1
AUSTIN
“Who’d you piss off?”
I glance up at Ed, the dock guy helping me load the coolers of fresh oysters into the cargo area of the seaplane. My back is to the shore and I don’t dare turn around. Not yet.
Ed looks down the length of the dock to someone I assume is heading our way. It’s probably Cara—or Tara—from Saturday. After our night together, she somehow found out about my business—because we didn’t do much talking—and has been calling around the clock. Showing up takes stalker to a new level because I am always straight with a woman. One night. A hell of a lot of fun, but no strings. All the orgasms she can take but nothing more.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath. I take a second to close my eyes. Just what I need. Baggage besides the seafood I am about to shuttle to the resort up in the San Juans. “Redhead? Legs for miles?” I ask.
Ed’s bushy eyebrows head north. “I wish. How about male, fifty and balding. I’d peg him as IRS except the guy’s wearing a bolo tie.”
I turn on the worn dock, the water lapping at the side. I catch a whiff of the briny tang of the outgoing tide. The man, who appears to be in his fifties, is headed our way and he’s definitely not Cara. Or Tara. Ed’s guess is pretty good, but as far as I know, the tax man is the one guy who doesn’t have an issue with me.
“Mr. Bridger!” The man raises his hand as if to hail a cab. He wears a bolo tie along with a white shirt and crisp jeans. And he holds a square leather briefcase. Definitely a creditor.
Just what I need. I have enough issues dealing with the healthcare system on the phone about my mother’s bills. In-person is a whole new level of pressure I don’t want.
I set my hands on my hips and prepare for a battle. “If you want money, it’ll only happen if I get these oysters in the air. They’re not the paying customers you probably want to see, but they are alive. For now.”
He stops in front of me and wipes his brow. For the Northwest, the weather is warm. Almost hot, even for summer. Another reason to get the plane in the air instead of lingering. Oysters and heat aren’t a good combo.
He glances at the plane and then back to me. “I’m not here to take money from you, Mr. Bridger. I’m Tom Shankle, lawyer from Shankle, Smith, and Brazee.”
Great. A lawyer. “I’m being sued.” I turn my back on him, grab another cooler, and pass it to Ed. “Even better.”
“You’re not being sued.”
With a quick glance, I see Shankle smile.
“You make visits to everyone who owes you money?” I stop mid-reach and stand upright. At six-two, I have five inches or more on the man. “If you bothered my mother with your money-grubbing shit—”
He holds up a hand. “I assure you I didn’t bother her. She’s not the reason for this visit. I hope her current treatments for multiple sclerosis are going well.”
I frown. What’s his angle?
“You know a lot about the health of a woman who’s not the reason for your visit.”
Mom’s latest meds are part of a trial and aren’t covered by insurance. Expensive. But working. She currently only has mild symptoms and I want it to stay that way, although she can no longer pilot trips for the business she founded. If Shankle wants to pull the plug on the treatment, that’s a no-fucking-go.
Shankle rubs his jawline. “I’ve kept tabs on you.”
Ed loads the last cooler and shuts the cargo door with a hearty slam that shakes the plane. He nods and ducks around the two of us as best he can for a guy his size. I can’t blame him for steering clear of my shit, whatever the hell it is. Going to the back rope line, he waits for me to climb in and do my pre-flight checks. That’s right, time to go. He’ll help other planes that use this dock.
“Why the hell would you do that?” I growl, not liking anyone to keep tabs on me. Especially a lawyer.
“I’ve tried to reach you for the past three weeks.” Shankle follows me to the front of the plane.
“Sorry, been busy running a business here. But you know that, since you’re keeping those tabs and all.” I climb onto the runner and reach to open the door, ready to get the hell out of here.
“I represent your father. Jonathan Bridger.”
I freeze for a second and then turn, bobbing up and down along with the plane on the water.
“I’m not sure which is worse. Creditors or my fucking sperm donor,” I grumble and glare. “Or a lawyer representing him.”
“I assure you, I bear good news.” Shankle offers a shaky smile.