Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) (2 page)

“She
sailed beautifully.”

“Is
Mr. MacArthur still on board?”

“No.
I brought her up myself. He’s flying up.”

“Okay.”
The kid turned the notebook around so it faced Ty, handed him a pen, and asked
him to sign his name.

Ty
considered asking where the nearest bar was, but then realized the kid was
probably too young to drink. Not that that would have stopped Ty when he’d been
that age. He’d been filching the occasional beer by the time he was fifteen,
not to get drunk but to piss off his grandparents. Still, this was a ritzy
yacht club in a ritzy town. He smiled, gave the kid a nod and headed back
outside.

Strolling
through the parking lot, he tapped his phone, searching for bars in the area.
Without wheels, he needed to find a bar close by.

The
Faulk Street Tavern
.
It sounded quaint and New England-y. He called up a map of Brogan’s Point and
located the place, less than half a mile away. Since he’d have to return to the
boat after he’d drunk himself a toast or two, he didn’t want to travel too far
for his refreshment.

Brogan’s
Point didn’t have much of a downtown. It boasted a nice-looking beach, though,
stretching along the ocean below a stone and concrete sea wall. A few shops
lined the street bordering the sea wall, and more shops filled the streets
intersecting it, two- and three-story buildings constructed of clapboard,
brick, and stone. Eateries, hardware stores, ice-cream parlors. A real estate
office. A women’s clothing boutique. A Starbucks, of course. Turning from the
stores, he gazed along the ocean’s edge. Not far south of where he stood,
several commercial docks lined with trawlers stretched eastward into the ocean.
Ty could just make out the silhouettes of some warehouses near the trawlers.
Fish markets, he figured.

If
a Hollywood director wanted to film a movie in a stereotypical New England
seaside town, he could do worse than Brogan’s Point. It had everything Ty
expected such a place to have, short of a guy in a yellow rain slicker,
dropping his R’s and eating a bowl of chowder. Or
chow-dah
, he supposed.

He
strolled up the street, enjoying the solidity of the asphalt beneath the soles
of his sneakers, enjoying the blunt breezes that rose up off the ocean to slap
against the side of his head. Yeah, he could see spending a few days here
before buying a plane ticket back to Florida. He could sleep on the boat, use
up his food supply, and spend some time on the beach, even if the water here
wouldn’t be warm like what he was used to down in Florida or what he’d grown up
with in California. Ocean was ocean. Sand was sand. Ty’s parents used to joke
that he was actually the son of a mermaid, given his affinity for the sea.

Up
ahead he spotted the corner where Faulk Street intersected with Atlantic
Avenue. He turned onto the side street and entered the bar.

To
his great relief, it wasn’t quaint. It appeared to be a working-class
establishment, a little dim, a little scruffy, not too crowded but already
redolent with the stinging scent of hard booze, beer, and oily, salty edibles.
He stood just inside the doorway, surveying the place and considering where he
ought to plant himself. The tables all looked too big for one person. A few of
the bar stools were occupied, but more were empty. That seemed like the better
bet.

He
strode across the room, the center of which was clear of furniture. A dance
floor? If it were his choice, he would have filled that space with a pool
table. But he wasn’t really up for a game right now. He’d done a week of hard
sailing. He needed to decompress.

The
woman behind the bar stood nearly as tall as Ty, with square shoulders, short
hair fading from ginger to gray, and a pleasantly weathered face. She had the
sort of no-bullshit look of a sports coach, or maybe a shrink. He supposed
either of those character types would make good bartenders. “What can I get
you?” she asked.

“A
shot of bourbon and a glass of whatever you’ve got on tap,” Ty said.

She
named a few beers. No connoisseur, he asked for the first one she’d listed,
then settled onto a stool and gazed around the room. A group of frat boys sat
at one table, cheerfully arguing about the relative merits of Porsches and
Ferraris. Three portly older men in faded Red Sox caps nursed their drinks at a
table near the door. Two attractive women sat facing each other in a booth to
his left, one with long, curly red hair and the other with black hair that
ended in a ruler-straight line at her shoulders. They each had a glass of wine,
and they bowed their heads together across the table that separated them,
engaged in intense conversation. A couple of stools down from Ty, a guy three
sheets to the wind slumped over an untouched mug of coffee.

