The second man had seen what I was about to do, and — impressively — had tried to get a head start. He dived for the blasted-out window near him, but the force of the detonation pushed his body sideways as he sailed through the air and essentially broke it in half on the destroyed section of wall. He was now groaning in pain, his back broken and shards of glass poking out of his skin, and the flames had begun to consume him as well.

  I turned in a quick circle. In a moment of terror, feeling the intensity of the flames as they began to latch onto the wood bar and gain purchase, I’d changed my mind and decided that dying in a fiery blaze was a far more painful way to go than I’d thought.

  The problem was that there was nowhere to go. I’d purposefully set myself up here, in the center of the room, so I’d have the best chance to kill Rafe on my terms, but that meant I’d be sacrificing my own life for the privilege. At the time I’d made the decision, I’d assumed it was the only way out — the only way to end it all for everyone involved.

  I still believed that, but now I wished there had been another way.

  I thought of Hannah, of her future. How long would she wait for me? Would Joey convince her to give up?

  Would Joey himself give up? Would they stay in the boat, watching the flames dying out over the darkness of the forest, or would they already be paddling Billy and Shalice to safety, already having forgotten about me?

  I wondered why I hadn’t considered all these questions before — before I’d decided to turn my bar into a self-contained bomb. I wondered why I’d ignored my instinctual desire to think about the people I loved in favor of thinking about nothing but destroying this man and myself in the process.

  I wondered a lot of things in that split-second before the realization hit me: there wouldn’t be any wondering in about three seconds. All the wondering I’d ever done would be over, all the thinking and processing and wondering I ever wanted to do would never happen.

  No.

  I felt a sudden urge to win. Defeating Rafe had been my only goal — and judging by the amount of fire that was working its way toward his unconscious figure, it seemed as though I had achieved that goal. I had been prepared to go down with my ship, to do whatever it took to take out a man like Rafe, no matter the cost.

  But then I saw Hannah’s face in my mind. Her perfect, beautiful face. Those huge eyes and small smile, waiting for me. Hoping I was okay. She was out there, wondering about things as well.

  I looked at Rafe once more and decided I'd won. That was enough. Winning was a construct, an emotion, and I decided to feel it. I didn't care about this guy anymore, and it pissed me off knowing that he'd had the power over me to force my hand.

  There was still the problem of getting out, of course. The flames were crawling up the twin columns, toward the ceiling, and all along every wall until they were completely covering the wood.

  Except for one spot, where one of the windows had been blown inward from the grenades from earlier, and the enlarged hole in the wall still had enough room for someone to dive through.

  I started running. The heat from the flames was beginning to burn, but my throat was constricting from the amount of smoke pouring up and into the room. I had only five or six strides to go, but my body was weary, my lungs gasping for air that wasn’t there and working to find a strength that didn’t seem to be there either.

  Three more strides, I told myself. Three more.

  Two more.

  I heard the shots before I felt them, but I didn’t have time to turn around.

  They slammed into my back. One just above my tailbone, and the second just to the right, probably somewhere near my spleen.

  I fell, one stride away from the window. One stride away from my salvation. My freedom.

  One stride away from Hannah.

  I felt the blood in my mouth, spat it out. It sizzled when it hit the floor, and I wondered if I, too, was sizzling. I couldn’t feel it if I were, and I didn’t hear anything.

  My head turned, looking back through the smoke and flames to see Rafe, standing where I’d been in the center of the room only a moment before. He had a gun in his hand, and his face was covered in blood.

  But he was alive.

  He was breathing heavily and seemed to not be able to stand correctly. He was swaying, or maybe it was the wall of fire I was looking through that made it seem that way.

  I tried to crawl forward but stopped. The pain was too much. The heat had seemed to creep inside me, finding the open gunshot wounds and venturing into my body and start burning me from the inside out. It was unbearable, and yet I couldn't do a thing about it. I was stranded there, My killer behind me and my freedom fewer than five feet away.

  And I knew I was going to die here.

  I watched Rafe, tried to see what his next move was.

  He was laughing.

  A slow, low chuckle, somehow still reaching my ears over the cacophony of the raging inferno. He had the gun in his hands still, but he wasn’t using it. It was hanging there by his side.

  He looked at me, and then I knew. I knew he knew. He knew he’d won, and that my goal — kill both of us — had become his goal.

  Yet he was going to achieve it instead of me. He’d taken the high ground, pulled the trigger, and ended it for me.

  I tried again to pull myself forward but failed. I could feel the flames starting to reach my skin, to envelope it. I focused on Rafe’s face, and then it simply disappeared.

  The beam supporting the roof of my bar had failed, falling straight down onto Rafe's already wounded head. The entire wall of fire between us tripled in size, and so did the heat. I felt it on my face, on the whites of my eyes. I felt it in my nose, my mouth. The blast was quick and seemed to pass over me and out to the parking lot, and the return to the previous level of heat and flames was a welcome one.

  I closed my eyes, wondering what Hannah was thinking, and tried to see her. I tried to picture her.

  But all I saw was darkness, illuminated into an orange glow by the rage just in front of my face.

