Page 8 of Property of Player

When Taylor climbs into her car, Molly tugs my hand.

“Your father is waiting.”

As if I’m coming out of a daze, I look to find him and the guys standing at the bikes.

I trudge toward them, shoving my hands in my pockets, refusing to take Molly’s hand. That doesn’t stop her from clutching my arm and pressing against me.

“Let’s get some lunch,” my father says, throwing his leg over his bike and firing it up. It’s not a suggestion. He’s decided we’re doing it, so we all follow. I don’t even know where we’re going, but I don’t care enough to ask. I’m riding on autopilot until we turn into a parking lot and I realize where he’s taken us. He took the long way around to get here, and I already see the little red Mustang parked in the back.

The Rusty Pelican.

Jesus Christ. Did he do this just to rib me? Maybe I’m putting too much importance on his choice. Maybe it’s not about me. Maybe he’s trying to give Dozer’s family’s place some business. They need it, maybe now more than ever.

Whatever his reason, I don’t let it show that it affects me, even if it does. I’m already thinking of a way to get Taylor alone.

We have unfinished business.

Maybe she doesn’t think so, but I do.

We all troop inside and draw eyes. It’s the same anywhere we go, but most people are used to seeing us in town. We’re up and down these roads regularly.

The Rusty Pelican is located in Dewey Beach, across from the ocean on the bay side with a large deck that faces out over the pier where boats tie up for lunch.

Taylor’s sister is behind the bar, and her eyes widen when she spots us.

We take a table near the wall and settle in.

Taylor comes over with an order pad.

“Are you following me?” she murmurs, latching eyes on me.

“Coming here was my father’s idea.”

She rolls her eyes, then looks at the man and pastes on a smile. “What can I get you, Gage?”

She’s called my father by his first name since he told her to when we were all in high school. They were always close, especially after she lost her own father.

We lived near each other on a loop of houses that backed up to Red Mill Pond. Our house was on a narrow canal, while hers was on a much wider and prettier area of the pond. We were one street over and about six properties apart. It was an easy walk, but I can still remember taking the canoe my father kept on shore behind our house and paddling to her house in less than ten minutes. It was an easier way to go when I didn’t want to be seen walking over there. For a time I was persona non grata around there by her father before he died.

Her place was always easy to spot from the water. They had a bright red umbrella over a table on their deck.

Sitting here, with her standing next to my chair and me breathing in her familiar perfume, it’s like just yesterday we snuck off together to fish from that canoe at night.

“Whatever you suggest, darlin’. Bring us all the same thing and a pitcher of beer.”

When she walks off, I catch Molly’s gaze following her, and there’s undisguised hatred there.

I’m pretty sure they don’t know each other, so that only leaves me as an explanation.

I lean on my elbows, and my father’s hawk-like eyes shift from me to Molly and back again. He misses nothing.

A few minutes later, another worker brings the beer, and Drae fills everyone a glass, then raises his own.

“To those we lost.”

We clink glasses and drink.

My eyes repeatedly stray to wherever Taylor is, keeping her in sight.