Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) (9 page)

“I’ll
be there in ten,” Emma responded before disconnecting the call.

Monica
stepped back inside Rose Cottage, alerted one of the workmen that she’d be gone
for a while but reachable via cell phone, and exited the building once more. At
one time she’d loved Rose Cottage, hadn’t she? At one time, water stains hadn’t
appeared on the cottage’s pretty walls. At one time, the cottage
had
pretty walls—before the guys from Parnelli’s had removed a large chunk of one
of them.

Could
they actually find the leak, fix it, and restore the building to its usual tidy
state before Memorial Day? If they couldn’t, what would Monica do with the
bridal party scheduled to spend the holiday weekend in the cottage?

With
that pending disaster swaying above her like the pendulum in the Edgar Allan
Poe story, its lethally sharp blade descending closer and closer to her with
each passing minute, why was she wasting an instant of her mental energy on Ty
Cronin?

Because
she was crazy, that was why.

Stuffing
her phone into her purse, she strolled down the entry drive to Atlantic Avenue
and south to Faulk Street. At two-thirty in the afternoon—she belatedly
realized she’d forgotten to eat lunch—the tavern was practically empty. It was
open for business, though. That was all Monica cared about.

She
surveyed the room. Gus Naukonen stood at her usual station behind the bar,
talking to Manny, her burly, good-natured second-in-command. They both turned
to see who’d entered. “Hey,” Gus greeted Monica, then indicated the unoccupied
tables with a sweep of her hand. “Take your pick.”

“Thanks.”
Monica crossed to the table she’d been sitting at the day she’d seen Ty, the
day “Wild Thing” had blared out of the jukebox. She wasn’t sure if the table
was bad luck or good. She and Ty had had a spectacular night, after all. But
nothing had gone right since then.

She’d
barely taken her seat when Emma swept in, her red hair flying as if her scalp
was on fire. When Boston University had assigned Emma Glendon as Monica’s
freshman-year roommate, Monica had wondered why. She’d had nothing in common
with Emma, who had grown up the daughter of back-to-the-land hippies in
northern Vermont and planned to major in fine arts. Yet they’d become instant friends.
Monica had envied Emma’s enormous talent, her energy, her lack of pretense.
Emma had always said she admired Monica’s stability and drive. Monica had
known, even before she’d unpacked her boxes in their cramped Back-Bay dorm
room, that she would be returning to Brogan’s Point after college to help run
her family’s inn. Emma had known only that she wanted to paint. How she would
support herself as she pursued her art had been a mystery.

She’d
stumbled along, though, creating what she called “Dream Portraits” and
scrambling for commissions and art students. Then, after she’d moved to
Brogan’s Point, she’d talked Nick Fiore at the community center into hiring her
to teach art classes. And she’d met Max Tarloff, her high-tech gajillionaire,
and they’d fallen deeply in love. Now she lived happily with him in his
gorgeous glass-walled house overlooking the ocean, the two of them planning
their wedding.

They’d
fallen in love because of the jukebox. When Emma had insisted that a song the
jukebox played had brought them together, Monica had been skeptical, even
though she’d spent her whole life hearing Brogan’s Point residents talking
about the jukebox’s magical powers.

Now
here she was—the friend who was supposed to be sane, but who had been enchanted
by a song from that same jukebox. Not enchanted—brainwashed. Hexed. Jinxed.

“Wow,”
Emma said, sliding into the booth facing Monica. “Either you’ve been emptying
vacuum cleaner bags over your head, or you’ve got the worst case of dandruff
I’ve ever seen.”

Monica
brushed her hands over her hair. A flurry of plaster dust swirled into the air
around her. “The plumber is dismantling Rose Cottage in search of a leak,” she
explained. “It’s a mess. My entire life is a mess.”

“That
can’t be,” Emma argued cheerfully. “Let me get you something to drink.” She
leaped back to her feet and headed toward the bar.

“An
iced tea,” Monica called to her.

Emma
nodded, conferred with Gus for a minute, and returned carrying a beer for
herself and a glass of chardonnay for Monica. Emma knew her friend’s taste
well.

“I
can’t drink this,” Monica said as Emma set the wine glass down on the table.
“I’m working.”

“Not
right now, you aren’t. Come on, girl. One glass of wine isn’t going to make you
drunk.”

On
an empty stomach, one glass of wine might knock Monica out cold. As if Emma
could read her mind, she returned to the bar and came back carrying a bowl of
mixed nuts. “Okay,” she said as she slid onto the banquette across from Monica
and took a sip of Sam Adams. “What’s wrong? And if you tell me you’ve gotten
back together with Jimmy, I might have to beat you senseless with this bottle.”

