Deception: Central Florida Stories, #1

By Victoria Saccenti

For revenge, he'll strip her defenses bare…until he uncovers an unbearable truth.

 

Marine Joe Reid's life changed with one well-aimed RPG in Afghanistan. Now he splits his time running his family's landscaping business by day and stopping in at Club Nexus to top eager submissives in a bid to escape his demons.

Then she walks into his life. Stunning, seductive, he's all too willing to jump into bed with her until he finds out her name.

 

Hunter Giordano, the woman who cost one of Joe's teammates his life.

 

Now he has a new mission: seduce her into his playroom and take revenge for his fallen comrade. What he doesn't know is that he's playing with fire and there's more than his heart on the line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Saccenti
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9780998950471

Victoria Saccenti

Award-winning and bestselling author Victoria Saccenti writes contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic women's fiction. Not one for heart and flower stories, she explores the edgy twists and turns of human interaction, the many facets of love, and all possible happy endings.  After thirty years of traveling the world, she’s settled in Central Florida, where she splits her busy schedule between family and her active muse at Essence Publishing. However, if she could convince her husband to sell their home, she would pack up her computer and move to Scotland, a land she adores.

Book preview

October 2011

Afghanistan, North Helmand Province...

Night was falling fast. Ten feet ahead, the jagged outcropping and dilapidated remains of an ancient stone wall made a weak outline against a darkening indigo sky. Sgt. Joe Reid held up his fist, and all movement behind him stopped. Satisfied with his squad’s immediate response, he secured his M4 between his forearms and crawled forward the rest of the way. He reached the overhang, settled his carbine firmly on the dusty ground, and, peering through the scope, scanned the shallow valley below. The tiny village, the mission’s objective, seemed deserted. There was no movement, no sign of life, least of all Taliban combatants.

Do we have bad intel?

Frustration ran through him. The squad had forced-marched five miles from the landing zone. Had traversed near-impossible terrain. Pre-skirmish adrenaline flooding their systems had pushed them onward. He couldn’t imagine the operation turning out a total bust.

An unseasonably cold wind blew from the mountain pass. Regardless of the chilly temperature, his body hummed with unspent tension. He knew his men felt it too. Going back to the exfil point empty-handed after a wasted mission was never a good feeling.

Patience, he advised himself, looking up from the scope. He’ll come when it’s dark.

As if someone had heard his thoughts, a faint amber point flickered through the window of a hut situated at the edge of the dirt road—the only flat access to the village. More lights appeared here and there. Joe blew out a hushed breath. Patience rewarded. Now that human activity had been confirmed, he slithered back to his squad.

All right, he whispered to the serious faces. They’re slowly coming in. But Zaman isn’t here yet. He usually travels with two or three technical trucks. So we’re gonna sit tight and wait him out.

Intent and focused, the men nodded.

Well...everyone except his young buddy, Billy Dominsky. The glazed, miles-away look and the jittery behavior Billy had adopted since he’d read the latest letter from home hadn’t waned. In fact, he’d become nearly morose. Jovial, easygoing Billy had disappeared.

Joe pressed his lips together. He didn’t like Billy’s attitude one bit. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sympathetic. Bad news from home could break the most hardened Marine. In camp, he’d reached out to Billy repeatedly, but with each effort, the guy had withdrawn further in. And in this critical moment, Joe didn’t have time to pacify or hold anyone’s hand. He needed his men ready. Combat didn’t tolerate or forgive distractions. Absentmindedness killed Marines.

Díaz. Joe extended two fingers. You and Sanchez take a position at the bend. Signal when you see headlights.

Copy that, Sergeant. Díaz tapped his helmet, then scurried away with Sanchez in tow.

Stay frosty, guys. Propped on one knee, his carbine cradled in one arm, Joe glanced from face to face, reinforcing the seriousness of his words. Zaman is our target, but he’s cagey and spooks easily. That’s why he’s still around. He paused after a long breath, mentally recounting the high number of casualties at Zaman’s hands.

We descend to the midpoint as planned and hold. If we remain unseen, we circle the village in stages. Remember the lookouts. Joe smirked. Thing is, we’re so far up north, they’re expecting incursions from rival tribes, not us. Nevertheless, these fighters are ruthless and shrewd. So no heroics. Stay with your team. We do this by the numbers. I want Zaman’s men neutralized and their trucks disabled before he realizes he can’t escape. Plus, he’s got information Command wants. If possible, we need to bring him back alive. Is that clear?

