Out of Luck

by Kendall Talbot

  When she couldn’t hang on a moment more, she let one hand go. Her free hand remained in the cramped position, and she had to truly focus to stretch her fingers out. When they did, it was with stiff, jolting movements that shot pain through her knuckles.

  A wave came out of nowhere. The force of the water ripped her hand from the rope, and she slammed, nose first, into the hull. Pain shot behind her eyes, stinging her forehead. Her suitcase was yanked from her grip between her legs, and it too banged against the side. She clawed her hair from her eyes, desperate to see again.

  But it was pitch-black. Even if she could’ve seen through the stinging and her tears, the complete blackness made it impossible anyway. The stars were tiny pinpricks, tempting with their pretty twinkle but useless for anything else.

  Marshall’s brace held her in position, but hanging loose subjected her to the mercy of the water. Waves tossed her around like she was in a washing machine, and her knees, elbows, chin—hell, all of her body—slammed into the boat without warning.

  And that wasn’t good.

  For either her body or the sound it might have made.

  Pushing through the pain, she gripped the rope again and turned her back to the hull; clutching the handle, she guided the case back between her legs.

  But it wasn’t just her knuckles that ached now. Her eyes stung so much she had to squeeze them shut. Salty water flooded her mouth nonstop, making her tongue a dry slab, useless at producing moisture. And spasms wracked her back from both cold and dread.

  Her bare feet hurt too. She wished she’d thought to put on shoes. Or even socks would have helped. Anything to stop the mental image of creatures lurking in the blackness below, eying her toes as their next meal.

  She couldn’t say she was scared of sharks. The truth was that she didn’t know much about them. The closest she’d ever been to one was the glass tunnel at the aquarium in San Francisco. But she’d had six inches of glass separating her from row after row of razor-sharp teeth. Now there was nothing. And the murky blackout around her didn’t help.

  Time ticked on.

  Waves tumbled in.

  And her brain bounced from one awful thought to the next. Sharks. Jail cell. Missing toes. Blindness. None of the thoughts were good. Not one.

  A big wave barreled into her, slamming the back of her head into the hull, and it took all her might not to cry out. With stiff fingers, she shoved her hair from her eyes and wiped the salt off her lips with the back of her hand.

  The blackness seemed to be getting blacker, and she blinked back the sting in her eyes, fighting the new panic rising within. The bow of the hull made it impossible to look straight up, but when she looked out, the stars were no longer there. A dense layer of clouds were rolling in, covering the minuscule light the stars provided.

  As she watched the relentless creep of clouds across the sky, a new sense of foreboding gripped her, and she knew she couldn’t do this for much longer. All of a sudden, the idea of a ten-foot cell became appealing.

  The silence too was disturbing. Other than the foghorn that’d had her heart exploding in her chest, the only sounds she’d heard were her own erratic breathing and the tumbling waves.

  She had no idea what was going on, but the longer it took, the worse the images her mind produced. Fear gripped her like a murderer strangling a victim, squeezing her life away. She tried to think of good times, like when she and her father had shared a picnic on the southern rim of the Grand Canyon. Or horse riding through the lush countryside in Wyoming, or even simple things like being the first to create a trail along a snowy, tree-lined path.

  But as the minutes ticked on, the good times failed to come to her, replaced with memories of bad times that leeched into her brain like the freezing water. Sheer exhaustion had her mind and body failing. She couldn’t go on. Not like this.

  A burst of laughter jolted her out of her misery.

  It had to be a good sign.

  The dark clouds gradually shifted, and the stars in their wake were glistening again. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to count the waves pelting into her. At twenty-seven, she’d run out of patience, and she fought the urge to scream.

  The roar of an engine broke her despair. Loud at first, it quickly abated, and she glanced up, scouring the boat’s overhang, desperate to see a friendly face. It was several thumping heartbeats before she heard footsteps. The sound was the glimmer of hope she needed.

  And there he was. Marshall. Tears pooled in her stinging eyes, and a sob burst from her throat.

  “Charlene, are you okay?”

  “No.” Tears streamed down her face, and her nails dug into her palms as she strangled the rope.

  “Okay. Okay. I’m coming to get you. We just have to wait a few more minutes to ensure they’ve gone. You’ve done so well. It’s over, Charlene. You did it.”

  He continued talking, but she no longer heard. Absolute exhaustion took over. All sense of purpose was gone. The ticking clock persisted. The relentless waves continued their beating. And her tears flowed unabated.

  She barely registered the huge splash to her left, and she realized Marshall was in the water only when his hand touched her cheek. “Hey, Charlene, you can let go now.”

  She tried to unravel her fingers, but they refused to release. “I can’t.” Her voice was a desperate croak.

  Marshall peeled her fingers free, wrapped his arm around her waist, and lifted her up to release the hook and lower her into the water. Her breath caught as the water covered her shoulders, but that was her only response. Marshall wrapped his arm over her chest and guided her to the back of the boat.

  “Can you climb the ladder?” He put her hands on the railing.

  Her legs were Jell-O, but with Marshall’s help, she climbed aboard. At the top, she hunched over and gripped the rail, and within a heartbeat, he was at her side. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her body to his, enveloping her in his warmth. “They’re gone, Charlene. You were amazing.”

