Out of the Blue
Kathryn Nolan
Copyright © 2021 Kathryn Nolan
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Faith N. Erline
and Jessica Snyder
Cover by Kari March
ISBN: 978-1-945631-76-4 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-945631-77-1 (paperback)
051021
Contents
1. Cope
2. Serena
3. Cope
4. Serena
5. Cope
6. Serena
7. Serena
8. Cope
9. Serena
10. Cope
11. Serena
12. Cope
13. Cope
14. Serena
15. Cope
16. Cope
17. Serena
18. Cope
19. Serena
20. Serena
21. Cope
22. Cope
23. Serena
24. Serena
25. Cope
26. Cope
27. Serena
28. Serena
29. Cope
30. Serena
31. Cope
32. Serena
33. Cope
34. Serena
35. Cope
36. Cope
37. Serena
38. Serena
39. Cope
40. Serena
41. Cope
Epilogue
Want more Cope and Serena
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgments
Hang Out With Kathryn!
About Kathryn
Books By Kathryn
For those who refuse to stay in their lane.
1
Cope
My client had made the barista cry.
Again.
“You are well-known for providing the most expensive and sought-after coffee in San Diego,” he said. “Yet what I’m currently holding in my hand is nothing but pure disappointment served at room temperature.”
I clasped my right hand around my left wrist, feet planted six inches apart. It was the classic posture of protection agents everywhere, but I was only using it to control my irritation. I’d been unlucky enough to be placed on Arnold Sheffield’s security detail for six months now. He’d come into this world with a trust fund, and over the years he’d acquired a flashy lifestyle, fueled by the Fortune 500 company he ran in name only.
That meant Arnold Sheffield was a total and unrepentant douche. We were currently fielding a dozen kidnapping threats a week on him.
Mostly from his adult children.
While Sheffield continued to berate the barista, I leaned over to whisper at Falco. “I kind of hope one of his kids actually goes through with those kidnapping threats, you know?”
Falco remained stone-faced. We’d worked together at Banks Executive Security for years, and he was a rule follower to his very core.
Sheffield dropped the cup of coffee back onto the counter and whirled around to take a phone call. The barista was pink-cheeked and watery-eyed. I shot her a sympathetic smile.
Meanwhile, my client paced back and forth dramatically, aware of his audience. He was in his early sixties, pale with gray hair and a mustache he thought made him look distinguished. He ended his call, exasperated, then pushed open the front door. Falco dutifully followed at the prescribed three-foot distance. With one eye on the street, I walked to the barista and reached for my wallet. I had all of forty-two dollars in crumpled bills, but I shoved them into the tip jar just as she was turning around. “If it’s any consolation,” I said, “I really think he’s going to be kidnapped soon by one of his own children.”
Her brow furrowed. “What the hell?”
I nodded, sliding on my aviator sunglasses. “My thoughts exactly. Have a nice day, ma’am.”
I backed out through the door and onto the sun-drenched sidewalk. Falco was waiting for the valet to return the town car while Sheffield fumed. The man’s three adult children were a pack of money-obsessed hyenas who’d stab each other in the heart with a salad fork if it meant they got one extra penny. And they were privileged enough to believe they could orchestrate a kidnapping plot against their dad for the ransom money without consequences.
Personally, my odds were on Arnold Jr., who had three yachts, zero compassion, and the personality of a houseplant.
“Do we know why the car is taking so long?” Sheffield demanded.
“No sir,” Falco said. “I’m sure it’ll be just a moment.”
There was a sharp, piercing squeal of tires on asphalt. Then a black van with tinted windows slid right in front of us, slamming on the brakes so hard I winced. But that wince became a grin when the side door peeled open, revealing an average-sized guy in all black wearing a face mask that disguised his features.
“Well, whaddya know,” I said, reaching down to adjust my cuff links. Falco sprang into action, shoving Sheffield behind him and radioing for help on his walkie-talkie.
I stepped gracefully in front of them both to greet the situation.
The guy in the face mask saw Sheffield, then saw me, and made the wrong choice. He ran at me like a flying squirrel. I shrugged, dropped low, and hit the guy in his mid-section. He went hurtling over my shoulder, landing with a thud on the ground.
Falco was still barking orders into the walkie while Sheffield wailed, “Am I being kidnapped?”
The guy on the ground scrambled up. I punched him in the jaw, and he dropped back down. “Don’t worry, sir,” I assured Sheffield. “Falco and I have been on the receiving end of plenty of attempted kidnappings. And they haven’t gotten us yet.”
Guy-on-the-ground tried to sit up, woozily. I grabbed a fistful of his sweater and dragged him to the wall. “You see, your average kidnapper these days is pretty fucking incompetent.”
