AZIMUTH
Harper
I ENTER A SHIPWRECKED BEAN with my bag slung over my shoulder and an eye for anything out of place in the little coffee shop. There are the usual suspects. The three Roberts—Bob, Bobby, and Bert—who spend more time in the café than at their jobs filling the potholes that appear every spring.
Maddison, the studious and quiet teenage barista who works full-time behind the counter for the summer. Alex, the boy who’s a year older than her, with his floppy hair and devil-may-care attitude. Maddison has the biggest crush on him, and despite several attempts at meddling with their work schedule when the Bean’s owner is occupied with his other restaurant, I can’t seem to get them together. I step into the line and try not to scowl at him. I’m pretty sure his oblivious stupidity is the only thing stopping these two from getting together. With a final perusal of the patrons, I step up to the counter.
“What can I get for you, Harper?” Maddison asks, giving me a sweet, shy grin as she grabs a to-go cup for me. She already knows I’m about to order an Americano, even starting to ring it into her point-of-sale system.
“The usual, please,” I reply, digging into my small bag for my wallet. I wince when my fingertips don’t graze it. “Shit. I forgot my wallet.”
“Don’t worry, I know you’re good for it.”
“No, it’s totally fine. I know I have some cash floating around in here.” I pull Bryce’s tinfoil-wrapped leg chunk from my bag and dig through the remaining contents until I grab a rogue ten-dollar bill, passing it across the counter with an apology. Maddison opens the till for change as my gaze
pans across the tarts and cakes and glazed donuts. I deserve a little treat for my busy morning. It’s not easy work tracking down and murdering a man and chopping him up, all before lunch. Maybe a cinnamon bun— “Anything you recommend?” a man behind me says. His voice is smooth. Decadent. Warmed with a subtle Southern accent. His tone is richer than any temptation behind the glass case. I turn. And that voice, as delicious as it is, is nothing compared to seeing him for the first time.
He’s tall enough that I notice the difference between us, not easily done when you’re nearly five foot ten. He runs a hand through his hair and it’s almost obscene. And he knows it. I can tell by his lopsided grin, the way his lips tug back at one corner to reveal perfect teeth. He’s full of confident charm. When his hand drops back to his side, his hair falls into place as though it’s physically impossible for him to look anything less than perfect, even when he’s disheveled. Especially when he’s disheveled. Shades of honey blond streak the rich brown strands that skim his cheekbones, the kind of color that can only come from time spent in the sun. He’s magnetic.
And a whole hell of a lot of … dangerous.
I swallow, trying to gather my composure, and his attention drops to my throat, the greens in his eyes igniting with subdued amusement. An unusual wedge of brown at the bottom of his left iris is a stark contrast to the lighter shades. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for,” I say, trying to sound nonplussed. “Sweet or savory?”
His smile stretches, just a little, enough to coax out two dimples in his sun-kissed, faintly freckled cheeks. “I’m not sure, what did you go for?” At first, I don’t understand what he means, not until he nods to the tinfoil gripped tightly in my hand. “What did you get?”
“Umm …” I swear I only blink, but that brief motion feels like it’s about a thousand years long as my mind scours through every item on the menu I have memorized, landing on the only word I can seem to summon. “Meat.”
“Meat …?”
“Ball.” The guy’s head tilts. My throat strains around a desiccated swallow. “Ballmeat. I mean, meat … ball. Meatball sub. Footlong. Ish.”
Our gazes both drop to the tinfoil in my hand. It’s barely four inches long and maybe two inches wide at best. When our eyes connect, I can’t
help but cringe. Though he gives me a polite smile, something about it is pitying. “I might try something else,” he says.
“Maybe the turkey,” I say as Maddison passes a sandwich over the glass case to the customer in front of me. The sandwich is fucking enormous, barely contained by the wax paper wrapped around it. It’s maybe three times the size of the tinfoil I shift behind the bag that rests against my hip.
Why the fuck did I lie about that? I guess I’m not about to say, “Oh, it’s some dickhead’s mangled tibia,” but still. I could have done better than that, right? I blame this guy. It’s his eyes. Those unusual green eyes with that rare seam of brown, colors that seem to spark to life when he’s amused. Just like they’re doing now.
The man’s grin is teasing. “Not the ballmeat. Got it.”
I snort. Literally.
And then I die. Not literally, but I wish.