Monica
shook her head and scooped a few nuts into her palm. “I will say my life was a
lot saner when I was with him,” she admitted, staring at the array of cashews,
almonds, and walnuts in her hand, not quite sure what to do with them.
Eventually, she remembered and tossed the nuts one by one into her mouth. Her
stomach gave a grateful growl.

“Your
life was stagnant when you were with Jimmy. It was stalled out. It was stale—”

“Okay.
You’ve made your point.” Monica sighed and washed down the nuts with a sip of
wine. It tasted a hell of a lot better than iced tea would have. “No, I’m not
back together with Jimmy. He still hasn’t apologized to me for blowing me off
when I made him that fabulous anniversary dinner.”

“He
always took you for granted. He’s a jerk.”

“Don’t
worry. Even if he did apologize—and he probably will, in a few days, when he
decides he misses me…” Another sigh. “I’m done with him.” Everything Emma had
said was true: Monica’s relationship with Jimmy had been stagnant. They hadn’t
been growing, moving forward, developing closer bonds. Jimmy was Jimmy. He was
never going to change. And Monica
had
changed. “It’s that stupid
jukebox,” she confessed.

Emma’s
eyes grew round. “What happened?”

“‘Wild
Thing’ happened.”

Emma
listened as Monica told her about her acquaintanceship with Ty. Not everything,
of course. She couldn’t admit, even to her best friend, that she’d had sex with
Ty before she’d even known his name. But she revealed that they’d spent some
time together, and she was drawn to him, and he was the hottest guy she’d ever
met. “But he’s rootless. He roams around the country, always moving on. He’s
never been to college. He’s repairs boats.”

“That’s
cool,” Emma said, her eyes still wide but glowing with approval.

“Look
at me. I’m Ms. Straight-and-Narrow. What am I doing, mooning over some nomadic
guy who repairs boats?”

“You’re
letting your hair down,” Emma said. “Even if it’s full of white crap.”

Monica
allowed herself a tiny smile, then grew solemn. “He’s in legal trouble. I found
him a lawyer and I’m trying to keep my distance. But…” She fell silent and took
another sip of wine.

“But?”

“I
believe he’s innocent. I have no grounds to believe that. I hardly know him.
But…I can’t believe he’s done what Ed Nolan thinks he’s done.” More accurately,
she couldn’t believe she could have made such rapturous love with a drug
dealer.

At
Emma’s goading, Monica filled her in on the events of the past twenty-four hours.
The boat Ty had sailed into the North Cove Marina, the police’s suspicion that
heroin was hidden somewhere on the boat, their assumption that Ty was connected
to the heroin. The message he’d left on her work phone. Her scaring up a lawyer
for him.

As
if simply talking about him was enough to conjure him, the door swung open and
in he walked. Although he was a good thirty feet away, she caught a whiff of
his sea-breeze scent, and once again she felt bewitched. Even with no music
pouring from the jukebox, she fell under its spell. Under
his
spell.

Emma
traced the direction of Monica’s gaze to the tall, broad-shouldered man
standing just inside the entry, his jaw set, his sun-streaked hair windswept,
his piercing blue eyes aimed at Monica. “Oh my god,” Emma murmured. “He
is
hot.”

He
was hot, no question about it. Monica returned his stare, painfully aware of
just how hot he was and wondering what he was doing at the tavern. Why wasn’t
he with the lawyer she’d found for him, or fleeing the jurisdiction, or
whatever one does when one is suspected of being a drug dealer?

And
why did she wish he’d race straight across the room to her table, sit down
beside her, and wrap his arm around her shoulders, as if they were just any
ordinary couple? Why did she yearn for something she didn’t even understand?

Why
did her imagination conjure the thrashing opening guitar chords of “Wild
Thing,” making her feel wild? She’d never felt wild with Jimmy. He might have
been an asshole, but at least he was safe.

Was
Ty safe? She didn’t know. In some deep, dark recess of her soul, she didn’t
care. That scared the hell out of her.

After
a long moment, he started toward her. He didn’t race, but at least he walked in
her direction. Some other part of her brain—not the part hearing a rock singer
howl the song’s simple lyrics—nattered that he was nothing more than a one
night stand and she ought to forget about him. Yet she shifted on the banquet,
leaving space for him to sit beside her, just in case that was what he intended
to do.

He
stopped at their table. “I’ve got a bike,” he said.

She
felt her eyebrows soar toward her hairline. “What?”

 “A
motorbike. Want to run away with me?” His lips weren’t smiling, but his
beautiful blue eyes glinted with mischief.

Emma
cleared her throat. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Emma Glendon. Monica’s best friend.”

Emma
merited a genuine smile from Ty. “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “Ty
Cronin.”

Monica
forced her mind back to his initial words. “You got a motorbike?”

