Out of the Blue

by Kathryn Nolan

  It was a gorgeous San Diego night—warm, with a soft breeze rustling the palm trees over our heads. We were sitting on the steps of my front porch while I took down notes. Dora had arrived a few hours ago with a cheese pizza and bags of ice. Regardless of the growing dangers of the whistleblower situation, I would be facing waves tomorrow as erratic as they were enormous. They were also rare in their proximity to the shoreline. While jet skis would be there in case of rescue, I would be paddling out, putting additional strain on my already overworked muscles.

  Surfing tomorrow, unprepared, wasn’t an option.

  “Here,” she said, handing me another bag of ice. “Right on your elbows now.”

  I complied but rolled my eyes like a teenager. “My elbows aren’t sore.”

  “Yet. But you’ll wake up tomorrow in serious pain if you don’t.” She chewed on a bite of cold pizza. Breaking the crust in half, she passed part of it to me. She knew I needed to feed my muscles and maintain my energy.

  She also knew that food had been one of the many tools my parents used to manipulate Caleb and me. If our behavior disappointed them, we found ourselves without a meal that day. Sometimes two.

  When Caleb and I left, we were eighteen and fourteen, so we could barely afford a run-down, one-bedroom apartment near his campus. He took the couch, I took the bed, and we finished high school and college respectively by fending for ourselves. He’d gotten a job, and I was already making some money from surf competitions, but we were young, and finances were lean.

  Our parents had been wealthy and image-obsessed, which helped us stay away from them more easily—and later helped keep the emancipation process simple. They had a reputation to maintain after all and certainly didn’t want to be unmasked as the abusers they really were.

  After about a year, they gave up trying to lure us back. My brother and I didn’t miss them.

  Dora had led the legal process to emancipate me, gotten me my agent, and started me on the training I needed to surf the biggest waves. She made sure we were fed, surprising us with meals when she happened to be “in the area” or inviting us to dinners at her house with her surfer friends where she’d load us up with enough leftovers to last a week.

  She never questioned our tough decisions or unconventional life. She’d had to carve her own path too.

  She brushed crumbs from her hands and straightened her legs out next to mine. I felt her studying me closely as I munched on bread and watched videos of dangerous waves.

  “How’s that brain of yours?” she asked. “I don’t want you all fucked up out there, angry about that Aerial meeting you told me about earlier. They’re not worth you getting hurt if you’re distracted.”

  “I feel ready to win,” I said. “I promise. Eyes on the prize, and safety above all else.”

  “You’re sure? Cause, uh, you kinda got a lot going on right now.”

  I swallowed a nervous laugh. She had no idea. “I feel calm, even after that meeting where my entire value as a professional athlete was reduced down to sex symbol. When will they learn we’re not surfing for men’s entertainment or approval?”

  Earlier over pizza I had shared every detail of Aerial’s article, and together we’d stewed in our collective outrage.

  “For some of them? Never,” Dora said. “You just sit on that board and look pretty. That’s what we used to get all the time, as if being on the water was nothing but a fun lark for women. We were toys to flirt with and objects to surf around, but at no point were we considered real competitors.” Her mouth curved into a half grin. “Until, of course, I did start competing and beat ’em all.”

  “They never knew what hit them,” I said, laughing.

  “No, they didn’t.” She nodded at me. “And until then, we keep shouting about it. We don’t need their permission to fix things.”

  “True,” I said slowly. Her sentence had sent another shimmer of inspiration through me.

  Dora cocked her head and nudged me with her foot. “That being said, I don’t want you spittin’ fire over those clowns tomorrow and getting hurt because they’re ruining your focus.”

  I smiled at her concern. “Believe it or not, I am extremely focused.”

  Her advice to me all these years had been spot on—I needed to find a place to direct my anger. Knowing now that we were going after Aerial had sharpened my wild and fiery thoughts into a precise blade, a weapon I could wield and not a burden I was controlled by.

  “What changed?” she asked.

