Death by Bikini

by Linda Gerber

  As if he could tell what I’d been thinking, the son’s lips curved into a smile. I blinked and looked away, my face all hot and tight. I’m not used to people looking at me. I mean, really looking at me. Of course, I don’t usually go around staring at them, either. At least not right out in the open. Working at the resort, I’ve learned the value of dealing with the guests as unobtrusively as possible—blending into the background.

  Usually the blending part comes naturally for me since I happen to be what you might call unremarkable to look at—average height, average weight, average-length average brown hair. At a resort populated by beautiful people, all that averageness pretty much makes me invisible. But apparently not to this guy.

  I straightened. What was I, twelve? I wasn’t going to get all flustered just because some boy looked at me. I turned my attention back to Dad, who seemed to be in some sort of trance, staring at the blank registration screen.

  “You want me to do that?” I offered again.

  He stiffened and jerked his head in my direction, startled, like he’d forgotten I was there. “No! I’ll take care of it, Aphra. You go on up to bed.”

  “But if you’d like me to—”

  “I’ve got it.” His voice took on a sharp edge. “Good night.”

  I took a step back, stung. Dad had never spoken to me in that tone before. He’d never treated me like a little kid. In fact, when we first moved to the resort, Dad brought me into his office and sat me down to talk. He knew how upset I’d been when I realized my mom wasn’t coming with us, but he said we could get through it if we stuck together. He explained about his plans for the resort and his need for my cooperation, as if I were a business partner with whom he had to confer. “It’s just you and me now, you understand? We’ve got a big job to do.”

  I took him at his word. I thought we were a team. So how could he send me to bed like some errant child? In front of guests!

  “But I was just—”

  “Aphra! Go!”

  I spun and pushed through the French doors out into the sultry night air. My fists curled tight, and I had an overwhelming desire to slug something. Or someone. I paced the length of the lanai. The sweet perfume of the potted plumeria and jasmine—a scent I usually loved— suddenly smelled false and cloying.

  Through the window, I could see the imposter and his family, waiting expectantly as Dad fumbled through the check-in. Again I wondered if Frank had flown them in. Had he even had time to get to the city and back after dropping off the last guest? I would like to have called him to ask, but there was no way I was going back to the office to get the two-way. Not with the mood Dad was in. His snappish tone replayed in my head, and I grew angry all over again.

  I couldn’t stay there. I had to move, to give the anger and frustration an outlet. I backed away from the window, bounded down the steps of the lanai, and tore across the manicured lawn to where the huge banyan tree dominates the northern seaward corner of the courtyard. Pushing my way through its hanging roots, I finally came out onto the beach. My beach. My sanctuary.

  Our shoreline is broken up into little scallops of sand divided by natural lava rock piers that jut out into the water like prehistoric fingers. The finger on my beach comes all the way up to the tree line on one side, cutting it off almost completely from the other beaches. The banyan tree shields it from the courtyard. That, plus the fact that it’s the farthest beach from where the villas are situated, means hardly anyone ever goes there. Except me.

  I breathed deep the familiar, comforting tang of salt and seaweed. Waves curled gently inland, breaking in a steady shush across the beach. Moonlight shimmered across the foam. If the ocean couldn’t calm me, nothing could. Kicking off my shoes, I dropped my shorts and shirt in the sand. Like a lot of our guests, I practically live in my swimsuit. Unlike them, I actually swim in mine. When I was younger, I spent so much time in the water that my mom called me her little fish. But I haven’t been her little anything for a long, long time.

  I jogged the last few yards to the shore, waded in, and dived under. The seawater cooled the fire in my face and raised goose bumps on my skin.

  Following the current downward, I skimmed along the sandy bottom until my lungs burned, then I made myself stay underwater just a bit longer. That’s my ritual—something I do when I need to clear my head. Stay under long enough and pretty soon all you can think of is the primal need to breathe. It didn’t work that night, though. All I was left with was an ache in my chest that had nothing to do with the lack of oxygen.

  I shot back up to the surface and gasped in a huge gulp of salty air before diving under again. My ritual was failing me. I couldn’t make my head cooperate.

  I’d probably gone down half a dozen times before I noticed that the surf was starting to get rough. The wave height didn’t usually bother me; we’re on the windward side of the island, so I’m used to it, but the power of the surge was getting intense, which meant I should probably head for shore before it got too dangerous.

  I swam toward the beach, riding the waves until I could touch the bottom and wade in. I stepped lightly, careful to avoid the sharp rocks that lurk beneath the sand. See, we’re not Laguna or Mazatlán or any of those places where all the beaches have nicely padded sandy bottoms. Ours is a volcanic island where the waves can carry away the sand and leave the rock exposed, sharp as glass.

  I was picking my way toward the beach when I saw him. Imposter Junior sat on the shore watching me.

  Despite the coolness of the water, my face grew hot again. My calm facade rolled away with the waves. All I knew about teenage guys was what I had read in Cami’s e-mails. I had no experience actually dealing with one. What was he doing? Waiting for me? And then what? What was I supposed to say to him? What—

  I heard the crash of the wave too late. It rammed into me like a bull elephant, knocking the breath out of me. The next thing I knew I was facedown in the surf, heavy water pummeling the back of my head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I knew better.