The man chuckles as though my piggish chortle was fucking adorable. I turn away just long enough to stuff the change in the tip jar and Bryce’s bone back into my bag. I swear my skin is on fire. Sweat itches along my spine. But when I meet his eyes once more, the man just grins. Leans back a little. Surveys my face, warmth radiant in his eyes. “So, what drink do you recommend to go with my not-ballmeat sandwich?” he says as he moves closer to me and surveys the chalkboard above the counter.
“I should probably say something about tea bagging, to really round out my mortification.”
The guy bites down on a grin, glancing down his shoulder at me. “Tea bagging is really staying on brand with the balls. Kudos.”
“I’m nothing if not consistent.”
Maddison reaches across the glass counter to pass me my coffee. I take it, and when I peek up at the man next to me, I find him watching the motion of my hand, his brow furrowed, his smile fading as though this moment is about to end too quickly. Maybe he feels the same tug in his chest that I’m feeling, and he doesn’t want that thread to snap.
I should turn away. Get out of here. Leave this tourist guy behind. It’s not like I need to flirt disastrously with some random man who’s probably only here for a few days at most. That’s not my way, no matter how much I
sometimes long for a connection that I’m not even sure I’m ready to make. I should leave. Continue on my walk past the lighthouse where I like to stand on the cliff and look out at the sea. Toss Bryce’s mangled bone into the ocean where it will sink beneath the surface, never to be seen again, just another memory claimed by black water.
But before I can convince myself to move, his hand is on my sleeve.
Such a gentle touch. Only a whisper of heat and pressure. And as simple as it might be, that touch sets off a current in my skin. It steals my breath.
Quickens my pulse and warms my belly and crashes through my thoughts, wiping them clean. Just a heartbeat ago, I was clinging to every argument I could think of to leave. And now they’re simply … gone.
“I’d ask if I could buy you a coffee, but it looks like you’re all set,” he says as he nods down to the to-go cup in my hand. That teasing light is back in his eyes. “But if you want company while you eat some balls, I’d love to join you.”
Heat infuses my cheeks. His eyes seem to brighten. I should say no. I know it. But instead I say, “Okay.”
“Okay.” His focus lingers on me for a moment as though he needs to be sure I’ll stay, and then he lifts his hand away, turning to face Maddison. “I’ll take a turkey sandwich to go, please, and an Earl Grey tea with two tea bags.”
A grin sneaks onto my lips and I shake my head. When I look up at my companion, his expression is a mirror of mine.
There’s something addictive about holding his attention. I forgot how fun it was to let my guard down a little. Suddenly, I find myself wanting to say something witty, or cute. Poke fun at him maybe. Like, “Turkey and tea? You sound like trouble.” No, my God, that’s fucking awful. At this rate, I probably can’t trust that anything worthwhile will come out of my mouth.
So what if I just smile a certain way instead? Hold on to those green eyes of his that break away from mine to watch my fingers fold a lock of hair behind my ear? I thought I’d forgotten how to do this. How to flirt with a man. I thought I’d shut all that away years ago. I might be only a few months shy of twenty-nine, but I thought I’d buried those skills a long time ago. I thought they’d died the day I did.
The next patron in line steps between us to order, shattering the hum in the air that crackles like a spell. My new friend moves to the pickup counter as Maddison puts his order together, and though I leave his side to put cream and sugar in my coffee at the little stand along the wall, I can feel him watching me. But I don’t return to his side when I’m done.
Instead, I pretend to observe the people around me who chat about potholes and shipwrecks and gossip from town, or museums and ghost tours and plays at the Carnage theater. But really, I’m stealing glances at him. I notice details, because that’s what I’ve trained myself to do. Like the wear on his hiking boots, the leather scuffed, the soles caked with a thin layer of dried mud as though he spends most of his time on his feet. I catalog the lighter streaks in his hair. The tattoo that wraps around one forearm, an ouroboros. The scar that follows the curve of his elbow, disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeve. I notice the way he tilts his head from side to side, loosening some hidden tension lodged between his bones. I especially notice the way he scans the other patrons with a cold and clinical detachment, but his focus always returns to me. And every time it does, he smiles. He seems observant, but remote. It’s as though his charm is a well he can draw from when he chooses. But the rest of the time? He’s stoic, like that well is hidden in a faraway landscape. A place he keeps carefully guarded.
Maybe that should scare me. But it only adds to the gravitational force that beckons me closer.
