by Lia Riley
My intended world-weary chuckle comes out more terrified field mouse. Warmth floods my breasts despite the cool ocean breeze. “I have a confession,” I murmur.
He pivots his hips in my direction. Wait, I swear his foot is nearer to mine. My fingers close on my knees. His eyes are prettier than any guy has a right to own. “Go on.”
“You’re not that scary.” I reach behind me and toss a throw pillow at his chest. My choice is clear. It’s joke or explode from the mounting pressure.
“Hey, watch it, Captain. I can be scary. Very, very scary.” He walks his fingers along the back cushions—just out for a casual Saturday night stroll.
“Whatever.”
He’s less than a hand width away. Comes closer. Closer. My head pounds. My pulse rivals a hummingbird.
“You should be careful,” he murmurs. Our legs brush and I’m full, aching. The underwear against my skin is too much friction. I’m going to burst into 4th of July grand finale fireworks if he kisses me.
“Maybe I like to live dangerously,” I whisper.
“Maybe I do too.” He stares at my mouth. His lips part.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
Below the deck comes a scuffle. Something’s knocked over. Glass breaks. A muffled laugh. Bran and I fly apart as footsteps trip up the stairs. Jazza and Bunny appear, smirking and disheveled.
“Yo, mate. We passed out on the beach. The tide came up and…” Jazza halts, notices me, and gives Bran a flinty look.
“I’m beat.” Bran jumps to his feet. He saunters for the stairs. “Gonna go crash in my car.” He’s gone without looking back.
“Let’s shower.” Bunny traces one of Jazza’s bare pecs. “I’m all sandy.”
He gives me a tight nod as they slip inside.
I crush a pillow against my chest. I wanted to be alone anyway.
And I tell myself I mean it.
Chapter Seven
Talia
Invulnerable to hangover blues, Jazza rallies everyone for a predawn surf mission at the Rock—a world-class point break up the coast. I failed to scrounge contact solution before leaving his house. My dry, slept-in lenses threaten to pop from my skull. The freezing cliff-top parking lot numbs my bare feet while below, set after set of clean head-high waves roll in. The surf is big and I haven’t been in the water in a good long time. I could make an excuse, say my eyes are bothering me, but that seems like a cop-out.
Dr. Halloway said in our last appointment that the key to mastering the mind is observation. I need to learn to ride thoughts like a wave rather than get pummeled onto shore. My lungs expand in a deep, intentional breath, but my mind jigs like a demented circus monkey.
I edge farther from the group. Better to have a little privacy to gather my nerves and gyrate into my borrowed wet suit. Someone unearthed one for me that must belong to an eight-year-old boy. My boobs pancake to my chest—the twins clearly unhappy to be bound—while I grapple over my back for the Velcro close.
I realize I’m about to paddle into waves bigger than any I’ve ever attempted—and for the world’s most stupid reason.
“Need help?” Bran steps behind me. He tugs my wet suit closed and pulls the zipper. My skin ignites when his knuckles graze the hypersensitive skin between my shoulder blades.
Yep. I’m trying to impress the Southern Hemisphere’s most unimpressible guy.
I turn around, wishing the skintight neoprene was a smidge less revealing. Each and every curve is highlighted in bright neon.
“Sure you’re up for this, Captain?” His lips are pressed tight. “The Rock’s a fast wave.”
“Yeah, totally.” This is the third time he’s asked. The first two times were in Jazza’s driveway before leaving. Why does he pretend to care? I don’t get it. He blew me off hard last night and now stares with bedroom eyes. I take a skittish step backward, a rabbit before a curious panther.
Finally, I manage to break his gaze. A big mistake, as his wet suit is only half on. The top flops over his narrow waist and hard-cut abs. His body isn’t framed with bulky “sexy and I know it” musculature. Instead, he’s got this lean, agile thing happening, like he gets his muscles from use rather than gym worship.
“Ready to head?” I fumble for the dinged short board Jazza’s given me on loan.
“Lead the way. Don’t want you perving behind my back.” Suppressed laughter lurks in his voice.
I hook the board against me and plow down the steps toward the water’s edge. “Right, because guys hate getting checked out.”
“Is that what you were doing?”
His playful side totally charms me. “Want the truth?”
He leans in, eyes lively. “Always.”
“I’m trying to remember what part of jumping into a frigid ocean before sunup is a good idea.”
“Dirty little liar.” He nudges the back of my knee with his toe. That smile is so, um, so…swashbuckling.“Hmm.” Translation: Let me plunder you three ways to Tuesday.
When we reach the cliff bottoms, he nods toward the crowded lineup. “We need to walk over the reef and paddle through the oncoming waves.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I bite my lip and hope my face looks stoic rather than panicked. The locals out there are exceptional. Jazza’s white-blond hair is starkly visible as he carves a giant face. In the distance, thunderheads cling to indigo water. Sweet. We have violent limb-tearing surf conditions bolstered by an impending typhoon. At least I poured over the fine print in my traveler’s insurance. The repatriation of remains is fully covered. Dad won’t have to fork out for my coffin’s 747 ride home. I lean down and casually knock a piece of driftwood twice for extra luck.
