diagram on the kitchen wall, there were two suites downstairs and two up, though he couldn’t confirm that since he’d elected not to attempt the stairs yet. The nice, wide balcony on the second level would be the perfect place to catch the sunset, though. So sometime over the next week he’d make the climb.
Difficult, but worth it.
EmmyLou’s laughing brown eyes flashed into his mind again. As she’d warned, the family suite was locked. One of those boxes hung on the door handle—the kind with the combination that opened a compartment that held a key. The locked door piqued his curiosity, especially because it was directly across from the suite he’d claimed. But he doubted the room contained any deep family secrets.
The way EmmyLou’s mouth ran, no secret could remain safe with her for very long.
The beach had been crowded when he arrived this evening, but it was deserted now. The gentle, phosphorescent waves lapping at the sand called to him. He detached his prosthesis and grabbed the despicable but necessary crutches.
Walking in the sand was tricky, but there was no one around to mark his awkward, slow progress. He understood how those newly hatched baby sea turtles must feel—drawn innately to the water...determined to make it or die trying.
The sand cooled the closer he got to the lacy edge of foam, so the first touch of water across his foot surprised him. It was warm and so inviting. He wished to hell he had a prosthesis suitable for use in salt water.
But he didn’t, and wishes were about as helpful as tits on a boar.
He eased out another couple of steps until the water hit his calf at the midpoint, letting the peacefulness seep through his—
“Damnation!” A branding iron seared the skin on his leg. His gaze dropped to the water, where the moonlight caught the opalescent glow of the army of jellyfish. They had him surrounded! Knowing it was a mistake didn’t keep his brain from encouraging him to run, so he sprinted...but only for one step. And then he fell. One of the little sons of a bitch washed into the leg of his cargo shorts on the next wave and proceeded to sting him on the stump. Another came to the first one’s defense and attacked the top of his foot.
Sol scrambled for the sand—the baby sea turtle with his gears in Reverse—somehow managing to keep a grip on his crutches while trying to keep the sand out of his artificial knee socket by holding the half leg out at a ninety-degree angle. With dry sand beneath him, he was safe. He stopped on all threes and caught his breath, wondering if anybody had seen his absurd antics. If they had, they must have pegged him for deranged. In his present position, he looked a lot like a dog trying to take a piss.
A laugh rolled out of him, released from a storage hold he hadn’t opened much lately, while the icy hot tendrils still irritated the places where they’d made contact. Rolling over onto his back, he lay there until his laughter subsided and he closed his eyes and breathed in the salty air, feeling...alive.
Happy to be here.
He should call EmmyLou and thank her. The thought spurred him to action.
Maneuvering onto his knee, he used the crutches to get back to a standing position and moved at a much smoother pace across the sand this time. As soon as he reached the deck, he grabbed his prosthesis and walloped his butt a good lick.
The best thing about having an artificial leg was being able to kick yourself in the ass when ridiculous ideas popped into your brain.
* * *
“OH JOE WAYNE...oh Joe Wayne...oh Joe Wayne.”
The woman beneath him sounded like a CD with some lint that caused it to stick, and Joe Wayne Fuller found it mighty distracting. Maybe if he changed things up a bit...rolled over to his side...
The room whirled as he eased to the left, but Ramona’s sturdy thigh shoved him back into place. Her legs locked tighter around him, and she began to buck harder, drumming his ass with her heels. “Oh, yes, baby. Just like that. Give me more of that.”
“You like this?” he panted, trying to stay focused and not think about how much his head was spinning and how much pain her heels was inflicting. He’d have bruises, for sure...and a helluva hangover. “You like—ow! Sunshine, you got to—oof!...take it easier. You’re making me lose—”
“No! Don’t stop!” Her teeth sank into his shoulder.
“Shitfire! No more biting. You promised.” A week with Ramona had left his neck and shoulders looking like he’d been to a damn vampire convention.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Just don’t stop. Don’t stop.” The last word came out on a snarl that sounded like a rabid dog.
He hoped to hell when this was over, he didn’t have to put her down like they did Old Yeller.
“Oh Joe Wayne...oh Joe Wayne...”
Speaking of “yeller”...
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
Joe Wayne squeezed his eyes shut, reminding himself to keep Ramona far away from the Wild Turkey tomorrow night...if there was a tomorrow night...if he lived through this beating.
“Don’t stop. Don’t. Stop! Stop!” Ramona sucked in a gulp of air and hurled him off of her and the bed.
“What the hell?”
A car door slammed.
“My husband!”
“Husband?” Joe Wayne scrambled to his feet. “You never told me you—”
“Oh, shut up and leave.” She was out of the bed now with a wild look in her eye, and Joe Wayne’s gut told him this wasn’t a good time to argue. Ramona snatched clothes from the floor and shoved them into his arms as she pushed him toward the bathroom.
The front door opened slightly, wood cracking as it slammed against the chain lock, followed by a man’s roar. “Ramona! Get your ass out of bed and let me in!”
“Your only chance to make it out alive is through that window,” she whispered and then let out a yell. “I’m coming, baby!”
Joe Wayne pushed it open and sized up the opening...a mighty small chance, by his way of thinking.
“Don’t stop to dress.” The warning in her tone sent prickles up his spine.
“What about Patsy?” He threw the clothes out the window and climbed onto the toilet to hoist a leg through. Ow! He ground his teeth to keep from crying out as his private parts scraped across the rough wood. “I can’t leave without my bike.”
“Get it tomorrow.” Ramona gave him a helpful push, sending him tumbling to the ground, then closed the window behind him. A second later, the window opened again, and his boots thumped him in the head.
Joe Wayne grabbed the clothes and boots, gripping them to his chest, and took off behind the neighbors’ houses, his heart chugging for all it was worth. He ran like a jackrabbit under the cover of darkness until his lungs felt like they was gonna bust. When he couldn’t take a breath without a hot poker stabbing his side, he finally gave up and stopped to dress. Leaning on the side of a garage, taking in