Against
the wall opposite the bar stood a jukebox. It looked like something you might
find in a catalog, or in one of those stores that specialized in selling new
stuff designed to look old. A dome-shaped arch, buttons, fabric-covered
speakers flanking a colorful façade of what appeared to be stained glass
peacocks, of all things.

He
heard the thump of glasses on the bar behind and swiveled around on his stool
to discover that the bartender had served his drinks. He tossed back the
bourbon in one gulp, savoring its burn down his throat, then followed it with a
sip of cold beer.

He
had money. He had time. He had liquid refreshment. Life was good.

The
din of voices rose slightly as more people trickled into the bar. Ty glanced at
his watch: five fifteen. Rotating back around to view the room, he nursed his
beer and watched the bar’s clientele drift in, most of them just off work from
the look of it. Some wore the uniforms of their jobs: garage coveralls, medical
scrubs, tailored outfits that included button-down shirts adorned with loosened
neckties or colorful scarves, depending on gender.

An
energetic woman in tight black pants, her hair pulled into a pony tail, bounced
over to the bar. “Sorry I’m late, Gus,” she shouted to the bartender as she
laced an apron around her waist. “The traffic on Route 1 was a bitch.”

“Surprise,
surprise,” the bartender muttered sarcastically. Ty wondered whether Route 1
here in Massachusetts was the same road as Route 1 in Florida. He was pretty
sure it was. Like I-95, Route 1 spanned the length of the country from Maine’s
Canadian border to Key West. Pretty cool to think you could drive from the
nation’s northern border to its southern tip on one single road. Maybe someday
he’d hop on his bike and ride the distance, just for the adventure.

The
waitress grabbed a tray, shot him a quick smile and headed back into the room,
circulating from table to table, checking on the patrons. Ty watched her for a
while, then shifted his attention to the two young women conferring in the
booth. The one with the black hair was dabbing her eyes with a cocktail napkin.
The redhead leaned toward her, giving the dark-haired one’s free hand a
squeeze. Dykes? Ty wondered. He’d hate to think that two good-looking women
like them were unavailable to the male half of the population, but a hot little
fantasy flared in his mind at the thought of them going at it. An even hotter
fantasy placed him between the two of them, the meat in the center of the
sandwich. He laughed at his crassness, told his balls to stop thinking for him,
and took another sip of beer.

“Share
the joke?” The woman who’d addressed him had stepped up to the bar, blocking
his view of the drunk guy with the coffee. She was probably within shouting
distance of forty, nice looking and dressed for cruising in a short skirt and a
low-cut blouse which displayed cleavage deep enough to swallow small items.

“Just
thinking about what an ass I am,” he said pleasantly.

“I
don’t believe that,” the woman said. Catching the bartender’s eye, she said,
“Can I have a Cosmo, Gus?” Then she turned back to Ty. “You’re not from around
here, are you.”

“Is
this one of those places where everybody knows everybody?”

“Kind
of. I guess you and I should get to know each other, so you don’t feel left
out.”

She
deserved an A for effort, but Ty wasn’t interested. He smiled politely, drank a
little more beer, and said, “I’m just passing through. Running an errand.”

“If
only all errands ended with a drink,” she said, accepting the cocktail glass
the bartender handed her.

He
rotated in his seat to gaze out at the room again. Business was definitely
picking up, more and more tables filling. Another waitress pranced into the
pub, her apron already tied around her waist. Two of the frat boys wandered
over to the jukebox.

“Brace
yourself,” the Cosmo drinker said.

“Why?”

“That
jukebox is crazy.”

How
could a jukebox be crazy? He braced himself, anyway, then let out a long breath
when the jukebox began pumping music into the room. An old Beach Boys
tune—“Fun, Fun, Fun.” Ty recognized it because his grandfather on his dad’s
side was a huge Beach Boys fan. The old man owned the band’s albums, cassettes,
even sheet music of their songs. He was a crappy guitar player, but he
fantasized about becoming the next Brian Wilson. “If you live in California,
this is your music,” he’d lecture Ty, who would nod solemnly. As a kid, he’d
worshipped his father’s father.

Throughout
the room, people laughed. Some sang along, their voices screeching as they
reached for the falsetto notes. A small cluster of revelers moved to the center
of the room and started dancing, although it looked more like they were just
jumping up and down. Pretty rowdy for a weeknight.

