Nights in Sandbridge

Chapter 5-1

Chapter 5

Andy woke with a start and froze, not sure where he was or how he’d gotten there.

Memory came rushing back an instant later along with the sound of the surf, and he went limp with relief. Trick, who had moved back to the couch at some point during the night, looked up and thumped his tail a few times, hopefully.

“Yeah, okay,” Andy said. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes—f**k but his black eye hurt even more than it had the previous day—and reached for his jeans.

By the time Andy had managed to get vertical and was rummaging in his backpack for a clean shirt, Trick was standing by the door, whining.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Andy sighed. He clipped on the leash and unlocked the door, letting Trick all but pull him down the stairs to the beach. “Don’t you dare poop, I don’t know where the scoop is yet.” He’d made do the previous evening with a discarded Big Gulp cup from a 7-Eleven that he’d found in the sand, but he couldn’t count on convenient litter every time.

Trick tugged him around the side of the house toward the front of the restaurant, sniffing intently at every tuft of grass and twig. Andy wondered idly how the dog decided which of them were deserving of pee.

Movement drew his attention upward and…Jesus Christ. That was a sight worth waking up for, Scooter leaning against the balcony rail just outside his door, wearing a sinfully tight pair of jeans and not much else. He had a cigarette held loosely in his fingers and his shoulders were relaxed and easy, hair being toyed with by the morning breeze, like the love interest in a rom-com. Trick bounded up the stairs, tail whipping into a blur, and Andy stumbled after.

Scooter smiled as they reached the top, and how was it fair that the man’s eyes were literally the same storm cloud blue as the ocean not a hundred feet away? Andy had to catch his breath before he could manage a credible “Morning.”

Scooter scratched at his chin, morning stubble shading his face. “Hey, Andy.” He gestured to the wide railing where there were two mugs balanced, one red and the other black. “I thought you might like a cup of coffee?”

“Dear gods, yes,” Andy groaned. He followed the siren call of coffee the last few steps. “The last coffee I had was bus station vending machine swill. I’m still not convinced there were more than three beans involved in its making, and I quite frankly don’t want to know where the water came from.”

Scooter hissed as Andy got closer. “Well, you look like hell cooked over and left out. Had a few black eyes myself; hopefully it’ll feel better in a couple days.” He blew over his mug, then sipped. “It’s black, didn’t know how you liked it. There’s sugar an’ stuff in my place, if that’s your preference.” He jerked his chin toward the larger half of the second floor.

Andy curled his hands around the other mug and let its warmth seep into his bones. “Black is fine,” he said, sighing happily. “I won’t say I’ve never indulged in overpriced dessert disguised as a drink, but mostly, yeah, black.” Which was true, so he didn’t have to give voice to how terribly awkward and intrusive it would feel to go into Scooter’s private space. He sipped carefully, mindful of the temperature, then took a slightly bigger gulp when it proved to be cool enough. The noise he made was probably close to obscene, but he didn’t really care. Coffee.

Scooter cleared his throat and shifted his weight—yep, probably shouldn’t have made that noise, but coffee—and said, “I’m gonna go into town in a bit, run some errands. Pick you up anything while I’m there? Or you can ride along, if you want?”

Andy considered the forty bucks tucked into his pocket that had more than tripled his net worth. He desperately needed some toiletries, at least. Why the hell hadn’t he remembered to pack his razor and toothbrush? And maybe some more Advil. “That’s probably not a bad idea,” he said. “If you don’t mind the company, anyway.”

“Not at all,” Scooter said. He brushed his hair out of his face, scraping it back into a tidy little bun. He dug an elastic out of his front pocket and secured it. “Should give you a chance to see what the area offers. Look into getting a bike or something, so you’re not dependent on me for transport.”

Andy huffed a bit of a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll think about that. Be a while before I can scrape that kind of money together.” He shrugged, suddenly uneasy. “Don’t let me impose, though. You’re already…I can hitch-hike into town or whatever.”

“Climate change, I get it, Big City,” Scooter said, easily enough. “But that’s not how we do things down here. You have no idea how much help you’re gonna be. But you’ll learn quick enough. You think last night was busy, wait ‘til Saturday. I’ll get my pound of flesh out of you, don’t you fret none.”

It should’ve been a bit worrisome, really, that the rather frantic rush they’d had the previous night was only the tip of the iceberg. But somehow, with Scooter smirking at him over the rim of his mug of coffee, Andy felt…warmed. Like he was needed. Wanted. Appreciated. Could actually do something useful again. Nick hadn’t wanted Andy to work, and their not-infrequent arguments about it had taken a lot of the satisfaction out of it for Andy. Which, he realized now, was exactly what Nick had wanted. Andy took a breath, and it was clean and crisp, like he hadn’t taken a proper breath in years.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. And then, because Scooter was still smiling at him, he said, “I’m…just going to go check on that door, make sure the glue didn’t drip,” and ducked back down the stairs, Trick agreeably in tow.