by Nicole Snow
Still.
There’s this feeling about her.
Like she’s ephemeral and not really here.
Too easy to let slip through your fingers, even when you’re fighting like hell to hold on to her.
That shouldn’t make me feel so melancholy, so raw. Too many memories, I think, turning me inside out now that I’m alone in the wild with a pretty lady. It’s been too long.
Katelyn and I were long over when she died. No love lost. You still mourn the person, no matter what they did.
Because no matter what, you still made something together, and what we made out of our bad times is more precious to me than anything in this upside-down universe.
Eli.
There’s a very good reason I haven’t looked at a woman in years—Eli always comes first.
Clearing my throat, I step up to the rocks and drop the bags in a good clear spot.
“Hey.”
She startles, jumping a little, then looks over her shoulder at me. It’s like she’s just come back to earth, becoming solid and real again.
“Oh, hey. Did it give you much trouble?”
“More stubborn than wrestling a bear,” I say.
“Have you really?” she asks lightly. “Wrestled many bears, that is.”
“Only the odd bears trying to break into our grub while camping.”
She stares, her mouth dropping open a little.
Biting back a grin, I wink, leaving her to decide for herself whether or not I’m punking her.
I settle down, my forearms resting on a rock outcropping, looking up at her with the sun framing her and pulling out the hints of red in her hair. It makes individual strands glow like forge-fire.
Shit, it’s hard to tear my eyes off her.
“So you want to head out now, or set up camp first? Gonna be colder on the water. Might be good to have a fire prepped and warm digs waiting when we come back.”
“Now. Before I lose my nerve,” Felicity says. No hesitation. She looks away from me, that far-seeing gaze turned out over the lake as if she can see all the way to its bottom. “I’d rather know than chicken out.”
“Now it is.” I straighten, dusting off my arms. “Did you see anything when you passed by?”
“Hmm.” After a moment, she shakes her head. “Nothing but shadows. Big ones. That deep, the water’s too murky. How are we even going to get down there?”
“Not we. I.” I pick up one of the bags I just dropped—what used to be my go bag, a duffel bag stuffed to the nines with survival gear, but now it’s just the minimum. Force of habit. It’s got my scuba gear in it, and thank God I’ve kept myself in shape or I’d have a hell of a time squeezing into the wetsuit. “Did you forget the Navy SEAL part? Plus, I’ve got twice the diving experience from offshore work. You didn’t just bring me here for my big crane, did you?”
Again, I wink.
Her eyes widen before she breaks into a laughing fit.
Yeah, I’m grinning.
Her laugh could grow on a man.
She laughs like she’s not used to a joke, but it’s a delight to see, to hear, to relish.
“Oh my God, your dad jokes are awful. And so are your dirty ones.”
“My sense of humor makes Eli laugh, thank you very much.” Chuckling, I shake my head and twirl one finger. “Now turn around. I need to suit up, and I can’t have you feasting your eyes and spoiling my purity.”
That gets another snicker, then she clears her throat and dutifully turns away, lifting her chin and making a point of staring at the sky.
I turn my back before I start to strip down.
I’m not shy.
I’m just not a fan of exposing myself to strange women unless they’ve asked to see it.
You hoping she’ll ask, Alaska? this sly voice in the back of my mind sings.
Nope. Gotta get those catastrophic thoughts outta my head.
A dip in the glacial water should help with that, though I wince at the imminent freeze to my balls.
It doesn’t take me long to shimmy into the wetsuit, zipping up from neck to toe in the rubbery, insulated layer.
Checking the wrist seals, I pull my jeans and flannel shirt back on over the whole thing for now and sling the dive kit with my backup oxygen tank and mask over one shoulder.
“C’mon,” I say, smoothing my thick hair against my head as much as I can. “Let’s roll.”
There’s a comfy tandem in the way we move together to haul the rest of my backup gear onto the boat before pushing off from shore.
Feels like we’ve known each other for years, instead of just noticed each other in passing for months before settling into this odd...friendship? Is that what this is?
Despite her skittishness, she puts me at ease when I’m around her.
Makes me feel calm. Settled. Focused when my eyes aren’t stuck to her.
Glass Lake is pretty big, but the pontoon boat skips lightly over its surface and carries us to the coordinates from her dad’s logbook.
We track them down with precision using the boat’s onboard navigation.
Felicity idles our ride to a halt over the spot, and I lean my arms on the side rail, peering down through the clear water.
Still, even eerily translucent water becomes inky shadows at a certain depth.
Strain as I might, I can’t see the bottom—but I can see subtle differences in the shapes and outlines of the shadows. I think I can make out something darker against the bottom.
Something with a more regular—possibly man-made—shape versus whatever rocks and waterlogged deadwood might be at a freshwater lake bed.
“There’s definitely something down there,” I say.
She joins me at my side, frowning, leaning over the edge so far I want to catch her by the scruff of her coat and pull her back. “It could be anything. Driftwood. Rocks. Trash.”
“The fact that it’s right where your dad put down his coordinates says otherwise.” I shrug out of my shirt. I’m too hot in the wetsuit underneath, but that’ll change pretty fast. “I’m gonna head down and take some photos of whatever I find.”