The
song ended. “Like I said,” the Cosmo drinker repeated, “that jukebox is crazy.”

“What’s
crazy about it?”

“It
only plays old songs. Really old songs.”

“I
guess that makes sense. It looks like an antique.”

The
woman shrugged. “I don’t know why Gus keeps the thing there. I mean, if you’re
going to have music, it should be music people listen to.”

Ty
could have argued that people still listened to the Beach Boys. But he didn’t
want to get into an argument with his chatty new friend.

Another
song came on, another oldie. Ty didn’t recognize this one, but he thought his
musically untalented grandfather could have mastered it. It had had only a few
smashing cords, and the singer sounded as if he’d gargled with battery acid
before laying down the track. The simple lyrics emerged in a harsh growl: “Wild
thing…you make my heart sing…” The singer went on to growl that some woman made
everything groovy.

Groovy?
Ty started to laugh—and then he stopped. The woman in the booth, the one with
the black hair and the teary eyes and the solicitous friend, was staring at
him. Staring hard.

And
damn, if he couldn’t keep from staring right back at her.

Who
was he?

Monica
knew pretty much everyone who was anyone in Brogan’s Point. She might have attended
a big-city university, lived in Boston, learned how to navigate Beantown’s mass
transit system, and mastered the art of marching down a busy street looking
straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, aloof to the hubbub around her. But in
her chest beat the heart of a small-town girl. A girl who, until yesterday
evening, had dated the guy who’d been her escort to the high school junior
prom. A girl who was being groomed to take over the family business—a landmark
inn in town. A girl who behaved herself, who did what was expected of her, who
was respected and admired. Who was predictable.

A
girl who could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as a wild
thing.

The
man staring at her from his perch on a bar stool across the pub definitely
looked like a wild thing. He was tall, his knit Henley shirt snug enough to
hint at his broad shoulders and muscular torso. His hair was a long, windblown
mess of dark blond streaked with the sort of glittering platinum highlights
only the sun could create. His stubble of beard was a shade darker than his
hair. His blue jeans were faded nearly to white and were torn across one knee.
His eyes were almost as pale as his jeans.

He
was the sexiest man she had ever seen.

One
minute she was whimpering and sniffling over Jimmy, and the next she was
thinking she wanted to jump a total stranger’s bones. Which was completely not
like her.

But
for some reason, as she gazed at that tall, blond stranger at the bar, the
drone of voices and clink of glasses and shuffle of footsteps faded to nothing.
Emma could have been a million miles away. Everything in the room blurred into
shadow except for the man at the bar and the song blaring from the jukebox.
“You mooooove me…” the singer howled.

Monica
felt wild.

She
flinched, trying to shake off the song the way a dog might shake water off its
fur. She didn’t really believe that nonsense about the jukebox’s magic. She
knew about it, she laughed about it, she humored Emma, who swore the jukebox
had brought her and Max together and made them fall in love. But Monica didn’t
actually think an old Wurlitzer could cast a spell on people. Certainly not
with an insipid song like this one.

Monica
was sensible. Not susceptible to magic spells.

Just
to be safe, though, she slid out of the booth and bolted for the door.

She’d
barely caught her breath when Emma joined her on the sidewalk outside the
tavern. “Monica, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”
Monica was too embarrassed to admit that a silly old rock song had spooked her.

“We
can’t just leave. We didn’t pay for our wine.”

“That’s
all right. Gus knows me. She knows I’m good for it.”

“No—I
mean, I can pay for the drinks,” Emma assured Monica. “But I don’t want to go
back inside without you. You’re freaking me out.”

“I’m
fine,” Monica lied. “Just…you know. The whole Jimmy thing. I’m a little weirded
out.”

“Five
minutes ago, you were sobbing about that son of a bitch,” Emma reminded her. “I
don’t want to leave you alone.”

“No.
It’s okay. I’m okay.” Monica let out a long, steadying breath. The song had
probably finished playing; she could go back inside. Except that if she did,
she would see that guy at the bar again, tall and ripped, with his mesmerizing
eyes and his bemused smile. He’d stared at her. He’d witnessed her becoming transfixed
by the song. Maybe he’d even read in her expression the uncharacteristic surge
of lust she’d experienced while looking at him. She couldn’t possibly go back
into the pub.

