The Last Wingman (Wingmen Book 6), page 18
“June? June Moxee? What does she have to do with Mike and my father?” Cold dread fills my veins at the thought of him telling me she’s my half-sister from one of dad’s many girlfriends. I both want to know and need to pour bleach on my brain so I never remember finding out. I feel lightheaded.
“Mr. Lloyd had a daughter. She never spent much time on the island. Went off and got married young and had a couple of kids of her own. A son and daughter if I remember right.”
“Okay.” Relief flows through me as I try to follow this family history. I place both of my hands on the back of my head and exhale.
He continues to scratch his beard as he watches me. “The granddaughter’s about your age, maybe a few years younger.”
My brain is slow to process more information. “Hold on, are you talking about June?”
The nod he gives me is like the dropping of the blade of a guillotine.
“My father stole June’s grandfather’s building through a rigged poker game? What are the fucking odds of that?”
A soft female gasp fills the space. Glancing in the mirror, I spot June standing in the chute between the entrance and the swinging saloon doors. Our eyes meet for a second, shock, hurt, and confusion filling hers before she turns and leaves.
“Fuck.” I glare at Olaf. “Did you know June was back there? How much did she hear?”
“She came in right at the end.” He holds his hands up. “I didn’t recognize her because she’s not a regular. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her come in here before.”
Of course, he hasn’t. “She doesn’t drink.”
My stool crashes to the floor as I bolt out the door to chase after her, not bothering to pay for my beer or say goodbye to Olaf.
“June! Wait.” I yell at her back as she flees down the sidewalk. I stop a few paces away when she reaches her shop.
“Go away, Jonah.” Her jaw is so tightly clenched she can barely spit out the words.
The pained expression on her face is a knife to my gut.
Panicked I won’t be able to smooth this over, I babble, “I didn’t know the connection. I swear. No one likes my dad or thinks he’s a good person. The best compliment anyone ever paid me was to tell me I’m nothing like him.”
She holds up her hands. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
I take a step in her direction.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Plunging her hand into her oversized Ball Sack tote, she curses about not finding her keys. Frustrated, she dumps the entire contents onto the ground. A few painted rocks and an assortment of needles, balls of yarn, small hoops with thread hanging off them, lipstick, a wallet, a notebook, and a couple of pieces of chocolate spill out on the sidewalk. No keys. Patting the sides of her striped dress, she reaches into a pocket and extracts a set of keys. “Fucking pockets.”
“Can I say something?”
“No.”
“It might take your mind off of this revelation and make you feel better.” I hold up my palms.
Her eyes are shooting daggers at me, but I keep talking.
“You don’t have to worry about security and the break-in. Theo and Lara confessed to being the ones who snuck into the shop, to fool around.”
As the words leave my mouth, I want to stuff them back down my throat, knowing I’ve made the situation worse.
June shoves her glasses into her hair and covers her face with both hands.
I assume she’s about to start sobbing and I touch her shoulder. “Don’t cry. Please.”
She flinches away from my touch. Her features conveying pure anger.
“No one respects anyone else’s property. Think they can just use what they want, take what they want and there won’t be any consequences. Islanders are worse than Lenin with their attitude toward communal property. What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is mine.”
I’ve never seen June mad before.
Annoyed, yes. Frustrated, yes. Purely angry? Not until this moment.
Only she would bring up Lenin at a moment like this.
“And you know what’s the most rotten part about all of this is? I like you. I really like you.”
“Why is that horrible?” My stupid face didn’t get the memo about her being mad at me and spreads into a smile.
“You’re worse than a regular bad boy. You’re a bad boy with good guy intentions in a bad boy’s body,” she shouts. “I knew I was right to stay away from you even before I knew Ron Curtis was your father.”
And then she slams the door in my face.
I decide to take a long walk to temper my emotions before my thoughts become actions or words that can’t be erased. Unfortunately, Langley’s a small town and I only have one block before I run out of downtown and either hit residential streets or the water. I opt for the water to avoid passing my building.
Or more correctly, her building.
On the slope down to the seawall, I kick a couple of rocks, cursing under my breath about too many men named Mike. Mike’s Place. Mike’s Gas Station.
People need to be more original when naming their children.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and call Dan.
“Hey, Jonah. How’s it—”
I cut him off. “Did you do research on Mike’s Place before you bought it?”
“You mean on the deed? I had my lawyers in Seattle go over everything two years ago. Didn’t find any liens and there weren’t any contingencies because the purchase was in cash. What are you worried about? I’m not planning to break your lease or hike up your rent.”
“No.” I blow out an exasperated breath. “I know you did everything above board. I meant, how much do you know about the history of the previous owners?”
“Hold on.” There’s silence and then some muffled conversation. A minute later, Dan comes back on. “Sorry, I was in the kitchen. Too much chaos for conversation. Where were we?”
“History of Mike’s. Did you know it was a gas station before?”
“Of course. Mike had to remove the tanks and pay for the clean-up before switching it over to a restaurant. Are you worried about toxins? Everything’s been tested and cleared.”