  The comfort of his embrace was overwhelming, yet it also somehow made her feel complete. Her heart danced to a wonderful beat as she allowed his hug to feed life back into her body.

  He eased back, and his emerald-green eyes were laced with tenderness. When he cupped her face in his hands, something about the familiarity of his touch squeezed her heart, and it took all her mental power to remind herself that she barely knew him.

  “Come on, let’s get you warmed up.” He helped her down the stairs. “Can you take your wet suit off?”

  Her arms were like lead weights, and she tried but gave up on reaching the zipper behind her neck.

  “Here, let me help.”

  The zipper glided down her back, and the comprehension that he was undressing her jolted her out of her imbalance. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Can you give me a minute?”

  “Sure.” He touched her arm. “I’ll be at the top of those stairs. Just yell if you need me.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  “No, Charlene. Thank you. What you did was incredible. You saved us both.” His voice was as warm as chocolate pudding, and the look in his eyes was just as comforting. His words confirmed that she’d surprised him, and she liked that, because she’d surprised herself too. Peter had always said that every day was an opportunity to learn. Today she learned she had a mental toughness that she hadn’t known she possessed.

  “May I shower?”

  “Of course.” He plucked a towel from a cabinet over the bed and handed it to her. “Take your time.” Marshall retreated up the stairs, and Charlene pushed her weary body through the process of showering. Her wrinkled fingers felt foreign as she washed the salt from her water-logged flesh, and it seemed an eternity before the cold embedded in her skin abated.

  The engines were rumbling again as she studied her reflection in the mirror. She looked exactly how she felt…
terrible. Bloodshot eyes stared back at her, with puffy bags beneath, and her lips were red and raw, and still felt crusty.

  It was only when she stepped from the tiny bathroom that she realized she had no dry clothes. She was tempted to wrap the towel around herself but opted for one of Marshall’s shirts instead. It was so big, she tied a knot in the bottom hem; then she tugged on a pair of his shorts with a drawstring that she pulled in to keep them in position.

  By the time she climbed up the stairs to the flybridge, she was almost feeling herself again. Almost.

  “Oh, hey.” His eyes bulged at her clothing.

  “Sorry, I had nothing else to wear.”

  “Oh,” he scanned up her body again, then shifted his gaze to the ocean. “It’s fine. I should’ve thought of that.”

  She slipped into the seat at his side. “So, what happened?”

  As she sipped on a water that tasted absolutely heavenly, Marshall shifted his gaze from her to the ocean ahead of them and relayed what’d happened with the Coast Guard.

  They laughed together when he told her his thoughts about the frozen fish skipping across the deck like a hockey puck. She was truly impressed with his forward planning and knew now that she was with the right captain to take her to Cuba. God knows what would’ve happened should she have continued her irrational decision to go with Warren and his brothers.

  “In the end, we got lucky,” Marshall said. “They got a call about a suspicious boat that was spotted by a cruise ship about fifty nautical miles that way.” He pointed starboard. “So I’ve been instructed to head back to Key West.”

  Her jaw dropped. Her mind raced. “We’re still going to Cuba, right?”

  He spun to her. “Fuck no! I’ve turned around.”

  His statement punched the air from her lungs. “What? I hired you to take me to Cuba.”

  “Yeah, that was before we nearly got ourselves arrested.” His jaw clenched, and he looked at her like she had an ice pick in her eye.

  It was a couple of heartbeats before she found her voice. And her fortitude. “Fine! I’ll pay Warren to finish the job.”

  Marshall rammed the throttle back so quickly she was thrown forward on her seat. “Fucking hell,” he roared. “Are you serious?”

  She nodded. “One hundred percent.”

  His lips pinched together. His eyes bulged. His face reddened. If he was a volcano, he’d be set to erupt. “You need to tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

  She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms.

  He shifted in his seat to glare at her with his arms folded across his chest.

  Charlene was at his mercy, and she didn’t like it one bit. Nobody but Detective Chapel knew her story. And even he, a seasoned detective who’d probably seen and heard almost everything, couldn’t fathom it. The more she’d explained her way of life, their way of life, the more she’d felt like an alien on her own planet. And the more he’d been skeptical. He’d taken her life story and twisted it in a way that changed her history forever.

  She’d thought she’d never have to explain it all again.

  She’d thought she’d never see an accusatory glare again, implying she was guilty.

  She’d thought wrong.

  She was looking at it now. But Charlene was in a unique position. She’d already lost everything that’d ever meant anything to her. She had nothing to lose.

  So she flicked her wet hair off her shoulder, cleared her throat, and met his gaze. “Three months ago, a woman, who was a complete stranger to me, stabbed my father to death right in front of me.” She detailed how he’d died in her arms, despite her trying to stem the gushing blood. She described the onlookers who stood around, equally horrified and fascinated by what they were seeing. She explained about the ambulance arriving, only to tell her what she already knew. The more she told, the easier it became. It was almost like describing scenes in a movie; yet although she’d seen it, and lived through it, it was still unreal.