“Look.
Here’s some money.” She pulled her wallet from her purse and unsnapped it. “I’m
sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

Emma
waved the money away. “I’ve got the drinks. But what about you? Where are you
going?”

“Home.
I think…I had a funny reaction to the wine, that’s all,” she said. The
explanation made sense to her, more sense than the possibility that a song from
the jukebox had briefly taken possession of her. “I just need to go home and
lie down for a while. I’ll be fine.”

Emma
didn’t look convinced, but she knew Monica well enough not to argue further.
“Keep your phone handy,” she said. “I’m going to call you in fifteen minutes to
make sure you’re all right.”

“Okay.
Call me.” Monica gave Emma a swift hug, then hurried away, heading toward the
Ocean Bluff Inn as if she were running a race.

She
sprinted up the entry drive to the inn, then slowed to a walk in the parking
lot, its gravel and crushed shells crunching against the soles of her shoes.
The main building loomed before her, a sprawling Victorian with white clapboard
siding, black shutters, a steeply peaked roof and a broad veranda stretching
the width of the building in front and wrapping around the sides. The azaleas
beneath the porch railing were dotted with scarlet buds, the rhododendrons
blooming with splotches of pink, and dark green yews filled in the spaces
between the blossoming shrubs. A staff of groundskeepers maintained the
twenty-five acre property, but Monica’s father often regaled her with memories
of his own childhood at the inn, when it had comprised just this one main
building and he’d been responsible for weeding the beds in the summer. Now,
with several smaller residential buildings and cottages, the Olympic-size pool,
hot tub and pool house, the gazebo at the edge of the bluff, overlooking the
inn’s private beach, and the industrial buildings housing the laundry,
maintenance equipment, lawn tractors, snow plows, and massive recycling bins,
the inn was practically a village unto itself.

It
was also her home. She’d grown up there, as her father had before her. She’d
lived in the six-room owner’s suite with her parents and spent her childhood
believing the pool, the beach, the modular jungle gym, the tennis courts, the
patios and hallways and dining rooms all belonged to her. In a sense, they
did—or at least, they belonged to the Reinhart family. With ownership, her parents
had taught her, came responsibility. She could play in the pool or climb on the
jungle gym, but she also had to treat the folks who paid to stay at the inn as
her own personal guests. In her teens, she had to help out wherever she was
needed, folding the pool towels, gathering abandoned dishware, and when she was
old enough, making beds and scrubbing sinks with the rest of the housekeeping
staff. After college, she’d been moved through a variety of administrative
positions. Her parents wanted her to learn the hospitality business inside and
out. Someday, she would be running the Ocean Bluff Inn. It still belonged to
her, and would as long as she wished—and as long as she took responsibility for
it.

She
loved the place. Running the inn had always been her dream. Simply standing
before the three steps leading up to the veranda, basking in the bright,
lantern-shaped lights flanking the front door and the amber glow spilling from
the windows, soothed her.

She
was home. She was safe. That ridiculous song hadn’t done anything to her.

***

He
continued staring at the empty table where she’d been sitting, unable to shift
his focus until the next song boomed from the jukebox, that U2 song about
Martin Luther King. From his grandfather’s favorite rock band to his father’s,
Beach Boys to U2, with that odd little song tucked in between.

Wild
thing
,
I
think I love you.

Where
had she gone? Why had she raced out of the bar so abruptly, leaving the redhead
to chase after her?

“Oh,
God, I hate this song,” the woman next to him muttered, her expansive bosom
barely an inch from his elbow. “There’s politics and there’s music, you know?
Keep the politics out of the music, that’s what I say.”

Ty
courteously refrained from telling her she was an idiot. He had a lot more
respect for a song about a martyred hero than for one about a wild thing
.
He discreetly moved his arm away from her chest and drained the beer from his
glass. He ought to get something to eat, but he wasn’t hungry. Not for food.

He
was hungry for the dark-haired woman. He wanted her. He wanted blazing hot sex
with her. He wanted her under him, on top of him, naked and wet.

But
she was gone, and her friend was gone with her, and he was probably a bigger
idiot than the woman beside him at the bar. For all he knew, the woman whose
gaze had locked with his while “Wild Thing” played was someone’s girlfriend,
someone’s wife. Hell, the redhead’s lover.

