He did doubt, however, that Lucien was inclined to do them any favors. He’d been skeptical of Rafe moving in on his best friend.And even though Flynn and Kellan hadn’t so much as looked at Mollie sideways, he didn’t seem willing to cut them any slack.
Until then, Flynn ran a lot on the beach. Sparred with his brothers. And tried to unload twice as much of the delivery asCarlos did.
“I’m sweatier than a camel’s crotch.” His boss took a faded red bandana out of his back pocket and wiped his forehead.
“Should I ask how you know that?” Carlos dropped comments—like this one—that added up oddly. Someone who’d been in the MiddleEast, knew how to fight, but didn’t have the spit and polish of a vet. Walked with a hitch in his step at the end of a longshift that he refused to explain.
Not that Flynn would ever come out and ask him if he’d put his muscles and morals behind any cause that paid enough. Because that sounded waaaaay too much like his ownchoices with McGinty’s crew. Last thing he needed was a mirror pointed his way.
Carlos rubbed the bandana across his eyes. “Once you’ve seen one, it’s a sight you’ll never forget.”
Neither an acceptance nor a denial. Carlos was good. As someone who’d done the double-talk walk his whole life, Flynn appreciatedthe agility. He lifted the box of bourbon and put it on the top shelf of the storeroom. Without using the stepladder. Becausethat overhead push worked his lats and delts to a nice burn.
“Did you have a good time with Sierra last night?”
“Uh, yeah.” Flynn had been genuinely trying—as he’d promised Rafe—to not walk around with a stick up his ass. To actuallytalk to people. So he’d pumped Carlos for ideas for his date. “Thanks for suggesting the lighthouse. It was a big hit.”
Carlos moved a bunch of rum bottles to get to the back row, full of expensive imports he’d brought back from a Caribbean cruise.“I figured it would be, for someone who likes to draw as much as she does.”
Pride surged in his chest. Sierra’s talent was amazing. During their afternoon of brainstorming with the kids, she’d comeup with a great new logo for the Cranberry Festival. Flynn intended to take it to Floyd himself and kiss as much of that flabbyass as necessary to get him to use it. “You’ve seen them, too? Her sketches?”
“Seen them?” Carlos batted away the question. “I asked her to paint real ones. I offered to hang them on the walls here. They’d probably all sell in less than a day. Good for her, and good for business.”
It was a great idea. Except . . . he remembered the way Sierra’s hackles went up when he first praised her drawing. The wayshe’d insisted that she didn’t do it for money. Which was crazy, because Flynn was certain she could make serious bank withher talent. “Will she?”
“I’m not sure. She bobbed and weaved better than Floyd Mayweather, but never gave me a straight answer.”
Flynn latched on to the name of the famous fighter. He hadn’t had anyone to geek out over fighters with since leaving theMMA gym in Chicago.
He missed it. Missed hanging out over beer and brats to watch a prize fight. Missed talking trash about MMA versus boxersversus those pansy-ass WWE wrestlers. “You follow boxing?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t go over well here, though, so I never have it on the TVs in the back room.” Carlos started doing the usualpre-happy hour bottle pull: one of every clear and dark alcohol. Basically a Long Island Tea right here in the storeroom.
Sticking two of the bottles sideways under his arm, Flynn said, “I’m into it, too.” Nonchalantly.
No big deal.
Not like he was fucking jonesing to talk about fighting worse than an addict in line at the methadone clinic.
“Boxing?”
Flynn bobbed his head. Figured he’d go for broke. Lay it all out. “And MMA. Big fan.”
Carlos narrowed his eyes. “That’s how you took down those punks who burglarized Coffee & 3 Leaves last month. You’ve got skills,don’t you?”
“Some.” And that was as far as he’d go. Going into detail was risky for a laundry list of reasons. The biggest being thatCarlos might go nosing around the underground fight club boards to hunt up information on Flynn.
Not that he’d find anything.
Not as Flynn Maguire, anyway.
Safer to change the subject, though. Flynn hooked the stepladder over his shoulder and backed out into the hallway. “You shouldpoke at Sierra to make those paintings for the Gorse. I think she could use the money.”
“Figured that out, huh?”
It didn’t take Kellan’s years of advanced learning to do the math. “The woman’s only form of transportation is a bike. Ina state where it rains approximately four hundred days a year. And she’s far from stupid.”
“Agreed.” Carlos locked the door. Couldn’t be too careful. People would do anything for a free drink—including liberatingthe alcohol themselves.
“She’s happy, though. Even without a car. Which is a fucking mystery. I have to share my car, and it makes me grouchier thana grizzly.” Flynn had heard Mick say that at lunch. It sounded . . . appropriate. He didn’t know for sure if there were grizzliesor brown bears or if they fucking shit in a gold-plated cave in the woods together, but following Mick’s lead was a safe bet.Flynn thought it made him sound like he fit in. Like he belonged here. Fake it ’til you make it, right? Delaney would be proudof him for the attempt.
So his mouth twisted viciously downward when Carlos laughed at him. “Why are you talking like a pioneer lumberjack?”
“Just trying on a local colloquialism for size.”
“Take it from me, it doesn’t fit you.” Then he veered off to check the dishwashing sprayer.
Whatever. He’d tried. One small step for Flynn, one