  I searched for Cope’s familiar form, guarding us from the edge of the tree line. He turned around as if sensing my attention on him.

  I’ve always known you were magic.

  It hadn’t taken much for the undeniable pull between us to grow strong as a riptide again, sending us crashing toward what I hoped was understanding and not misery. There was something much too addicting about Cope’s vulnerability and trust in the car today, the tender way he kissed my hand and listened to me.

  We had never wanted for the exciting parts of being in love: passion, fun, laughter, joy. It was our pain and grief, our loss and scars, that had been the stumbling blocks.

  “Everything has changed,” I whispered dreamily. I cleared my throat. “Let’s just say, I’m feeling more like myself than I have in a long time.”

  Dora stared back and forth between me and Cope. “Say no more, kid.”

  We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the birds and the breeze. I ran my thumb over my bottom lip, thinking, caught up in those sparkling realizations I kept having.

  “Did you ever wish that the entire surfing industry wasn’t dependent on athletes getting corporate sponsors so they can afford to train and compete?”

  “Oh, all the damn time,” she said. “Talk about a barrier. And it keeps out a lot of folks that don’t look like, well—” She nodded at Cope’s broad back. “—that don’t look like him. You can’t compete without funding, but you can’t get funding if you don’t compete. And women who get sponsors are still paid less than men.”

  “Even though we’re equally risking our lives,” I said. Then I winced, stomach churning. “And Marty made it clear today that I’d secured this sponsorship because I was the, quote, ‘hottest woman in surfing.’ It’s despicable and really unfair, but pretty athletes always have an easier go of it.”

  Dora made a sound of agreement. “Hard as that is to sit with, you’ve had a lot of money thrown your way because of it.”

  The back of my neck got hot. It was hard to sit with a system that discriminated against me and benefited me. But I knew what Dora would say in response to my discomfort: What the hell are you going to do about it?

  “You’re right. I have, and it’s still wrong. It’s a bad system,” I said firmly. “Maybe I’m starting to wonder if there’s another way. A way to fix some of these flaws.”

  She nodded, standing up and stretching her back. “There’s always another way.”

  She walked inside with our plates and the tablet. And I slotted this conversation into the part of my brain that had been marinating on a half-baked wisp of an idea that wouldn’t leave me alone.

  The sound of tires on gravel caught my attention, but it was only Quentin pulling down my driveway in his old busted-up Jeep. He and Cope shared a quick conversation through the side window before he parked and got out, swinging his leather messenger bag across his chest.

  Nostalgia squeezed at my heart as he walked up to the house, armed with takeout I recognized and a roguish grin. When we were together, Cope, Caleb, and Quentin had been inseparable. We’d spent far too many nights sitting around beach bonfires with beers in our hands and music on in the background.

  He straightened his glasses and smiled up at me. “I don’t see you for four years, and you immediately go and get yourself into trouble.”

  “As Cope would say, I’m just naturally a pain in the ass,” I said.

  He laughed and then scooped me up for a hug.

  “
I’ve missed you, Quent,” I said.

  He released me but squeezed my shoulder. “And I you, Serena Swift. But let me be perfectly clear, as the person who’s had to be around your husband for four long years now, that man has missed you more.”

  I brushed the hair from my face to hide my blush. Dora walked out a minute later, saw Quentin, and clapped her hands together in excitement. As she hugged him, laughing, Cope appeared behind them.

  He caught my eye over Quentin’s shoulder, and the raw emotion there stilled me. This was how I’d felt seeing him with my brother again, the bizarre sense of our lives snapping back into place. It was jarring—but not in a bad way.

  “Quentin Abernathy, you seem smarter than ever,” Dora said. “I read every one of your articles each week, so you know.”

  “What can I say?” He shrugged. “I’m damn good at investigatin’. And you don’t look to have aged a bit, Miss Dora.”

  “I haven’t,” she said. “I refuse to.”

  “Good,” Quentin said seriously. “Don’t do it. Should I swing by your gym soon and get my ass readily handed to me in one of your workout classes?”

