Out of the Blue

by Kathryn Nolan

  Not everyone in my life had been like that.

  “Are you sure it’s not him?” Dora asked, running a hand through her purple hair.

  “Positive,” I said. “How many bodyguards are employed in this city anyway? It would be some kind of freaky-ass coincidence if it was him.”

  She hummed beneath her breath like she didn’t believe me. “Either way, I need you focused out there, alright?” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and squeezed until I laughed.

  “I’m focused, I promise,” I said. The next set was rolling in, and we instinctively turned toward the oncoming waves.

  I arched an eyebrow at my trainer as she released me. “You ready to keep surfing?”

  But she was already heading back for her board. Kalei and Prue appeared a second later, both looking wild and wind-swept.

  “Come on, goddesses. The ocean awaits us,” Prue said, tugging her wife across the wet sand and into the water. With a grin, I followed, feeling the bite of chilly spray against my legs and the buoyancy of my board. The three of us paddled out together, with Dora close behind, and we spent the morning flying across foamy breaks beneath the dazzling California sun.

  I maintained my focus with an iron grip. Because Dora was right, and I had faith that the universe wouldn’t screw me over like that.

  Having an ex-husband for a protection agent was the last thing I needed before the most important competitions of my career.

  5

  Cope

  I was early to my meeting at Aerial. Like, way early. But I wanted to give myself time to stand in the parking lot—in my usual black suit and sunglasses—and pretend I wasn’t hoping to see my wife before heading inside.

  I had no idea what the hell we’d say to each other. Like everything that we did, our breakup had been the result of stubborn recklessness and too much passion. We absolutely did not get closure. Which was odd for two people united in their greed for adventure, for spontaneity and fun, for grabbing all that life had to offer and running with it.

  We only had silence at the end. The cold, hard kind that gets harder and more awkward the more time passes.

  I ran my thumb across my lip, then shoved my hands in my pockets when I saw my fingers were trembling. My mind insisted on feeding me one super-hot memory after another. And even though I’d just told Marilyn I wouldn’t mess this up, I’d stumbled around my house last night, bumping into furniture like a clumsy teenager.

  The memories of our honeymoon night had become a constant distraction. Once we’d finally made our way into that hotel room—tipsy, exhilarated, horny—we only left that bed to fuck on the dresser. Then fuck in the shower. And then we fucked on the closet floor before climbing back into that bed.

  “I won’t stop until my new wife is satisfied,” I growled, licking the beads of sweat sliding down her neck.

  Serena only purred in response. “Then you better get to it, husband.”

  My phone rang. I smiled when I saw the name pop up. “Well, if it isn’t Quentin Abernathy the Third.”

  “Good evening, Copeland,” he drawled. “I’m merely a simple country man responding to a bizarre text message I received from you indicating that your new client is… let me check my notes here… your beautiful wife who broke your heart into a million pieces. Now did I get that right?”

  I rubbed the center of my forehead. “Off the record, I’m assuming?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “This’ll be front page news tomorrow as long as you’re okay with me recording this conversation.”

  Quentin was a true Southern gentleman who’d come all the way from Memphis, Tennessee, to attend San Diego State. He’d been my randomly assigned roommate, but our friendship had solidified fast and stayed strong even seven years after graduating. While I was learning advanced driving tactics, Quentin had pursued his dream of becoming an investigative journalist and was now a reporter for the San Diego Times.

  “I’ve always yearned to have my heartbreak and humiliation immortalized in some kind of public setting,” I said, scanning the parking lot for a gorgeous blonde with a smirk that sent me to my knees.

  “What are friends for?” he replied. “The bigger question is, did you come clean to Marilyn about any of this?”

  “Nope,” I said. “And I already feel guilty about that, so you don’t need to lay it on me. If she knew, she’d have pulled me off the case before I’d finished speaking.”

  Quentin didn’t push for more because he was a good friend and familiar with my own brand of unique bullshit. I’d already badgered myself enough for two lifetimes. Because I didn’t need to do any of this. In fact, I could have said, ‘So sorry, this woman is my wife,’ and been free to go. Marilyn would have found me another easy job to test my merit.

  But I’d been a special kind of fool around Serena since day one. And learning lessons wasn’t my thing.

  “Did you at least give Serena a heads-up?” he asked.

  I pressed my palm down my tie to bide myself time. Then I said, “Well… no.”

  “You’re going to let that sweet woman get ambushed?” His voice was muffled. I could hear pages shuffling around, keyboard sounds.

  “It’s been four years, and I don’t owe Serena a damn thing,” I said. “Wife or not. She’s my client; she doesn’t get any special treatment.” I slid my hand into my pocket. “Also, have you met her? She’s more fire than sweet.”

  He chuckled. “Sure, she’s a damn force on those waves, and she does frighten me a bit. But you’re forgetting I had a front-row seat for your two-year courtship, and the two of you were sweet as candy. Oh, hell, I just spilled coffee all over my desk.”

  “Are you working on something?” Quentin’s investigative instincts were legendary. He had a penchant for sniffing out injustice and always stood up for the little guy. That meant he went after scandalous billionaires, corporate liars, creepy politicians.