  Never turn your back to the ocean.

  The wave receded and pulled me with it. I scrabbled at the sand, but the force of the water dragged me under and tumbled me like a washing machine. The rip current pulled me seaward.

  I’m not one to panic, but I will admit I started to freak. It was dark. I didn’t know which way was up or down. My chest felt like a crushed milk carton. Dizzy spots circled before my eyes. I was going to die.

  Then pain sliced along my arm. Yes! The rocks. That way was down. I righted myself and swam sideways as hard as I could, out of the current’s pull.

  Finally, I was free. Pushing upward, I popped to the surface, coughing and gagging. It took a minute for my head to clear and another minute to figure out where I was. A deep chill settled in my gut as I realized the water had carried me nearly twenty feet out. Much farther and I would have been diced on the reef.

  My muscles felt heavy and useless as I tried to swim toward the shore. It wasn’t until I could touch the bottom to walk in that I realized the wave had nearly torn my bikini top off. I gasped and straightened it to cover myself, praying that the imposter kid hadn’t noticed. But when I looked to the shore, he wasn’t there. Not where he had been sitting, anyway. Another glance and I saw him splashing through the water about fieen feet to my left. It took a second to register; that’s where I had been when I went under. The fool was probably trying to save me. I didn’t have the energy to signal him. I did try to call out to him, but a wave slapped the words from my lips and left me with a mouthful of salt water instead.

  All I could do was adjust my course so that I would come in a little closer to where he was. It’s a good thing, too, because he made the same mistake I had, and he went down next.

  Fortunately for him, his wave wasn’t quite as big as the one that had slammed into me. I lost sight of him in the churning white water, but then he popped up like a cork, just over an arm’s length from me. He had time only to take a breath and give me a startled look before a la
rger wave rose above us. And I had time only to grab his shirt and pull him down to dive under the surge. He struggled against my grasp as we went underwater, and I lost him for a moment, but I managed to snag his ankle before he was pulled away.

  We both surfaced at the same time, sputtering and gasping for breath.

  “Why . . . did you . . . ,” he wheezed.

  “Lifeguard,” I said, pointing to myself. I was too wiped out to explain the finer points of surf survival, so I just showed him the next swell as it began to rise. “We . . . ride this one . . . in. Got it?”

  He nodded and followed my lead, paddling with the rush of water until it lifted us up on the crest and pushed us toward shore. I didn’t have any breath left in me to tell him what to do, so I could only hope he’d bodysurfed before and could figure it out.

  I concentrated on keeping my own body in a streamlined position on top of the wave. I could feel him next to me, though—and I could swear he was laughing. We rode the crest until it crashed down, tossing us and grinding us into the sand. At least there was sand. It would have been worse if we’d have hit rock.

  Like some primordial creature, I crawled out of the water and collapsed—after checking to make sure my top was in place, of course. He dragged himself over to where I had sprawled and flopped onto his back next to me.

  We lay there, not saying a word, for a long time. All I cared about in those moments was breathing in and out. My heart was still jumping around in my chest so hard it almost hurt. I stared at the stars, thinking how bright they looked. What if we had drowned? I would never have seen those stars again. Never have seen my dad. My mom . . .

  He broke the silence. “Some ride, huh?”

  “Huh.”

  We lay still a little while longer, and then he said, “I’m Adam. Adam Smith.”

  “Aphra Connolly.”

  He reached over and held his hand out to me. “Thanks for the save.”

  I grasped his hand—weakly, I’m afraid—and shook it. “Thanks for coming in after me.”

  He gave me a half nod. “So. You live here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You like it?”

  How was I supposed to answer that? No one ever cared to ask before—not my dad and especially not a guest. I loved the island, but I missed having friends to talk to. I lived for the sun and the sea, but I would trade them both in a second if I could have my old life and my family together again. Adam was waiting for an answer, but some things are too complicated to explain. I shrugged. “S’okay.”

  He sat up, hooking his arms around his knees. His back and broad shoulders were plastered in sand, and his dark hair was matted with it. “What do you do for fun around here?”

  I propped myself up on one elbow. “That was it.”

  He gave me a sideways glance and then laughed. “Oh, great. Now what am I supposed to look forward to the rest of the trip?”

  “How long will that be?”

  He looked away. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh.” I pushed down a little quell of uneasiness. Ours was not a drop-in, stay-till-whenever type of place. People generally knew well in advance how long they were going to visit us—they had to, in order to book a villa. I thought of Adam’s imposter dad and the way he’d inspected the lobby. How my dad’s face froze during their whispered conversation. Something was definitely not right, but I didn’t want to look at it too closely. Not tonight. Not with the moon and the sea and someone to share it with.

  I took a deep breath. “If you want, I could show you around sometime.”

  His smile returned. “Show me around what? I thought this was it.”

  Touché.