Falco hustled over to restrain our attacker. “If that guy doesn’t kill you, Cope, I swear to god I will,” he hissed.
I arched my eyebrow. “Which guy?”
“That one.”
I spun on my heels as the second kidnapper lunged at me. His arm arced back in a wide attempt at punching me in the head. But I ducked free, clocked him under the chin, and followed it with a swift knee to the stomach. I shoved him to the ground, slightly out of breath. When he tried to squirm away, I dropped to my knees and pinned him to the sidewalk.
“Backup is on its way,” Falco said through gritted teeth. “Mr. Sheffield, sir, you need to stay behind me.”
Our client was, literally, pulling his hair out. “Do you… Jesus Christ… do you think one of my kids is behind this?”
Falco and I shared a conspiratorial look. “Arnold Junior?” I mouthed. He shook his head and went back to securing the first attacker.
Whistling, I tried to get my own bad guy under control. Today was a lot more fun than Sheffield’s usual security detail, which consisted of driving him from high-profile meeting to higher-profile meeting, watching him yell at his staff like they were worth less than dog shit on the bottom of his shoe and having a front-row seat to family dynamics so fucked up I probably needed therapy.
So sometimes a little action was nice. I wasn’t put on this earth to protect people from harm just to make sure guys like this had access to their favorite hundred-dollar cup of coffee.
My attacker was trying to yell something at me, but his face was muffled by the sidewalk I was grinding his cheek into.
“Sorry, what was tha
t?” I asked.
More garbled noise followed. I shook my head and sat back on my heels. Falco cursed and Sheffield gasped. Then I heard the all-too familiar sound of my partner cocking his weapon.
Cold metal pressed to the back of my head.
“Drop it, or I’ll shoot.” The voice behind me was thin. Nervous. I didn’t like nervous. Give me a skilled, confident kidnapper any day. Nervous ones made mistakes, like shooting a man in broad daylight in downtown San Diego.
“Now I know what your friend was trying to say,” I drawled. “Watch out for the third asshole.”
“That was stupid of you not to bring a gun.” The nervousness had transformed into a false bravado that raised the hair on the back of my neck. Memories of the last time I’d been at the receiving end of a gun barrel beat at the edges of my thoughts. But I muscled them back and locked them away.
“I hate guns,” I said smoothly. “Never use ’em. Besides, in most courts of law, my hands would be considered dangerous weapons.”
“You got a lot of jokes for a man with a gun to his head.”
“A habit I haven’t been able to break.”
I cast my eyes down to the side. His boots were within striking distance. Complicating things was the guy I’d been restraining on the sidewalk, slowly catching his breath and turning over. Two against one meant I was done for. I mentally ran through a catalog of low takedowns, but they’d have to be fast. And a surprise.
“Put the CEO dude in the car,” he said. The cold metal dug into my skin.
“You know I can’t do that.” I flexed my fingers, just slightly. Felt a corresponding zap of adrenaline.
“I’m not asking—”
I grabbed his booted ankle, yanking forward as I stood. I knocked the gun from his hand with my shoulder, swiped the back of his knees, and sent him tumbling down to the hard ground. With the first guy restrained, Falco was next to me and on the other man immediately.
I stood all the way up, hands on my hips and head tilted back. Chest still heaving, I let out a slightly pained laugh.
Then I gave the third guy a petty little kick in his side. “That’s for bringing a gun.”
“Fucking ow,” he cried.
But now that I was surveying the scene around me, I was less in the mood for snappy one-liners. Because the nervous-sounding dickhead laying on the ground had gotten the drop on me.
And that wasn’t good, evidenced by the scowl on Falco’s face when we made eye contact. Marilyn, our boss, had already professed her sincerest disappointment in my performance a few months ago. Chatty and overly familiar with clients. Seems bored and disinterested. Makes risky choices that go against protocol.
Sheffield stumbled over, frazzled and rumpled. “That man could have killed you.”
Falco muttered, “Or the boss will.”
Ignoring him, I flashed a grin and brushed a few pebbles from my suit sleeves. “Not in the cards for me today, sir. But your concern is appreciated.”
The door to the coffee shop creaked open. The barista from earlier stood there, eyes wide, jaw dropped open.
“See?” I said, indicating the bodies on the ground. “Karma’s a bitch.”
2
Serena
The marketing team in the conference room at Aerial’s headquarters was absolutely silent as they watched the tiny figure being towed out by a jet ski to surf giant waves. The video was projected up on a wall made of natural-looking wood. Above it, the words Invest in Planet Earth were painted in teal and yellow.
I re-crossed my legs and settled my hands in my lap to keep from twisting them nervously. I’d gotten dressed up for this meeting. Or as dressed up as was physically possible for me. My wardrobe consisted of board shorts and wet suits, but I’d dragged a slightly wrinkled dress from the back of my closet and thrown it on before racing out the door.