  There was a reason I’d stormed over to his apartment two years ago and installed a high-tech security system for him. Quentin was on an endless search for bad guys who believed they were untouchable—and then he basically launched a rocket at their face. He made making enemies look easy, and that made me want to put barbed wire around his block to protect him.

  “Kind of,” he said, still muffled. “Since you’re now working with Aerial, I thought I’d do a little digging just for fun, see what skeletons I can unearth.”

  I grinned, surprised. “Wait, you never did that when I was with Sheffield.”

  “Arnold Sheffield isn’t hiding anything. He puts his atrocious crimes out in the open.” I heard water rushing, something clanging in the sink. And then his voice came back on more clearly. “But Aerial is intriguing.”

  I studied their building. “They were doing the eco-conscious, sustainability thing before it was trendy. I think you can relax, Quent. They’re one of the good guys.”

  “In the world of big corporations there are no good guys, only guys that are good at lying.”

  I laughed because it was so utterly Quentin. “Okay, my friend. Have fun with that.”

  “I’ll update you when I’ve found something,” he said. “And you update me after you reunite with Serena.”

  Falco pulled up next to me and got out of his car.

  “Will do,” I said.

  I hung up the phone and turned to my stoic partner. He was a big, beefy white guy with a shaved head who almost never smiled. “Good evening. Ready for a new assignment?”

  He grunted in response, but wariness flashed in his eyes. I felt guilty again—for keeping my relationship to Serena a secret from my partner and for not addressing his own understandable frustrations with my attitude. We weren’t fully friends. I mean, I sometimes grabbed a beer after work with him and some coworkers, and I’d met his boyfriend, Connor, a few times. But still. We’d worked together for years, and I felt shitty about the Sheffield job.

  “Hey, Falco,” I said, hands back in my pockets. He turned around. “I am sorry abou
t how the whole kidnapping threat went down the other day. And I’m sure having to babysit me on this easy assignment isn’t your idea of a good time.”

  He shrugged, then admitted, “It’s not. But it’s my job, and I’ll do it.”

  Marilyn’s words came back to me: You’re unhappy with this job and it shows. Was Falco happy? And did it matter how I felt if I knew I was always meant to do it?

  “I’ll be more focused and professional,” I said, which had me breaking out in a cold sweat. As if my feelings towards the woman we were about to meet had ever come close to professional. “I won’t let you or Marilyn down.”

  Falco nodded, turned on his heel, and walked to the building with perfect posture. I’d known him long enough to understand he’d non-verbally accepted my apology.

  “Well, alright then,” I sighed. Checking my appearance one last time, I followed him into a brightly lit lobby. There was a rock-climbing wall on one side and bikes parked in the corner. All of the staff walking around looked young and hip and effortlessly outdoorsy. Aerial was well known and had devoted consumers—something I knew personally because Serena had sworn by their surfboards and refused to purchase anything else.

  An older man walked up to us, dressed like he was about to embark on an afternoon hike. “Mr. Falco? Mr. McDaniels?”

  We stepped forward to shake his hand. He seemed friendly. Approachable. And he surprised me when he said, “I’m Marty Lattimore, one of the CEOs for Aerial. Come on back.”

  Falco and I exchanged a glance. Not that I didn’t consider myself to be a big fucking deal, but CEOs didn’t usually come out to greet us.

  We followed him down a hallway into a smaller room. “Sit, sit,” he said, indicating two chairs. He perched on the end of the table, relaxed and loose. “We’ve worked with Banks Security before and have always had an excellent experience with their bodyguards. My brother and I take the role that Serena Swift now has very seriously. She’s representing us out there, in the real world, showing off our products and exciting our fans. We want to make sure she feels happy and secure. And focused on winning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Falco said. “We’ll do everything we can to make Ms. Swift feel safe and comfortable.”

  I leaned back in my chair and hooked my ankle over my knee. “In the past couple days, have there been any threats made against Seren… excuse me, Ms. Swift? Or are we still being called in out of an abundance of caution?”

  “Abundance of caution,” Marty said. “I know you’ve been brought up to speed on some of our incidents and close calls in the past. And after one of our ambassadors was stalked and then threatened, we got serious about personal protection. Serena is well-known in this industry, but her profile is about to be amplified and raised tenfold, especially with some of the media spotlights we have planned for her. I’m sure I don’t have to tell either of you that the higher profile the client, the more they attract an unsavory audience.”

  My body flooded with a furious adrenaline.

  “Now obviously this is a little delicate,” he continued. “But Serena is clearly an extremely… striking woman. Outspoken as well. That combination is why we wanted her. It’s also the kind of combination that draws unwanted attention.”

  I was pretty sure I caught the fastest glimpse of smug delight in Marty’s eyes. A yeah-she’s-super-hot look that sent a tendril of unease through me. And a somewhat immature desire to punch him in the nuts.

  “Aerial made the smart choice for brand ambassador,” I chimed in. “She’s one of the best surfers out there, hands down. Her talent is unparalleled.”

  His expression turned sincere, and I loosened up a little. “I think Ms. Swift has a long career ahead of her for just that reason.” A spark of recognition flickered across his face. He tilted his head. “Sorry, this might be rude, but you seem so familiar to me. Have we met before?”

