Born for Leaving (New England State of Mind Book 1) Read online

  Born for Leaving

  Mia Kerick

  Jude Munro

  Mia Kerick writing as Jude Munro

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Jude Munro

  All rights reserved.

  Credits:

  Sienna Remick - Cover Designer

  Loretta Sylvestre - Editor, Proofreader

  Cameron from Fiverr.com - Editor

  Kevin Casey - Beta Reader

  Lisa Hannan Fox - Formatter

  For those who fight when they want to fly.

  Chapter 1

  Phone in one hand, I unfold the newspaper page in the other.

  DON’T WANNA BE HOMELESS

  May 24th-September 2nd Gillamour Island

  Hey.

  Looking 4 housing on island.

  Alls I need: ceiling & walls. No joke—I’ll live in ur closet.

  Can’t pay more than $500/month, but I share my snacks.

  Contact Bodie [email protected] (917) 555-3216

  Memorial Day weekend until Labor Day. For three short months, putting up with a roommate is doable. The bar is so swamped over the summer, I’m hardly ever home anyway. And if I’m lucky, this “man in a Stetson” will agree to walk Hugo when I can’t get home to do it myself. If nothing else, I owe it to the old dog’s bladder.

  Hi Bodie. Caught your ad in the Waterfront Gazette. I have a room for rent on the island.

  I run my fingers through my shaggy, sun-bleached hair, suck in a deep breath to strengthen my resolve, and finish the text.

  Slightly bigger than a closet, and it’s got a ceiling and walls. LOL.

  I refrain from adding a winky-face emoji, but go me for injecting humor. After pressing send, I rub the goosebumps from my arms. I am so not a people person.

  Cool.

  The reply pops up before I have a chance to stick my phone on the arm of the chair.

  I gawk at the four-letter word. Cool? That’s all this Bodie guy has to say in response to such a supremely generous offer? Because anything less than $1000/month is a steal for a rental with a private bedroom so close to the beach in summer season. As I shake my head, cursing silently, he adds to his original, extremely inadequate reply.

  Size ain’t everything, am I right?

  The potential for a measly five hundred bucks a month doesn’t make responding to his one-liner worth the effort. And in my experience, the only men who make size jokes are ones who have issues with being small. Anyway, it’s a damned good thing I’m not looking to get rich. I’m merely saving for a car—something bright and beachy and distracting—and so I require a temporary influx of cash. If I can deal with a stranger—a small-statured cowboy, no less—invading my precious private space for a couple of months, I’ll have enough for the required “good faith” down payment to the Bank of Dad.

  My name’s Oliver. I live downtown. Across the street from Pendle Beach. My cottage is a shoebox, but I’ve got a spare bedroom w/a twin bed & an empty bureau. Only 1 bathroom, so we’ll have to share. Living room, sunny porch w/an outdoor shower. I take another stab at humor.

  And a tiny kitchen where you can keep your snacks.

  Gonna call you Ollie.

  My humor has again fallen flat. And… this guy seems pretty much out to lunch.

  I should also let you know that I have a dog. A yellow lab. Name’s Hugo. Maybe Bodie hates dogs. Or is allergic to them. I catch myself smiling. The Hugo-factor will probably kill the deal and I’ll have to find another less irritating way to raise the down payment. But what do I have left to sell other than my body? Men seem to appreciate it—they call me “sleek” and “lanky.” Women are into me too, but with them I wouldn’t prove to be as much fun between the sheets. In any case, sex work isn’t a realistic option for me. Not being a people person and all.

  Cool.

  Bodie’s probably just a man of few words. That’s “cool” when you’re sharing a tiny cottage and you’re a serious introvert.

  My phone vibrates again.

  Parking a prob? Got a bike.

  A bike? He must mean a motorcycle.

  There’s plenty—on and off street. I flip my phone in my hand to study the image of the car my heart is set on parking in the tiny spot beside my cozy cottage. Last week in my routine internet search for the perfect used car, I fell madly in love, printed the picture, and taped it to the back of my phone. Very middle school, I get that. And I haven’t been able to concentrate on much else since. But it got my mind off Jack.

  The vehicle’s owner—an Abby Turner who lives across Pinella Bridge on the mainland—promised to hold the car for me until September fifth. She likes the idea of one last summer season with her “baby.” So I’ll only be hoofing it and taking the beach shuttle for three more months. Then the little yellow bug will be my baby.

  What it comes down to is, I’ve learned not to put my faith in human beings. To be blunt, I need another boyfriend like I need a hole in the head. Not that I’ve had many, but my relationships always end badly, leaving me unbearably lonely. Which is strange considering I don’t mind being alone. Then there’s my family. Mom and Dad live separately, but nearby. I do my best to keep a safe distance between them and me, as our bond tends to be complicated. Complicated—a PC way of saying they seriously stress me out.

  And I already have a dog.

  I’m just so stuck in a rut; a new-to-me car is the obvious solution. But between school loans and a mortgage, I’m in debt. Buying a car will create even more debt. It’s a financial risk I’m willing to take, as I’m hoping it will liven things up and get me out of the depressing habit of basking in my self-created misery.

