Out of the Blue

by Kathryn Nolan

  The voice in my head that often sounded like Quentin said, this wasn’t your best idea, my friend.

  I heard a soft, frantic knocking. I pulled the door open a few inches, and Serena slipped inside, blowing the hair from her face with a jittery smile.

  “You broke in,” she whispered.

  “As you mentioned, I’m quite skilled in many different areas,” I whispered back. “Also, my dad taught me how to do this.”

  “He did?” she asked.

  “Part of his anti-establishment teenage years,” I said with a wink. “And I’d say we have five, ten minutes max, before Marty finishes that meeting and comes back here.”

  “What should I look out for?” she asked, already moving toward the desk. I followed her, every sense buzzing and alert.

  “Anything legal or about their factories in Arizona or the city council. Definitely anything with Catalina’s name on it. Don’t disturb stuff you can’t put back exactly the way you found it.”

  She took the desk, and I went for the filing cabinets. Two of them, big and sturdy, and every damn drawer locked. I expected nothing less of the CEO and, unfortunately, couldn’t bobby pin my way into those suckers.

  I peeked through the small wire recycling bin but saw only receipts from the local food co-op down the street. His monthly planner was open on the very end of his desk—neat, orderly, filled with legible blue writing. Serena was sifting quickly through files, office supplies, random books. I pulled open the nearby door. It was indeed a coat closet, dark and not very deep. I turned on the flashlight on my phone, pushed past his multi-colored assortment of wind breakers. Nothing behind them. Nothing beneath them. Serena made a sound of frustration.

  “It’s just meeting notes, schedules for his yoga classes and vegan lasagna recipes. If we could get onto his computer, I’m sure we’d find something. But that feels really illegal, right?”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall with a growing sense of dread. “This was, I’m now realizing, a pretty stupid idea.”

  The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, followed by raised voices. Marty’s fucking voice.

  Serena’s eyes widened like a deer in the headlights.

  “Okay,” I whispered, yanking her against me. “This was a really stupid idea.”

  I did the first thing I could think of—step us backwards into the coat closet, shut the door as quietly as possible, and pray that Marty wasn’t coming to his office to get a windbreaker.

  She squeaked in surprise as I held her tight against my body.

  “Shhh,” I whispered, covering her mouth with my hand. Her fingers clutched my wrist, and I swore I could hear her heartbeat. Or maybe that was just mine. A thin strip of light between the door and the floor illuminated our feet. We could hear Marty’s voice, but it was still muffled.

  “I will not let anything happen to you, sunshine,” I whispered at her ear. She nodded, clutched me harder. We both needed to slow our breathing down or we’d give ourselves away with our loud, nervous panting. I inhaled slowly, like we did before her events. Exhaled. A beat passed, and then she did it with me.

  “So I’ll let Chase at Heavy know that we’re good to go, and then I’ll get final approval from Dave,” Marty was saying as he stepped into his office. The person with him mumbled a response. It sounded like Marty was opening up those damn filing cabinets.

  In the intervening seconds, I wracked my brain for a reason why Serena and I were in his coat closet, in case we were found, and only came up with a very feeble, we needed to make-out right this very second, and your coat closet was our best option?

  Falco was going to kill me.

  Marilyn was going to kill me.

  Quentin was going to laugh and probably put me in one of his articles.

  “She’s going to be fine, right?” the other person said. “Because it’s, like, day three, and she’s already been a problem.”

  Cautiously, so cautiously, I held Serena more tightly and let my lips drop to her hair. I could feel the tension shaking her muscles.

  “Who, Serena?” Marty asked. He sounded no less pleasant in this private setting than he did in that meeting. “She’s going to be great. She’s exactly what Dave and I wanted even though the Board wasn’t so happy. I obviously don’t want it to come to this, but she’s had sponsors before. She knows if she doesn’t follow through on what we ask her to do she’ll be in breach of contract and won’t get paid.” Desk sounds—drawers opening, pens rattling. “Money is a wonderful motivator regardless of who you are.”

  I brushed my lips across her temple.

  “She’s not easy,” the other guy said.

  “Easy is boring and doesn’t sell,” Marty replied. His footsteps roamed across the office, pausing directly in front of the closet door. I pressed my hand harder against her mouth, and I think we both stopped breathing. “We knew her reputation before hiring her. In fact, it’s why we sought her out. She’s the most beautiful woman in surfing, and even better, she’s a real firebrand at that. Controversy sells, even if she’s—” He dropped his voice. “—a pain in the ass. But a gorgeous woman who sparks controversy sparks business.”

  He was hovering by the door, and I was now essentially hovering out of my goddamn body with anxiety.

  “In the end, we can still control her. She needs us, not the other way around.” He moved across the room, away from the door. Serena and I deflated like balloons, although the energy radiating from her was fiery. A crash of what sounded like glass cups fell to the ground, and we both jumped a foot in the air. One of the coat hangers swung out hard, and I reached up and caught it right before it hit the door.

  “Are you okay?” the other guy asked with real concern in his voice. “I can clean that up.”