  I hid a wince, even though I should have expected it here. “I’m Copeland McDaniels… the second.”

  His face shifted. “Oh. Oh, you’re his son, right?”

  When I nodded, Marty beamed. “I should have known right away. You are the spitting image of your father.”

  “I’ve heard,” I said, throat tight.

  He stood up, passing his hands quickly over a wall of athletes photographed mid-action. Falco’s face was all craggy questions, but I only shrugged. “You never asked.”

  “Yes, here we go.” Marty handed me a framed picture in eighties-Kodak tones. It was of my father with his arms around a few other surfers—family friends I remembered from when I was a kid. He was smiling wide, holding up the two pieces of his board. I knew this story. He’d wiped out on a big wave, surfaced, and then found these pieces more than a mile down shore.

  “I didn’t know your father personally, but like most surfers in San Diego, my brother and I greatly admired him,” Marty said. “His talent but also who he was. He really cared about building community.”

  The skin around my eyes got hot. I swallowed a couple of times and then set the picture down on the table. Seeing him like that was always hard for me. My mother, Helen, and younger sister, Billie, got comfort from looking at old pictures and watching videos. But I hated feeling like I’d seen a ghost. Never liked seeing him in the midst of being so alive when he was dead and had been for thirteen years now.

  “Yes, sir, he really did care,” I finally said. I faked a smile. “I’ll tell my mom that my new client is a fan. Was a fan, I mean. She’ll appreciate it.”

  He hung the picture back up on the wall. “You must be excited then for these competitions. And it helps that you understand these events. We’re the title sponsors for the next three in the ISC and have beefed up security a bit. But there’s still a chance that something can happen.”

  When we were little, Billie and I had loved competitions. Had loved hanging with my dad’s cool surfer friends while getting sunburned and sun-dazed surrounded by cheering fans. I certainly never thought of them as occasions for potential threats. But that was well before I understood my dad’s career was dangerous.

  “Of course,” I said. “Being overly cautious is always the smartest option when it comes to personal safety.”

  Falco gave me another slightly shocked look. Probably because he hadn’t seen me take anything seriously in a long time.

  Someone knocked sharply at the door. My heart sped up so fast it was painful. But it was only one of Marty’s staff. “Do you have, like, five minutes to talk to Jane before Serena gets here?”

  “You betcha,” he said. “Are you two okay waiting for a few minutes alone? Or do you want to head to our kitchen and grab some coffee or tea? All fair-trade of course.”

  Falco stood up so fast his chair almost fell over. Dude was hooked on caffeine, and he needed to stay wired to work the night shift. He followed, hot on Marty’s heels, and I barely got out “Yeah, I’ll take a decaf coffee too, thanks,” before he slammed the door shut.

  I sighed, let my head tip back, and pinched the bridge of my nose. Then I stood up to pace the room, passing over my father’s photograph to examine the rest of the framed athletes. Almost all of them were men. And there were no women surfers.

  The door creaked back open.

  “Did you get me a coffee, or did you forget as usual?” I asked.

  There was no answer, so I turned around, hand in my pocket, and came face-to-face with my wife.

  The door shut behind her as she stood there, frozen in place, lips parted. That soft click faded the world away, hushed the sounds of a busy office in downtown, brought Serena into sharp, precise focus. Our eyes connected. Held. My brain went fuzzy. My skin went electric.

  I got hard as a rock.

  “Cope?”

  Serena’s voice saying my name again after four long years was already my undoing. But the emotion etched into it tipped me right over the edge. It was raw, painful yearning, and the force of it had me touching the wall to steady myself.

  Serena wasn’t doing much better, swayin
g lightly like grass in the wind. The motion told me everything I didn’t want to know about her feelings.

  Surfers weren’t unsteady on their feet.

  “Serena,” I said on an exhale. Her eyes closed. My voice sounded just as exposed, utterly naked to the elements. She was, even after all this time, achingly beautiful, all muscled, tan legs and wild, untamed hair that fell halfway down her back. Her jean shorts were tantalizingly short. Her gray sweater hung loose over her shoulder, exposing the delicious curve of her throat.

  I contemplated a thousand different courses of action—running away for good, begging her to take me back, locking the door and bending her over this table. And then all the way back to running away for good.

  My gut instincts were spot-on, as always. Because the second she opened her eyes, blazing with anger, I knew this emotionally charged truce had come to an end.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re my bodyguard?”

  “One of two bodyguards. But unfortunately, yes,” I said. “And before you get on your high horse about it, I’m pissed off too.”

  “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Serena.”

  “Do not Serena me. This tops the list of worst ideas of all time, and I can’t have this kind of stress in my life right now.”

  I took a step closer. “You think I don’t know this is the fucking worst? You think I’ve somehow forgotten what happened between us?”

  She crossed her arms, preparing for battle. “Then why are you here?” She pointed behind her, over her shoulder. “And does your work know? Does anyone—”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not. Wait, does Aerial know?”

  She shook her head firmly. “I don’t talk about it anymore. The only people who know are—”