“I feel like I should be doing this. Not you.” Felicity straightens with a troubled look.
“Do you have scuba gear?”
“No?”
“Experience diving in forty-degree water?” I ask.
“...no.” She offers me a sheepish smile. “I get it. I’d just be in the way.”
“Nah, you’re not in the way. Period.” I can’t resist.
Part of me wants to pull her in, kiss her forehead, hold her till that subtle tremble in her body eases and I feel her go soft against me.
We’re not like that, though. Not yet.
So I settle for resting a hand to the top of her head, ruffling her hair, and regretting the fact that I can’t feel a single damned thing through my rubbery gloves.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe, Fliss. I know I’m making this sound like a pleasure snorkel, but I’m going deep and water this cold gets hazardous. It’s easy for me and I don’t want to risk you down there. Don’t even think about feeling guilty over it.”
She peeks up at me from under the shadow of my hand.
She’s holding so still, like a feral cat who wants to push into a gentle touch but isn’t sure if she should.
“You’re a good guy, you know that?”
“Yeah. Just don’t tell the rest of the town.” I smile, letting my hand fall away. “I was just starting to enjoy Holt’s reputation rubbing off on me. Alaska Charter, heartbreaking bastard, enigma, and dastardly ladies’ man.”
Felicity tilts her head, squinting one eye.
“Yeah, no. I don’t see it.”
“Thanks,” I snort.
Stepping back from her, I slide my jeans down my legs and kick off my boots, then heft my kit to my back before strapping on the oxygen tank, my goggles, and my mouthpiece under my chin.
“Be back in no less than thirty. Start the timer. It’s not that d
eep a dive, but just to be safe I’m gonna take it slow. Don’t start worryin’ unless I’m gone longer than forty-five minutes.” I clip a waterproof camera to my belt and strap a handheld palm light over my knuckles, then sit on the rail, backing out into the water. “Wish me luck.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Good luck!”
I just grin.
Fit my mouthpiece on.
And flop backward, plunging into the water.
It’s been a long time since my last dive, but this always feels like coming home.
The rush of frigid water against my face and neck, swarming like stinging hornets through the suit.
The water’s pressure on my body.
The streams of displaced air bubbles frothing around me, shimmering only to fade away as I sink deeper, and the world grows farther and farther away through the misty, wavering lens of the surface above.
The water really is so clear and gorgeous it’s like looking through clear sea glass.
The sun. The sky. The underside of the boat.
And Felicity, her hands gripping the railing tight as she looks over the side at me, her lips moving soundlessly and saying something that looks like “Come back safe.”
With that burned on my vision, I twist in liquid free-fall and kick my way down.
I should’ve brought proper flippers. Luckily, my own weight and the slight flare of my insulated diving shoes is enough to send me gliding down swiftly enough.
This time of day, it’s bright even down here—
Until it’s not.
The light falls away like I’ve crossed some invisible threshold. I snap on my palm light and aim it ahead of me as my eyes adjust to the cloudy darkness.
Fish flit past, lake trout and bigger species bursting apart in shimmering clouds of surprise, darting away.
I catch a few more slow-gliding, undulating shapes that could be weeds or water snakes.
Mostly, I’m focused on the shape below me.
It’s almost T-shaped, larger than it seemed from above, murky at first but as I get down deeper, closer, I can see.
My light dances across a strip of dull, degraded red. A racing stripe, I realize, painted down the side of a white outer shell.
I kick back, slowing my descent, holding as still as I can while I pan the light over the full shape of it. It’s halfway buried in silt, in debris, one wing snapped clean in half and the destroyed bit wedged upright between some rocks.
Yep.
No fucking doubt about it.
It’s a plane.
A Cessna, just like Felicity said her dad’s was, and considering the location, there’s zero doubt it’s his.
She’s either gonna love this or hate it. Or scream because we found it and she won’t know what to even feel.
I’m not sure myself.
I’ve got my camera off my belt in a heartbeat, snapping photos with one hand and aiming the lens with the other. I get a few full shots from up high, then move in closer for more detailed shots of the nose, the tail, the debris burying it.
One window looks shattered, the interior completely flooded. I can still make out the inside of the cockpit.
Might as well get a few shots inside to see if there’s anything interesting.
Anything worth hauling up the entire plane, or maybe she’ll just want to let sleeping dogs—and crashed planes—lie.
I manage to get an arm inside and snap a few shots.
What’s really striking is that the seat belt is unfastened. Most people don’t have the presence of mind to unlatch a seat belt when they’re crashing and drowning at the same time.
Not unless they planned it.
Fuck, I don’t know.
My mind whirls with freakish possibilities to explain this wreck. This mystery Felicity’s wrapped up in preys on my thoughts and makes me wonder things that are none of my business. I can think on land when I’m not counting the oxygen I have left.
There’s just one last section I want to check out.
The cargo hold.
The cockpit doors are locked from the inside, the water pressure sealing them in place anyway, and there’s no way I’m fitting my giant ass through that broken window without gutting myself.
