Sunset Beach(11)

Wanting to short-circuit this line of intrusive questioning, Drue raised her cup in the direction of the hovering waitress. “I’ll have another of these,” she called.

While she waited for her drink she watched Brice at the other end of the table. He seemed to know everybody in the place, as a string of people stopped by to greet and talk to him.

“Your old man never met a stranger,” she remembered Sherri telling her when she was a teenager. “It’s the secret to his success. People meet him once and leave convinced he’s their new best friend. Especially the women, and the younger and prettier the better,” she’d added bitterly.

An older man approached the table. Brice stood, slapped him on the back and pulled a chair from a vacant nearby table so he could join the group. He wore baggy black dad jeans and a black short-sleeved shirt whose buttons gapped over his considerable paunch. The remaining strands of his hair had been carefully arrayed and sprayed over his head, and his sagging jowls and dewlaps reminded Drue of the Nestlé Quik bloodhound.

“Jimmy Zee’s in the house,” Jonah drawled.

“Who’s he?” Drue asked.

“He’s our investigator,” Ben said.

“You mean, like a detective?”

“You catch on fast,” Jonah said. “Jimmy Zee and your dad go back a long ways. He’s a retired St. Pete police detective. Zee and Brice used to be partners, back in the day, before Brice started law school at Stetson.”

“Oh yeah,” she said slowly. “I remember him. Jimmy Zee. He and his wife used to hang out at our house, when I was little.”

“Hard to believe the old man was ever a cop,” Ben said. “I’d have guessed he was born a lawyer.”

Unbidden images tugged at Drue’s memory. Of her father, arriving home at the end of his shift, carefully unbuckling his holster, stashing his service weapon in a box kept on the top shelf of the bedroom closet. She remembered Sherri, every Sunday night, with the ironing board set up in the living room, starching and ironing a week’s worth of her father’s white uniform shirts, while smoking and watching the soap operas she’d taped. Some days, if he was in a good mood, Brice would prop Drue up on a phone book in the driver’s seat of his green-and-white cruiser, turn on the blue flashers and siren, and she would laugh and clap her hands, because those were the days she was Daddy’s girl.

She watched as the two men bent their heads together, deep in conversation.

“Where’d you go to school?” Jonah asked.

“On the east coast,” she said, annoyed. She’d already noticed his flashy gold UF college ring.

“I meant, what school?” he persisted.

“Miami,” she said. She hadn’t actually said UNIVERSITY of Miami, right? If he jumped to the wrong conclusion, that wasn’t her fault.

“Miami. Cool. Mark Richt is kicking ass and taking names down there. You a Hurricanes fan?”

“Not at all. I detest football,” she said, trying desperately to shut him down. Why had she lied like that? Why not say Miami Dade College? There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong with her.

She sucked down the last of her margarita and started to stand. “I gotta go. Tomorrow’s a school day, right?”

“You just got here,” Ben said, looking dismayed.

Brice had spotted her. He came around the table, put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not leaving already. The party just got started.”

“Actually, I am,” Drue said. “I’ve gotta get an early start in the morning. Don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the office manager.”

Brice frowned at her lame joke. Before he could say anything, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, took a few steps away from the table, and a moment later was back.

“Speaking of. That was the boss,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve been summoned home.”

He motioned the server over. “You’ve already run my Amex. Keep the tab running for this motley crew.”

Brice clapped his hands to get the group’s attention. “Gotta go, guys, but don’t stop the party on my account.”

“Booty call,” Ben yelled, and the others at the table took up the refrain, banging beer bottles on the tabletop. “Booty call. Booty call. Brice has got a booty call.”

The boss grinned widely, and gently pushed his daughter back down to her chair.

“Stay, okay? The night’s young.” He turned to Ben and then Jonah. “I’m appointing you two characters as her wingmen. Make sure she’s taken care of, right?”

“We got this,” Ben said, shooting Brice a thumbs-up.



* * *



“Shot time!” yelled somebody at the end of the table.

“Yeah,” one of the accounting girls echoed. “Shots for everybody!”

Their server materialized, taking orders as they were shouted out.

“J?gerbomb!”

“Buttery Nipple!”

“Mind Eraser!”

“Redheaded Slut!” Ben yelled.

“Angel’s Tit!” Jonah called. He pointed at Drue. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Lights out,” Drue said.

“Huh?” Ben looked puzzled. “That’s one I’ve never heard of. And I’ve tasted every shot ever invented.” He held up his phone and tapped an icon. “Look. I’ve even got a Shots Spreadsheet.”