. When she finally wipes her mouth with her napkin, I ask, “Done?”
“Yes.”
“Good?”
She grins. “Yes.”
“More?”
“No, thank you.”
“More to drink?” I ask, eyeing her empty cup. She debates for a second before she agrees.
“Yeah, I think I’ll have one more glass.”
She comes to her feet and we take our plates to the trash bag and get refills on our drinks.
“Hell, if it ain’t Jake Theopolis,” I hear someone say loudly from behind us. I turn to see Jet Blevins making his way toward us. He’s an old high school buddy, as well as the lead guitarist and singer of Saltwater Creek.
“Damn, you look scruffier every time I see you, man,” I say to him when he stops in front of us. He looks like a typical band member with his pierced brow and various visible tattoos. God knows what we can’t see.
He grins and playfully punches my shoulder.
“And you get sturdier. What the hell are you eatin’, bro? Steroids? You know that shit’ll turn your balls into raisins, right?”
“Are you kidding me? The only juice that goes into this body is right here,” I say, indicating my beer. “Nectar of the gods.”
“You got that right,” he says, clasping my hand and pulling me in for a bear hug. “Good to see you, man. Where you been?”
“Oh, you know, dragging bodies out of burning buildings, saving lives, playing hero. Same ol’, same ol’.”
Jet turns to look at Laney. “I think your humble date here forgot leaping tall buildings in a single bound.”
I laugh, but Laney doesn’t. “Um, he’s not my date. We actually work together.”
“Hot damn, you’re a fireman, too?”
That makes her smile. “No, I’m a paralegal. I’m working on Jake’s family’s estate. Laney Holt.”
“Immune to superman’s charms, huh?” he asks Laney as he reaches for her hand, his eyes taking her in like he didn’t really see her before. And like he’s hungry for what he missed.
With longish black hair and pale blue eyes, Jet isn’t a bad-looking guy. I’ve never really paid much attention. He’s got a decent personality. Again, nothing I’ve ever given much thought. Until now, when he decides to flirt with Laney. And for some reason, that irritates the shit out of me, making it harder to play nice.
“I haven’t even begun to charm her yet, so back off, man,” I say, lightheartedly cutting off his handshake. I temper my words with a smile, but there’s still a bite to them. He’d be wise to take note of that.
“Wait, Holt. As in Graham Holt, the preacher?”
Laney all but sighs. “Yes.”
Jet throws back his head and lets out a howl of laughter before he sobers and looks back to me. Appreciation is in his eyes. He holds up his fist. “Dude! Nice!” I bump my curled fingers against his and then he turns his attention back to Laney. “Well, the pleasure is all mine, Laney Holt, preacher’s daughter. I’m Jet Blevins, singer, guitarist, damn fine man.”