When he has his sandwich and drink in hand, he joins me to add a splash of milk to his tea. With a sweep of his gaze around the small café, he looks at me with a crease between his brows. “Busy place. There’s nowhere to sit.”
I shrug, though my nonchalance feels forced. “Typical for the Bean, even early in the tourist season. But we can walk, if you like?”
I’m not sure why those words just exited my mouth. I barely manage to stop short of offering to show this guy around downtown. I’m not that kind of person anymore, one who puts herself out there to strangers so easily. I used to be. And then, one beautiful, innocuous August day, it cost me more than I ever thought possible.
But there’s something about this man that seems so different from the other tourists who pass through Carnage, people I only pay attention to long enough to assess as a threat to my town. Something about him is almost familiar. Maybe it’s in the way he seems removed from the rest of the busy café as he gives the room one last assessing look. Maybe it’s the way he appraises the coffee shop as though searching for threats that gives me reassurance. Or maybe it’s in the way his expression clears when his attention returns to me and he smiles. “I’d like that,” he says, and for a blink of time, a single heartbeat, the world around us disappears.
I clear my throat. Give a faint nod. Then I turn and lead the way to the door, but he reaches past me before I can touch it, pushing it open for me to pass through. And I can’t stop the flutter of excitement that dances behind my ribs.
“So, how does a person wind up in a town with a name like Cape Carnage? Is it a ‘come for the name, stay for the ballmeat’ kind of situation?” the man asks, taking a bite of his sandwich as we amble down the street toward the quaint downtown, filled with independent shops and quirky restaurants. I chance a glance up at him and I’m met with his teasing grin, and even though I expected its pull, I still feel unprepared for the magnetic force of it.
“The ballmeat is a big draw, for sure. Premium ballmeat in Carnage.” I smirk into the lid of my coffee before taking a sip.
“Not eating?”
“No, saving it for later,” I say as I pat my bag where the foil-wrapped bone is hidden. I meet his eyes only briefly, hoping my smile comes off less forced than it feels in my skin. “Is that what brought you here? The premium ballmeat?”
“Honestly, no. It was the tea bagging.” I huff a laugh and I can feel the warmth of his amusement next to me. “I’m here on vacation.”
“I never would have guessed.”
“What gave me away?”
I shrug. “I know every face in town. And I don’t know yours.”
“How many people live in Carnage?”
“Four thousand, two hundred and ten.”
“And you know every person here.”
I look up to find him scrutinizing me with narrowed eyes, the warmth in them still there, though it’s veiled by a thin layer of suspicion. “Yeah. I do.”
“Born and raised here?”
“No,” I say, flicking a wave to Diane Montgomery, the owner of the Starlight Boutique across the street. She waves back before entering the clothing store. “Just had time and motivation, I guess.” I lift a shoulder and look up at my companion, and though the suspicion still lingers in the crease between his brows, it softens. “What about you? Why are you here,
of all places?”
“Bird-watching.”
I pause, staring him down with a furrowed brow. “Bird-watching.”
His eyes dance in a way that makes me think he enjoys my disbelief.
“You heard me, Meatball.”
“Don’t you dare. You’ll be wearing this coffee,” I say on the heels of a groan. He smiles at my threat, taking a sip of his tea.
“What kind of birds?”
The man shrugs, his expression still a little teasing, but something about it has a glint of a dark edge to it, like a blade that catches the light. It’s as though his bird-watching is more like a hunt, the thrill of finding something elusive in the shadows of remote and desolate forests. Some distant alarm rings in the back of my head, but his expression softens and I smother my paranoia. “All kinds, I guess. Bald eagles. Osprey. But I’m not fussy.
Anything from falcons to starlings interest me.”
We slow to a stop in front of the window of one of Cape Carnage’s weirder shops. My heart jumps into my throat as I deliberate on my next words. I can’t remember the last time I felt these feelings. Desire.
Attraction. I don’t want to ask my next question. But I’m desperate to know.
“By yourself?”
But he doesn’t hear me, not when my voice is so quiet and his own question is so much louder as he says, “Craft-A-Corpse? Is this place for real?”
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the sensation of shrinking into myself. “Yeah,” I say, my tone too bright and breezy for the way I feel
inside. “It’s new this year. Kind of like Build-A-Bear. Except … not.” I point to one of the displays, a row of fake hands in different stages of decay, some of them holding silk flowers, others clutching plastic weapons, others frozen in various gestures. I catch my companion’s eye in the reflection on the window, a phantom over the body parts on the other side of the glass.
