Dirty Rowdy Thing

  “Have you talked to the network since you’ve been here?”

  “Only a couple of emails. I came down early because of Oliver’s opening, and Colton was worried I was going to have a heart attack like Dad and wanted me out of town.” He glances at me. “I’m meeting with them soon in person. They’ve been sending me promo materials.”

  My stomach bottomed out at the mention of Finn having a heart attack, but at his playfully hesitating look and the mention of promo materials, I can’t help my smile. “ ‘Promo materials,’ you say? This I need to see.”

  With a grimace, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, fishing out a folded glossy 8x10 of the family sitting on a boat docked in the water. “Here’s one thing they’ve sent.” He hands it to me. “They’ve also made a logo and T-shirts.”

  “Wow,” I say staring down at the picture. The lighting is professional, the colors rich. Each man in the photo is the perfect balance of rugged and polished. “This is the extreme fisherman version of a JCPenney glamour shot.”

  He snatches it from my hand. “Okay, and you’re done.”

  I manage to snag it back before he can return it to his wallet. “So these are your brothers, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Finn is in the middle, with his father and the youngest brother, Levi, on one side, and the middle brother, Colton, on the other. It’s clear they’ve received some direction: Finn’s dad looks welcoming, laid-back. Levi is beaming, an open book, whereas Colton is making sex eyes at the camera. Finn looks no-nonsense and world-weary. All four men in the picture are completely, ridiculously good-looking.

  “Well, thanks for this. I might need to go home and masturbate for the rest of the evening.”

  “You know, if a guy said that, it would be super creepy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Poodle. Does the sexual double standard make you grumpy?”

  He laughs dryly. “You’re a pain in the ass, Ginger Snap.”

  “So, the Adventure Channel wants you basically for a dating show.”

  “No. It’s meant to be a gritty peek into our lives as fishermen and—”

  “Does it say that on the back of the Glamour Shot?” I flip it over, pretending to look.

  “Harlow.”

  “Finn.” I turn the picture back over and point to it. “Look at you guys. You’re, what? Thirty-two?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Colton is how old?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “And Levi?”

  He sighs. He’s bagging what I’m raking, clearly. “Twenty-four.”

  “I bet there’s a clause in the contract they showed you that you can’t be in a committed relationship when filming begins.”

  His eyes go wide. “How would you know that?”

  “Are you kidding? My mom has been offered a spot on a reality show a few times. They always have something in there about relationships. So you don’t think this show is really about filming your bulging biceps on the boat and then getting you shirtless and hooking up with coeds?”

  “You aren’t helping. I already don’t want to do this.” He steals a few of my tater tots. “But my brothers think it will be a trip. It’s like they don’t really understand how it will change their lives. Colt is always sleeping with someone different. Levi . . . I swear I think he’s a virgin.”

  I look at the sandy-haired hottie in the picture. “Okay, you’re high. If this guy isn’t putting out left and right, there is no God, Santa, or Easter Bunny.”

  He waves me off. “Whatever. I just don’t think we’d make very good television.” His argument is so weak, even he can tell. He winces at my gaping shock, looking away.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I ask him. “A manwhore hottie, a virgin hottie, and the hottest older brother who’s clearly too busy for love? This is a television producer’s wet dream. This show practically writes itself.”

  As if relenting, he says quietly, “They’re laying it on pretty thick. Two-season commitment to start, they bought my truck just as a good-faith gesture, and they’ll repair our main two boats and get us a new one.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Wow. So you’re upset because a huge television studio wants to give you oodles of money? Poor baby. Why aren’t you jumping on this?”

  He looks at me, and it’s his turn to be incredulous. “I like my life, Harlow. It isn’t cushy, and we’re always sort of scraping by, but I chose this for a reason. I like my little house on the water, and working on the boat and cracking jokes with my brothers and those days where we get an unreal haul. Those days make all of the slow ones totally insignificant.” He looks away, running his thumbnail down a groove in the table. “The idea of a crew coming on and filming us twenty-four hours a day for three days a week makes me nauseous.”

  “What do Oliver and Ansel think about it?” I ask.

  “They don’t know.”

  “I know something they don’t?” I crow.

  He shrugs. “It’s hard to discuss this choice with my best friends. I’m in the middle of this crazy decision, but in two years I may look back and think, Why did I even consider this? I don’t want to mull it over with people who will be in my life every day if I realize only later how pathetic it all seems. Does that make sense?”

  So he’s not expecting me to be in his life in two years? Okay. This one stings and I tilt my beer to my lips, looking away. “Makes total sense.”

  “Shit,” he whispers, seeming to register how that sounded. “You know what I mean.”

  And in all honesty, I do. I haven’t told him about my mom, either. I don’t need Finn’s support, and I like that being with him is just an easy place for me to inhabit. Maybe he likes that, in the long run, my opinion doesn’t matter much.

  I mentally shake off my minor offense and smile at him. “I know it probably sounds like a complete one-eighty from your life right now, but it could bring opportunities you’ve never considered. It would give your company name a brand, and—”

  “Or make us a joke.”