  And once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. It was cathartic, and she settled into a pattern, laying down the foundation, layering it with all the events, and then waiting for Marshall’s response to each shocking revelation.

  He was a good listener. His eyes showed his sorrow, his surprise, and his confusion as her details of the last three months slithered back and forward like a serpent. At some point, his arms had unfolded, and the animosity she’d felt from him when she’d started gradually, yet convincingly, shifted. She sensed amazement and shock, but most of all belief.

  Marshall’s reaction was light-years apart from Chapel’s. While Chapel showed skepticism, Marshall showed acceptance. Chapel questioned nearly every comment, whereas Marshall nodded, apparently believing every word she spoke.

  The urge to have his muscular arms embracing her felt as necessary as the air she breathed. But she didn’t move. When she’d reached the end, the point where she’d walked into Pirate Cove, she rubbed her hands on her thighs, met his gaze, and shrugged. “So, that’s it. Now I just need someone to take me to Cuba. Is that going to be you?”

  He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and spun to face forward. “You might want to hang on.” He triggered the engine, and when he rammed the throttle and ripped the boat around in a quick 180-degree spin, she squealed and clutched onto the railing.

  Seconds later, she burst out laughing.

  He turned and grinned at her. “What?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes then?”

  He nodded. “But it’s not gonna be smooth sailing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank me when have your feet in Havana.”

  “I mean thank you for believing me.”

  His eyebrows bounced up. “Why wouldn’t I? Your story is so unbelievable it has to be true. Nobody could make that shit up.”

  As a giant wave exploded over the windshield, she contemplated how to answer that.

  “I see truth in your eyes, Charlene.” Marshall cut through her thoughts, and she blinked up at him.

  “Military training, huh?”

  He waggled his head. “You could say that.”

  As Miss B Hayve skipped over the ocean again, they settled into a comfortable silence. It was a bizarre experience to be sitting next to a complete stranger, yet to be feeling absolute faith in his abilities. But that was exactly how Charlene felt.

  She could hardly believe she was twenty-eight years old and the only person she trusted was a complete stranger. Having only one trusted person in her life was always going to end in profound loss. Except she hadn’t realized that until it was too late. Maybe Chapel had been right. The relationship she’d had with Peter was abnormal. Charlene decided, there and then, that after this was over, she was going to choose a place to live and stay long enough to make real friends.

  The rest of their crossing into Cuban waters was uneventful, and they arrived under the cover of darkness at three in the morning. Marshall let go of Miss B Hayve’s anchor and then set about unhooking the smaller boat off the back. He attached a Cuban flag to a pole off the back of Miss B Hayve, then leaned over to cover her name with a banner that read Bailarina del Océano, which, he explained to Charlene, was Spanish for “Ocean Dancer.”

  Once that was done, he asked her to help him below deck, where they emptied the contents of the fridge, freezer, pantry, and medicine cupboard into three bags that he removed from beneath the mattress. He didn’t elaborate on what they needed the supplies for, and she didn’t ask. She’d already worked out that he was difficult to talk to when he was focused. No, difficult wasn’t the right word; impossible described his demeanor better.

  Once they loaded the supplies onto the smaller boat, along with her suitcase, money, cane, and his night bag, they climbed aboard themselves.

  Charlene was in awe of his planning, so she went along with his instructions w
ithout question. Within ten minutes of releasing the anchor, they were motoring toward the set of twinkling lights she assumed was Havana with a pile of groceries, all her worldly possessions, and a man sporting a don’t-mess-with-me expression.

  The trip wasn’t anywhere near as smooth as the ride in Miss B Hayve, and Charlene soon found herself wincing at every bone-jarring swell they bounced over. Marshall didn’t seem to notice. Instead, his gaze flitted between the surrounding horizon and the flickering lights in the distance.

  Although they traveled under the cover of darkness, Charlene wanted to point out that the roar of their motor could probably be heard from about a hundred miles away. But talking to Marshall was impossible over the din. The closer they got to shore, the more desperately she wanted to ask him how their arrival could go unnoticed with such an ear-piercing racket.

  Marshall had got them this far, though, so she stared ahead, clutched onto the railing, and prayed a bright spotlight didn’t suddenly appear out of nowhere.

  The sun still wasn’t even a glow on the horizon when Marshall eased back on the engine and shifted back on his seat. The change in his stance had her thinking that they’d made it past some pivotal point, although she couldn’t work out what it was. Lights dotting the distant shore grew closer and brighter, and soon she could make out shapes of buildings and other boats and, more importantly, land.

  He’d done it. Charlene was about to step foot on Cuban soil.

  Now what?

  The question came out of nowhere. She hadn’t even thought through her next step.

  She figured she’d somehow make her way to the Legendarios del Guajirito show. But that was the easy part. What was she going to do when she got there? She didn’t have a photo of Peter to hand around. She doubted it was even his real name. And the likelihood of someone remembering him after twenty or so years was narrow.

  On top of all that, she didn’t speak Spanish.

  Her eyes shifted from the approaching shore to Marshall’s bulging muscles as he worked the tiller. He’d already done enough. Just getting her here had been a huge risk. But she’d need his help some more.