“They’re for the Carnival of Carnage Gravity Race. Putting together a good corpse companion for your soapbox racer is pretty critical for style points. Going the fastest down the course is one thing, but sometimes the quality of the corpse is what clinches the win, you know? And it’s easier to build a corpse here than to travel in with fake body parts in your suitcase, I guess.”
“Huh. That’s kind of a genius business idea,” my new friend says. The shop’s owner, Henry, waves to us with a severed hand as patrons paint various body parts with fake blood. And though there are lifelike entrails and eyeballs and severed limbs strewn throughout the window display, my companion doesn’t seem fazed by the gruesome scene. He finishes his sandwich as he surveys the body parts with an appreciative nod. “I like it,” he says, though I’m not sure if he’s referring to the sandwich, or the shop, or both.
“Yeah, it’s cool. Definitely very ‘Carnage,’” I reply with air quotes. With a final wave to Henry, we turn and resume our walk.
“It is,” he says. “And I am.” When I look up at him with a question written across my face, he’s already waiting, a teasing warmth brightening the green hues in his eyes as they catch the sun. In this light I can see the wedge of walnut brown in his left iris more clearly, a slice of shadow among the green that feels like a familiar comfort. “I am here by myself.”
My cheeks warm. I can’t hide the blush with my coffee cup, but I try anyway, keeping my eyes latched to his as I take a sip of my drink. And he doesn’t let me get away with an escape. He smiles as though he’s caught me, and even though part of me wants to, I don’t look away.
At least, not until my phone rings.
“Sorry, excuse me.” I dig into my bag, trying to shove my disappointment aside that the moment between us has been interrupted.
When I withdraw the phone, it’s Arthur’s name on the screen. I accept the
call and hold it to my ear, casting an apologetic glance toward my
companion. “Hello?”
“Harper.”
“That’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“In town. Not far from the Bean.”
“Where’s my black bag?”
My step falters, and I can sense my companion’s concern next to me.
Though I dart him an untroubled smile, I don’t think it’s very convincing for either of us. Knowing what’s in Arthur’s infamous black bag, there’s no way my sudden burst of anxiety can be hidden completely. “Your bag?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why do you need it?”
“Maria Flores’s Airbnb. The tourists staying there are awful. The man used my driveway to turn around yesterday and cut across the edge of the grass. And today, he allowed his hideous little dog to relieve itself among the rose bushes and he didn’t pick it up. Why Maria made such a grand house into an Airbnb, I will never know. It attracts the most horribly entitled windbags every summer.”
“Okay … well … I’m not sure those missteps fit the criteria for what you
seem to have planned—”
“They do today. Where’s my black bag?”
My hopes for spending a little more time with the mysterious stranger next to me are quickly slipping through my fingers. Though I hid Arthur’s bag of drugs and weapons and his precious “grim-noire” in my cottage a month ago in a place I knew he’d be reluctant to look, I still wouldn’t put it past him to get into his golf cart and make his way to my house so he can have a rummage around for it. And the next stop would then be the neighboring house, where Arthur would charm his way inside only to murder the occupants. That was fine when they deserved it and he had a better memory for what he did with the bodies, but these days, he’s not such a great judge of what qualifies as a murderable offense.
I sigh and steal a glimpse at my watch. Hopefully, by the time I make it back to the manor, he’ll have forgotten his plan to kill our temporary
neighbors, and if not, I’ll have to find a way to distract him until he does.
“I’ll be home in twenty minutes, and I’ll help you look for it, okay?”
“Bring me a double-shot chai latte with soy milk and a sprinkle of
cinnamon, would you?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
“Extra hot.”
“Yes, I know.”
“With cinnamon, Harper. Not nutmeg.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Extra hot, Harp—”
I disconnect the call, halting as I slide the phone into my bag. My companion stops next to me, his gaze sweeping across my disappointed smile to leave a trail of heat in my flesh. “I have to go,” I say, tearing my attention away to look back in the direction we just came from. “I have to stop by the Bean again and then head to my neighbor’s place. He’s elderly and sometimes needs a bit of help looking for things. They get lost a little more than they used to, I guess.”
