Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) Read Free

spend some time on the beach, even if the water here
wouldn’t be warm like what he was used to down in Florida or what he’d grown up
with in California. Ocean was ocean. Sand was sand. Ty’s parents used to joke
that he was actually the son of a mermaid, given his affinity for the sea.
    Up
ahead he spotted the corner where Faulk Street intersected with Atlantic
Avenue. He turned onto the side street and entered the bar.
    To
his great relief, it wasn’t quaint. It appeared to be a working-class
establishment, a little dim, a little scruffy, not too crowded but already
redolent with the stinging scent of hard booze, beer, and oily, salty edibles.
He stood just inside the doorway, surveying the place and considering where he
ought to plant himself. The tables all looked too big for one person. A few of
the bar stools were occupied, but more were empty. That seemed like the better
bet.
    He
strode across the room, the center of which was clear of furniture. A dance
floor? If it were his choice, he would have filled that space with a pool
table. But he wasn’t really up for a game right now. He’d done a week of hard
sailing. He needed to decompress.
    The
woman behind the bar stood nearly as tall as Ty, with square shoulders, short
hair fading from ginger to gray, and a pleasantly weathered face. She had the
sort of no-bullshit look of a sports coach, or maybe a shrink. He supposed
either of those character types would make good bartenders. “What can I get
you?” she asked.
    “A
shot of bourbon and a glass of whatever you’ve got on tap,” Ty said.
    She
named a few beers. No connoisseur, he asked for the first one she’d listed,
then settled onto a stool and gazed around the room. A group of frat boys sat
at one table, cheerfully arguing about the relative merits of Porsches and
Ferraris. Three portly older men in faded Red Sox caps nursed their drinks at a
table near the door. Two attractive women sat facing each other in a booth to
his left, one with long, curly red hair and the other with black hair that
ended in a ruler-straight line at her shoulders. They each had a glass of wine,
and they bowed their heads together across the table that separated them,
engaged in intense conversation. A couple of stools down from Ty, a guy three
sheets to the wind slumped over an untouched mug of coffee.
    Against
the wall opposite the bar stood a jukebox. It looked like something you might
find in a catalog, or in one of those stores that specialized in selling new
stuff designed to look old. A dome-shaped arch, buttons, fabric-covered
speakers flanking a colorful façade of what appeared to be stained glass
peacocks, of all things.
    He
heard the thump of glasses on the bar behind and swiveled around on his stool
to discover that the bartender had served his drinks. He tossed back the
bourbon in one gulp, savoring its burn down his throat, then followed it with a
sip of cold beer.
    He
had money. He had time. He had liquid refreshment. Life was good.
    The
din of voices rose slightly as more people trickled into the bar. Ty glanced at
his watch: five fifteen. Rotating back around to view the room, he nursed his
beer and watched the bar’s clientele drift in, most of them just off work from
the look of it. Some wore the uniforms of their jobs: garage coveralls, medical
scrubs, tailored outfits that included button-down shirts adorned with loosened
neckties or colorful scarves, depending on gender.
    An
energetic woman in tight black pants, her hair pulled into a pony tail, bounced
over to the bar. “Sorry I’m late, Gus,” she shouted to the bartender as she
laced an apron around her waist. “The traffic on Route 1 was a bitch.”
    “Surprise,
surprise,” the bartender muttered sarcastically. Ty wondered whether Route 1
here in Massachusetts was the same road as Route 1 in Florida. He was pretty
sure it was. Like I-95, Route 1 spanned the length of the country from Maine’s
Canadian border to Key West. Pretty cool to think