He heads right inside to pour himself a drink and I flop down into a padded vinyl seat that’s worn and ripped on the edges.
When he comes back he takes the seat at the stern and we both stare at what’s left of the sun. A flicker of anxiety ticks behind my ribs. Sunset is the calm before the storm, or at least it used to be. That’s where the booze helps. Dulls the race in my pulse and tames my thoughts.
I pinch my eyes closed, hoping to push back the incoming assault, and down the rest of my beer in wide-mouth gulps.
“You thinkin’ ’bout ’em?” Jenkins is the only person who knows the shit that runs through my head on an endless reel.
The poisonous thoughts build up over time and if I don’t spit them out they’ll eventually kill me. They almost have before.
“Can’t do nothin’ ’bout those boys. They made their choice.”
It should’ve been me.
I grunt to let him know I hear him, even if I don’t totally agree.
“I’m gonna grab another beer.” I push to stand. “Need anything?”
He sips his gin by way of answer.
Once inside I brace my hands on the countertop, breathing through the annoyance I’m feeling at my weakness. I never know what triggers the thoughts to morph into panic, how I can go from staring at the sunset to seeing the mutilated bodies of my brothers and the rising anxiety that makes my hands shake and chest ache.
Three months I’ve been out. It seems impossible, but the terror and paranoia are happening more frequently.
I snag another cold beer, pop the top, and throw back half of it when Jenkins’s cackle filters in through the open door.
“Colt, getchur ass out here, you gotta see this.”
I cross the room to the back deck fully expecting to see Morpheus sneaking fish out of the bait tank. Jenkins points down the dock and I freeze at the sight.
A woman.
Hey, I’ve seen my fair share, most in various stages of undress even, but this particular woman has my lips pulling up on either side.
“What is she doing?”
He laughs and the sound turns into a cough. “She’s trying to reach through the gate to get it open.”
There’s a locked gate at the top of the dock so only residents and boat owners can get in with a code. But on the inside there’s a button that releases the lock when leaving, and even though the thing is a good three feet from the gate, it isn’t stopping this woman from reaching her arm through the metal poles all the way to her shoulder.
“Ten bucks says she gets in.”
“Stupid bet, old man, there’s no way she’s getting it.” I shake his hand and we watch with amusement as she refuses to give up. “She’s gonna dislocate her shoulder if she’s not careful.” He wheeze-laughs. “Oh boy, she’s got a stick now.”
“What the hell is she doing with that?”
This is the most entertained I’ve been since Jenkins tried to turn seagulls into messenger birds using live sardines as treats.
Who is this lady and what does she want so badly on this dock that she’s willing to make an ass out of herself to get it?
Maybe she’s a rep from one of the big yacht companies. They always hire young, beautiful women who don’t know their ass from their tits when it comes to boats, but the rich suits don’t give a shit. They’ll buy anything from a pretty face and a hot body who’ll bootlick ’em. But this girl lacks the confidence of a yacht broker. And now that I look harder . . . Nah, she might be in a dress, but the high neckline doesn’t show an ounce of cleavage and the skirt nearly touches her shins. Maybe she works for the bank? My smile falls. Fuck, this could be about Cal’s property.
Now I’m really hoping she doesn’t get it.
“Here comes Macky.” Jenkins holds out his wrinkly old hand and opens his gnarled fingers as much as they’ll allow, which isn’t much. “You owe me ten.”
I sneer as Macky, the pervert, opens the gate for the woman like he’s a damn doorman to the Playboy mansion. She says something and I don’t miss how he checks out her ass as she passes him through the gate. At the bottom of the slant plank she says something that gets his attention.
With my hip propped on the edge of the boat I watch in horror as he nods and points directly at me. Fuck.
Her lips move and he smiles, then she makes her way toward us.
“She’s comin’ over here, Colt.” There’s humor in the old man’s voice. “Whoa, she’s not too steady on them shoes, though.” He laughs again and coughs and cracks up some more.
I’d laugh at her lumbering down the dock because he’s right, she’s far from steady and looks completely out of place, but the blood in my veins is heating with the incoming threat.
Her eyes narrow on the back of my boat and disgust wrinkles her nose. Then she raises her gaze to the tattered American flag flying just over my head.
“There something I can help you with, sweetheart?”
She glares up at me at my calling her a pet name, which makes me grin.
“Nauti Nancy?”
“You don’t like the name of my boat?”
“Why are boats always named after women?”
“Because they’re run by men.”
She gasps and Jenkins coughs into his gin.
“Are you Mr. Hurtado’s nephew?”
I jerk at the mention of my uncle, knowing she must be from the bank. “Depends. Who the hell are you?”
She licks a set of perfectly fat lips and stares at my neck, dark, full lashes sprawling out against pale skin that’s peppered with freckles. “I’m . . .” Throat clearing and she juts out her chin. “I’m Celia Forrester.”
Celia Forrester.
I know that name.
All my muscles release their tension. “You live in number four.”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible but her eyes get even wider. “Yes, number four.”
“You’re back in town.”
“Yes.” She clears her throat and her eyes drop to my chest. “The key was supposed to be under a pot—”
“Had the locks changed after the break-in.”
Those big orbs dart back to my face. “Break-in?”
“Yeah, I left you a message about it, but your voicemail said you were paragliding in New Zealand.”
She chews on her thick lower lip, then nods. “Can I get the—wait, you left me a message?”
“That’s what I said. Shit, woman, this isn’t rocket science.” I laugh and take a swig off my beer. “You’re Celia Forrester.”
“I’m Celia.”
Is she fucking for real? “You got a drug problem, freckles?”
She cringes. “No! I do not have a drug problem. What did you call me?”
“Jesus, you two,” Jenkins mumbles and slurps on his gin. “Even I know who you are, honey. Cal has a picture of the two of you inside.”