“And what about the guy who owned the gas station? What do you know about him?”
“Not much. That was over thirty years ago.”
“What if I told you Mike didn’t pay a fair price for the property?”
“I’d say it was none of my business as long as the deed transferred cleanly.”
Not deterred by his indifference, I continue. “He won it in a card game. Any guesses as to who else was involved?”
“Your dad?” His voice is low. “Shit, I’m sorry. But, what idiot gambles using a building as collateral?”
“June’s grandfather, apparently.”
“June? Your June? I thought she was new to the island.”
“She is, but her family isn’t.”
“How’d you find this out?” I can hear him typing on a keyboard.
“Olaf.”
“Figures.” More typing. “I don’t see the name Moxee associated with anything on the island until June bought the yarn shop. Moxee’s a name you don’t forget.”
“He wasn’t a Moxee.”
Dan’s exhale is audible, and the pause that follows is long. “Is June trying to make a claim on the property? Why now?”
“She isn’t.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me.
Another pause. “Then what’s the issue?”
I growl with frustration. “It isn’t right. On principle.”
“Ah, I see. Principles are involved.” Dan chuckles. “Are you sure hearts aren’t the main issue?”
Ignoring him, I continue, “You know what I mean. We’re profiting off of someone else’s bad luck.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Tell me another one,” I mutter.
“Well, if a man is willing to bet his property deed, he’s already made poor decisions that led up to that moment—bad financial choices. Betting the property means he was out of money or owed a chunk to a bookie. See the common thread here?”
“Point taken.”
“What about the land she’s living on now? Who owns that property?”
“I think she inherited it, not that there’s much there. She’s basically camping out there. No permanent structures, not even an outbuilding. She has water, electric and septic set up, but that’s it.”
“That’s good. Someone was smart enough to keep it out of the gambler’s hands. Not everything was lost.”
“A couple of wooded acres aren’t the same as a corner lot and a commercial building downtown. The difference is at least a couple of zeros.”
“You of all people know we can’t hold ourselves responsible for the sins of our father, nor is it our responsibility to right their wrongs.” The line goes quiet for a moment.
“Can you call June and explain all of this to her?”
“I think that’s going to be up to you.” He softens his tone. “Guess she’s not taking the news well?”
“I’ve never seen her angry before.” The memory still stings like a paper cut. The fear of her not wanting to be with me is like salt on the wound.
“This fuck up isn’t your doing. What happened between your dad and her grandfather is old news. We can’t choose our blood family and we don’t have to tie ourselves to their self-imposed doom.”
My anger and fear dissipate. “When did you get so wise? What’s your secret?”
“Age and learning from my failures. I’ve fucked up enough for a PhD in life lessons.”
“If you don’t fail, you’re not trying hard enough.” I echo one of the first pieces of advice Dan ever gave me.
“I stand by that on both professional and personal levels.”
I get his not so subtle clue. “I shouldn’t give up on June because she now thinks I’m a shady grifter like my dad?”
“You’ve shown her who you truly are. Let the dust settle from this revelation. Then remind her you’re a good man.”
“How do I do that?” I sigh, feeling hopeless.
“You’ll figure it out.” Loud yelling echoes in the background.
“I need to go. Jeff and Coop are acting like angry badgers today. Let me know if you need anything. My door’s always open.”
We hang up, and I tip my head back to glare at the blue sky.
The only thing to do is get out of town for a few days, sleep outside, and clear my head.
Twenty-Six
On my way out, I text Erik and let him know I’m disappearing for a few days. This isn’t the first time I’ve left out of the blue. He responds with Have fun, so I know he’ll take care of things. I follow up with another text to Amber and Layla, telling them to check in with Erik about schedules and staffing for the rest of the week. They’ve worked with me long enough to know what to expect.
I call Ashley, though. When it goes to voicemail, I leave a short message about the events of the day, ending with admitting she was right about controlling the story.
No plans or direction, I drive up the island and over to Fidalgo. I have camping gear in the van, but need to stop for groceries before settling in at my favorite campground near Rosario Beach. It’s only an hour from home so I’m close in case there’s an emergency, but far enough away so that I can think and regroup.
A few days alone clears my head enough to return. This is my pattern, which started in high school when I’d tell my parents I was staying at a friend’s house and ask my friend to cover for me while I camped in the state park or slept on the beach. Then, in college, I’d say I was traveling during break, but instead stayed on campus while my roommates went home to visit their families. I’ve always found it easy to disappear.
On my way home on Friday afternoon, I swing by The Place to check on things. Given that it’s the middle of the afternoon when I drive down First Street, I’m surprised I don’t spot June’s sign outside In the Loop. There are no lights on either.
I park the VW in a spot halfway between her shop and the Dog House and walk back to confirm what I already suspect. In the Loop is closed and there’s a hand-written sign taped to the glass that says, Gone Fishing.
I doubt June actually fishes. Maybe she also requires time alone and it’s another thing we have in common. This is of no comfort to me.