  “For special patrons, we offer the near-death mountain experience as well.” I pointed back toward the hills.

  He caught my arm and lifted it to the moonlight. “Yow. Does that hurt?”

  It wasn’t until I saw the scratch that the pain began to register—faintly at first, and then stinging like the salted wound it was. A deep scratch ran the length of my forearm, oozing blood that mingled pink with the seawater. “It’s not too bad,” I lied, “but I should probably . . .” I glanced back toward the Plantation House.

  “Right.” He stood with some considerable effort. “Come on. I’ll walk you.” He held his hand out to me again, and this time the moonlight glinted off a ring on his finger—the ugliest, gaudiest gold and garnet thing I’d ever seen. It looked out of place.

  “No, it’s okay. I can—” I pulled my eyes away from the ring and started to get up, but my head tingled and my vision began to darken. I sank back down onto the sand.

  He bent next to me, face all serious and concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine. No worries.” I sat up again—slowly this time—and he wrapped an arm around my shoulders to help me.

  I stiffened. Not that I wasn’t enjoying the contact or anything, but all sorts of alarm bells started going off inside my head—mainly because I was enjoying it. The whole thing was a little too cozy. He was a guest. Likely leaving in a few days. And even if he wasn’t, nothing good could come of my letting my guard down. I thought of my mom, of the friends I’d left back home, of my dad snapping at me that night. You let people get too close, you just get hurt.

  He must have sensed my hesitation because he chuck-led. “Don’t worry. I’m harmless.”

  My face started to do the burning thing again. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know. I don’t usually rescue girls on a first date, either.”

  He looked so ridiculous with his exaggerated contrite expression that I had to smile.

  His face brightened, and he helped me to my feet. He half guided, half supported me over to where my things lay in the sand. Of course he wasn’t much steadier than I was, and the two of us nearly fell over more than once. By the time we reached my clothes, we could barely stand for laughing.

  I pulled on my blouse, folded my shorts, and slipped my gritty feet into my shoes.

  The conversation died as we picked our way through the banyan roots and up the path toward the Plantation House. When a section of the path veered off toward the villas, I stopped. “Well, good night.”

  “No. I can walk you all the way up.”

  “But don’t you go this way?” I pointed down the path.

  “No, our villa is off to the left up there, by the big palm tree.”

  “Are you sure?”That didn’t make any sense. There was only one villa to the left of the Plantation House, and it wasn’t ready to be occupied.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Villa four.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m so sorry. We can move you.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s under renovation.”

  “Oh. I thought the plastic sheeting was part of the decor. ” It took me a second to realize he was joking. That was long enough to make him laugh.

  His laughter died abruptly when Adam’s imposter dad, Mr. Smith, stepped out of the shadows. “Adam!” he hissed. “Where have you been?”

  Adam’s face darkened. He shoved his hands into his damp, sandy pockets and whispered sideways to me, “I better go. You know how it is; spies and parents never sleep.”

  He left with his dad, and I stood on the path, staring long after they’d gone. I felt numb. Adam’s last words buzzed in my head.

  My mom used to say the exact same thing.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dad was always the careful one. Mom used to make him crazy with the things she’d do, especially when she took me with her. I learned to scuba dive when I was ten. When I was eleven, she taught me to rock climb and rappel. I was supposed to go white-water rafting with her when I turned twelve, but she left before my birthday.

  I used to lie on the floor in my room at night with my ear pressed to the boards and listen to my mom and dad fight. He’d say she was being reckless with
me, and she’d say I was learning to be strong. He’d make her promise to be more careful, and she’d promise she would. And then we’d try something new the next day.

  “Just don’t tell Dad,” she’d whisper.

  We’d giggle like girlfriends when we talked about each new adventure, and it made me feel important that she wanted to share the things she loved with me. Mom was always the one to kiss away a tear or patch a skinned elbow. She tucked me in at night and read me bedtime stories. And when I had nightmares, Mom would always be there as soon as I woke up. She’d crawl under the covers with me, smooth back my hair, and tell stupid jokes until I laughed. Before long, I forgot to be scared.

  I once asked how she knew whenever I needed her. She just smiled and said, “It comes with the territory, hon. Spies and parents never sleep.”

  I skipped my usual swim in the morning and went straight to the registration desk so I could look up the Smiths’ information before Dad got to the office. It’s possible he had forgotten villa four was under construction when he was checking them in; he did appear to be a little distracted after Adam’s dad had spoken to him. If they were legitimate guests, we should move them right away.

  I ran a quick computer search but couldn’t find any sign-in at all listed for villa four. I checked the filing in-box next. Sometimes when Dad gets frustrated with the computer, he just does the paperwork by hand and leaves it for me or the other staff to input.

  Nothing.

  He walked into the lobby while I was searching the computer files again. I looked up, trying to gauge his mood. After the way he’d snapped at me the night before, I wasn’t sure where I stood.

  He caught my look and gave me a smile. A forced smile, perhaps, but at least it looked like things were back to normal. Maybe. “What are you working on this morning?”