Craggy orange-streaked sandstone rises at our back. The cliff face is gouged from centuries of the wild weather for which the Bass Strait is famed. I’m caught in a twisted version of that childhood rhyme “Going on a Bear Hunt.” Can’t go over it. Can’t go under it. “I’ll have to go through it,” I mutter, taking a step onto the knobby reef.
“All good?” Bran moves beside me.
“Where should I go if I hypothetically wanted to steer clear of everyone’s way?”
He gives his chin a musing rub. “Uppers and Middles are the preferred spots—that’s where everyone’s headed. We could paddle this direction.” He points closer inside. “Lowers. No one’s there yet. The waves are smaller, but it can get shallow fast.”
All I register is “we” and “smaller.” I like the small part but refuse to rope him into babysitting duty.
“Thanks, I’ll hang there. I haven’t surfed in a while and don’t want to cramp your style. Go on, have fun.”
“Who says I’m not having fun?” He doesn’t budge.
“Um…” I restrain myself from giving the parking lot a last desperate look. “Okay, sure. Let’s go do this.” Foamy whitewash runs over my feet and my lungs constrict. The water temperature hovers at a cool 60 degrees.
Bran paddles up on my left. The tips of his hair are wet and in his black wet suit he looks sleek, hot, and utterly confident. “Follow me. You’re gonna do great.” His brilliant smile snatches what little air remains in my chest.
When he’s like this—nice, open—it’s dangerously appealing.
Everyone else congregates near the bigger waves. We float alone, straddling our boards. A slow swell rises.
Bran points. “This one is all you.”
I hesitate.
“Go on, take it. Unless you want to sit around waiting to be shark bait.”
Sharks? Great. Add that to the list of things that will kill me before breakfast.
He ignores my scowl, all business. “Here it comes, quickly now.”
I point my nose toward shore and paddle.
“Harder,” he orders. “Like you want it.”
I dig deep, my fingers numb. The wave gives lift. “Come on, girl,” I mutter, shoulders screaming. Spray peppers my face. Bran whoops my name. There’s a surreal moment of weightlessness and then—I’m on. Ho
ly shit, I fucking did it. I caught the wave.
I leap to my feet and drop into a low crouch, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. For the next few seconds time slows even as I gain speed. Every thought flies from my head as joy floods my limbs. I’ve never had an orgasm, but no other sensation seems even remotely as blissful or fleeting. Already the wave dwindles and I sink back into the ocean.
I flick my head to face Bran and he pumps a fist. I can’t wipe the grin off my face. No point pretending to be cool when I’m this stoked.
He gives me a friendly splash when I paddle back. “Well, how was it?”
“Freaking amazing. Fantastic.” For those few seconds I existed in the present. Why haven’t I been going out back home? This is exactly the activity that could sort out my head.
“Did good, Captain.”
“You doubted my mad skills.” I don’t add that I questioned them even more.
“Who, me?” He holds up his arms, cat-eyes bright with mischief. Another wave approaches. “All right, Captain, this one’s calling my name.” A few easy paddles and he pops up, the perfect mixture of power and grace.
We don’t talk much, only the odd back-and-forth trade. I catch almost every ride and while I’m waiting, the sight of Bran’s easy grace keeps me warm.
A gull swoops close enough to reveal shiny black eyes and a red-tipped beak. The bird looks as if it drank blood. I paddle for a new wave when Bran shouts. Not understanding him above the ocean’s roar, I stand—what the hell? Bunny slides over the crest on a hot-pink board and blocks my ride. We make quick eye contact, enough to register her mouth, Mine.
My jaw slackens. The twat! She dropped in on me. That’s breaking a fundamental surf law. Rather than risk a crash, I pull back, but the board shoots from under my feet. I wipe out, hitting the water without time to cover my head as the wave’s foamy maw devours me. The ocean seizes me like a child with a new toy. Salt water fills my mouth and ears, bends my body as I kick hard. My foot scrapes gnarled coral.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
If we were at a sandy-bottomed beach, I could push off the seafloor, shoot myself to the surface. But this is a reef. I don’t want to risk getting my foot caught.
My lungs burn, desperate for oxygen. I open my eyes for orientation and my contacts are gone in an instant. Stupid. So stupid. Panicking makes things worse. Stay calm. My brain LOLs. I’m going to die, right here, right now, in five feet of water. My diaphragm jerks against my rib cage. I was an asshat for making light earlier. If anything happens to me, Dad won’t survive the loss.
The moment the thought enters my head, my face breaks the water. I kneel, hands cutting on the reef, and draw a sobbing breath.
“Talia!”
I turn toward Bran’s alarmed voice. Another wave barrels forward with my board poised directly at my head. My reflexes are slow and before I can protect myself, the fiberglass collides with my left temple in a sick crunch. The fin slices across my cheek as if in afterthought. I sink into the wash, ears ringing. The world retreats into a murky shroud.