“I
rented it. Two helmets, if you want to take a ride.”

Was
she supposed to give him points for safety because he had two helmets? He could
have a hundred helmets and still not seem safe to her. “Why did you rent a
motorcycle?” she asked. The real question she wanted to ask was,
How big is
that trust fund of yours? You’ve got huge legal bills looming in your future.

“I
need to be able to get around town while I’m here. I ride a bike in Florida.”

“This
isn’t Florida.”

“What
I meant was, I’ve got a motorcycle operator’s license. A bike is cheaper than a
rental car. It uses less gas.”

Oh,
lord. He was a possible drug dealer-slash-biker. “Did the lawyer say renting a
bike was a good idea?” she asked, then cringed. She sounded like someone
auditioning for the role of his mother.

“The
lawyer said I’m staying in town for a while. I need transportation.” His gaze
drifted to her wine glass. “Are we starting early today?”

“I’ve
had a rough day.”

“How’s
the plumbing problem at—what was it called? Flower House?”

“Rose
Cottage,” Monica said, surprised that he remembered her problems when he had
far worse problems of his own. “They’re working on it.”

“I
meant that, about helping with the walls if you need an extra pair of hands.
It’s the least I can do.”

Because
she’d found him an attorney? Because he was stuck in town and bored? Because he
wanted to earn some brownie points before being carted off to prison? Because
he was madly in love with her?

Scratch
that last possibility from the list.

“Can
I join you?” he asked.

“Sure,”
Emma said before Monica could decide whether she wanted him at the table.

Ty’s
gaze lingered on Monica for a moment. “Let me get something to drink. I’ll be
right back.” He sauntered over to the bar. Even from behind—especially from
behind—he was hot. Broad shoulders, long legs, taut buns, and those glorious
windswept waves of hair.

Monica
swallowed a sigh before glaring at Emma. “Here I am, telling you that letting
him into my life was crazy. And now you’re encouraging him to remain in my
life.”

“You
don’t need my encouragement,” Emma argued gently. “With or without me, he’s in
your life.”

He
returned to their table, carrying a tall, frosty tumbler filled with a pale
yellow liquid. “Lemonade,” he answered Monica’s unasked question as he placed
the glass on the table with a quiet thump and then settled onto the upholstered
bench next to her.

“I
guess you haven’t had a rough day,” she muttered.

His
response was a laugh. She was too edgy to share his laughter. Although he’d
left a few decorous inches of space between them on the banquette, she sensed
his proximity. His thigh seemed to exude heat. Her own thigh responded, her
muscles tensing, silently begging her to edge closer to him, close enough for
their hips to touch.

She
didn’t need the damned jukebox to cast its spell on her. Ty’s nearness was
enough.

Thinking
about his legal problems ought to break the spell. “So,” she said, “what does
the lawyer think? Are you going to prison?”

“No.”

Well,
that didn’t break the spell at all. It only elevated his appeal. She wasn’t one
of those women who fell in love with convicts and wrote them romantic letters
while they were behind bars. She liked her men free, without criminal records.

Men
? There had only been two men in
her life: Jimmy and Ty. And Ty wasn’t really in her life. He was just in her
town, passing through. If not for this drug thing, he might have been halfway
back to Florida by now, or heading off to some new address.

Ty
didn’t elaborate on his terse answer. Evidently, he didn’t wish to divulge his
lawyer’s thoughts, at least not in front of Emma. And really, Monica wasn’t
sure she had a right to know his legal situation. It wasn’t as if they were
lovers. One night did not a relationship make.

Although
he
did
phone her when he was in trouble. She was the one he’d reached
out to.

She
sipped her wine. It was a few degrees warmer than when Emma had first brought
the glass to her, and she could taste its wheaty undertone. God, she was drinking
wine at two in the afternoon, and sitting next to a man in serious trouble, a
biker who might also be a drug smuggler—and even knowing all that, she wanted
to jump his bones.

Monica
Reinhart, the good girl, the organized, well-behaved, straight-and-narrow
woman, had gone wild.

***

Ed
didn’t expect to see Tyler Cronin when he entered the Faulk Street Tavern at
around two-thirty. He’d been on the go all day; he hadn’t bothered with lunch.
He deserved a cup of Gus’s coffee. The station had a coffee maker, but the
stuff that came out of it tasted like burnt oil. Gus knew how to make a lot of
drinks, and her coffee deserved a spot somewhere near the top of the list.

He’d
thought he would just stop by, tank up on her brew, flirt for a minute or two,
and get back to work. Not that he was an expert at flirting, but he and Gus had
been together long enough that she accepted his efforts with a smile.