  I’m sorry, Hannah.

  Epilogue

  Hannah watched the waves hit the sides of the boats that were moored at Eddy’s Beach Bar and Grill. They all swayed in unison, and she tried to predict the directions they’d bounce with each passing wave.

  None of the three boats currently docked even had a sail wrapped around the mast, each boater likely deciding that the calm, still waters of the bay were better navigated using motors and fuel instead of wind and sails. She turned her head and brushed aside a stray strand of hair that had fallen into her face.

  It was hot, the sticky kind of hot that only a humid, midsummer evening in South Carolina could bring. She wished she could just run and jump into the water, splash around, and act like a carefree young girl once again.

  But she couldn’t. She hadn’t been in the mood to run, or jump, or splash. And she was far from carefree.

  A young couple left the bar, heading toward the dock, and she wondered if one of the small yachts was theirs. They were laughing, holding one another, and swaying as their hips bounced into one another, part-dance and part flirtation. She heard the strains of a country-western band from inside before the door to the bar closed once again.

  The couple settled at the end of the dock and sat, their feet dangling down to the water below. The man’s feet almost touched. Hannah watched them for a moment longer, then turned to walk back to the bar.

  Joey’s face surprised her when she did.

  “Hey,” he said. “Got you one of those beers you liked. At least, I thought you liked them. They’re —”

  “It’s fine,” she said, turning the bottle around in her hand. “They didn’t have much to choose from.”

  “No,” Joey said. “They didn’t.” She took a long sip of beer, and Joey waited for her to finish before speaking again. “You see Shalice?”

  Hannah nodded. “It was good to catch up. Glad she’s healing well.”

  Joey smiled. "Wish she was healing a bit faster if you know what I mean." He winked, but Hannah only mustered a tiny grin.

  Shalice had joined Hannah earlier that day at Eddy’s, and the two had shared a brief, quiet beer inside. The music had been deafening, but Hannah knew that neither of the women would be feeling like doing much talking, anyway.

  Joey had had to work, so he’d joined Hannah at the restaurant later, after Shalice had left for a physical therapy appointment. Now it was just the two of them, standing together in Eddy’s outdoor picnic area as the sun prepared to set over the restaurant.

  Joey took a drink from his own beer, then turned to Hannah.

  “He would have wanted this, you know.”

  Hannah frowned. “Wanted what?”

  “Wanted us to move on. Wanted us to be happy.”

  “I’m not happy.”

  Joey winced. “I — I know. I’m just saying he would have wanted you to be.”

  “That’s cliche,” Hannah said. “Everyone wants to be happy. Why wouldn’t they? So everyone wants everyone else to be happy. If you care about someone, that’s true.”

  Joey paused, looking at the water for a moment before turning directly toward Hannah. “As hard as it is to understand, he did this for you.”

  Hannah scoffed. “Yeah? Killing yourself because you love someone? Sounds a little twisted to —”

  “He didn’t kill himself, Hannah. We don’t know what happened in there. They never —”

  “I know, I know,” Hannah said. “They didn’t find any bodies. That’s the thing about fires — everything’s either burned to a crisp or just gone completely.”

  Hannah closed her eyes, fighting back the tears. There probably weren’t any left, but she turned away from Joey and took a few steps toward the water, just in case. She remembered the moment they’d seen the fire, the smoke billowing from above the tree line while they were out on the water, the dark black particles barely juxtaposed against the lighter night sky.

  She saw the orange glow of the far-off flames, and she knew.

  It was a few days later when she saw the headlines and her worst fears had been confirmed. The firefighters had gotten there within minutes, but there was nothing they could do to salvage the building — or anything inside of it.

  Since the entire ordeal was a crime scene, details hadn't been released about who exactly had been inside, but clues in the newspaper stories hinted that it had involved some sort of crime ring altercation and that those involved had all perished in the blaze.

  Hannah and Joey had rowed Billy and Shalice across the small inlet to the wooded area on the opposite bank, where they’d pulled the boat ashore and taken Shalice to Joey’s apartment, where she’d healed from her gunshot wound. The bullet had gone straight through, providing a relatively clean wound, and Joey stood by, ready with antibiotics in case of infection, but no hospital trip had been needed.

  Billy, for his part, stayed with them the entire time, ensuring that Joey and Hannah had the funds and provisions to care for Shalice without needing to bring her to a hospital. As soon as her recovery seemed imminent, he went on his way, claiming to be headed to somewhere “in the islands,” though he wouldn’t give further details. Within a week after his departure, however, Joey and Hannah both found a mysterious wire transfer in their name, originating from the Cayman Islands and in an amount that seemed unreasonably high, even considering the situation.

  Neither Joey nor Hannah had mentioned the amount to one another, and both had shied away from discussing details of that night with one another. The bank that had owned the mortgage on Mason’s bar had cashed the insurance policy, then auctioned off the proceeds from the sale of Mason’s few belongings, namely his yacht, the Wassamassaw. They placed the balance in an account to disperse to whatever next of kin they would be able to find, as Mason hadn’t prepared a will or any executor instructions.