  “And,” I say, ignoring him, “they’re giving you a boat? I know less than nothing about commercial fishing but I bet those cost as much as a house in La Jolla.”

  “Not too far off,” he agrees. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure the boat they buy for us would ever feel mine, either. It is, literally, selling out. But you haven’t run away laughing, so I guess it’s not insane for me to be putting some thought into it.”

  “I think you would be insane if you hadn’t.”

  He nods, and turns his attention back to the game. This time, I’m pretty sure he’s done talking.

  Chapter EIGHT

  Finn

  I CHECK THE ADDRESS Harlow gave us as we turn off the street. The restaurant is packed, and I blow out an exaggerated breath as I circle the lot.

  “Looks like it might not be our night,” I tell Oliver, pretty sure that if my shifty eyes don’t give me away, my horrible acting will. “Guess we better just head back to the house. Try this another time.”

  I turn the truck toward the exit but his hand on my forearm stops me. “Everyone’s already here so just keep a lookout. Too late for a change of plans anyway,” he says, peering out the passenger window before he adds, “No thanks to you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that it took over an hour to get you out of the house, and you look like you’re being dragged to the dentist, rather than a night of dinner and questionable humor with your best mates.”

  “That is absolutely not true.” It’s completely true.

  “Ansel flew back to surprise Mia again and wants to see us. And despite what you said last night, you’ve been bodgy all week.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just weird to be gone while so much is going on at home,” I say, and offer a casual shrug for good measure. Keep it cool, Finn. Don’t fidget. Don’t avoid eye contact. “Not used to having so much free time is all.”

  The radio plays some ra
ndom pop song in the background and Oliver reaches over, shutting it off. The click of the dial seems to reverberate around the cab and I make a show of squinting out the front windshield, still in search of a parking spot.

  I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Oliver knows me too well and would rip off my arms and beat me with them if he found out I talked to Harlow about all this before him.

  “I’m your best mate, Finnigan. Wouldn’t lie to me, would ya?”

  I start to answer but he’s immediately distracted by a spot opening up just ahead of us. “Oh, hey . . . right there, right there.”

  I pull into the spot, shutting off the engine with a heavy sigh. So I guess we’ll be going in.

  I AM PRETTY sure I have never looked guiltier than I do in this moment. Ever. Like a criminal just casually strolling by the house he’s robbed.

  As expected, Harlow gave me epic amounts of shit, and did what I’ve come to know as her thing: cracking jokes and using sarcasm to make light of the situation. But the look on her face when I explained why I couldn’t tell Ansel or Perry or even Oliver hit me like a punch to the chest.

  I’d managed to put it out of my mind until later, with Oliver snoring down the hall and me still wide awake and staring up at the dark ceiling, thinking, Should I tell them? Was it wrong to keep my closest friends in the dark and open up so easily to Harlow? Up until that point, I hadn’t put much thought into Harlow and me. She’s been a lot of things—a wild story, a distraction, and eventually a friend—but now none of that seemed enough.

  And fuck, I do not want to face her tonight. Because not only do I have no idea where we stand or how I feel or how we should even interact, but now she has this giant secret. One I couldn’t even tell my best friends.

  I should have manned up and told Oliver.

  I should never, ever have told busybody Harlow.

  What if they can tell I’m keeping something from them?

  What if she lets something slip?

  Fuck.

  Inside the restaurant it’s dark and loud, so loud in fact that I wonder if I could sneak away at some point, disappear without anyone noticing.

  Despite the number of bodies and booths crowding the small space, it’s a good twenty degrees cooler inside than out. Which means it’s only then I realize I’m sweating, the frigid air prickling at the damp skin along my forehead and down the back of my neck. Jesus Christ, Finn. Get yourself together.

  We hear them before we see them. Even above the din of voices and music and clinking silverware, Harlow’s distinct laughter carries all the way to the door. Harlow is never quiet.

  “That is the best thing I’ve ever heard,” Ansel yells, dissolving into a fit of giggles. You wouldn’t think a twenty-eight-year-old lawyer would giggle, but this is Ansel and, well, you’d be wrong. Insecurity hums along the edges of my nerves as their voices get closer, and I feel my mouth pinch down into a frown.

  “Sounds like they started without us!” Oliver shouts over his shoulder, and I can only nod, following him across the room and toward the table while trying to look like I’m not about to throw up.

  They’re all seated at a large booth near the back. Ansel is on one end, his long arms splayed across the back of the seat, and he leans forward, grinning while he listens across the table. Mia is next to him, Lola sits on Mia’s right and—not for the first time since I met her—is lost in something she’s doodling on a napkin. Harlow is on the edge, eyes wide and expressive as she relays some story to Ansel, who laughs. Again.

  “Having a good time?” Oliver asks, stopping at the other side of the table. “Could hear you lot clear outside.” Everyone’s eyes snap up to him—and then me—before they call out in greeting.

  Everyone except Harlow.

  Her gaze locks on mine for the longest five seconds of my life before she blinks away, addressing Oliver. “Finally,” she says, smile a little too bright. Nervous, maybe? Guilty?

