“Why do you always have to be such a dink? It’s not like you’re exactly sober over there,” he scoffs, slurring his words as he gestures at my approximate placement behind the bar—which is now, undoubtedly, much hazier than it was hours ago, when he first plunked his ass on his usual stool.
I worry about his ever worsening levels of alcohol consumption. He has always consumed a lot, but over the past four years, he’s gotten considerably worse. Sloppier. More belligerent. As much as it pains me to think it, I’d honestly rather he drinkhereif he’s going to get sloshed anywhere. If he’s at the pub, I don’t have to fret about him getting shitfaced alone in his apartment. It’s obvious he’s got some depression he’s masking with an overabundance of clowning around and by drowning himself in alcohol.
“My trip home is a short walk up the back staircase. Yours is across town,” I reply, omitting the truth. Actually, I’m more sober than he thinks. Everyone around here justassumesI consume more alcohol than I really do. Other than the one-off shot here and there for show? I’m pretty vigilant about not drinking to excess, so I don’t end up likehim: the scum of the Earth, Marlin Masterson Sr.
Thankfully, one of the regulars leaves his usual perch and saunters over to his son. Without a word, he shoves his hand into Gannett’scoat pocket, yanks out his truck keys, and slides them across the bar to me. I nod my thanks to Wagner—because the last thing I need to do is instigate yet another unfairly matched bar brawl with Evan’s little brother, since he’s way more drunk than he outwardly appears—and hang them up behind a row of dangling beer mugs, well out of Gannett’s reach.
“Don’t wanna hear a peep outta your deckhands about how hungover you are in the morning,” Wagner warns him, before clapping his shoulder, closing out his own tab, and heading out for the night—a couple of his old cronies, his loyal subjects, hot on his heels.
After the door to the pub shuts behind them, I slap down two clean shot glasses, top them off with Gannett’s favorite cinnamon whiskey, and match him when he tips his back. I try to not gasp at the burn, because that would be fucking embarrassing, seeing as though my frienemy—as my nineteen-year-old son would put it—appears largely unaffected by his swallow. I’ve embarrassed myself enough around him.
It’s been roughly three years since I had my humiliating public meltdown at the cookout at ol' Wagner Waters’ place, which he was there for. Still though, Gannett has never brought it up since, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s had his own fish to fry, or because he genuinely doesn’t care. Either way, I prefer that it stay buried, and I’ll never tell him this, but he earns a modicum of my respect for never pressing. However, whatdoesgrind my gears about Gannett Waters—negating that modicum of respect—is the way he’s been not-so-subtly sniffing around my ex-wife lately.
I could practically mop up the puddle of drool he just made, gawking at Taryn’s mother as she slinks off towards the restrooms with one of the other local idiots.
“Don’tpick a number and wait in line,” I admonish him. Why she chooses to conduct her business here at the place of mine, all while knowing our son could catch her at any time, is beyond me. Subtlety has never been Trista-Lynn Harwood’s strong suit.
His narrowed eyes leave their mark on the hallway to the bathrooms and scowl back at me. “You’ve been divorced for almost two decades, Gordy. Time to get off your jealous ex soapbox.”
That comment makes me grind my molars. I get that Ternbay is a small town, he’s divorced too, and the pickings are slim, but come the fuck on.Her?She always has been a self-serving, underhanded bitch. After Sarah left him, he deserves better than Trista using him for some cheap thrill. My ex-wife always has been, and forever will be, a shit-disturber.
She’d have no remorse over sleeping with Evan’s brother, of course. Hell, she’d probably do it just to get under my skin, since she knows Evan and I have some hardcore unresolved issues. Annoyance with her simmers underneath my skin, but I file it away in my lock-box of emotions.
“Well, since I’m not allowed to let her take me back there next, are you going to pay for my Uber?” Gannett grunts at me.
I scoff. “Wee-Waters, I wouldn’t even throw money at arealhooker for you.”
He glowers at the use of my nickname for him. Evan is Waters, though lately I’ve found myself saying it with far less disdain than I ever used to, and Gannett is Wee-Waters. I call him that if I’m feeling especially petulant, which is often enough, despite relying on Gannett’s constant patronage to help keep the place afloat.
There’s just something about pissing him off, though… I keep coming back to it, like those lobsters he likes to catch in one of his traps.
Gannett’s glower turns into a smirk. “You may not have to throw money at her anymore, now that Taryn’s an adult and has moved out. But youusedto have to pay her, didn’t you?”
I snort. “Yeah. Child support she didn’t deserve, because, more often than not, Taryn was with me. Her other services? Well, I think you and I both can agree, she throws those around for free. I’d probably steer clear of that, if I were you,” I warn him once more.
“Why? You couldn’t keep her, so no one else can take a swing? It’d only be to get my dick wet anyway. I’ve sworn off relationships forever.” He twirls his empty shot glass around on the bartop before tapping it for a refill. I oblige him with one, despite the low blow, because… well, cheers to swearing off relationships.
Been there, still doing that. No one deserves a heart as cold and dead as mine.
But if it’s one thing I know for certain about Gannett, he’s full of shit when he says he’s sworn off relationships. Despitesayinghe’s only interested in Trista for the sex, he’s not the "sleep his way around town" type. Trust me, if one of Ternbay’s most eligible bachelors—a guy who could easily pass as Channing Tatum’s obsidian-haired stunt double—had made it clear he was open for casual fucking, I’d have heard about it right here in this pub. No, the more probable cause for him bringing up Trista in particular, is to get a reaction out of me.
But why?
Because that’s just our dynamic. We piss each other off, we bicker, and then we meet up here the next night—on all the nights he doesn’t have his girls—and do it all over again. According to Gannett’s deckhands, Marcus and Caleb, their captain and I are like an old married couple. They like to think they’re being sneaky, joking with each other in sign language, but neither of them have a single fuckin’ clue I knowwhat they’re saying—I know a lot of interesting fodder about them, actually.
I just don’t make it a point to participate in small town bullshit gossip. Not anymore, anyway. I know better than anyone how that shit can forever alter the trajectory of someone’s life, and I hate myself for it.
Gannett and I down our shots at the same time. After the burn fades, I lick my lips and lean in. “Just so we’re clear, this is no jealous exact. I wouldn’t take Trista back if you offered me a million dollars, bub. I only warn you because I know the only way you’d get more clap is if you sat on Santa’s lap and begged him for it.”
There. How’s that for honesty? I’m looking out forhissafety, not hers.
His face contorts with disgust. “Stellar,” he huffs. “Just when I thought there was a chance Blackbeard wouldn’t go to bed lonely tonight…”
My brows knit in confusion. “Blackbeard?”
He gestures down at his crotch, and my eyes follow. “Your dick… is Blackbeard?”
He chuckles. “Not sure how I feel about you having just overtly checked out my dick, but yeah.”
