Chapter One
Fenn
“‘Come to paradise,’they said,” I muttered as a drop of sweat ran down my leg beneath my baggy shorts, all the way from my balls to my flip-flop. “‘Sunshine year-round,’ they said.”
Nobody ever told you Florida was the gateway to hell until it was too late.
“Morning, Fenn!”
I poked my head out from under the hood of the blue Jeep I was trying to pull back from the brink of death, just as the screen door slammed against the house behind me. I watched an enormous pair of black shitkickersthump-thump-tha-thumpdown the stairs and hit the cracked concrete driveway.
“Heya, Beale.” My eyes narrowed as I took in the bearded giant approaching me. At six six, my cousin was a solid four and a half inches taller than me. His neck was as thick as many people’s thighs, and this morning he sported a dopey, angelic smile, despite the humidity clogging the air. I was immediately suspicious. “You seem remarkably cheerful. What’s up?”
“Up? Withme? Nah. No. Nothing.Not. A. Thing.” Beale cleared his throat and took up a position with his ass against the front corner of the Jeep, massive biceps folded over his tree-trunk chest. He cleared his throat again. “Not a thing that’s, uh… up. How about you?”
I pursed my lips. Important fact about Beale: the man couldn’t keep a secret to save his soul. Knowing this, I didn’t press for details. I just made a noncommittal noise and turned back to the engine.
“Me? Oh, I’m justsuper. Nothing I love more than a predawn summons from Rafe to come work on his car.” I wiped my damp arm across my even-damper forehead and lowered my voice to approximate my oldest cousin’s pissed-off growl. “‘Kick out whichever sorry asshole’s warming your bed, Reardon, and come over! My engine won’t turn, and I’ve got stuff to do.’ He’s a charmer, your big brother.”
“That’s funny,” Beale chuckled. “‘Specially since you haven’t had anyone in your bed since you and Gerry, back on New Year’s—”
“Hey! That wasone time, and it wasn’tmybed, and I thought you and I agreed it would never be discussed.” I shot him an accusing look. “Beers were had, Beale, and he’s practically the only gay man on the whole island I’m not related to.”
Pickings wereslimon Whispering Key, and that was the damn truth. Pickings were even slimmer since the only kind of loving, long-term relationship I was interested in was with the perfectly restored classic Dodge I’d parked next door. The car, at least, came with a repair manual, and I could trust her to get me from point A to point B, whereas humans were nearly impossible toeverfucking understand and totally impossible to trust.
“Right, right. And your moment of weakness didn’t have anything to do with you being a sucker for that ‘Auld Lang Syne’ song—”
“No.” I folded my arms over my chest.“It didnot.” Jeez. A man got drunk and babbled about old acquaintances not being forgot justone time, and suddenly it haunted him for his whole life. “And that’sanotherfact you swore you’d never mention.” I shook my head sadly. “I thought family was meant to stick together.”
Beale chuckled, then cleared his throat and looked guiltily back at the house. “Yeah, well, speaking of that… maybe give Rafe a break, you know? He’s been having a hard time with Dad, and you know he hasn’t been the same since Aimee left—”
“Nope.” I pointed a wrench at him. “Not buying it. Aimee’s been gone ayearand Rafe’s still in the mopey asshole stage. When a man is dumb enough to fall in love, he shouldn’t be allowed to mope for more than a couple hoursmaximumwhen it inevitably ends. Then he’s gotta learn his lesson and move on.”
“Awww. Have I mentioned recently how glad I am you came and found us all those years ago? You’re like a life coach, Fenn Reardon! A terrible,terriblelife coach.”
I rolled my eyes.
I was sorry for Rafe. Iwas. It probably sucked being the oldest brother, especially in a family like the Goodmans. Probably sucked having to share your name with your dad, so even at thirty, you were still called Young Rafe whenever there was a chance someone could confuse you with Big Rafe.Trulysucked that Aimee had left without ever reallytalkingto him. But we’d all had our hearts broken, right? Some of us were just wise enough to get over it and stay over it.
“And no matter how much you bitch and moan, I know deep down youlikeworking on engines, and youlikebeing helpful.” Beale smiled that sickly sweet smile again and looked at me fondly.
I wiped my greasy hands on a rag and peered at Beale’s face. “Okay, seriously, man, what’swrongwith you? Are you constipated or having a stroke? AmIhaving a stroke and I haven’t heard? If you’ve found another stray cat that needs a home, you can fuck right off. You know I have no room for an animal.” Besides which, Beale’s cat Marjorie was an absoluteterror—a pit bull with ginger fur—and nobody had time for that.
“No, it’s not that.” Beale shot another look back at the house, then licked his lips, and his smile fell away entirely. “The thing is, I’ve got thisfeeling,Fenn—”
“Ohhhh. Come on, Beale, no.” I made a vicious swipe through the air. “We’re not doing this now.” Or ever.
“No, butforserious, though.” Beale’s blue eyes were as solemn as if he were standing in a fucking church instead of baking in the sun on his dad’s driveway, kicking at the scrub grass growing up through the pavement. “I’ve got that heavy feeling in my chest and that tightening in my gut I get when a storm’s coming. Like a portent from the Universe. And I don’t know yet if it’s good or bad, but change is coming, and—”
I shook my head, torn as ever between laughing and smacking him. “I’m not dropping down this rabbit hole with you again. I refuse.”
I loved Beale Goodman like a brother. Loved him unreservedly, the way some people love dogs and cats and screaming infants. He was the giant, hairy love child of Rambo, Ned Flanders, and a sideshow fortune teller—big-ass boots and straining muscles; wide, earnest, blue puppy-dog eyes; a totally bizarre faith in ghosts and woo-woo fairy magic. The man commanded a phalanx of stray animals and woodland creatures Snow White would have envied, for God’s sake. I’d defy anyonenotto feel protective of him. I’d kill anyone whobreathedon him wrong.
But when the man talked aboutfeelingsandspiritsandportents, I wanted to kick his ass my own damn self.
For the record, Beale wasnotpsychic. Not even a little. He wasn’t even like that guy on TV who pretended to be psychic but was really just hyper-observant. There was zero talent involved in Beale’s premonitions, and no pretense either, just a heaping helping of anxiety wrapped up in hoodoo he’d learned in the cradle.
His mother—my dad’s sister, Mary, may she rest in peace—might’veclaimedshe had “the sight,” but shedidn’t, as I’d tried and failed to explain to Beale a hundred times.