  When do you want to come by and check out the place, Bodie?

  No need. I’ll take it. $500/month, yeah?

  I thought I was impulsive to sell my sacred privacy for the price of a less-than-practical car. But this guy is reckless. He’s moving into a house, sight unseen, with a total stranger. I could be a serial killer. But then, so could he. I shrug and type.

  That works.

  Gotta move in on Friday, Ollie.

  Ollie? So not me, but Bodie doesn’t know that. Yet.

  It’ll have to be early in the day. I work at four.

  Same.

  Great. Bodie has a job. I probably should have thought to ask. And what about references? I really ought to request those too. But it’s only for the summer. How much harm can one guy do to my tightly guarded life in three short months?

  Do you need help bringing in your stuff?

  Nah. Don’t have much shit.

  And now it’s my turn to type that four-letter word.

  Cool.

  All I have left to do is the formal meet and greet and then fork over a key.

  Yeah.

  I grit my teeth and seal my fate.

  My address is 17 Pendle Lane. White cottage w/yell
ow shutters & front door.

  Yellow. He repeats. Yellow shutters. Yellow door. Yellow pup.

  Yellow’s cool.

  Don’t I know it? I’m risking my very sanity for a 2017 Sandstorm Yellow Volkswagen Beetle Dune. But it’s a convertible and I’m a sucker for wind in my hair.

  What time should I expect you?

  See ya Friday, dude.

  So much for timing.

  Friday, it is.

  “Hey, Top Dog.” Sam insists on calling me this, although I’m his coworker, not his boss. And I’ve never been a top, though he has no way of knowing this.

  “Sam, you’re late.” I press the ice-crush button to drown out his excuse, which he most certainly considers a valid reason. But since I’m not going to do anything about his tardiness, there’s no use hearing it.

  The blender stops too soon; Sam is still babbling. “So anyway, thanks to Mom’s nails not being dry, she didn’t get home to watch LeeLee on time. And I missed the three o’clock shuttle.”

  Again. But Sam’s a single dad to the cutest little girl on the island, so of course I cut him some more slack. Maybe my frozen loner heart is mottled with soft spots—for LeeLee, Hugo, Dad—at least lately—and maybe even a little one for Sam because he’s been trying so damn hard to make sure LeeLee is emotionally stable since his nasty divorce last summer. Jack almost melted the ice encasing my heart but ended up sending me back into romantic deep-freeze. Probably never to emerge. And speaking of icy things, it’s time for the drink’s special ingredients. I toss a handful of sugar-coated, frozen strawberries into the blender and pour in Surf’s Up’s custom daiquiri mix. The one I created. Then finally a generous stream of Tito’s. “Table ten is waiting for a bucket of Buds.”

  “On it.” Sam heads to the ice bin. He grabs a clean orange pail from one of the overhead hooks but stops and says, “It’s gonna be out of control in here tonight seeing as it’s the first warm day of the season.”

  “The guests will sure be thirsty,” I chime in. Small talk takes effort, and I do my best. I tend to stray toward work-related topics. “Um, you need to pull your hair back, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.” He captures his long dreads in a loose ponytail. “Did Jack hire a new bouncer yet?”

  Sam sinks the bucket into the ice bin. “Not your worry.” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the roar of the blender. And I so very much hate to shout—don’t care for too much attention.

  “Um…it kinda is my problem. Last night I had to break up a brawl over there, by the jukebox. The dude, as well as the lady, was twice my size.” He glances past the bar to the antique jukebox in the corner, and his eyes fill with clouds. Rainclouds, not the puffy, white sunny-day kind.

  Sam’s got a point; he’s way too small to break up brawls. There’s plenty of cause for concern. It’s the week before Memorial Day. Folks tend to let their hair down when vacation is in sight, even if it’s just a long weekend. Surf’s Up needed a new bouncer like yesterday. It’s a crying shame our last doorman thought it was a good idea to proposition the girls waiting in line to get inside. And to very vocally rate how hot they are on a scale of one to ten.

  I nod and reach to the high shelf for some thick-stemmed glasses. Rod “The Angel Slayer” Bernardi definitely had to go. And Jack made me do the dirty deed. I’m no angel, but the look in Rod’s eyes when I sacked him told me I was next in line to be slayed.

  “I’ll keep an eye out for trouble tonight.”

  “Like you don’t have enough to do, Top Dog. Running the bar, even with Mika’s help, is more than a fulltime job.” Sam grins. “And, not that you’re interested, but my prediction is you’re gonna be a total waste product by the end of the summer if you’re serious about buying the chick car you told me about.”

  “Since when do cars have gender assignments?”

  He takes his time arranging the bottles in the bucket. “Whatever. Just watch my back tonight. LeeLee graduates from preschool tomorrow morning, and I can’t show up with a black eye.”