The guy sitting next to me had the wiry, muscular forearms of a rock climber. “Were you scared shitless out there?” he asked.
“I’m always scared shitless,” I admitted. “Going over the lip of a forty-foot wave pushing you at fifty miles an hour is terrifying.” I glanced back at the video, where I was waiting patiently on my board for the right set. The Jaws Invitational only went when Maui’s infamously big waves were perfect. And it hadn’t been called in years.
Every surfer that day understood the waves at Jaws to be a class onto their own—they were heavy, loud steamrollers of water. The slabs of white foam curling up and over the heads of those tiny human beings shook the sand, carved canyons into the ocean floor, sent surfers tumbling end-over-end into a dangerous maelstrom of currents and riptides.
And I loved every second of it.
My gaze flicked back to the man next to me. “It’s also the gnarliest thing I’ve ever done. Would do it again in a heartbeat.”
Reaction sounds bubbled up from the front of the room. Even now, my stomach hollowed out as I watched my hands let go of the rope towing me behind the jet ski. My board skimmed across the top of a wave I later found out measured forty-six feet high. It was a beauty of a bomb—turquoise blue, clear, and shimmering. I dipped down the face, gliding across the water with spray flying up all around me. The only thing I remembered was the absolute roar in my ears, the saltwater stinging my skin. And the all-out adrenaline of being shoved forward on a board by the power of an epic wave.
The lip curled up and over, obscuring me from view. There were hushed gasps, some nervous-sounding laughter. At that point, I was one with the wave, and that tight green barrel hadn’t scared me one bit.
A row of bumpy water almost had me tumbling off, but I caught myself. I bit the tip of my thumb and smiled as the audience reacted with cheers. Cheers that grew louder as I caught the path back up the barrel. With the momentum of the water behind me, I shot off the top of the wave, hands down to grab my board, before diving into the ocean.
The lights came back on, revealing the five executive members of Aerial’s marketing team. And at the head of the table stood David and Marty Lattimore, the brothers who had founded the company in the seventies, with the goal of creating an outdoor clothing and gear brand that protected the environment at the same time. Standing next to each other, they didn’t look like the leaders of a billion-dollar business. They were both white with shaggy hair and the kind of craggy, wind-burned faces common among San Diego’s population of surfers and rock-climbers.
“Well done, Serena,” David said, shaking his head. “We’ve watched that video a dozen times, and it never gets less impressive.”
Marty slid his hands into the pockets of his hiking pants. “When I heard you’d qualified for the ISC, I ran right to Dave’s office and said, ‘That’s her: Aerial’s next brand ambassador.’”
I smiled in response, wanting to pinch myself. “Thank you so much for saying that. This opportunity is a literal dream come true for me. When I started surfing at twelve, my very first board was an Aerial one. And I’m proud to say I still only use yours.”
“Happy to hear it,” Marty said. “And that’s one of the many reasons we chose you to represent us. You are the surfer to watch at this year’s ISC events. You’re outspoken. A maverick. Passionate. These are the qualities this company has always embodied, both in spirit and in practice.”
“Our team is very excited,” David continued. “We partner with Heavy magazine whenever we have a new ambassador to officially launch them as the face of our company. Your interview is in two days, and the photoshoot is the week after.”
“And from there?” Marty said. “We’ve got press scheduled at your next three competitions to start and even more photo shoots to model gear and clothing. And all of this is to prepare for next year’s Olympics in Barcelona. We want you front and center in promo, ads—”
“Speaking up, speaking out,” David interjected. “We want you to be you, Serena.”
My smile widened. “I think this is going to be a perfect fit.”
I had waited a long, long time to compete at t
he international level. And while I was surfing at twelve and began competing at fourteen, it wasn’t until the infamous wave at Jaws that I qualified for the elite events. And that was only after years of grueling training and an intense competition schedule.
So when my agent had called to say that Aerial wanted me as their newest brand ambassador, I’d been shocked. They were the most respected eco-conscious company in the world—and one I had always admired. I wore their wetsuits and clothing, used their surf wax and safety gear. Their activism was bold and ground-breaking, and they stood on the forefront of climate justice and sustainable practices, setting an example for other companies to follow.
“We think it’s perfect too,” Marty said. “Before you head out, do you have some time to talk a little bit with the marketing team about what you’ll be focusing your spotlight on?”
“I can do that, yeah,” I said, facing the marketing team at the end of the table. “David, Marty, and I have already chatted about what I’d like to raise awareness of within the surfing industry since I’ll have an even bigger platform now. And that, of course, is sexism. Inequality that’s been prevalent in this sport since it began and all the ways it negatively impacts the lives of fellow athletes.”
Out of the Blue Page 1
