Page 35 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)

Twenty-Two

It was Thursday evening, and Tristan hadn’t seen Sophie once today. This was unacceptable.

Not that he could do much about it. Although he wanted nothing more than to pound on her door, that would cross the unspoken line that had been drawn between them.

Running into each other out on the street, that was fine.

Walking her home was also allowed. They lived next door to each other; certainly she couldn’t forbid him from going to his own condo.

And if she kept letting him kiss her good night… well, he wasn’t going to complain.

That was it, though. Accidental run-ins were the extent of things. No calling each other, no texting. And certainly no knocking on each other’s door. It was no way to have a relationship.

But then again, they didn’t have a relationship. He really needed to remember that.

If he couldn’t have Sophie, he thought on the way to The Haunt, he could have oysters. Replace one favorite thing about this town with another. He already knew it wasn’t going to help, but hey. At least he got oysters.

Most bars, in Tristan’s experience, had televisions sprinkled all over the place, tuned to different games of different persuasions. The Haunt was typically no different, but tonight the biggest TV—the one over the bar—was tuned on The Weather Channel. That was new.

Tristan gestured at it as he settled himself at the bar. “Any particular reason?”

Tony glanced over his shoulder, as though he’d forgotten what was on. “Just getting the latest on the storm. I can put the game on if you want. Baltimore’s your team, right?” He reached for the remote, but Tristan waved him off.

“Don’t worry about it. The Orioles suck this year anyway. The weather’s probably more exciting to watch.” While Tony had answered one question, he’d sparked another. “What storm?”

“Flynn. Haven’t you heard?” He laid a coaster down on the bar between them before moving to the taps. Tristan was officially a regular here; he didn’t even have to order. “Became a named storm yesterday, and they’re saying it should become a hurricane in the next day or so.”

“Is that bad?” It sounded bad. He had tours scheduled for tomorrow night. Did he need to cancel?

But Tony looked unconcerned as he finished filling Tristan’s pint. “Maybe. Probably not. This time of year it’s just something to keep an eye on. You want oysters? They’re good tonight.”

“Load me up.” Tristan took a long sip and sighed happily.

There was really nothing like being a regular in a small town.

Soon he had a platter of his favorite oysters in front of him, a side of perfectly cooked fries, and despite his protestations, Tony had changed the channel to the Orioles game.

The steel drum band started setting up in the far corner.

Conditions were perfect for a night off.

No thinking about his business that may or may not survive to the end of the year.

No thinking about the girl who lived next door that he really wanted to kiss again, if he could only figure out how.

None of that. Tonight was about oysters, beer, and baseball.

“Hey, Tony! Can I get a…Oh.”

All of Tristan’s senses went on alert at the sound of Sophie’s voice. He turned his head and there she was, bellied up to the bar next to him. Her eyes went wide when she saw him, and she froze.

“Sorry,” she said. “I…I didn’t realize you were here.

I can…” She took a step back, and Tristan hated this.

Hated that seeing her was the best part of his day, while seeing him was obviously the worst part of hers.

He wasn’t going to do this. Business rivals was bad enough, but he couldn’t take her neighborhood bar away. That was just mean.

“Hey, no problem. I’ll get this to go, okay?” He pushed himself to his feet, leaning over the bar to peer toward the kitchen. Where the hell had Tony gotten to?

“No,” Sophie said. “But I appreciate the gesture.” Her gaze went from him to sweep across the room.

This early in the evening, they were the only two at the bar, while some sunburned tourists took up a few tables near the far window that looked out over the Gulf.

“Look,” she finally said. “It’s a big place. We can be adults here.”

“I’m always an adult here.” Tristan offered her a raised eyebrow and one of his best crooked smiles, and Sophie’s lips twitched in response.

He fully expected her to take a seat at the other side of the restaurant and ignore him for the rest of the evening, like she usually did when they were in public, but she surprised him by hoisting herself up onto the stool next to him.

She didn’t even need a menu. “Fried shrimp platter and hard pineapple cider, please,” she said when Tony reemerged, and he nodded immediately.

“You got it.” Tristan thought he had become a regular, but Sophie got a grin and a finger gun from Tony, so obviously he had a ways to go.

Silence fell between them, but it didn’t last long. The steel drum band started their set, which was mostly Jimmy Buffett covers, fronted by a long-haired middle-aged man with an acoustic guitar. The frontman sang with a lot of enthusiasm and a fair bit of talent to back it up.

“They’re pretty good.” He spoke despite himself, knowing he should probably leave Sophie alone.

Sophie nodded. “That’s Vince. You know that old band, Veiled Threat? He played bass for them back in the day.”

“Wait, really? My mom was really into them. She had all their CDs when I was a kid.” He tried to remember those CD covers, but all that came to mind was a lot of hair and leather outfits.

He looked at the frontman again. The hair was basically the same, though the black had faded to salt-and-pepper.

Thankfully the leather outfit had not transcended the times; he didn’t need to see that while he was trying to enjoy a platter of oysters.

Tristan took a sip of his beer and watched the band for a bit before focusing on the game in front of him.

He tried to look anywhere but to his left, but it was impossible.