So I kick back, circling, aiming my light till I pick out the seam of the cargo hatch outlined in lichen and moss, and dive down deeper to try to see if it’ll come open.
Easy? Hell no.
I end up clipping my camera back on my belt and sliding my palm light up to my wrist so I can get a good grip on the latch. With my feet braced against either side, I give it my all, throwing my strength into a heaving corkscrew twist.
Just when I’m about to give up, the door pops off like the top on a can of goddamned chips, nearly rocking me backward as the seal breaks.
I’m left floating there, door hanging from my hand while I stare dumbly at the broken hinges in the faint flickers of light from my wrist.
Must’ve rusted more than I thought after so many years down here—or maybe I don’t know my own strength.
I let the door go, not really paying attention as it drifts into a cloud of silty sand, and beam my light into the cargo hold.
It bounces off something reflective.
Something brilliantly bright.
My throat tightens.
Holy shit.
I fumble for my camera with numb fingers, breathing so hard I surround myself with a cloud of bubbles that still can’t obscure the glittering secret stashed inside that cargo hold.
Gold.
At least a hundred thick, heavy bars of it.
I snap shot after shot, forgetting the oxygen in my tank to get as many photos as I can.
I have to show Felicity.
She’s going to lose her shit.
Hell, I might lose my shit.
Though I’ve got a few uneasy questions, too.
Like whether or not she knew this was down here.
What the hell was her father doing with it?
And did this gold belong to someone else first, and if it did...won’t they come looking for it?
7
Worth Its Weight In (Felicity)
Alaska’s face says volumes when he comes up.
He’s found something big.
He crests the water like some kind of sea god, all dark and sleek in his wetsuit with his hair slicked back against his skull, hard body gleaming in tight, hard contours against a rubber skin that leaves very little to the imagination.
Slayed.
That’s my state of being, no question.
It’s only the tight, restrained look on his face that keeps me from falling completely under his Poseidon spell.
The boat rocks heavily as he hauls himself over the side.
I grab the railing as my stomach goes sideways from the sudden jolt.
“Sorry,” he pants out, pulling out his mouthpiece and dropping down hard on the bench on the opposite side like he’s using his own weight to counter the sway. “Wish they had heavier boats to rent. This thing’s barely a tinfoil frame.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been on rubber rafts in rougher waters.” I right myself, biting my lip. “So? Was there anything down there?”
“Oh yeah.” He grins, brandishing his camera. “Found your plane. Tail’s pretty smashed up so I couldn’t match the numbers to the logs, but it’s a Cessna, all right, and...well, see for yourself. ”
He thrusts the camera at me with a boyish eagerness that would probably be charming if I wasn’t trying not to hyperventilate.
My dad’s plane.
It’s really down there.
It’s not just a crazy dream.
There’s no way it could be anyone else’s.
God, what was he doing?
Was he even the one who crashed it?
My mind spins with a thousand scenarios.
I can see the most likely scenario—Dad getting high off the Lockwood syndicate’s supply on a shipping run, crashing his plane and getting out, but
after straggling back to his truck the heroin overloaded his system and he died.
Second most likely? He ODed first, and the Lockwoods sank his plane to hide his connection to them and avoid any implication in his death.
But as I activate the screen on the digital camera, I realize both options are wrong.
Dead wrong.
My breath goes out of me in a whoosh that practically deflates my lungs as I struggle to process what I’m seeing.
Piles and piles and piles of flipping gold bars hidden inside the plane’s dark belly.
My heart pounds like a drum.
My veins shrivel up, suddenly too small for the hot blood rushing through.
“Wh-what? How? I don’t...”
“That answers one question,” Alaska whispers, suddenly there, his hand warm and heavy on my back, guiding me to the seats. “Sit down. Take a deep breath. If you think you’re gonna pop, put your head between your knees.”
“I’m...I’m...I’m o-kay...”
I’m not okay.
I drop, letting the camera fall into my lap. But that image is still there, staring up at me.
So. Much. Gold.
Millions of dollars’ worth.
My first thought is that I wouldn’t ever have to worry about anything again.
Not the café. Not that rickety old station wagon. Not whether I can afford a couple treats for Shrub this week. Not how to pay my employees, where new equipment will come from, or—last but certainly not least—the next time that mackerel-eyed bitch shows up on my doorstep with that creepy-ass knife she treats like a pet.
I feel Alaska settling down next to me, the warmth of his body.
The heaviness of his bulk makes the boat dip.
I snap my head up, a question on my lips, all stalled breath making my chest flutter and my fingers shake.
“Alaska, I—”
I freeze, realizing how close he is.
He’d been leaning toward me, his hand still on my back...but now he freezes, too, as our noses almost bump.
There’s a silence so loud it’s deafening.
I can’t hear my own heartbeat but I can feel it against my eardrums, slamming so hard it mutes everything.
And in that silence I can feel too much: the broad spread of his fingers on my back, the delicious heat of his breaths against my frozen cheeks, the tingling proximity between us when his lips are so close I could just lean up and in a fit of passion—