“I’ll walk with you,” the man says without hesitation. This time, it’s his turn to blush, as though he offered more quickly than he meant to. “If you
like, I mean.”
“Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”
The electric vibration hums in the air between us, stronger than it was before Arthur’s interruption. It’s as though every moment with this stranger only strengthens its power. I know I shouldn’t let it. This man is just a temporary presence in my permanent sanctuary. But maybe that enhances the appeal. Knowing you’re going to lose something before it even starts can be a balm as much as it can be a wound.
It’s a brief walk back to A Shipwrecked Bean, and though our conversation is light, there’s an undercurrent to it that I find difficult to define. When I laugh at something he says, I feel the way he watches me, as though a piece of him soaks right into my skin. When he holds the door for me to enter the café, his arm grazes mine, and the pressure of his touch lingers on my flesh long after I step into the line with him. I order Arthur’s latte, and we stand off to the side as we wait for Maddison to prepare the
drink. With every moment that ticks by, I can feel the passage of time. And I think he can too.
“I really enjoyed our walk, as short as it was,” the man says, glancing down at the cup still clutched in his hand. “Shame I couldn’t have gotten the full tour on such a nice day.”
“I’m honored I at least got to show you Craft-A-Corpse. I feel like that’s the bare minimum accomplishment for a tour guide in Cape Carnage.”
He smiles, and I can detect a hint of nerves beneath it despite the easygoing mask he tries to portray. “Maybe if you’re not busy sometime over the next few days, we could build a body …?” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal if I say no. “I mean, if you’re into that kind of thing.”
I try to withhold my grin, just to make him squirm a little. But it still ignites, a fire that burns beneath snow and can’t be contained. “I’d like that.”
“Great,” he says, running a hand through his hair as a whisper of crimson rises in his cheeks. There must be some kind of sudden epiphany that occurs behind his eyes, because they widen as the color brightens in his cheeks. “We’ve been talking all this time and I don’t even know who you
are. What’s your name?”
“I’m—”
“Harper?” I break my attention away from the man to look at Maddison, who holds Arthur’s latte across the counter. “Here you go,” she says, and it takes me a moment to reach for my cup. I’m still stuck in a delay, an insect trapped in amber. Because I wasn’t going to tell him “Harper.” Even though it’s the only name I’ve used for the past four years. Even though it’s my first line of defense. Even though I’ve vowed to keep my real name and the past that trails behind it hidden. But for some reason, it was right there, ready to be exhumed.
My words feel brittle when I give Maddison my thanks. Like the notes have been hollowed out. Scraped clean.
And when I turn back to the man, every hint of light has been scraped from him too.
There’s a pause as we stare at each other in silence, a suspended moment that seems to stretch into eternity. He doesn’t just stare at me. He stares into
me. Like I’ve turned my back on a tiger, and suddenly it’s ready to use its claws.
Maybe I’m being paranoid. This chill that ripples through my skin might be nothing. There have been a lot of “nothing” moments in the past few years. When you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, it’s easy to think that everyone is a monster lurking beneath a mask. So it could be just a strange little moment. A weird delay. Lord knows, I’ve been weirder in the last few minutes than he has.
I’m the one who’s the killer, after all.
A memory surfaces. One of vultures in a barren tree. They scattered when I was dragged beneath the branches that pointed skyward like bleached and crooked fingers. “They come to pick your bones,” the man said as he tugged me by the hair through the dust and prairie grass. I clawed at his hands. I screamed. But he only laughed. “Pick them clean.”
It won’t be me, I remind myself when the moment clears as suddenly as it arose. I’m the killer now. I’m the one holding a piece of a dead man’s leg and pawning it off as a sad little sandwich. So maybe this nameless guy is just having a delayed reaction that will clear in the next breath. Maybe it’s just a blip.
And I could make myself believe that if it didn’t take just a moment too long for his next blink to wipe the lethal patina from his expression. His smile returns. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I take a step to the side, edging between the man and the glass case behind me. When I swallow, his eyes dart down to the motion. They brighten, but not with the kind of light that’s reassuring. “Good to meet you,” I say. But my words have a glacial edge to them. I can’t ignore this sudden burst of instinct. I won’t. I need to cut this off clean. “Enjoy your bird-watching. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I don’t turn my back to him. Not until I knock into another patron and I’m forced to look away to mutter an apology. And when I glance back at
the man, he’s still watching me.
But his smile is gone.