However,
there was the kid from Florida, Ed’s prime suspect in the drug case, seated in
a booth with a tall tumbler of something in front of him—and Monica Reinhart
next to him. That red-head who’d talked her way into a job teaching art at the
community center sat across from them, her hand wrapped around a brown beer
bottle.

Ed
continued straight to the bar, where Gus was counting change into the cash
register and Manny was unloading dishwasher trays of glasses. Gus shot Ed a
smile. “Coffee?”

She
knew him well. “Yes, ma’am.”

She
shut the register door with her hip, strolled down the bar to her coffee machine,
and returned carrying a mug with steam floating up from it. He allowed himself
a moment to admire her long, long legs, then tipped his head in the direction
of the one occupied table. “What’s Monica Reinhart doing with that guy?” he
asked.

Gus
glanced over at the table and shrugged. “Having a glass of wine.”

“What’s
he drinking?”

“Does
it matter?” Gus asked, eyeing Ed curiously.

“Humor
me.”

“Lemonade.”

All
right. At least the bastard wasn’t getting wasted. Even so, Ed didn’t like the
thought of Monica hanging out with him. She was a Reinhart. To call the
Reinharts pillars of the community would be an understatement. They were the
buttresses, the bedrock of Brogan’s Point. Reinharts had been running the Ocean
Bluff Inn for at least four generations. Ed knew Monica’s parents. Everyone in
town did—and everyone in town knew Monica, the sweet, pretty daughter who’d
gone off to college to get a degree in hospitality management and then come
back home to join her parents in operating their landmark hotel.

She
shouldn’t be keeping company with a guy who might be a drug runner.

Ed
leaned toward Gus and murmured, “He’s trouble. I don’t think Monica ought to be
having a drink with him.”

Gus
chuckled. “If anyone’s leading anyone astray, it’s her. She’s the one with the
alcoholic drink.”

“I’m
not kidding.”

“Monica’s
a big girl. And Jimmy Creighton wasn’t exactly a winner.”

“You’re
saying she’s a bad judge of character when it comes to men?”

Gus
raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know who he is,” she conceded, jutting her chin in
the direction of Monica’s table. “He’s not a local. But he seemed pleasant
enough when he was here at the bar a couple of nights ago. Had a bourbon and a
beer chaser, and made polite small talk with Margie Carerra, who was all over
him like peel on an orange. And then a song came on the jukebox.”

“Don’t
start with that nutty jukebox crap,” Ed said, wincing at how judgmental he
sounded. That people believed the myth of the jukebox’s magical powers brought
customers to Gus’s establishment, so he would never debunk the legend. But it
was bullshit. He knew it, and Gus knew it.

She
shrugged again. “He heard the song, and Monica was sitting right at that table,
staring at him. What happened after that is anybody’s guess, but there they
are, side by side.”

“Monica’s
too sensible to fall for the jukebox thing,” Ed said, then gave Gus a measuring
look. “While the guy was sitting here at the bar with Margie, did he say
anything interesting? Anything that made an impression on you?”

Gus
opened the register drawer and resumed counting her bills. “Nothing much. He
tolerated Margie’s come-ons, turned her down without hurting her feelings, said
he was just passing through and running an errand.”

Running
an errand. An illegal errand? Ed wished the search warrant had turned up the
drugs. He was sure they were somewhere on that boat. Danny Watson, the
low-level dealer he’d arrested, who was scared shitless about going to prison
and was knocking himself out to be helpful to the cops, had insisted that a
shipment was coming north from Key Biscayne on a sailboat. He’d said his last
shipment had been brought up from Miami on a boat, too, and that he’d been
informed the next shipment would be entering the area through the port of
Brogan’s Point. He’d said he’d been told some guy named Smith would connect
with him once the shipment had arrived, but Smith could be an alias. Probably
was. As common as Smith was reputed to be, Ed had never met anyone with that
name.

Was
Tyler Cronin Smith? Or did the Smith pseudonym belong to Wayne MacArthur, the
guy Cronin claimed had hired him to sail the boat to Brogan’s Point?

Unlike
Watson, Cronin had lawyered up. Caleb Solomon was sharp. Ed wasn’t going to get
more out of Cronin than he already had, not without a deal on the table.

He
sighed and drank some coffee. Its rich flavor boosted his mood. “I’ve gotta go
back to work,” he said, draining the mug, leaning across the bar, and dropping
a light kiss onto Gus’s cheek. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

“I’ll
be here,” she promised.

He
slid off the stool. “Tell Monica to watch her step,” he said before turning to
leave.

He
shot Cronin a hard look as he passed their table. Cronin stared back. Cool
customer, Ed thought. The guy looked as innocent as a newborn baby.

Ed
still hoped Monica would be careful. He’d been a cop long enough to know that
guys who looked innocent usually weren’t.