The group nodded in synch.

Okay, you have your assignments. Spread out. Cooper, Dominsky, a word.

Billy stiffened, a deep questioning frown carving his forehead. Joe thought he would speak or protest. He didn’t. Good for him.

Slight deviation. I’m leading your fireteam. Joe narrowed his eyes, studying Billy’s face.

Oorah, Cooper whispered under his breath.

Amused by Cooper’s response, Joe smiled, then turned to Billy. Are you with us, Dominsky? Joe frowned. Is there a problem?

Uh, no, Billy murmured, averting his eyes.

What’s this? A million alarm bells rang in Joe’s ears. Hey, Billy, look at me. I want a decisive answer.

Yes, Sergeant, he said, closing off his expression. Present and ready.

You’d better be, Joe whispered, subduing the rising dread. Something was definitely off, and his intuition kept poking him between his shoulder blades. "Because we need you. I need you. The success of this op rests on every man’s shoulders, awake and pulling their load, understand?"

Jesus. Yes, Sergeant. I understand.

Billy shook his head, eyes fixed on the gravelly soil below his knees. Two stubborn lines appeared between his eyebrows, marking the end of the conversation. Damn it, the kid had clamped up. He’d been pushed far enough.

Okay, follow me, Joe said, scrambling toward the rocky overhang. He settled at the edge as the two men dropped next to him.

In the moonless night, he could barely see his gloved hand. The valley and mud huts would’ve also disappeared in the inky blackness, except that the smattering of amber pinpoints—which Joe assumed were candles—nullified that effect with the power of runway lights. He smirked at Zaman’s outright arrogance. Not exactly the best precautions to stay hidden. Then again, the drug lord didn’t grasp the Marines’ resolve or imagine that he’d be chased this far north. No one had been before.

Minutes ticked by in silence. Despite the chilly temperature, Joe’s scalp heated under the helmet and nervous sweat ran down the back of his neck. His left forearm started cramping. He slowly rolled his shoulder as he clenched and released his fist, encouraging the flow of circulation. Cooper exhaled a long, muffled sigh. Billy didn’t move or breathe. Joe began evaluating if that was a good thing or not, when white beams followed by the distant roar of engines—approaching from the northwest—got his attention. As he’d suspected, Zaman had waited until after nightfall to return home.

Díaz turned his flashlight on and off. The headlights dipped and rose along the hilly road, growing brighter and bolder in an obvious announcement: let the villagers make ready for Zaman’s arrival. Joe suppressed a snort. Here was a true narcissist. So much for discretion.

Three technicals screeched into the village and veered to the left behind one of the huts. The sounds of engines ceased, and the lights turned off. The occupants must have gone inside through a back door, because no one came around the front. Joe waited another ten minutes, giving this latest group time to settle down, get comfortable in their false security.

He flipped his night vision goggles down. The landscape turned eerily green. Ready to engage, he circled his index finger in the air.

Silently, the squad inched forward.

The teams made it halfway down the slope. As he’d instructed, everyone flattened against the ground, preparing for possible discovery. At this distance, the village dogs— sentries impossible to fool—could easily sniff their scent. Most Taliban drug lords used them without fail. Did Zaman?

He didn’t. Not a single suspicious growl or bark raised the alarm.

Joe signaled again, and the circle of men widened, entering the village from several directions.

In a tactical crouch, Joe passed under a window. Inside, a woman holding a lit candle walked across the floor. She didn’t see him. The large shadows the soft flame cast camouflaged him. Barely breathing, he moved on. He peeked around the edge of her hut. The blurry glint of a cigarette tip moving erratically up and down betrayed a careless sentinel. Knife in hand, Joe slipped behind him. Muffling the guard’s surprised exclamation with his palm, he sliced the man’s throat in one move. Joe steadied the lookout in a tight embrace as his gurgles ceased and his struggling spasms subsided, then placed him silently on the ground and slipped on to the next structure.

Fuck, another pair of gloves ruined.

He shook off the dispassionate thought. He’d been out here too long. He needed to go home. Spend quality time in civilization before he lost the last traces of humanity, before the combat beast took over...

Get your head back in play, he reminded himself as he went past another hut.

And where the hell are Billy and Cooper?

They’d gone their own way while he dealt with the guard. Joe fumed with anger. As soon as the squad was picked up, Billy was gonna get an earful from him. Bad news from home or not, Joe couldn’t tolerate disobedience. No more coddling.