And
he was a horny bastard who’d spent the past week all by himself on a boat. That
might explain why his mind had filled with all sorts of X-rated ideas when he’d
spotted the dark-haired woman. That, and the hit of bourbon. He hadn’t drunk
anything harder than ginger ale while he’d been sailing Wayne MacArthur’s boat
up to Massachusetts.

Still,
the dark-haired woman had looked at him—practically looked
through
him.
Her eyes were as dark as espresso, and every bit as intense. Who could blame
him for entertaining the thought that, at least for a couple of seconds there, she’d
been as hungry for him as he’d been for her? He wondered if she’d spent the
last week all by herself on a boat, too.

Yeah,
sure. If he wanted to get his rocks off, the woman by his side seemed like a
better prospect. But he wasn’t a sex-starved kid, willing to get it on with
anyone who happened along. He didn’t want sex. He wanted sex with that
dark-haired, dark-eyed, wild-thing
woman.

A
total stranger who might be a bitch or a prude or a million other things that
would make her a lousy bed partner.
Forget it,
he ordered himself.
Forget
her
.

“Gotta
go,” he told the woman on the adjacent stool as he stood, pulled out his wallet
and slid out a ten and a five. He had no idea what his drinks cost, and he didn’t
care. He just had to leave, fill his lungs and his brain with some fresh night
air, and regain his sanity. “Nice talking to you.”

The
woman looked pissed, but she managed a faint smile. The pub was continuing to
fill with patrons. Surely she’d find someone more receptive than he’d been, if
she put some effort into it.

Outside,
he took a few deep, bracing breaths. The bar was close to the shoreline; he
could smell the ocean’s briny perfume. In the deepening gloom of dusk, the
temperature had dropped a few degrees. He hoped the evening air would work on
him like a cold shower, jarring him back to rationality.

He
still wasn’t hungry, but he knew he had to get some food into him. He’d last
eaten hours ago as he’d sailed past Long Island’s north fork, a quick
peanut-butter sandwich and a bottle of water. He ought to be ravenous.

Heading
back down Atlantic Avenue, he recalled having noticed some dining
establishments on his walk over to the Faulk Street Tavern. As he neared the
retail area, he gazed down a street and spotted a place called Riley’s. It
looked like a diner, but since he didn’t have much appetite, he saw no point in
spending a lot of money on a gourmet feast. All he needed was something more
substantial than a peanut-butter sandwich.

The
place wasn’t too crowded. He ordered a lobster roll—he figured he might as well
try the local cuisine. While he ate, he searched his smart phone for car rental
places in Brogan’s Point. If he was going to stay a few days before flying back
to Florida, he ought to explore the area a little. He wondered if any of the
places listed on his phone’s screen rented bikes. One place seemed to have some
Harleys available, but he didn’t want anything that big. Something like his
Honda Rebel back home, compact and fast, would be perfect.

He
made a note of a couple of the rental places, paid his bill, and headed back
outside. The lobster roll had filled his body, but the only thing that filled
his mind was the image of that woman in the tavern. Her hair was so straight,
so dark, like a silk scarf’s fringe. She’d had a slight build—not the sort of
cleavage he’d enjoyed an up-close view of at the bar—and a delicate face.
Narrow nose, thin lips, eyes that were almost too big for the rest of her. It
wasn’t that she was so beautiful. It was just…

Something
weird. Something about the way they’d found each other during that song. Almost
as if her gaze had been dancing with his. Almost as if their hearts had been
synchronized, beating in time with the music.

A
submarine roll overflowing with lobster salad hadn’t been enough to cure him of
his fixation.

Maybe
the woman was a witch, a sorceress, like one of the Haitian immigrants down in
the Keys who practiced Voodoo or Santeria or some other mystical cult religion.
Or maybe the bartender was the sorceress. Maybe she’d spiked his drink with a
crazy-making drug. Wasn’t he near Salem, Massachusetts, the witch capital of
North America?

He
laughed. He’d never had the world’s greatest imagination, but after a long solo
sail, who knew where these ideas were coming from? He ought to go back to the
boat and get some sleep. Tomorrow he’d wake up normal, and he’d go and rent a
bike.