  “I don’t know. Will you bring by some of your mother’s chocolate meringue tarts?” she asked.

  “You drive a hard bargain.” He sighed. “That also means I need to bake, although I do enjoy cooking late at night while on deadline.”

  She clapped him on the shoulder as she walked past. “Seems like you solved your own problem there as usual. I’ll see you in class.”

  When she reached me, she held up her hands, like always. I gave her two high fives and then a swaying hug.

  “I’m still prouder of you more than anything,” she whispered. “And you better be getting back together with that man in a suit who’s been staring at you like you’re his favorite dessert this whole time.”

  “Dora,” I whispered back, before dissolving into a fit of laughter. “Thank you for the pizza and the advice and the shared outrage.”

  “Don’t forget to ice.”

  I crossed my heart. “I won’t.”

  Cope escorted Dora to her car, and I couldn’t hear what she said to him, but it involved some intense shadow boxing. Meanwhile, Quentin cleared his throat and lifted the white bag. “Carnitas tacos for the big wave surfer.”

  I snatched it and walked inside with him, opening the bag to inhale the scent of marinated pork and spices. “Don’t tell Caleb, but I think I officially like you better than him now.”

  “I’ll take it to my grave,” he said, dropping the six-pack he brought in the fridge but not before opening a beer on the bottle opener I still kept under the counter. He glanced at his phone. “Your other guard is arriving right about now, right?”

  “And we need to go distract him so that Cope can sneak back in here,” I said, pulling the blinds and curtains closed on the first floor so Falco wouldn’t see his partner enjoying a casual taco dinner with their client.

  “I’m ready,” he said. Bringing his beer, he left the messenger bag on the bar stool and followed me out to where Falco was now standing with Cope. They wore matching somber expressions that immediately gave me goosebumps.

  “Do you know what they’re talking about?” Quentin asked.

  “No, but Cope looking that serious is creeping me out.”

  “Me too,” he said. As we got closer, Cope waved at us as he slid his sunglasses into his suit pocket. “Have a nice evening, Ms. Swift. I’ll see you in the morning for the competition.”

  Quentin and I smiled politely in response as Cope got in his car and drove back up the driveway—although I knew the plan was for him to park farther down the street, walk down through the woods that ran adjacent to the property, and sneak in the back.

  Falco gave us a short nod before walking toward the front. “Hello, Ms. Swift. Do you have company for the whole evening?”

  We both went fire-engine red in the face, but Quentin recovered faster. “I’m just a friend of Serena’s from years back. I brought her some good luck tacos before her big event tomorrow.”

  Falco frowned as he listened but then shrugged. “Okay.”

  “For the record, we’re not together. Like that. In any way,” Quentin drawled, ever the gentleman. “Ever.”

  “I think he gets it,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Quentin is a reporter for the San Diego Times. Do you read the paper, Mr. Falco?”

  He was tightening his tie and smoothing it into place. “No.”

  Quentin rocked back on his heels. “Do you read any paper, sir?”

  “No.”

  I touched my ear and discreetly peeked around Falco’s massive form to see a blur of hushed movement in the trees I hoped was Cope. He was supposed to slip behind the back of the house with a key to the patio door.

  “Mr. McDaniels finished the check of the locks and entrances before I arrived,” Falco said. “Unless you need me, I’ll be right outside until morning.”

  “Can I get you food? Tacos?” I asked.

  “Just here to do my job, ma’am,” he said. “I don’t need anything.”

  “Well, thank you then,” I said. “And have a good night.

  I tugged Quentin back to the house, pushing open the front door and ushering him inside. Cope was sitting at the island—jacket off, tie off, sleeves rolled up—arranging our food and only slightly out of breath.

  “Copeland,” Quentin said, stealing a chip and dipping it into salsa. “Well done sneaking in like a teenager who broke curfew.”

  “I might have some experience in that area,” he said, winking at me. “If Falco comes in and finds me here, I don’t have a good excuse and will probably just run away into the night.”

