Cassidy spun around to see Bo, dripping wet, his black wetsuit peeled to his waist, low enough to reveal the V-line of his abs. Sheesh, why is everyone so eager to show off their skin today? she wondered.
“No,” she said, wary of revealing any more information, though he seemed harmless, despite Quinn’s warning.
“Maybe you and Quinn would like to meet up sometime, then.” He cocked his head and paused, almost as if he was thinking about something. “I made him an offer a few months back, and now he won’t talk to me.”
“He’ll never sell Drift.”
“I got that, but I have an opportunity that may interest him.”
“I don’t know anything about running a bar.”
“No need,” he said, giving her a slow appraisal. “I’ll do all the talking.”
Cassidy folded her damp towel, even though she didn’t need to. “What kind of opportunity?”
“I’ve got some friends in the industry—wholesale produce, linens. Bet I can save him some money.”
Cassidy considered this. Likely, Quinn had his own connections.
“Give me your number,” he said. “I’ll text you mine. Surf’s supposed to be good again tomorrow, too, by the way. Will you be here?”
“Maybe,” she said. Moments later she was handing over her number scribbled on a scrap of paper she found in Bruce’s car.
“Cassidy, that’s original,” he said. The look he gave her was part curiosity, part something that made her painfully aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Well, see you,” he added, then walked toward a shiny, black truck three sizes too big for city life. She remembered Quinn’s observation that Bo and his friends never seemed to run out of money. Was it because of his job at the port? Or was he some kind of trust funder? Or maybe his family’s business was big in this town, and he lived off the spoils.
She felt Bruce by her side.
“What did he want?” Bruce asked, his jaw flexing.
Cassidy looked away from where Bo had rejoined his pack, her questions spooling out like a loose ball of yarn. “Apparently to help him get friendly with Quinn.”
Bruce looked at her sharply. “Why?”
“Some kind of business opportunity.”
Setting his hands on his waist, Bruce took another long look at the trio. Music now blared from the speakers inside the truck; one of the surfers smoked a cigarette. “Let’s go,” Bruce said, closing the back hatch and moving to the driver’s seat.
Confused by the edge in his tone, Cassidy paused, feeling someone watching her. Slowly, she met eyes with Bo, who flashed her a mischievous glance before jumping into the passenger seat of the truck.
Nine
“Are you going to tell me why you hate those guys so much?” Cassidy asked as they cruised up the hill, the view of the bay fading.
Bruce shook off a frown. “I don’t hate them.”
“Then why were you sending daggers at them with your eyes the whole time we were out there?” She dug into the paper bag for a corner of scone. “Quinn doesn’t like them, either.”
“Wait, those guys know Quinn?”
“Not exactly,” Cassidy replied, realizing she was moving too fast. “Last night they were at Drift, and I talked to that one, Bo, the surfer who came in after I did.”
Bruce’s face darkened.
She took a small bite of the scone. “It was a little weird because he made it sound like he knew Quinn, but when I asked Quinn about it, he said they were trouble.”
Bruce exhaled a soft groan.
“So, are they?”
“What?”
“Trouble.”
“Not for you, they aren’t.”
“Oh,” Cassidy replied, “but they are for you?”
His stern glare startled her.
“Okay, okay,” she said, putting up her hands. “I’ll stay out of it.” Cassidy wondered if she shouldn’t have given Bo her number so easily. Bo could have just snagged Quinn at Drift. Why did Bo need her?
“What did you decide to do about your car?” Bruce asked as they crossed back through Golden Gate Park.
Cassidy remembered the way Pete had crowded into her mind on that wave. She let the warm breeze tickle her temples, teasing free the stray hairs escaping from her still-damp ponytail. “I think I’m going to let them sell it,” she said as a pang of grief balled up inside her. “But I have to go see it one last time. And pick up my things.”
“They could probably send them to you.”
Cassidy inhaled the dry earth scent of the park. “Probably.”
A long silence passed between them while memories spun through her mind: Pete dressed up for her birthday dinner date and the way he looked at her when she came out of the house; Pete in shorts and a faded t-shirt, one arm resting on the windowsill as they ascended some forest road on the way to an adventure; Pete in his puffy coat and thrift store wool hat as they navigated snowy roads at oh-dark-thirty in the name of fresh tracks.
“Hey,” Bruce said from somewhere far away.
Slowly, Cassidy pulled back from her memories to see that they were parked outside of Quinn’s apartment, with Bruce’s hand warming hers.
“Sorry,” she said, swatting her cheeks with her free hand.
“You have every right to feel the way you do,” he said.
“It’s been almost two years,” she managed. “Am I ever going to be over it?”
Bruce’s gaze softened in kindness. “How can I help?”
Cassidy pushed her door open and stepped onto the street. “You can’t,” she sighed.
Quinn had offered his car for her journey to Shasta, a beat-up Toyota Camry that stunk like burned oil, so after rinsing her gear and showering, she grabbed his keys and made her way to the garage. The car was parked next to the motorcycle Quinn had replaced after Pete’s accident, a white cover draped over it. She paused, remembering accelerating Dutch’s bike into the darkness on her way to rescue Izzy. Would Bruce find the clues he needed to bring Pete’s killer to justice, or would she forever live with the failure of letting the person who had taken him from her go free?
Inside, Quinn’s car smelled like dust
