6
The Boathouse Blues
Griff
Home sweet home.If Ryder said it one more time, he was going in the lake.One good toss.That's all it would take – and a short one, too, with the water so close.
As I eyed the rickety building, I fought the sensible urge to turn and bolt. "It's not a home," I said. "It's a boathouse."
Ryder shrugged. "House, home, what's the difference?"
I flicked my chin toward the looming monstrosity. "A home is for people.That'sfor boats." I gave him a look. "You see an oar up my ass?"
He laughed. "No, but from the look on your face, I wouldn't rule it out."
Asshole.
The deal had included a place to crash, and I'd been prepared for the worst.Or so I thought.But then I'd seenthisplace – an old claptrap of a building straight from a horror flick.
And yeah, two stories or not, it was definitely a place for boats – two at the most unless they were canoes. Even its location sucked – too far from the main strip and too close to that fish smell coming from wherever.
But there it squatted – like it had crawled out of the lake when no one was looking. I gave the building another once-over, not liking what I saw – weathered siding bleached by too many summers, a sagging dock out front, and weeds so thick they'd need a machete to clear.
I looked upward and spotted a second-floor balcony overlooking the water. I craned my neck for a better look. The thing looked smaller than a broom closet and only half as welcoming.
I gave a silent scoff. Well, Ryderhadpromised a waterfront view. If I weren't so annoyed, I might have laughed.
Next to me, Ryder gave the key a cheerful dangle. "Home sweet home," he said yet again.
I eyed the water. Then I eyed Ryder. I was still holding the box of pastries, and I wasn't loving the idea of getting them wet. Plus there was the matter of the duffel. I hadn't wrestled it away from some stranger just to drop it in the drink.
Ryder chuckled. "Aw, don't look like that. Your place is upstairs."
My gaze returned upward.My place. But not my choice. I gave a slow shake of my head.I'd really stepped in it this time.
With Ryder leading the way, we circled around to the side, where a narrow door led to God-knows-where. The moment Ryder opened it, a wave of mustiness hit like a gym sock to the face, but I refused to back away.
The stairs creaked ominously as we climbed upward toward the so-called apartment. When we reached the top, Ryder swung the door wide open as if revealing a five-star suite.
What greeted me was no such thing.It was a horror show, minus the blood – a sparsely furnished studio apartment that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since Freddy Krueger had moved out.
The floor creaked beneath us as we entered the dusty space. My jaw ticked as I took it all in.This was a new low, even for Ryder.
The walls were a faded yellow, and the furniture was nearly non-existent. I counted three items total – a single twin bed shoved against the far wall, a cheap folding chair near thebalcony door, and a small lopsided table that looked ready to collapse.
But Ryder was grinning. "Cozy, right?"
If I were delicate, I might have shuddered. "Yeah, cozy as a crime scene."
"Oh, come on," he laughed. "You've slept in worse."
He was exaggerating – and not just a little. And besides, I wasn't one to look back. I liked looking forward – except today I wasn't so sure. Looking forwardnowhad me facing a month in exile from luxuries I'd come to expect.
I was still eyeing my new home. The bathroom door was wide open, revealing a sink wedged so close to the toilet that I could, in theory, wash my hands while sitting down.
And of course, Ryder was delighted to point this out. "Look, you can shit and shave at the same time."
Yeah. I could. But I wouldn't.EvenIhad my limits.Hell, I'd seen airplane bathrooms with more dignity.But I didn't say it, because Ryder was having too much fun already. Instead I stuck with the basics. "Please tell me there's a shower."