  “Innovative,” Quentin said. “I like it.”

  As he busied himself with his laptop, I pulled up a stool next to Cope, mesmerized by the one inch of bare chest exposed by his unbuttoned collar. This was our first time being near each other in hours. With Quentin otherwise occupied, Cope tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his finger lingering on my sensitive skin.

  I shivered. I remembered what those hands of his could do.

  “What were you talking to Falco about?” I finally asked.

  His attention darted to Quentin’s laptop screen. “I told him we’d been followed this morning, so he was extra alert tonight.”

  “That was smart,” Quentin said. “This can’t be kept a secret much longer, and you two are going to need protection.”

  My phone vibrated where it lay on the table.

  “May I?” Quentin asked.

  I nodded. “It’s probably Kalei or my brother.”

  Quentin read whatever was on the screen, swore, and then handed it over. I snatched it from him, heart sinking.

  We shouldn’t have to ask you three times, Serena. Give us what you have.

  “Fuck me,” Cope whispered.

  Quentin was already typing away on his laptop. “Now’s as good a time as any to talk about what’s on that drive Catalina gave us.” He waved us over. “Because I’ve spent the past few days digging as deep as I could, and I’m sad to say I only have bad news.”

  “How bad?” Cope asked.

  “Our friends at Aerial? They’ve been lying this whole damn time.”

  29

  Cope

  If the situation was different, I would have been overjoyed to sit around our old kitchen table with my wife and best friend again, drinking beer and eating tacos. But the energy was heavy with tension, and the closed blinds and curtains only added to the somber mood.

  I looked sideways at Serena, who sat with her leg pressed to mine. I dropped my hand onto the top of her thigh and gripped her knee, marveling at the play of soft skin and hard muscle beneath my fingers. A touch like this—the barest intimacy—now felt weighted with emotional meaning. It had been denied to me for such a long time.

  She laced her fingers through mine with a shy smile.

  Quentin spun in his chair before taking a sip of beer. “I’ll sta
rt by mentioning that the original USB stick that Catalina gave to you is in a safe deposit box I opened up for situations like this. I’ve also got copies on this laptop. You two save it anywhere?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Good,” he replied. “The fewer people involved, the better before we break the story. If they’re sending nasty messages and starting to follow you, we need to move fast. They’re not going to play nice much longer.”

  “This has been nice?” Serena asked.

  I shifted next to her. “Unfortunately, yes. I still think they have several employees pegged as the whistleblower and don’t know who has what. They’re trying to flush out the weak link with scare tactics that can’t be directly traced back to them.”

  Quentin pressed his lips together. “Legally, they need to appear wholly innocent of these threats, which is why the blocked number, the SUV tail, even Marty’s aw shucks, we lost some files, can you believe it act is on purpose. They can rely on their pristine reputation to cover their tracks. And rely on their friendly charm to get you to give it back. As if all of this was just a big misunderstanding.”

  She spun her bottle on the table. “They are excellent manipulators.”

  “Well—” He sighed. “—that’s in line with what I’m learning about our favorite brothers. I met with my guy from San Diego PD, Joey Decarlo, and asked him to check in on Catalina once he figured out where she lived. I tried to weasel that information out of the receptionist at Aerial, but unfortunately she’s quite dedicated to employee privacy. According to her, Catalina is still out sick and has been since that night she met Serena. I’ve called and contacted every phone number and email listed for her on their website. I even tracked down what I think are her social media pages, but no response.”

  “Am I right to be worried for her?” Serena asked.

  He cut his gaze to mine then back to her. “I think so, yes. At the very least, she is scared to come to work, which is already worrisome if they’ve been threatening her. Passing that information to you put a big target on her back.”

  I stretched my arm across the back of Serena’s chair. “The best-case scenario is that Catalina is hiding on purpose. She could be staying with friends or relatives even. She seems smart and strategic. Even if the decision to give the information to you was spur of the moment, let’s hope she had a safety plan in place.”