Page 101 of Good Graces

Robbie’s all broad-shouldered and smiling, his Sycamore visor sitting crooked on his head. The type of manager who knows how to keep things running without taking himself too seriously.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite lifeguard,” he says, stepping back to let me inside. “Figured you’d be by soon enough.”

Papers are stacked high on his desk, half-crumpled, some marked up with Sharpie. It’s an organized mess, but it works for him. I always did kind of admire that.

“Came to grab my last check,” I say, shoving my hands into my hoodie pockets. “And Quinn’s, too, if that’s cool.”

“Sure thing,” he says, heading to his desk. He pulls out two envelopes and hands them over.

“Thanks,” I say, tucking them into my back pocket.

I’d like to leave without too much fanfare. Head back to the car, maybe grab a sandwich on the way home. But Robbie’s still watching me, arms crossed, that satisfied grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’m glad you came back this summer. After everything.”

“Yeah, well. Needed the cash.”

“Sure.” He waves off my nonchalance. “But I think you needed something else, too.”

I scratch the back of my neck. “What, like a stress headache?”

Robbie laughs, the kind of loud, belly-deep sound that rattles the walls. “Nah,” he says. “I just mean ... you’re a good kid, Mercer. Hardworking. Reliable. If you ever need a job—during breaks, after graduation—you’ve got one.”

I blink. “Oh. Uh, thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.” He pauses, leaning one arm against the doorframe. “And hey,” he adds, grinning wider now, “I hope things go better with Quinn this time around. You two were good together.”

The words hit a little softer than I expect, like they’re landing somewhere I haven’t fully let myself acknowledge yet.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Me too.”

I shove my hands into my pockets as I slip back down the hall and push through the side exit. I’m halfway to my car when I spot Preston Beckett in one of those ridiculous golfer outfits—a neon pink polo, blinding turquoise pants, and a belt that probably costs more than my car.

He’s standing just a few rows down, leaning against his silver Maserati like it’s some kind of throne. The passenger door’s open, and Davis and Mancini are there, too, the three of them just as buddy-buddy as ever.

And that damned tire is patched now, looking brand-new and smug about it.

It rankles me, seeing those two with him again. Quinn told me they stuck up for her after the incident. Kept him from escalating after the assault and got him to drop the investigation with the club. But now here they are, all chummy again.

I grit my teeth, walking faster. I could ignore them. Should ignore them.

But then Beckett laughs. It’s one of those smug, self-satisfied laughs that makes my skin crawl, and I can’t stop from turning toward him.

“Feeling pretty proud of yourself, huh?”

Beckett’s head snaps toward me, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “What’d you say, kid?”

“I said,” I repeat, slowly and clearly this time, “you seem pretty fucking proud of yourself. Did you manage to get dressed on your own this morning or what?”

Davis and Mancini smile, but they hide it behind their hands like cowards. The kind of laughter that doesn’t belong to either side. Just floats there, waiting to shift with the wind.

Beckett shoots me an incredulous look. “You wanna try that again?”

He takes a step forward, and I almost want him to try and hit me. Because I’m still pissed off, still too keyed up to think straight. But before he can get any closer, Mancini grabs his arm, reeling him back.

He leans in close, murmuring something low in his ear, and whatever he says makes Beckett hesitate. He shifts his weight, rolls his shoulders. But when he smirks, it’s colder now. More calculated. Another slow, greasy grin that makes my stomach turn.

“Might need to have a little talk with Daniel later on,” he says. “Let him know his son’s got a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He’ll get things under control, I’m sure.”

---