down the hall and found his new best friend with a whiskey—no, that was clearly a bottle of Four Roses, so make that a bourbon. “You get into Dad’s private stash? He’ll skin us both.”
The stranger shook his head. “Brought this myself.” His tone said he wasn’t sharing, either.
Joe Wayne considered going back to the room for the keys. One of them unlocked the liquor cabinet. But he’d left some beer in the fridge, and right then, a cold one sounded okay. “Dad drinks Four Roses, too. Says anybody who drinks it must be a Southern gentleman.”
No response, but the former surfer shifted his weight onto his artificial leg and rubbed the top of his good foot against it.
Joe Wayne attempted to pry him into conversation again. “What’s your name, anyway?”
The stranger squinted like he was figuring on whether or not to give out that information before he finally answered. “Sol. Sol Beecher.”
“Joe Wayne Fuller.” Joe Wayne held his hand out.
Sol cocked a half grin before shaking. “Yeah. We’ve already met.”
Joe Wayne rounded the bar to get to the refrigerator. “So you’re a friend of EmmyLou’s?” He grabbed a beer and popped the top, guzzling half of it in one gulp.
Sol snorted. “I wouldn’t say that. I won a raffle. A week here at the house was the prize.”
“You know her, though? EmmyLou?”
“Yeah. I know her.”
Not much of a conversationalist, this Sol Beecher. But he finally broke the silence. “You her half-brother? Or...has she been married?
Joe Wayne finished the beer. “Nope.” He grabbed another.
“Her last name is Creighton. Yours is Fuller.”
Joe Wayne took only a sip this time. “Creighton’s her middle name. Fuller’s her real last name. She started using Creighton ’cause she didn’t want people to...” Shit! Running his mouth off—giving up his sister’s secrets to someone he didn’t even know. “Oh hell, just ignore me. I’m drunk.”
Sol looked him squarely in the eye. “And you’ll need to be hitting the road soon.”
“Yeah, about that. Seeing as how you seem to be here all by your lonesome...” Joe Wayne glanced around but saw no evidence of anyone else. “You’re here by yourself, right?”
“Right.” Sol set the glass on the bar harder than necessary. “And I like it that way.” He leaned down and scratched the top of his foot again.
“You’re doing a powerful lot of scratching.” Joe Wayne steered the subject away from his sleeping place for the night. Figured he’d approach it again later. “You get wasp stung or something?”
“Jellyfish. Three places. They’re not stinging anymore, but the itching’s driving me crazy.”
Joe Wayne gave a sympathetic shake of his head. “You showered before you treated ’em. Don’t ever do that—makes ’em worse.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Sol gritted his teeth and hit the bar with the end of his fist. “Got me on the cheek of the ass, too.”
Joe Wayne’s laugh earned him an angry glare.
“I went through the kitchen looking for meat tenderizer—”
“That ain’t what you need. You need—” Joe Wayne stopped. “Tell you what. You agree I can stay here tonight and I’ll tell you how to get rid of the itch. It’s three o’clock now. A few more hours can’t be so bad, can it? You’re gonna sleep through them anyway.” He gave Sol a huge grin. “Unless that damn itching keeps you up all night.”
A look came into Sol’s eyes that Joe Wayne recognized. Defeat. “All right,” Sol snapped. “Just tell me what to do.”
“I’ll do better than that. Wait here and I’ll get you the cure.”
Joe Wayne went to the kitchen and retrieved one of the giant bottles of vinegar they kept under the sink just for jellyfish stings. He trotted back up the hall and presented the bottle to Sol. “Get in the shower and pour this on the spots full strength. Let it stay on for a few minutes and then soak in a hot tub for twenty minutes. Itching’ll be gone.”
Sol grabbed the bottle of vinegar and his refilled glass of bourbon. “Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Joe Wayne waited until the door to the downstairs guest suite closed. Then he got a glass out of the cabinet. “Twenty-five minutes alone with a bottle of Four Roses?” He poured a hefty couple of shots into his glass. “Don’t mind if I do.”
SOL BANGED ON the door of the family suite. “Joe Wayne!” He bellowed the name. “Time for you to get up. Rise and shine.”
“Go ’way,” came the muffled grumble.
Sol had slept with the windows open, lulled into deep relaxation by the sound of the waves, and hadn’t woken until after eleven. He could never live here because he’d become a beach bum, for sure. Obviously, that’s what had happened to his uninvited guest.
He opened the door and barged in. “That’s my line. Time for you to get up and get out of here.”
Joe Wayne lay sprawled on his back in the same position Sol had left him when he half carried him in here, much too inebriated to make the journey from the bar on his own.
The young man covered his eyes with his hand. “Turn off the damn light!”
“That’s the sun. It’s after one o’clock.” Sol moved to the window and jerked the curtains wider, filling the room with sunshine.
Joe Wayne groaned. “Shark took your heart, too, didn’t it?”
The unexpected intrusion into Sol’s week had been an aggravation, but getting out of the shower last night to find his bottle of Four Roses half-gone was unforgivable. He opened the window to allow fresh air in—and the body odor out. “Get your ass out of bed. Now. And take a shower. You smell like a sewer.”
A gecko crawled onto the screen and Sol paused to watch it, relieved to hear movement behind him that indicated Joe Wayne was finally sitting up.
Sol turned from the window and started toward the door, clapping Joe Wayne on the back as he passed him. “Lunch is almost ready.” The plan was to feed him and send him on his way...as quickly as possible.
Last night in the dark, Sol had missed the photographs that covered the wall to the right of the private suite’s door. He stopped now to look, his eyes drawn to a grouping of EmmyLou at different ages, decked out in over-the-top frills—sashes crossing her torso, declaring her Fairest of the Fair.
A beauty queen. No wonder she’s so self-absorbed.
He guessed her to be around sixteen in the last one. Beautiful—but not as beautiful as she’d looked when he’d picked up the key at her house.
The memory of that humiliation propelled him out of the room with a quick call over his shoulder. “Fifteen minutes.”
A disgusted sigh followed by a shuffling sound told him Joe Wayne was on the move at last.
Sol returned to the kitchen, where he had the beginnings of a couple of Monte Cristo sandwiches lying on the cutting board. He heated the butter in the skillet as he whisked the eggs and milk together, then dipped the sandwiches and let them brown slowly.
He’d just flipped them to the other side—smiling at the perfection of the golden color—when Joe Wayne made his appearance...obviously clean, but still wearing the same damn dirty clothes.
Sol wrinkled his nose. “Don’t you