Sophie was right there in his periphery; he couldn’t not look at her.

She was a magnet, she was gravity. And he was an apple with a nail through it.

Or whatever. When he finally let himself glance over at her, she looked away immediately, turning her attention to the television.

“How’s the game?”

“Good, if you’re not an Orioles fan. So terrible for me. You like baseball?”

She shook her head. “I tried watching it a couple times, but it moves too slow. I like basketball. The Magic had a good season this year.”

“Those games move so fast, though; they’re over before you’ve finished a hot dog.” This was nice. They were doing small talk. Pleasant small talk, even. He could handle this. “Hey, did you see the news about the hurricane?”

“You mean Flynn, right?” She waved an unconcerned hand. “It’s barely a tropical storm.”

“Nothing to worry about, then?”

“Nah. I’ll let you know when to worry.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

“Hmm.” She put down her cider. “Good point. Maybe I’ll wait till it’s a Cat 5 and then tell you to go for a little stroll along the beach.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” Her smile lit up her whole face, and maybe it was the second beer talking, but Tristan was getting a little lost in those dark eyes of hers.

He forced his gaze away and over to the steel drum band.

The frontman had gone, replaced by a guy with a brutal sunburn holding a half-filled pint glass.

He held the mic in a loose grip, swaying to the beat so violently he came dangerously close to spilling his beer.

He shouted vaguely in the direction of the mic in his hand, the melody only a drunken suggestion.

Tristan shuddered. “Why are they letting this guy sing? He’s terrible.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon. It’s just one song.”

“It’s one song too many. It’s criminal.”

“It’s karaoke,” she corrected.

“What? No. Karaoke is with a machine and a bad backing track. Not a steel drum band.”

Sophie shrugged. “The karaoke machine broke sometime around the holidays, and they haven’t gotten around to fixing it. So now instead of the machine, the steel drum band just plays anything you want so you can sing along.”

“That explains a lot.” Tristan hadn’t even known that old Def Leppard songs could be played on the steel drums. They probably shouldn’t be.

He dragged a couple fries through the small puddle of cocktail sauce on his plate before munching down on them while the guy with the microphone absolutely fought for his life through the second verse of “Photograph.”

Tristan shook his head in sympathy. “He’s never going to hit that high note.”

Sophie tsked at him. “You think you can do better?”

“Than this guy?” He had to scoff. “On my worst day.”

“Okay, then.” She gestured toward the band with a fried shrimp. “Let’s see.”

“What, now?” Panic gripped him, which was ridiculous. He could sing better than this guy in his sleep. What did he have to panic about? “I don’t really do hair metal.”

Sophie scoffed. “I told you. They play anything you want. You can do one of your musicals or something.” She gave him a pointed look. “So, prove it.”

Onstage, that drunk guy absolutely did not hit that high note, and that decided it.

Tristan tossed his napkin down on the bar.

“Fine.” As the sunburned singer struggled through the final notes, he took one last swig of beer for courage before threading his way through the tables between him and the band.

While he and Sophie had been sitting there, the place had filled up; there weren’t many empty tables left.

If Tristan was the kind of guy who got stage fright, this could be very bad.

But Tristan did not get stage fright. The more stage the better, that was his philosophy. He’d sung in front of plenty of crowds in his lifetime. Some drunk, most not. This was nothing new to him.

“You next?” The long-haired musician—Vince—addressed Tristan from the small table next to the band. He seemed to be the one in charge.

“I guess so. Don’t suppose you guys know any show tunes, huh? A little My Fair Lady ?” Tristan had meant it as a joke, but they nodded along, as though this wasn’t even close to the weirdest request they’d gotten.

“What’re you looking for? ‘Get Me to the Church on Time’? ‘On the Street Where You Live’?”

Well, he’d be damned. “The second one.”

“Good call,” Vince said. “It’s not our usual thing, but why the hell not. That’s what steel-drum karaoke is for, right?” He handed the microphone to Tristan. “You ready?”

He was. The mic was warm and a little sweaty, but it felt familiar in his hand, as though he were returning home after a long time away. He squinted under the hot lights, trying to find his beacon in the crowd. There she was, right where he’d left her at the bar.

Tristan had sung this song plenty of times over the years.

In front of an orchestra when he’d played Freddy in the musical back in college.

Occasionally after that to a CD backing track, and once even accompanied by a local rock band the fraternity had hired for a party.

(Tristan had had a few, and at that point so had the band.) But it had been years since he’d paid attention to the lyrics; that had been his biggest failing as an actor, something that had driven directors nuts.

Tristan was always more concerned with hitting the notes and making whatever song he was singing a showpiece.

The lyrics were just the vehicle to show off his range.

But as the steel drums picked out the melody, and the song came pouring out, he really listened to the words, and it felt like he was singing the song for the first time.

It felt like he was simply a man, confessing that life was just that much better when he was near the person he loved.

That all of his life was now nothing but the anticipation of seeing her again, and getting to be by her side.

Yes, he’d performed this song countless times over the years, but this time was different. Because he was singing for Sophie.

And when it came down to it, all he wanted was to be on the street where she lived.