week! You don’t talk. No one knows shit about you. You’re all tall, dark, and mean looking, but you’re not mean, so what the hell? And you cook fish like you grew up … living on the ocean.” Win twisted his torso to get a better look at the strip of Oakland shore that jutted out into the bay. “Huh.”
“You’re determined to turn my life into an episode of Law & Order . I hate to break it to you, Detective, but I didn’t learn to cook growing up in Oakland.”
Beck could only imagine the crap he would’ve taken if he’d shown any interest in something like that, back then.
Interest flared in Win’s eyes as he swiveled back around. “No? Then where—?” But he closed his eyes, squeezed them tightly shut, and stopped himself. “Okay. Forget I even started this convo. I promised myself after everything that went down in Chicago, I’d quit snooping. Curiosity isn’t going to get the best of this cat again, no sir. You got secrets? Keep ’em.”
Beck let an arched brow speak for him.
“No, I mean it, man,” Winslow said, hopping down from the railing, finally, and giving Beck an earnest look. “I should’ve been cool and just let you tell us your story in your own time.”
The kid was trying so hard. Beck wanted to meet him halfway. Struggling for a moment, he came up with, “Thanks. That would be nice.” And watched the light die out of Win’s eyes as he deflated a little and turned away, like a puppy who’d been smacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.
Damn it.
“It never bothered me that you wanted to know more about my past,” Beck offered. “Because I knew, even if I didn’t tell you, it wouldn’t make any real difference.”
Win frowned as he started back toward the cluster of food stalls. “What do you mean?”
What the hell? Might as well go all the way. “It didn’t matter to you, not for real. You were curious, you made up stories about me—yeah, I knew about that. And for the record, I was never in prison, I’m not in the Witness Protection Program, and I’m not the missing son of some Balkan royal family.”
“Oh man,” Win whimpered, covering his face with one dramatic hand. “I need some coffee.” Splaying his fingers, he peered at Beck. “That didn’t bug the crap out of you?”
Beck shrugged. “You treated me the same, no matter what crazy story you believed that week. All of you, Gus and Nina, Danny and Jules, even Max when he came home—you accepted me for who I am now. The past is over and gone; it’s done. That’s why I don’t talk about it. And in spite of the stories, I know you don’t really care one way or the other. I’m just Beck, fish cook, to you. And I like that. Before Lunden’s Tavern, I never really had that.”
He flashed on an image of the restaurant that first day, when he came in to interview with Nina Lunden. Max and Danny’s smiling, sharp-eyed mom was the first person Beck ever met who made him feel at ease from the get-go. He imagined that was how most people felt about coming home.
Dropping his hand, Winslow blinked up at him. “Wow. I think that’s the most I ever heard you say at one time.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. I’m not going to start wanting to have regular gab fests or anything.”
“Aw. And here I was hoping we could have a sleepover and braid each other’s hair.” Win bounced up on his heels, hooking his hands in the front pockets of his low-hanging jeans. “No, man. You go on and work that strong, silent shit. Somebody on this team has to be better at listening than talking.”
Beck smiled, because there it was again, that casual, complete acceptance the Lunden’s Tavern team tossed around like it was nothing.
But to him, it was everything, and he’d do whatever he could to repay them for it.
Winslow smiled back and offered his fist for a bump. “We’re cool, man. And I was serious about that coffee. You want? There’s a place inside the terminal that’s supposed to be
“You’re determined to turn my life into an episode of Law & Order . I hate to break it to you, Detective, but I didn’t learn to cook growing up in Oakland.”
Beck could only imagine the crap he would’ve taken if he’d shown any interest in something like that, back then.
Interest flared in Win’s eyes as he swiveled back around. “No? Then where—?” But he closed his eyes, squeezed them tightly shut, and stopped himself. “Okay. Forget I even started this convo. I promised myself after everything that went down in Chicago, I’d quit snooping. Curiosity isn’t going to get the best of this cat again, no sir. You got secrets? Keep ’em.”
Beck let an arched brow speak for him.
“No, I mean it, man,” Winslow said, hopping down from the railing, finally, and giving Beck an earnest look. “I should’ve been cool and just let you tell us your story in your own time.”
The kid was trying so hard. Beck wanted to meet him halfway. Struggling for a moment, he came up with, “Thanks. That would be nice.” And watched the light die out of Win’s eyes as he deflated a little and turned away, like a puppy who’d been smacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.
Damn it.
“It never bothered me that you wanted to know more about my past,” Beck offered. “Because I knew, even if I didn’t tell you, it wouldn’t make any real difference.”
Win frowned as he started back toward the cluster of food stalls. “What do you mean?”
What the hell? Might as well go all the way. “It didn’t matter to you, not for real. You were curious, you made up stories about me—yeah, I knew about that. And for the record, I was never in prison, I’m not in the Witness Protection Program, and I’m not the missing son of some Balkan royal family.”
“Oh man,” Win whimpered, covering his face with one dramatic hand. “I need some coffee.” Splaying his fingers, he peered at Beck. “That didn’t bug the crap out of you?”
Beck shrugged. “You treated me the same, no matter what crazy story you believed that week. All of you, Gus and Nina, Danny and Jules, even Max when he came home—you accepted me for who I am now. The past is over and gone; it’s done. That’s why I don’t talk about it. And in spite of the stories, I know you don’t really care one way or the other. I’m just Beck, fish cook, to you. And I like that. Before Lunden’s Tavern, I never really had that.”
He flashed on an image of the restaurant that first day, when he came in to interview with Nina Lunden. Max and Danny’s smiling, sharp-eyed mom was the first person Beck ever met who made him feel at ease from the get-go. He imagined that was how most people felt about coming home.
Dropping his hand, Winslow blinked up at him. “Wow. I think that’s the most I ever heard you say at one time.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. I’m not going to start wanting to have regular gab fests or anything.”
“Aw. And here I was hoping we could have a sleepover and braid each other’s hair.” Win bounced up on his heels, hooking his hands in the front pockets of his low-hanging jeans. “No, man. You go on and work that strong, silent shit. Somebody on this team has to be better at listening than talking.”
Beck smiled, because there it was again, that casual, complete acceptance the Lunden’s Tavern team tossed around like it was nothing.
But to him, it was everything, and he’d do whatever he could to repay them for it.
Winslow smiled back and offered his fist for a bump. “We’re cool, man. And I was serious about that coffee. You want? There’s a place inside the terminal that’s supposed to be
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