He cleared the narrow gap between homes and ran into Brant and Ronin as the team dispatched another sentinel. Joe could only hope Billy and Cooper—wherever the fuck they were—followed the plan, neutralizing Zaman’s men.

Joe was preparing to cross the main road when a woman’s screech and a deafening barrage of muzzle blasts shattered the silence. Two powerful beams of light turned night into day.

Shit, a fourth technical? Joe bolted.

At the edge of the road, he stopped dead as his stunned brain processed the scene: Cooper lay splayed facedown on the dirt. Arms raised, Billy walked and yelled toward the truck, Look at me. I’m right here!

Zaman stood in the technical, handling a PK machine gun. He sneered, aiming at Billy.

No! Joe hollered.

For a brief, horrific second, an incongruous span of time, slow-moving and eternal, Zaman glared at Joe, then turned to Billy and opened fire. Riddled with bullets, arms flailing, Billy pirouetted in a grotesque dance and flopped down. Joe and his squad returned fire. Zaman collapsed into his truck. His driver reversed the vehicle with a jerk, clearing the way for Zaman’s screaming fighters.

Ignoring the shots peppering the ground around him and the insane cacophony of automatic fire, Joe sprinted to his friend. Billy! Billy! He shook the young man’s shoulder.

Billy couldn’t speak anymore.

Desperate, Joe pulled his buddy’s inert bloodied form, dragged him toward the nearest hut seeking shelter.

RPG! Brant screamed.

Joe looked up. On the road, the fighter aimed his launcher. The rocket flew. The hut exploded. A thousand blades slashed Joe’s face and body.

Darkness took him.

March 2012

St. Cloud, Florida...

CHAPTER ONE

Joe drove his pick mattock hard into the ground, again and again. With each strike, an aching current flew up his tendons, threatening to lock his injured shoulder and immobilize his arm. He’d suffered temporary paralysis several times during his recovery. Although he knew it could happen again, he ignored the possibility. He continued chopping and hacking, pushing past the pain.

He was a man on a mission—determined to erase the lingering eeriness, the foul taste in his mouth last night’s nightmare had left behind. Haunting shapes and shadows: a remote village, a fallen comrade, impotence and anguish, darkness and deadly silence.

Finally, he exclaimed when the stubborn mass of rocks and tangled roots weakened and broke apart. He jumped to his feet, exchanged the mattock for his shovel, then, stomping down with the sole of his boot, he buried the blade’s point deep into the loosened soil.

A trickle of sweat slid along his sodden hair and splashed on his chambray shirt. One drop bounced and landed in his only good eye. The red-hot sting was instantaneous.

Damn it! He flinched, yanking a balled-up bandana out of his back pocket. The spade fell to the side. This is what I fucking get...

What happened? Dan’s voice came from several feet to his right.

My eye. It burns. Joe wiped his face and forehead. Can’t see a thing. Twisting the scarf into a taut band, he tied it around his head.

Under this fierce, scorching sun, the cloth would afford him an additional thirty minutes of work. Was it even worth it?

Where’s your hat, dude?

Joe tilted his head toward the sarcastic voice. Back home, he snapped. And if you’re going to ask why I don’t carry an extra hat, just...don’t.

I wouldn’t dream of it. Dan sniggered.

Parched, overheated, and über-irritable Joe shadowed his face with his hand. He glanced up at Dan. Guys at the Climate Center are insane. They insist this March is one of the coldest on record. But since we jumped an hour forward, it’s been hell working outdoors.

From his vantage point, standing three feet above Joe at the border of the ditch, Dan shook his head. What do those fools in Tallahassee know?

A stubborn drop of sweat tried to wiggle into Joe’s eye. He slapped it away. So-called experts. This summer’s going to be a scorcher.

There’s a dream job, studying thermostats and shit in comfortable air-conditioned rooms. Dan lugged a large bag of topsoil to the edge of the furrow. Listen, bud, I know you’ve set a weekend deadline for this project, but we’re not going to make it. Have you thought about leasing a backhoe?

Come on, man. Are you saying two big dudes like us can’t handle this? Joe scowled. We’re not digging a pool, only a curved ditch.

Mmm-hmm... And the queen palm is coming...when?

It’s still in Apopka. Joe flung the mattock toward the lawn. Dan’s question had a specific reason: no palm meant their day was done.

Thought so. Dan huffed as he released another bag of topsoil on top of the first.