  “Did you—” she starts to say, but I interrupt.

  “What was so funny?” I snap, and immediately want to smack myself.

  Everyone turns to me, each of them with varying expressions of What the fuck?

  Lola looks up, and I register that while she might not look like she’s paying attention, she hears every single word. “Harlow was just telling the story of the time we locked ourselves out while skinny-dipping and we decided she was the one who had to climb through the upstairs window. Naked.”

  “Oh,” I say, too horrified by my own reaction to linger over the mental image of Harlow, naked, scaling a wall, a window . . . anything.

  Harlow watches me through narrowed eyes, and Ansel is looking at me like I’ve just shown up with my underwear on the outside of my pants.

  “Right,” Oliver says. “Gonna find the toilet, order me a burger if they come around, would ya?”

  With Oliver gone my only options are to stand here like an idiot, or take the seat next to Harlow.

  With a sigh, I steel myself and slide into the booth, careful to keep at least a few inches between us. Lola and Mia start talking about . . . something, and Harlow leans in.

  “Take it down a notch there, Finnick,” she whispers. Any other moment and I’d tell her exactly where she can put her cute little nicknames. But right now, I’ll settle for just keeping my shit together.

  “What?” I ask, trying to look confused. “I was curious.”

  “Curious? You looked like you were ready to flee the scene of a crime there for a second. You’re all fidgety and . . .” Her eyes make a circuit of my entire face. “Jesus. Are you sweating?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. I wipe my palms across the denim on my thighs and exhale as I lean back. “Just, you know. Feeling a little weirded out by all this.”

  “By what? You didn’t think I said something, did you?” She actually looks a little offended and so I answer quickly.

  “What?” Probably too quickly. “No. Absolutely not. Just worried that, you know, maybe you don’t have the best poker face.”

  “A poker . . . what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “You’re always meddling and shit. I thought maybe you’d slip.”

  Before she can answer—or, you know, elbow me in the balls—Oliver makes his way back to the table and refills everyone’s glass, before dropping into the seat at the end of the booth, jostling me toward Harlow.

  I straighten and mumble an apology but she shakes her head and laughs, leaning close and whispering so quietly I have to close my eyes to focus on her words: “I got news for you, Finn. I faked orgasms for six years before you and have more secrets than you could fit in that giant empty head of yours, so if one of us is gonna give away your big dating show secret, it’s not going to be me.”

  “It’s not a da—” I pause, and take another deep breath before reaching for my beer. “Never mind.”

  I know I’m being ridiculous, and yet, I don’t relax. Because now, not only am I waiting for Harlow to slip up, but I’m watching her so closely I notice everything. I’m sure I’m staring at her like some kind of a serial killer, but the thing is, she’s not looking back. At all.

  A waitress appears at some point and takes everyone’s order, and I’m so lost in my head that I have no idea what I’ve asked for until she returns, setting a giant salad in front of me. Wonderful.

  Not-Joe stops by and helps himself to a beer, even crawling under the table to pop up next to Harlow, wedging his way against her side.

  “Have a seat,” she tells him with a laugh, and scoots over. Her thigh is pressed against mine and I have to force myself to keep my hands where everyone can see them, and far, far away from where they’re currently itching to go.

  “Watching your figure there?” Not-Joe asks, pointing to my plate with a giant fry he’s snatched from Lola.

  “He’s not as young as he used to be,” Harlow says.

  And she’s still not looking at me.

  Instead she nods to Oliver. “So, how’s the Wonder Woman situ
ation?” she says, grinning while she cuts into her steak. I wanted a steak. “Any improvement?”

  Oliver shakes his head and drains the last of his beer. “Don’t ask.”

  Ansel, who up until this point has had some part of his face latched onto Mia, suddenly speaks up. “What Wonder Woman situation?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Lola says. “Got a little thing for Princess Diana, do you?”

  Harlow breaks into giggles and Ansel blushes clear to the tips of his ears. “I . . . uh . . .”

  “I’ve got to hand it to her,” Harlow says, reaching for an onion ring. “Wonder Woman just keeps proving she’s got it.”

  “I’m completely confused,” Mia says.

  “That’s because Ansel’s over there trying to suck your soul out through your mouth like some sort of Dementor,” Harlow says, and then whispers in my direction, “It’s a Harry Potter reference, Sunshine. Keep up.”

  Oliver explains the situation and if possible, Ansel’s face is even redder.

  “I wonder if anyone’s had sex in there,” Lola says, and we all turn to her. “What? I’m just saying, a little voyeuristic rendezvous surrounded by nerd porn?” She offers a small shrug. “I get it.”

  “Of course you do,” Harlow deadpans.

  “Well, I’m not having sex in that bathroom,” Not-Joe says. “The couch? Maybe.”

  “Nobody is having sex in my store!” Oliver shouts, and then almost as an afterthought adds, “And don’t get any ideas, because that includes all of you.”

  “Thank God there aren’t any cameras back there,” Not-Joe adds. “Can you even imagine the terrifying things you’d catch on film? The coolest, weirdest people come in there, it would make the sickest reality show.”