Free Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) by Judith Arnold Page B

“I was in the back seat.”
    She
visualized the tattoo on his shoulder: LIVE . When she’d asked him about
it, he’d said there had been a time when he should have died, but he hadn’t.
“Oh, Ty,” she murmured. “That’s horrible.”
    He
shrugged.
    “Were
you badly injured?”
    “Among
other things, the accident broke my back. There was some concern about whether
I’d ever walk again. A body cast and a year in rehab, and I was walking.”
    “But
you lost your parents.”
    Another
shrug. His words remained measured and stoical, but his eyes flashed with pain
and regret. “My dad’s dad lived in Los Angeles, but he was in no position to
take on a teenage kid in need of intensive physical therapy. So everyone
decided the best thing would be for me to move in with my grandparents in
Kansas.” A wry laugh escaped him. “It wasn’t the best thing. They meant well,
but we had different world views. They were very conservative, very religious.
I could understand why my mom ran off to California and never went back. My
grandparents and I fought all the time. They made rules, and I broke them.”
    Wild
Thing , Monica
thought. The opening chords of the old rock-and-roll song crashed through her
head.
    “And
there was no ocean in Kansas,” he continued. “I needed the ocean. Land-locked
doesn’t work for me.”
    Monica
could relate to that. She’d never lived anywhere farther than a short drive
from the shore. Brogan’s Point and her four years of college in Boston, with
its beautiful harbor—like Ty, she was happiest when in close proximity to a
vast expanse of water and the salty fragrance of sea breezes flavoring the air.
    “As
soon as I finished school, I did what my mother did and went back to
California. I lived with my grandfather there for a while, but he’s kind of a
crazy dude. An old surfer. He lives in a tiny house that’s held together with
spit and duct tape, and he sells surfing gear in a shop in Venice. He taught me
how to surf, how to wind-surf. Then I headed up the coast to Whidbey Island,
near Seattle, where my father’s mother lived. Her husband taught me how to
sail. I moved to Vancouver and learned how to ski. I moved to New Orleans and
learned how to drink bourbon. I moved to Charleston, South Carolina and learned
how to restore mansions. I moved to Chicago. No ocean, but Lake Michigan is
almost big enough to qualify. I moved to Miami.” Another shrug.
    He’d
told her he moved around a lot. He hadn’t been kidding. “Don’t you ever want to
settle down somewhere and plant roots?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too
conventional—although if she did, she did. She was a conventional woman, after
all. Except for those four years of college, she’d never lived anywhere other
than Brogan’s Point, and never wanted to do anything other than help her
parents run their resort.
    He
tilted his bowl to capture the last of the chowder with his spoon. “I guess if
I found a place that made me want to settle down, I’d settle down.”
    And
he hadn’t found that place, at least not yet. Surely Brogan’s Point wasn’t the
place. Not that Monica expected him to settle down here. Not that she could
possibly have any hold on him. Not that she was even sure she wanted to
have a hold on him. What he’d told her about himself was both tragic and
intriguing, and yet… She still wasn’t sure she knew who he was.
    “How
do you support yourself, moving around the way you do?” Another conventional
question, she acknowledged. If he decided that she was square and boring like
his Kansas grandparents, so be it.
    He
smiled crookedly. “I do carpentry. Restorations on buildings and boats. My
father taught me a lot. I learned more on my own. There’s always work at
marinas for someone who knows what he’s doing.” Another eloquent shrug. “The
father of the kid who killed my parents was a wealthy power player in
Hollywood. He was able to pull a lot of strings to keep his son out of