Tomorrow, Friday, for sure, Mitch at the nursery promised. At least the Conways are cool. They understand this business isn’t an exact science. Joe pulled the useless soaked bandana off. So much for thirty extra minutes of work.

Great. Dan beamed. Wiping his sweaty blond hair back from his forehead, he donned his cap on backward. His blue eyes sparkled. Can we call it quits? ’Cause I hear a cold brewsky calling my name loud and clear.

Yeah, yeah. We’re cooked. Tomorrow, we start early. Get a jump-start on the heat. No excuses. I want you here by seven, sober and ready. Easy with the beers tonight. Using the handle of the spade for leverage, Joe extended his hand to Dan. Give me a boost, will you?

Holding on to Dan, Joe climbed onto the lawn. He snatched his water jug, took a full swig, and swallowed some. He swished the rest in his mouth, then spit it out.

Disgusting. He winced.

What d’ya expect? You keep hauling plastic gallons to the jobsites. The water gets nasty warm. Buy a thermos, man, Dan added, dragging a bag of manure next to the topsoil. Pigheaded ex-Marine.

There’s no such thing. Joe took another swig, repeating the process. The inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his throat ached. Warm water was better than none.

Dan frowned. You lost me there.

Joe eyed his friend dead-on. Dude, once a Marine...

That’s right. You guys are different. Dan shrugged. I didn’t serve.

Outsiders can’t relate. Joe upended the container over his head. When the last of the liquid drained out, he shook his head dog-style and swiped his forearm over his face. Dude, I’m heading home first. I need a shower. No way in hell I’m going out in public smelling like a goat. He pulled out his eye patch from his pocket, placed it over his scarred eye, then reached for his muddy gloves next to the pick mattock.

You’re not backing out, are ya?

I said I’d go. Joe slapped his gloves together. Specks of dry dirt floated and fell on the grass.

Excellent. Dan held up a thumb. I can meet you there in twenty. I don’t wear makeup in the afternoons.

You don’t, huh? Funny guy. Joe stuffed his gloves in the zippered pocket of his cargo pants and picked up his tools. As he walked to his vehicle, he slapped Dan’s shoulder.

Hey, is it safe to leave the potted hibiscuses here? Dan asked, flipping the bill of his cap forward. His sodden blond hair gleamed in the sunlight.

Yep. It’s a good neighborhood. The residents watch out for each other. Everyone knows the Conways are remodeling their landscape. No one will dare pinch them. ’Sides, those pots are freaking heavy.

Awesome. More grunt work. Ha-ha, no pun intended.

Turning a deaf ear to Dan’s complaining, Joe tossed his tools and leather gloves into the truck bed. As he climbed into his seat, he hollered at Dan, Stop whining. The pots won’t kill you. I have my methods to move them around.

Dan grinned. Counting on it. Hey, save me a spot if you get to Pete’s before me.

You got it, Joe called out and shut the door. He settled behind the steering wheel, preparing for the driving ritual. He unhooked his brand-new sunglasses from the rearview mirror—the pair had been custom-made to fit over his eye patch. He propped the oversized shades on the bridge of his nose, then loaded his favorite Nine Inch Nails CD into the player, turned the volume to full blast, and took off.

The Terminator—Dan’s nickname for Joe’s F-150 Black Ops edition—devoured the miles along Michigan Avenue, past a blur of slash pines, myrtle oaks, and sycamores lining both sides of the avenue. He turned west on West New Nolte Road, and half a mile later, he rolled into his sandy unpaved driveway.

He stopped at the porch to remove his muddy work boots. Soiled socks in hand, he padded toward his bedroom. He reached his bathroom, then turned on the shower as he tossed the socks next to the foot of his dresser. Shuffling from one foot to the next, he stripped off his clothes and underwear. A rank pile of sweaty garments grew in size. Waiting for the water to turn hot, he pitched the leather eye patch onto his bed, snatched his dirty clothes, then weaved through the kitchen. He entered the closed-off garage and stuffed everything into the hamper.

As he returned to his bedroom, the phone rang. He checked the number on the caller ID display. Dear Mom and her overdeveloped instinct. Late or early, she knew when he came home. Was it mother’s intuition, luck, or technology? At times, he wondered if—without his knowing— she’d set up a silent alarm system that went off as soon as he stepped foot in his house. He let the call go to voice mail. The speech was always the same: You know, Joseph. The place has barely enough room for one person. It’s hardly comfortable. I don’t see why you can’t live with us, in a proper home.

