Elemental Assassin 01 - Spider's Bite

West,” I replied. “I hear the cabana boys are particularly oily this time of year.” 

33
    I got on a plane that afternoon. By midnight, I was listening to the sound of the ocean from the balcony of my hotel room. The wind whipped my hair around my face and blew the tang of salt up to me. The moon overhead painted everything a dull silver.
    I raised my latest round of gin to the frothy ocean waves. Ice tinkled against the side of the glass. “Here’s to you, Fletcher.”
    Only the ocean waves answered me, so I knocked back the liquor, closed the balcony door, and stumbled off to bed.
    Over the next few days, I did all the things a tourist would normally do in Key West. Watched the sun set over Mallory Square. Visited Hemingway’s home. Stared at the cats with too many toes. Took a couple of scuba diving tours. Bought myself some cheap shell jewelry and some real key limes. Drank tropical drinks until I never wanted to look at another pineapple or mango again.
    Once I’d exhausted the tourist traps, I lounged by the ocean, reading books and admiring the hard bodies of the lifeguards and cabana boys. Fletcher was right. There were lots to choose from. I struck up a conversation with one of them, Renaldo, who was putting himself through school by working at my hotel. Renaldo made it clear he was more than willing to engage in a few hours of hot, sweaty, meaningless sex—and that he wouldn’t even expect a tip afterward.
    But his eyes were brown, not gold, and I sent him away.
    I also spent a lot of time staring out at the horizon, sipping boat drinks, and thinking about what I wanted to do when I returned to Ashland. Because I didn’t want to go back to being an assassin. I knew my strengths, my skills, my weaknesses. As the Spider, there was nothing left to prove to myself or anyone else. And it just wouldn’t be the same without Fletcher. No one would be waiting at the Pork Pit late at night for me. No one would ask if I’d been hurt or how things had gone.
    No one would care.
    More importantly, the old man had wanted me to retire. That had been his final wish, and I was going to honor it, even though I had no clue what I was going to do with myself. But it was time to use my skills for something else. What that something else was, I didn’t know yet.
    But I found myself strangely eager to find out.
     * * * 
    I returned to Ashland two weeks later, feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and still slightly sunburned and hung over from all the fruity boat drinks I’d had. I went straight to the Pork Pit, where the others had decided to wait to welcome me home.
    It was late, and night had already fallen over Ashland. Blackness cloaked the street, except for the neon pig gleaming its bright blues and pinks over the front door of the Pork Pit. I stood outside in the inky shadows and looked in through the window. Finn, Jo-Jo, and Sophia had already gathered inside the storefront. Finn sipped a cup of chicory coffee at the counter. I could smell the warm, comforting fumes even out here on the street. Sophia pushed a mop back and forth across the floor. Jo-Jo fluttered back and forth, refilling Finn’s cup, wiping down tables, checking on her sister.
    Not the family I’d originally started out with, but a family nonetheless. One that I’d do anything to protect. I pulled open the front door. The bell chimed, and I walked through.
    Everyone’s head swiveled in my direction, and a moment later, I was bombarded with hugs, back slaps, and questions about my trip. Sophia, in particular, hugged me so hard she cracked my back. Felt good, though.
    While the others chattered at me, my eyes swept over the interior of the restaurant. The door, the cash register, the stools. Everything that had been broken the night Fletcher died had been replaced. A dim shape beside the cash register caught my eye, and I realized what it was—the old man’s copy of Where the Red Fern Grows . Sophia must have rescued it from the mess. Still, the Pit felt smaller without Fletcher here, emptier than it had been before, despite the others’ presence. I wondered if it would always feel this way to me now.
    But this was not the time to be melancholy, so I pushed my dark thoughts away and told the others all about my long-awaited vacation. Jo-Jo, in particular, was interested in my tales of oily cabana boys. Eventually, the four of us settled around one of the tables in the middle of the restaurant.
    “I brought you all something,” I said,