  “I’ve got it, thanks,” he snapped.

  An awkward silence followed between the two men.

  “I’m fine,” Marty finally said. “I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now.” He smoothed his voice over, but we’d both gone rigid at his change in tone.

  Marty Lattimore was stressed out. And I had a feeling it had to do with that little USB drive currently in my best friend’s possession.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll clean this up later. We’re running late for our next meeting.”

  The office door shut behind them. We waited a few seconds, but then Serena was shoving the door open and stepping back into the dim light. I checked we hadn’t disrupted the jackets too much before raking my hand through my hair.

  “Holy shit, that sucked,” I said, breathing out a massive sigh of relief. “We need to go. Like now.”

  Serena twisted around and stared at the pile of broken cups—the cause of Marty losing his temper. “He’s nervous about something.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s nervous about what we’re keeping from him. And I’d really rather go discuss that with Quentin and get out of here before they spot us.”

  Determined, Serena grabbed his planner from the desk and shoved it into her bag. When I gawked at her, surprised, she tossed her hair with a defiant look.

  “We’re taking them down,” she said. “And I don’t care what we have to do to make it happen.”

  I wrapped my arm around her waist, pulled her against my body, and kissed her. “That was some impressive cloak-and-dagger work.”

  She snorted. “I almost fainted in the closet when Marty got too close.”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Baby steps, sunshine. There’s no one else in the world I’d want to expose a company’s heinous secrets with than you.”

  She brushed her lips against mine with a smile. “You’re such a romantic.”

  27

  Serena

  We walked back through the parking lot at Aerial as casually as possible. The stolen planner in my bag felt like a neon pink arrow pointing directly at our heads. But I kept my shoulders back, smiling politely at the employees and hyper-aware of any man who bore a resemblance to a Lattimore brother.

  “So
now we’re going to get in the car,” Cope said softly. “And drive away, and if anyone stops us, I’m sure I’ll come up with an ingenious lie right on the spot.”

  “You don’t have one already prepared?” I whispered. A bead of sweat slid down my spine.

  Cope unlocked my door and opened it. “Believe it or not, that was my first time breaking into an office and stealing private property.” His lips quirked. “Sorry, I didn’t steal it. You did, sunshine.”

  I slid inside and narrowed my eyes at my smirking, much-too-handsome ex-husband. “Only after you convinced me to commit an act you described up front as highly unethical.”

  He shrugged. “Semantics.”

  But I didn’t miss the lines around his mouth or the tight clench of his jaw as he crossed over to the driver’s side just as I was sure he noticed my jittery voice. A powerful combination of adrenaline and fear coursed through my bloodstream, mimicking my body’s reaction when I stared down the drop of a wave while balanced on a board.

  No rush of liberating, addicting speed followed though.

  Instead, as Cope started the car and glanced in the rearview mirror, the sheer weight of our responsibility was fully realized.

  “I meant what I said back there.” I turned towards him in my seat. “I want them to pay for whatever harm they’re committing and lying to the public about.”

  “I’m with you on this, no matter what,” he said. “I’m also really sorry you had to hear them talk about you like that.”

  I shivered at the memory of having a front row seat to two men casually bragging about manipulating me—discussing me like a problem to be managed and not a human being.

  We can still control her.

  “I’m not sorry.” I took out Marty’s planner and flipped through pages of banal weeks with things like pick up more oat milk written down. “At least I understand their ulterior motives in hiring me. Why they seemed so excited to work with me while also being quick to shut me up. Women athletes have been treated like this since the dawn of time. Many much worse than I’ve experienced. Besides, you know my parents used to say a lot worse to me, so I’m used to it.”

  “It’s atrocious, and there’s no excuse,” Cope said firmly.

  My skin warmed with his support. “I agree.”

  He nodded, then turned an intense gaze back to the rearview mirror. “Anything in there to note?”

  I shook my head. “Meetings, a few phone numbers. Notes for his assistants.” Something fell out from a side pocket. “There’s a business card here. Name is Sylvester Boggs with information on his law firm in downtown.”

  “Boggs?”

  “Yeah, do you know him?” I asked.

  Cope frowned. “I don’t think so, but it’s ringing a tiny bell.” He merged into the right-hand lane, looked in the mirror again.

  “Is everything okay?”

  His brow arched. “I think we’re being followed right now. Since we left the parking lot. Black SUV, tinted windshield, a few cars back. I just merged with no close exits, and our friends are… yep, right behind us again.”

  “Shit.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” he said, clearly distracted. “What are your plans today?”

  I scrolled through my phone. “I need you to drive me to a massage in an hour with the therapist who helps me after competitions. Then straight home to rest and stretch and eat my weight in carbs. Dora’s coming over late, before dinner, to review some of my tapes.”

  “Okay.” He swallowed hard. Merged again. “Aerial isn’t stupid—they can clearly find your home address, but Falco hasn’t reported seeing anyone on the property at night, and this is the first time I’m catching a tail. They could have confronted us in the parking lot but didn’t. Which makes me think they’re trying to intimidate, same as the text messages. A common tactic used on whistleblowers, basically scaring them into silence instead of exposing their nasty secrets.”