To hell with that noise. Small and all, he loved this place.

I wish you’d give up, Mom. I am home, he murmured at the blinking red dot, as if his mother could hear him at the other end.

The peaceful cottage—tucked behind dense bushes of orange jasmines growing unchecked, a pink bougainvillea climbing up the left post of the attached carport, and clumps of Formosa palms in every corner—had become available a week after his return from hell. One would think it had waited just for him. He saw it and fell in love. If his plans worked out, by late December, he’d have enough dough to make an offer and buy this slice of heaven.

After four years of chasing a treacherous, slippery enemy through arid mountainous regions, the airy, well-maintained bungalow was healing medicine for his soul. The place had tremendous light thanks to oversized windows in every room—a major plus for someone like him. In the irony of wartime quid pro quo, he’d gained depth perception issues when he lost his eye attempting to rescue Billy. Some exchange.

The surrounding foliage gave him enough privacy, as he didn’t go for the sissy-curtains thing, and he rarely closed the shutters. He could lounge around, check his computer, answer business calls absolutely buck naked without offending anyone. He worked hard enough. If he wanted to read a book while scratching his nuts, he’d earned the right.

Joe slid under the rainfall showerhead and took a deep breath. The steaming water was heaven on earth. Pressing his palms on the tile, he leaned forward, allowing the torrent to douse his aching shoulders and back with liquid pleasure. He considered staying here another twenty minutes, but remembered Dan waiting at the bar and picked up the pace.

Dan had a thing for the ladies who frequented the local watering hole. In fact, as a show of undying admiration, he’d dated most of them. Since Joe had been released from the military, Dan had invited him for a beer after every job and every single weekend. Joe had always declined. His proclivities required privacy and the right crowd. The local folks and St. Cloud didn’t offer either. But today, Dan had seemed lonely, desperate for company, so Joe agreed. He didn’t think a couple of beers in a likely empty bar would be a consequential breach of rules.

In a previous lifetime, during his Florida University years, he’d been a regular presence in Gainesville’s bar scene. He lost count of the mornings he woke up drunk, in unfamiliar bedrooms after mindless nights of debauchery.

But life took a sharp left turn after graduation. He returned to St. Cloud the same day his father was diagnosed with stage-two prostate cancer.

As his parents drove to Orlando for grueling chemo and radiation sessions, Joe took over his father’s landscape business. Responsibility and disease changed his perspective. He grew up, and, in the process, his proclivities changed. A new Joe emerged.

The attack in New York and the threat of terrorism awakened in him an urgent desire to serve his country. Unfortunately, while men and women volunteered to do their part, he had no choice but to wait on the sidelines. In 2005, his father’s cancer went into remission, and Joe walked to the nearest recruiting office.

On Parris Island, he felt ancient and jaded compared to the fresh-faced recruits in his class. There was nothing he could do about the age difference, so he threw himself into the rigors of boot camp, the Crucible, and every method of extreme training in the Marines’ arsenal with gusto.

He arrived in Lejeune determined to work his butt off and promote through the ranks. Kind of a loner, he slaved day and night to achieve his goal. Then young Billy Dominsky came to base. As it turned out, Billy and Joe were practically next-door neighbors. Billy lived in Kissimmee, a sprawling community nine miles west of St. Cloud. This time, the age difference didn’t matter. A close friendship developed.

He sighed, thinking of his happy, never-let-them-get-me-down friend.

I’m so sorry, Billy. I wish I’d understood, buddy... I wish I’d known.

Joe strapped his watch on and frowned. Shit. Dan’s gotta be on his second beer. He spoke to his reflection in the mirror.

Using his fingers, he combed his growing brown hair into some order, snatched the leather eye patch off the bed, and rushed out as he slipped band and cover into place.

Never show your scars to strangers. Never.

A picture containing clock, light Description automatically generated

Joe pushed the heavy mahogany door and entered Pete’s bar, checking out the place. Clean smelling and spacious, the bar was a nice surprise. Joe had created an erroneous mental image from the seedy joints around Lejeune. Pete’s was a modest version of the popular breweries and sports bars proliferating thirty-one miles to the north in Orlando. Oversized muted LCD screens broadcasting March Madness basketball games had been strategically positioned to enhance customer viewing from every angle. Vintage baseball posters decorated the walls. Someone took great care of this watering hole, as the cherrywood floors gleamed without a heel or scuff mark. The place was fairly empty except for a couple of soft-spoken guys perched on barstools and Dan—dressed in clean duds, damp hair neatly combed back—waving from a booth.

