Page 80 of Even After Sunset

One side of his lip curls into a grin. “Careful there.”

“Thanks.” I smile, righting myself.

Silas nods, dropping his hand to his side. He climbs out of the pool, and I follow a few seconds later. And soon, we’re bidding our farewells to Lumberjack Lucy. Then, changed, dried off and sitting up front again, we’re ready to get back on the road.

“Alright, where to next, Lumber Jax?” Silas asks, unfolding the map.

I smile. “Bar Harbor… Festival by the Sea. Lead the way, Twinkle Toes!”

And he does.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Silas

The sights and sounds of pre-festival chaos are starting to feel familiar. It’s a busy but happy vibe I could get used to, if I was the kind of guy who let himself get used to anything.

“Silas, my man!” The taco truck guy calls from a stepladder, where he’s changing one of the bulbs on his chilli-pepper string lights. “What’s shakin?”

We’ve hung out a couple times at night, sharing conversation while he takes an occasional smoke break. He’s a good guy.

I lift a hand in greeting and continue toward the main stage area, where I’m hoping to find Steve, so I can apologize for the other night. Depending on his reaction, I may or may not grovel for my job back.

I find him in the exact same spot as our last encounter: bent on one knee on the side of the stage, duct-taping wires to the floor. He stops when he sees me, straightening but not getting up.

His eyes widen when he realizes I’m heading right toward him and I stuff both hands in my pockets. I stop when I reach the edge of the stage, the floor at chest level.

Steve eyes me.

“I see you’ve recovered,” he says, his tone flat. Not pissed off, though, so that’s good. Clearly, my expectations for this encounter are appallingly low.

“Yeah…” I look away for a second, unsure how to start. “I was uh… a bit of a shit-show the other night.”

“Not gonna argue with you there.”

There’s a heavy silence after that. He doesn’t go back to his task though, which is decent of him. I would totally be ignoring me if I were him.

“Anyway, I uh, just wanted to apologize. For being such a jerk.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Showing up late, too. But mainly for, uh… you know, the way I acted. I let it get outta hand.”

Steve’s eyes soften, like an apology was not on the short-list of scenarios he expected when I came over. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended by that.

“I ‘preciate you comin’ over and tellin’ me that, kid.”

I nod, and he studies me for a moment.

“Those bruises.” he lowers his voice. “You ever talk to someone ‘bout that?”

My jaw tenses. It takes me a moment to keep my anger in check, because “those bruises” are none of his damn business.

And why is it that suddenly everyone and their cat is so concerned about my uncle landing a few kicks to my side?

“Looks worse than it is,” I finally say, trying to come off casual, but sounding defensive instead. Probably because my jaw is so tense.

He keeps watching me and I don’t like the look on his face, like he’s turning something over in his head that I doubt will lead anywhere good for me.

“That why you’re here? Shacking up with that sweet little preppy chick in her sunny yellow camper?” He squints one eye at me. “D’you run away from home, kid?”

Man… This guy. A couple days ago, he had me pinned down and was reading me the riot act, and now he’s practically acting like my social worker.

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