  I stared at my side mirror, where I could just make out the tires of the SUV behind us. “They’ve got a lot at stake right now.”

  “Indeed, they do.”

  He pulled down the closest exit, narrowly avoiding missing it, and the SUV roared past us. He let out an even breath before coming to a stop at the red light at the foot of the exit. “I just pulled the easiest trick in the advanced driving book and lost them so…” He shrugged. “I don’t think we’re working with stone-cold mercenaries. Probably a couple of local guys who don’t mind dipping their toes into nefarious business if it pays well.”

  My heart hammered against my chest. “I still would rather not be followed by anyone.”

  He grinned, driving through the now green light. “It’s one hell of an inconvenience, that’s for sure.”

  I studied his reaction—that smile of his had absolutely charmed me when we first met. It was also his most common defense mechanism when he felt scared or stressed but didn’t want anyone to know.

  When he was finally, finally rescued from the hostage situation, I’d run through the halls of that hospital like a track and field star, skidding to a stop in the doorway to his room, where he sat with his mom and Billie. He was hungry, dehydrated, and sore, with lacerations on his wrists, but the doctors had otherwise declared him fine.

  “Miss me?” he said with that same quicksilver smile. There were shadows under his eyes and a hollowness in his cheeks, and he seemed shocked at my distraught reaction.

  “I thought…” I gasped. “We thought… Cope, we thought they were going to kill you.” Those words scraped up my throat, leaving pain in their wake. He only shook his head and opened his arms to me. “They can’t take me out that easy, sunshine.”

  I could count the number of times I let myself cry in front of other people. That day was one of them—huge, grateful sobs as Cope stroked my hair soothingly, as if our roles were reversed. As if I’d been the one to survive an incredible trauma, and he was taking care of me.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “How are you so calm right now?” I asked. “We just broke into a man’s office, and we’re being tailed by guys trying to scare us.”

  He reached over and threaded our fingers together. My body instantly relaxed.

  “It’s a lot of training,” he said gently. “It’s years of learning how to handle a car and oncoming threats at the same time. Years of learning how to stay focused and loose so your client doesn’t get scared.”

  He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed me there—it was such a tender gesture I was momentarily speechless. “It doesn’t…” He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t mean I’m also not scared. Especially since you’re not just any client. Joking around helps me not get swept up in the fear. Because the thought of two random dudes being paid to intimidate you, to scare you, to make you feel like you don’t deserve to speak the truth, is a mental pathway I can’t walk down. I can’t trust myself to stay in control when it comes to someone hurting you.”

  We stopped at another red light. I reached for his tie, dragged him across the console, and kissed him. He kept our mouths close. “I listened to what you said,” he whispered.

  “Thank you.” I kissed him one more time before reluctantly releasing him.

  “How do you prepare to hold your breath for four minutes?” he asked, turning down a palm-tree-lined side street. “It scares the shit out of me even if I’m just watching you.”

  I hesitated, pleasantly surprised at his question. In the past, talking about my training was either too hard or led to an argument.

  “Tons and tons and tons of practice,” I said. “Understanding the way my lungs work, what risks to be aware of, and how to prioritize my safety above all else. Safety is all I think about.”

  His eyes flashed to mine, like he was pleasantly surprised by my response.

  “I listened to what you said, Cope,” I whispered. “I am listening.”

  I never, ever doubted his desire to see me on those waves, achieving
my dreams. I just recognized the painful contradiction that desire created for him—to be in love with a person who competed in the exact sport that killed his father.

  It was the complex knot in the center of our issues, one that required delicacy and empathy. I realized now how often I must have gingerly side-stepped discussing these details with him, not wanting to add to his grief.

  “You were so powerful and graceful the day you did your apnea training in front of me,” he continued. “I thought you were an inspiration.”

  “You mean when I come up sputtering water everywhere out of my mouth?” I said lightly.

  “You make it look beautiful,” he said. “My dad did that sort of training when we were growing up. Billie and I thought he was like a wizard. Totally magical. Just like you.”

  “You think I’m magic?”

  He kissed my palm again. “I’ve always known you were magic.”

  It was such an inconvenient time for my ex-husband to reclaim my heart.

  28

  Serena

  Dora placed the tablet on my knees and pressed play. I watched a tiny version of myself zip through quick, heavy barrels of water on my board. “See how they tend to angle up here and here,” she said, tracking the movement with her finger. “That’s what you need to watch tomorrow, kid. If the water shifts like that, it’s the undertow.”

  I nodded, chewing the tip of my thumb. I played the video again, needing to remember my techniques and memorize the many hidden perils of The Wedge.

  I tapped the screen. “Can’t forget this move.” In the video, I arced my board up the wave, shot off the water and spun around in the air. A trick called the aerial. It seemed especially fitting.

  “If you pull that off during a competition, I’ll buy you a whole cake,” she said.

  “Wait, seriously?”

  She shrugged, leaning back against the banister. “Sure, why the hell not.”

  “One aerial it is, then.”