waistband stopped its upward movement at the top of his thighs, pinning his legs together and not letting them move. “Shitfire!” He gritted his teeth as his right hip connected with the ground.
Jerking the jeans off, he examined them. Not his. Ramona’s. And even though she was a curvy woman, there was no way his ass was gonna fit into her jeans. A snatch of color caught his eye. Her orange thong hung on his foot.
Dread filled his gut as he grabbed the T-shirt. Yep. Just as he’d ’spected. Hers, too—the black V-neck with pink sparkling letters that proclaimed A Hard Man on the front and Is Good to Find across the back.
He took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. No keys. They were in his jeans, which he hoped to hell she’d somehow managed to hide. He couldn’t even get into the compartment on his bike where he kept his stuff. His only hope was to get to the beach house.
He stood and pulled the T-shirt over his head. It was tight, and the shoulder and sleeve seams groaned under the pressure. It was also just a couple of inches shy of keeping him from getting arrested for indecent exposure if he happened to be seen, which he didn’t plan on.
He’d been pondering ways to get some publicity shining on his almost nonexistent career, but being arrested roaming the streets, half-drunk and half-dressed, in women’s clothes wasn’t the image he was going for.
A hefty punch of self-loathing hit his gut as he slipped on the thong.
But thank God for his boots.
He glanced down, shuddering at the sight—just another weirdo roaming the streets in the middle of the night.
He remembered that EmmyLou had booked renters into the beach house for the week.
He hoped to hell they had a sense of humor.
THE SHOWER IN Sol’s bathroom was difficult though not impossible to navigate as long as he held on to the hand bar. But the water wasn’t helping the jellyfish stings. If anything, it made them worse. The intense stings had morphed into an intense itch.
Sol had searched the kitchen cabinets for meat tenderizer—wasn’t that supposed to be the go-to miracle cure?—but found none. He’d remembered hearing somewhere that urine would ease the sting, also, but he wasn’t that desperate.
He turned off the water and dried inside the shower, then got out and reattached his prosthesis. The itch was annoying enough that sleep would be an absent friend, which really didn’t matter because he could spend the entire day tomorrow in bed if he wanted. So instead of slipping into pajamas, he pulled on a clean pair of cargo shorts. After so many years in long pants, he’d forgotten how cool, loose and unfettering shorts could be.
Without meat tenderizer, bourbon was sure to be the next best thing for his stings, provided it was applied internally. He went to the bar in the large common room and found a new bottle because he’d finished the dab that was left in the old one.
The first sip went down smoothly. The second caught in his throat when a sound caused him to flinch. A cough sent the bourbon several places where it shouldn’t have been—onto the bar, down his bare front and, most irritating, up his nose. It burned up into his sinuses making his eyes tear. Great! Between the jellyfish and the bourbon, he was literally burning and itching from head to toe, inside and out. And the fact that someone was knocking on his back door...at two-thirty in the morning...did not bode well for this situation improving.
But he chose to ignore the knock. Probably just some drunk anyway.
Coughs continued to wrack his system until the liquid cleared from the passages it wasn’t meant to come into contact with.
Whoever was at the sliding glass door must have heard, because the knocking grew more persistent.
“Hey!” A male voice. “I need help.”
The word help called Sol to action. He grabbed his phone in case he needed to call 911...or the police...and hustled toward the hallway.
The kitchen light gave him a fairly good view of a man standing at the door that led to the deck on the beach. The guy needed help all right—but not the kind Sol could give.
Some kind of crazy-ass, scantily clad cross-dressing dude.
But he broke into a smile when he saw Sol. “Hey, man! Oh, thank God.” He dropped his head back in a relieved gesture. Then he straightened and pressed his forearms and face against the glass. The gesture pulled his T-shirt up, revealing an orange lace thong that basically covered nothing.
The man wasn’t bloody. He stood upright. He obviously wasn’t hurt. And he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get away from anybody.
“Go on.” Sol yelled from several feet away. “Get out of here.” He started to turn.
“Wait!” The nutcase pounded the door with his palms. “No, man! Hey! Don’t go!”
Sol moved closer, but only to flip the light switch on the wall. The deck light remained on, putting the visitor in a spotlight. Someplace he was used to being, no doubt.
“Look, I’m Joe Wayne Fuller. My family owns this house.”
Sol pulled up straight, pausing to study him a moment.
“My sister, EmmyLou Fuller, arranged your stay. Ain’t that right?” The guy’s head bobbed up and down, answering his own question.
EmmyLou Fuller? Sol had never heard her use that last name, but the name EmmyLou was too distinct not to refer to her. If this joker was her brother, she’d probably put him up to this.
The woman had already proven she’d go to great lengths to try to best Sol Beecher.
“Call her. She’ll tell you I ain’t dangerous or nothing. I just got into a situation.” He crunched his fingers in the air, forming imaginary quotation marks around the word. “I...uh... I lost my clothes, and, oh hell, man. Just call EmmyLou. She’ll vouch for me.”
“I’m not calling her. It’s two-thirty in the morning.” Sol put his hands on his hips and stood his ground.
Joe Wayne—if that was really his name—pressed his forehead against his arm and took a deep breath. “Well, would you at least get me some clothes from the family suite? I can’t go nowhere else like this.”
So he knew about the family suite.
Sol blew out an angry breath and jerked his phone up to find EmmyLou’s number.
* * *
A CALL AT two-thirty was not a rare occurrence in Emmy’s world.
Her two younger brothers, both single, were forever calling her when they came in after a night of drinking and carousing. And even the two older ones, both married, called after spats with their wives or when they needed help understanding the female gender.
But a call from Sol Beecher at this time of night hadn’t occurred in fourteen years. She blinked at his name on the caller ID, and her heart did a strange triple beat. But then she remembered he was at