Dan raised his half-full mug. Welcome. Glad you came.

Is that number one or two? Joe pointed. Slipping sideways on the leather seat, he settled under a black-and-white photo of Joe DiMaggio—circa 1940s—in midswing.

My first. I got here a few minutes ago.

That’s a shocker. I thought you’d be on your second, at least.

Dude, I came here to unwind. Go home if you’re gonna bust my balls. Dan dropped his glass on the table. The beer inside sloshed.

Joe chuckled. Lighten up, bro. Just messing with you. I’ll play nice. Hey, Pete’s isn’t bad. Not bad at all. Do they serve food?

Yep. The usual bar stuff, wings, burgers, fries. The chili rocks here. All meat, true Texas style.

Hmmm, getting hungry. Joe patted his stomach. Maybe I’ll give it a go.

You should. Here comes Kelly.

A handsome full-figured woman somewhere in her midforties walked in their direction. Who’s your friend, Dan? She spoke in a sexy drawl Joe couldn’t place. Tall and comfortable in her skin, she leaned her elbow on the booth’s backrest and smiled.

Hi, doll. Dan winked. Meet my friend Joe Reid. Joe, this is Kelly Jones, Pete’s wife and the real boss ’round here.

Kelly turned her plump face and bright blue eyes in Joe’s direction. Her affable gaze studied him, paused a nanosecond on his eye patch, then moved on. So this is the famous Joe? You do exist after all. Pleasure to meet you.

The pleasure is mine. Joe nodded. A touch of heat rushed to his cheeks. Dan raves about your place, and he didn’t exaggerate. I should’ve stopped by sooner.

Happy to hear it, Joe. Maybe you’ll become a regular like Dan. What can I get you to drink?

Whatever IPA draft you have. Please. I understand you serve food.

We do. I’ll bring menus in a sec. Do you want a sixteen or twenty ounce?

Joe held up his forefinger. Twenty is perfect.

Okie dokie. Kelly left, her burgundy ponytail swishing.

Amused, Joe followed Kelly’s progress as she passed the bar, called out his order, then came around and dropped off two menu cards covered with smudged fingerprints, and disappeared somewhere in the back.

You say the chili is good? Joe tapped the menu on the table.

Dan gave a thumbs-up. Yep. If you like spice, you’ll love it.

You know me, the hotter the better. Like my women.

Hmmm, speaking of spicy ladies... Dan’s voice trailed off. He focused somewhere behind Joe’s shoulder.

What? Joe turned. Someone had opened the door. A human outline moved within the narrowing flood of light as the front door took forever to swing shut.

The hottest of them all, Dan murmured.

Joe squinted, startled at the distinct tone of admiration—a hair close to awe—in Dan’s voice.

A rapid click of feminine heels followed Dan’s comment, and Joe leaned forward. He caught a side glimpse of a stunning woman with glossy auburn hair that swung in time with her steps. As she quickly passed through his line of sight, her sensational breasts elicited instant fantasies. But then, the front door closed, and the room plunged into semidarkness. She disappeared in the same direction Kelly had taken.

Mercy... With a capital M, Joe said. Gorgeous woman. That’s what I call magnificent hourglass curves.

You ain’t kidding. Dan sighed and sipped his beer.

Kelly reappeared, a frosty mug in hand. Here we are. Any food, guys?

Uh...yes, please. I’ll try the chili. Holding up the menu, Joe pointed at the image of a bowl.

Make that two, Dan said.

Okie dokie. Kelly picked up the cards and took off.

So, dude. What’s the deal with this lady? Joe had to ask. He could sense a juicy urban legend floating around that voluptuous figure.

Do yourself a favor. Dan pursed his lips. Steer clear. She’s a looker, no doubt. She’s also a lot of trouble.

Joe’s curiosity was piqued. He couldn’t remember a single moment when Dan had been this serious about anything. Meaning?

Dan tapped his fingernail against the glass. Do you remember Jack Weston from Port St. Lucie?

Joe crossed his arms, visualizing the man. Always in a suit and tie, Jack wore his business image year-round, even in August and September—the height of heat and humidity. Sure I do. Pleasant fella, somewhere in his late thirties. Had a real estate office on Tenth when I joined the Marines.

You came home end of December. That’s almost three months ago. Have you seen him since? Anywhere? Dan played with a drop of water from his sweating mug on the table. Another fell, and he made a small wet circle