  It’s been damned rowdy in here since Jack made me can Rod. Still, there’s no way I’m about to admit this to another employee. I don’t have plans to throw Jack under the bus, even if he threw me under a Mack Truck. It’ll be a miracle if I get home to Hugo at a decent hour, though. My dog is the only truly positive living being in my life—he deserves to be treated as such.

  “Look, Jack swears the new bouncer, some guy named Nicholas Bowden, will be here on Friday. I can keep things under control until then.” It’s just two nights.

  I pull my hair into a messy bun on top of my head. Don’t need any distractions tonight.

  Chapter 2

  I got home very late last night. Okay, okay, maybe it was very early this morning. Hugo was waiting for me at the door. He looked pretty needy, which cast me into a major dog-owner guilt fest. I need to shake off the dog-guilt because, God knows, I treat Hugo like the best friend he is and has always been. But the shame always manages to find me. It’s a personality flaw.

  “I swear I’ll make it up to you, boy.” I’d rubbed his head before he scurried out the kitchen door to relieve himself. “You’re gonna so love riding in the bug with the top down, your ears flapping in the wind. I swear, the passenger seat has your name on it.”

  I let him sleep in the bed with me. He liked that.

  We slept half the day away. I liked that.

  After caffeinating myself thoroughly and feeding Hugo a heaping I’m-so-sorry-about-last-night bowl of kibble, I snatch his leash off a hook in the entryway. He knows what time it is and darts for the door as quickly as an eleven-year-old, slightly overweight lab can. As always, Hugo tilts his head and glances up at me when I attach the leash to his collar, and then he smiles. Some dogs actually can do this, as is evidenced on YouTube. And when Hugo smiles, it melts my heart in a way Jack never could.

  I’m not sure which of us appreciates his walks more. I crave physical activity, but Hugo is extremely social. With a sniff and a tail wag, he says hello to everyone who passes by on Main Street—human, canine, feline, and squirrel—so I don’t have to. Generally, at our journey’s midpoint, usually somewhere near the Gillamour Island Town Library, he selects and commits to a certain well-shaped, overlong stick, which he lugs back to the cottage. It’s the cutest thing, if not a labor of love. And, of course, every now and then, Hugo leaves a sign that he’s been there.

  While Hugo achieves his goals, I focus on mine. I pick up some of my needed daily steps while following Hugo, occasionally picking up what he leaves behind on the sidewalk. I smile in the general vicinity of the passing tourists and villagers but avoid direct eye contact. And while I walk, I think.

  About how the yellow convertible is not a chick car.

  About my impending loan from the Bank of Dad.

  About my soon-to-be tenant—Bodie, the man in a Stetson.

  About how much Jack does not deserve my foolish loyalty.

  And about how I hope the new bouncer Jack hired can tame Surf’s Up’s wildest patrons.

  Today, Hugo’s stick of choice is really more of a long branch, nearly as wide as the sidewalk itself. Once the stick is in his mouth, there’s no redirecting him to a more reasonable selection. The walk home should be interesting, like last night was at the bar.

  No full-fledged brawls erupted last night at Surf’s Up. Thankfully. Not that the evening sailed by without a hitch. A middle-aged lady threw up in one of the potted palm trees by the dance floor. I helped her to the restroom and made her friends promise to get her home safely. When I cut off the flow of beer to three belligerent college-age guys, they expressed their dissatisfaction quite vocally. Ultimately, they needed to be escorted to the door, and this was admittedly challenging as I’m tall, but not even slightly rugged. Or intimidating. Somehow, I got the job done, incurring only minor bruising in the process. And to top the night off, an elderly, gay couple indulged in a verbal knock-down/drag-out because of a random flirtation. I talked them off the ledg
e, and they kissed and made up.

  On the bright side, Surf’s Up attracts a diverse crowd.

  All in all, it could have been much worse. Bonus: Sam will celebrate LeeLee’s graduation shiner-free.

  I only have to get through one more night as bartender/bouncer. Tomorrow night Nicholas Bowden will arrive to save the day. And my ass.

  I sigh. My soon-to-be hero.

  The seas are rough tonight. In other words, the smooth sailing at Surf’s Up is a thing of the past. The ruffians have come out in hordes to lube up for the holiday weekend. Managing the bar and being the stand-in bouncer is turning out to be more than I can handle.

  “Time to go, buddy.” Honestly, the slobbering drunk I’m holding upright by the scruff of his neck never should have even gotten in. But a bar without a doorman is basically a free-for-all.

  “I’m not goin’ nowhere,” he slurs. So I size him up: He’s a few inches shorter than me but has spent serious time in the gym. Not running on a treadmill—pumping iron in the weight room. He’s too drunk to throw a decent punch…I sincerely hope. “Not goin’ nowhere ’til you bring me a nice, tall beer, sweetie. And I like plenty of head.”

  I’m sincerely unsure whether he’s coming on to me or just likes foam. But I stand my ground. “Sorry, sir. No brew for you!” An inopportune smile lifts the corner of my mouth—I sound like Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi.

  “What’s so funny, pretty boy?”

  I’m yanking him toward the door when Mika shrieks. “Get your paws off me, asshole!”