When I drop by work, Amber and Layla have more questions about June than answers. No one has heard from June since her big blow out on Tuesday afternoon, which apparently has gone viral through the gossip channels.
Wanting facts instead of rumor, I drive to the little Airstream in the woods. June’s Prius isn’t in its spot and the trailer is dark. I check my own house on the off chance she’s left a note.
I’m sitting in the empty parking lot of the Saratoga Woods Trail when it finally occurs to me to text her. Then I quickly change my mind. I want to know she’s okay, but I’m not sure if she’s in a place to speak to me yet.
Instead, I head over to Ashley and Carter’s house.
My sister greets me with Rosie on her hip. She wrinkles her nose. “You smell like a Sasquatch. Shower before we eat, please.”
“Have you seen or heard from June?” I ask, ignoring her command as I follow her through the open floor plan of their single-story house.
“Bathe first and then we’ll talk. The goats smell better than you do.” She’s wearing her mom face.
I give in, grab my pack from the camper, and then take a hot shower in their guest bath. It’s the first one I’ve taken since the morning after June stayed over, and that time I wasn’t alone. Frustrated, tired, and confused, I rest my forehead against the cool tiles and let the water pound against my back.
The only clean clothes I have left in my pack are a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, so I’m forced to wear the same jeans.
Ashley nods in approval when I enter the kitchen. “Much better.”
Carter walks into the room carrying a baby goat in a pair of Spiderman pajamas. He hands it to me along with a bottle of milk. “Here. This one needs to be handfed.”
And then he leaves.
So, I feed the baby goat while Ashley concurrently makes dinner and ignores me.
Carter returns right before we sit down at the dining table. This time, he brings Rosie, who is also wearing superhero jammies, albeit in the form of a Wonder Woman onesie. He places her in our sightline, in a baby chair in the living room where she can hang out while we eat.
This is a regular evening with these two. Only, I’m not feeling normal.
Midway through our meal of salmon and broccoli, I broach the subject of June again. After I fill both of them in on the details of my conversation with Olaf, I bring up what’s been bothering me since I left the beach.
“You know, she lied to me too, by omission. The whole time she knew about the building. Never mentioned she owned the land where she’s living. Forgot to point out that one of the only reasons she’s on the island is because our dirt-bag dad conned her grandfather.”
Carter swears under his breath. “How can one man be so toxic?”
“It’s his super-villain power,” I mutter.
“Are you done ranting?” Ashley stabs a stalk of broccoli. “You need to talk to June about all that. We can’t give you answers.”
“She’s gone.”
“Did you try her phone?” Carter asks.
“This conversation needs to take place in person, but I don’t know where she is.”
Ashley sets down her fork. “Diane called me when June left her a message about a family issue she needed to deal with out of town.”
“Are her parents okay?” I can’t help the concern I feel.
“Diane said June didn’t give her any details but asked her not to tell you where she went.” Ashley sips her wine. “Naturally, Diane called me to find out what happened between the two of you.”
Carter chuckles. “You’re becoming the next generation of gossips.”
“Hush,” Ashley scolds. “We’re protecting our own, not spreading rumors.”
“Are wingwomen a thing?” Carter asks me.
I shrug. “Apparently.”
“Hashtag girl gang.” Ashley snorts. “My point is: June left the island.”
“Any idea when she’ll return?”
“Diane said a week, so you have a few days to figure out what you’re going to do.” Ashley offers me a sympathetic smile.
“I’m not sure if I should fight for her or let her go.”
Carter clears his throat. “Are you in love with her?”
I nod.
The truth hit me when I was alone this week, and now I’m scared I’ve lost her before we can begin.
“Then there’s only one answer: don’t give up.” He slaps my shoulder. “Just don’t wait ten years to make your move like I did.”
Ashley agrees. “Timing is everything.”
Knitting is harder than it looks. Each click-clack of the needles only serves to remind me how unskilled I am at this.
“You dropped a stitch,” Miss Cole tells me from two seats over.
“How can you tell?” I lift my narrow rectangle. “Seems fine to me.”
“I’ve been counting. You started with twenty and now you have nineteen in your row.” Her look is both a challenge and a smug declaration of her rightness.
“Pretty sure I still have twenty.” I count the loops on both of my oversized needles. “Nineteen. Damnit.”
“Quarter in the swear jar, Jonah.” Myrtle points to the jar they placed near my feet.
Reaching in my pocket, I pull out my wallet. “I’m putting in a five-dollar bill. Who carries quarters around these days?”
“Ha. You started out with twenty swear words and you’re down to nineteen. Dropped a stitch and the d-bomb.” Edna laughs.
If it would make any difference, I’d inform her d-bombs are really a thing. Damn is light swearing and d-bomb sounds like slang for an unsolicited dick pic. There’s no way I’m going down that path with a group of Methodist senior ladies, though it’s bad enough Betty and Thea recognized me from the Naked Whidbey calendar and requested my autograph.
