Left on St. Truth-Be-Well Read Online Free Page A

other things.
    “So, if this place doesn’t eat into your time, what do you do with it?”
    For the first time those sleepy eyes sharpened, and Carson could smell the faintest whiff of fanatic. For a moment, he was afraid.
    “Surfing,” Florida said, completely serious. “Bodyboarding mostly, but when the waves get rough during hurricane season—man, I’m there. It’s like… like living in beauty, man. The only way to live.”
    Carson’s mouth fell open like a virgin’s fly. “Uh….”
    Suddenly Florida’s lazy-eyed smile returned. “Sensible guy like you, you probably got better things to do, huh.”
    Carson was going to jump right on that, and then he remembered what he really did in his spare time. “I am nobody to judge,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. He loved it, loved the clubs, the laughter, that high after a really good set. For ten minutes he was funny, his life was worth telling to complete strangers, and he was adored. But “stand-up comic”? Yeah. That went right there next to surfing on the “how has my child squandered his life” list, right?
    Those blue eyes grew intent, and Florida turned his head sideways. “There is a really good story behind that,” he said thoughtfully. “How about you tell me on the way across the street?”
    Of all things, Carson found himself nodding, agreeing to anything, absolutely entranced. “Yeah, sure, okay.”
    Oh, that smile… it was starting to make blood flow everywhere: his face, his skin, all points south. Carson was thinking about broom closets and bathrooms and suddenly those places didn’t seem to be enough.
    He surprised himself by standing up.
    Florida went inside and took off his polyester white apron as Carson waited for him. Together they walked out the little wooden gate of the picnic terrace, and Carson turned up the street toward the crosswalk.
    “Where are you going?”
    Carson turned around. “Have you ever gone walking in Chicago?”
    “That would be a no.”
    “Well, every time you come to a crosswalk, half the city jaywalks. Just goes. But I’ve taken cabs in that city, and those fuckers don’t give a shit about pedestrians just like pedestrians don’t give a shit about them. I don’t jaywalk. I don’t ever want to be a siren at 3:00 a.m. down Upper Wacker and Wabash, are you hearing me?”
    “Loud and clear,” Florida said. And then he just crossed the damned road. Carson looked both ways, realized he couldn’t even see a car in either direction of the coastal highway, and caught up with him halfway across the street.
    “Nice,” he muttered.
    “Don’t know if you noticed, but this ain’t Chicago.”
    “Bite me.”
    Florida laughed. “Maybe. If it comes to that. Now what’s your scary hobby? C’mon, spill!”
    Carson grunted. “Stand-up comedy.”
    He watched as those blond eyebrows rose, and Florida slowly rolled that marble around in his brain until something stuck. “Giving or receiving?”
    “Giving. Man, it is such a rush. You get up on the stage, and it’s, like, ‘Carson O’Shaughnessy’ and man, you get people to laugh. It’s like nothing in the world. It’s like you were put there to totally make their day better. I love it. Most awesome thing on the planet.”
    “Mm.”
    They were out of the street—which made Carson a damned sight happier—and he led the way around the back of the hotel. He knew where Stassy’s room was, and it was accessible from the outside. He also wanted to see if maybe Stassy was waiting for him. This was about where he’d been hiding when Carson had seen him from the café. Carson didn’t see anything now, so he risked a look at Florida’s face.
    “Mm, what?”
    “Carson O’Shaughnessy. I’ve never heard anything so Irish.”
    Carson snorted. “It’s not my real name. I mean, it’s on my driver’s license, but it’s not really mine.”
    Florida’s mouth puckered skeptically. “You will explain that.”
    Bossy fucker, right? But Carson didn’t seem to