The Summer He Came Home (Bad Boys of Crystal Lake 1)

“The little redhead.”

Cain nodded.

“The little redhead of the sexy little boy shorts.”

“Yeah, that would be the one.”

Mac sank into the chair a few feet away and took a bite out of a large green apple. “So what do you got planned, Romeo?”

Cain’s fingers plucked out a soft melody—one filled with major notes, happy notes, and grinned. Oh, if he could only share the images in his mind.

“I thought I’d take her to Jack’s Hut.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Mac removed the shades from his face and shook his head. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked evil, with his forehead crinkled in disbelief. “Jack’s Hut is a dive. Why don’t you take her to Le Rouge at the Pine Resort? I’ve heard their food is phenomenal.”

“Nope. Jack’s Hut is more my style.” Cain snorted. “Besides, I don’t speak French.”

“You’re gonna blow it. This girl is going to think she’s not worth your time.”

Cain rose from his chair, the Les Paul cradled carefully in his hands. “Thanks for your concern, but I’ve got it covered.” He nodded. “I’ve got a couple errands to run in town, but I’ll be back later for a shower. What’s Jake got planned? You guys hooking up?”

Mack finished his apple and shrugged. “No clue. I’ve got some work to do, a few loose ends to tie up on my last project, and I might swing by the Edwardses’ later. He’s not going back to Afghanistan—you knew that, right?”

Cain nodded. “Yeah, he told me, gave me some technical term about the last surviving child that got him out of the rest of his tour.”

“Something’s up with him and Raine. It’s not good.”

“Was it ever? I mean, for Jake?”

Mac grimaced. “It’s more than all that old shit.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “God, we’re a sorry-ass bunch.”

Cain flipped his middle finger in salute. “Speak for yourself. My immediate future is looking pretty damn fine.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

Cain disappeared inside and put the guitar back in its case. The Goldtop Deluxe was his pride and joy. He’d bought it privately from a collector, had paid a hell of a lot for it, but didn’t care. It was signed by Les Paul himself, the legendary guitarist and designer of the instrument, and honestly, he’d have paid triple what he had.

It was nearly noon. He grabbed a bite to eat, pulled a T-shirt over his head, and slid into a pair of jeans. His clothes had finally arrived a few days earlier, and he was thankful to have his own stuff and not have to borrow Jake or Mac’s shit. He’d only brought a few things with him when he arrived for the funeral. Hell, he hadn’t planned on staying longer than a few days, and sure there was a stash of clothes at his Mom’s, but most of it was old and ratty.

Springsteen was on the radio, “The River,” blasting through the speakers as he pulled out of the driveway and navigated up the narrow lane. Tall evergreen trees bordered the road and gave the impression of deep woods. With the lake behind him and cottages hidden like a secret, Cain welcomed the absolute wash of peace that surrounded him.

His mood was light as he drove toward Crystal Lake, and it didn’t take long for him to cross the small bridge that led to the northern side. He hadn’t been downtown yet and whistled as he feasted his eyes on the new and improved center of town. It had had a complete redo, with an emphasis on quaint, an obvious attempt to lure the tourists who spent their dollars and propped up the local economy. All the storefronts had new facades, and the light standards that lined the streets resembled something out of Dickens’s England.

Cain pulled into an empty space in front of the Rose Garden and cut the engine. The sidewalks were full, couples strolled hand in hand, and he was happy to see the town thriving.

The bell that tinkled when he walked through the door of the Rose Garden alerted the woman behind the counter that she had a customer. Mrs. Avery pushed her glasses higher up her nose and smiled heartily when she spied him.

“Cain Black! I heard you were in town. So nice to see you.” She moved from behind the counter, beaming.

“Hi, Mrs. Avery.” He nodded. “Feels good to be back.”

She shook her head. “It’s Mary. I feel silly having a grown man call me Mrs.”

“How’s Frank?” Her son Frank had been a bit of a hell-raiser back in the day. He was a few years older than Cain, and they’d played ball together a couple years.

Mary’s face glowed. “Oh my goodness, he’s wonderful. His wife, Robin Travers…remember her? She’s about to have their third child—a boy! They’ve got two girls, so we’re quite excited about this little one.”

Son of a bitch. Frank Avery—the punisher, as he’d been called on the field—was a dad.