  To them, it represented a hard break, a restart, a do-over. After Shalice had healed completely, she and Joey had talked about moving somewhere farther south.

  “We’re doing it,” Joey said, finally.

  “Doing what?”

  “Moving.”

  Hannah raised an eyebrow. She felt sad, though she knew this was inevitable.

  “Found a tiny little place in Florida, off the beaten path a bit.” He laughed, then continued. “It’s… pretty backwoods, and it might end up being a bit redneck, but still.”

  “An Italian in paradise,” Hannah said, joining in his laugh.

  “Something like that.”

  “Good for you,” she said. “I’m happy for you guys.”

  He nodded. “You should consider it, too. There’s plenty of cheap land around there, you know. You could have your little —”

  “Joey,” she said. “Thanks, but… I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s next. I’ve been gone, you know. Europe and all that, and before that, my dad. I think it’s a bit much right now.”

  “Makes sense. Still, if you ever want to visit, or stay for a while, you’ve got our number.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. They embraced, and Hannah held Joey for as long as she felt was appropriate before pulling away.

  As she did, she watched the horizon, seeing the gentle waves near the dock turn into a long, slow blur of ocean, and noticed a few boats out on the water. Two were smaller sailboats, one with its mainsail deployed and the other anchored, likely having decided to pull in for the night and rest on the water.

  The third was farther out, heading south across her vision, and she squinted to see it more clearly. It was too far away to discern the actual shape of it, but she could see that it was a luxury cruiser, the sort of twin-engine beast she’d come to know well. It looked low and sleek on the water from that distance, but she recognized the profile and knew it was a tri-level yacht, complete with a rear deck and upper lookout.

  It seemed to be moving quickly, pushing hard to beat the setting sun, and she wondered where it was headed.

  Joey saw her gaze, watched the yacht for a moment, then put his arm around her shoulder. He gave it a gentle squeeze, then turned away and headed back up the pathway to the restaurant.

  She watched the yacht for another minute, until it was almost out of sight over the darkening horizon, then sighed.

  She closed her eyes, feeling a bit of sea breeze picking up and blowing her hair across her face, and she smelled the ocean. The salty air hung around her, and she heard the cackles of a few gulls flying nearby.

  When she opened her eyes, the yacht was gone.

  Afterword

  If you liked this book (or even if you hated it…) write a review or rate it. You might not think it makes a difference, but it does.

  Besides actual currency (money), the currency of today’s writing world is reviews. Reviews, good or bad, tell other people that an author is worth reading.

  As an “indie” author, I need all the help I can get. I’m hoping that since you made it this far into my book, you have some sort of opinion on it.

  Would you mind sharing that opinion? It only takes a second.

  Nick Thacker

  Classy Drinks for Classy People

  A preview…

  Well, you’ve read the stories about me, but did you know that I’ve been dabbling in writing as well?

  That’s right — me, Mason Dixon. Author. Has a nice ring to it.

  Before the events in the book you just read, I’d been working on a bartender manual called Classy Drinks for Classy People. It’s part tongue-in-cheek drinking history, and part recipe book for classy parties.

  Get your copy now, or read on to get a taste for what you can expect (see what I did there?).

  Purchase your copy of Classy Drinks for Classy People here.

  Introduction

  I’ve been drinking a long time. Not quite as long as I’ve been alive, but very likely as long as you’ve been alive. Much of that drinking time in the early years was spent holding warm, foamy light beer in red Solo cups, swaying at the end of a card table while trying to force my eyes to focus long enough to launch my ping-pong ball on the most non-drunk trajectory I could muster. Drinking, thus, was a medium for something more important — engagement and social interaction.

  As I grew older, my priorities changed. My drinking habits followed suit. Red Solo cups grew into objects made of real glass, the Light Natural Urine Ice beers grew legs and became vodka sodas, flavored martinis, and lemon drop shots. The social interactions became purposeful events: how to meet her, how to get to know him, how to not seem like a fool.

  Marriage happened and again the setting changed. The glasses took on specific shapes depending on what was being poured into them (and who was coming to visit), the relationships and interactions became even more targeted (who was coming to visit), and the garishly decorated and cloyingly sweet beverages matured into simply their base spirits served on the rocks (depending on who was coming to visit).

  As happy as I was, life found a way to change things up yet again. I became a cynical, sarcastic, bitter old man, or as I like to call it: a wisened sage. My drinking preferences grew old with me, and now I find myself sipping Cognac (always spelled with a capital “C” because it’s a place, you barbarian) from a palm-warmed thin-walled tulip. I pour a finger-and-a-half of bourbon (not capitalized, because place doesn’t matter nearly as much when it comes to bourbon. There has only been one distillery active in Bourbon County, Kentucky, since 1919) when I’m sipping in my study (the gross old couch in my apartment’s living room), and that extra half-finger is for to counteract the giant cube of frozen water I add. I might enjoy a Scotch-like whisky from Japan neat, a Barbados rum with a cinnamon stick stirrer, or a heavy agave-laden tequila from the hills of Mexico. I’m not terribly particular about the type of drink I’m enjoying, but I’m terribly particular about the quality of it.

 

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