Strong hands yank me to my feet. Why so rough? Can’t stand. Gagging. Mouth tastes like bitter metal. Can metal taste bitter? The question blooms through my brain, crowding every other thought. Arms brace my shoulder and under my knees. I’m lifted like a baby.
“Hold on, Captain.”
That voice. Warm as sunshine even as the darkness settles.
“Talia, Talia, Talia.”
What? What? What? Jesus, shut up.
“Come on, let’s see those pretty eyes.”
Pretty? Must be someone else. Someone who didn’t have an ox tap-dance across their temple.
“Talia.”
“Too loud.” My voice is thick and scratchy. I force my lids apart. Bran is at my nose. His eyes widen and he sits, goes all blurry.
“I can’t see.”
He hisses about twelve different curses. “Okay, calm down. You’re going to be fine.”
“I’m not losing it. Lost my contacts in the wipeout.” Even half blind I can tell we’re in the parking lot. “You carried me up the stairs?”
“She good?” Jazza’s smeary outline appears overhead.
“I’m fine.” Did everyone witness my little accident?
Jazza makes a grunt of approval.
“Bunny dropped in on her,” Bran says tightly. “I think she has a concussion.”
“That sucks.” Jazza sounds distracted. “Can you hang with her for a bit? The swell’s epic.”
I brace my head and wish away the mounting nausea.
Wish denied.
“I’m taking her to the hospital. She lost consciousness.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious.” All of Jazza’s attention appears trained on the water. “She said she’s fine. You’re cool, right, California?”
Bran gives his head a half shake. “I’ll leave her board and wet suit by your van.”
“No worries, bro.” Jazza gives my shoulder a brief squeeze and is gone.
“No hospital.” I mean it. The idea of getting anywhere near an emergency room ratchets my queasiness to gut-shredding levels. But maybe my brains are scrambled. What if I’m bleeding internally, a ticking time bomb—a small jolt away from total brain hemorrhage?
“Talia?” No Captain. He’s using a serious voice, tight and über-purposeful. He kneels beside me and my hands disappear into his. How can his skin be so warm after the freezing ocean? The universe’s origin seems easier to decipher. “Natalia.”
Natalia now? A sure sign of impending catastrophe. I’m screwed; something must be really wrong. Please, God, don’t let me bleed out my ears like an Ebola monkey in front of him.
He’s vanished. Where? I float, alone, the sensation not entirely unpleasant.
“Hey.” Bran’s hands gently grip my jaw and tilt my head. “I backed my car into the space behind you. You don’t have to walk far. Or I can carry you.”
“No, that’s all right.” I accept his hand and haul onto unsteady feet.
“Here.” He hands me a faded striped beach towel. “For your face.”
My fingers fly up to my burning jaw. I jerk my hand free and stare at the blood. “Oh no.”
“A little scratch, from the fin—”
I vomit salt water across his bare feet.
Chapter Eight
Talia
I huddle in the emergency room’s sticky plastic seat while Bran asks the two dour nurses at the triage station if I’m next, even though we’ve only been here ten minutes. I shove my heavy black glasses up my nose, the ugly Buddy Holly pair I keep in my purse in case of contact failure. No point trying to make an impression. I already puked on his feet.
The antiseptic hospital smell clogs my nostrils, intensifies my already sizeable headache. Bran flashes a charming smile and I swear one of the women almost fans herself. I don’t blame her. His smile lights fires when he chooses. I wonder if he knows? Probably—he’s not exactly modest. He turns and saunters back across the green linoleum. Holy God, his skin is golden even under the glary fluorescent light. He really is sexy as hell.
And I’m a rag doll who’s been run through the wash.
“The nurses say we can go wait in back. A bed opened. You can lie down.”
I want to nod, but it hurts. “Sounds great.”
He helps me from the seat and keeps a firm grip on my arm while I shuffle through the hospital’s warrenlike halls. I lean into him and he lets me, his arm protective on my waist. We reach the assigned hospital bed and he tugs the privacy screen closed. It’s weird, and nicely intimate, letting someone take care of you.
I climb onto the mattress and ease myself against the thin pillow, staring at a cracked ceiling tile. Pippa lingered in this kind of place for too long, over a year. Then came the day Dad, Mom, and I huddled together, watching a nurse turn off her ventilator. The doctor chewed gum while he removed the breathing tubes. His snapping jaw was all I heard once the life support went silent.
My calves tighten
while a cold sweat breaks out over my belly.
A chair scrapes against the floor. Bran sits and takes my hand.
I jump when he interlaces his fingers in mine, startled by the unexpected physical contact. “When you do that, I feel like I’m dying.”
He massages my knuckles. “You’re cold. It bothers me.”
“How are you so warm?”
“I’m a human furnace.”
“Hot.” My attempt at a smile is marginal, so I let my lids flutter shut. The headache is less intense lying down.
“This your first time in hospital?”
I slowly inhale and exhale. Shit. I’m gripping his hand really hard.
“The nurses say I need to keep you talking until the doctor comes.”
“No.”
“Can’t let you fall asleep, Captain.”
“Sorry. No, it’s not my first time in a hospital.”
“Me neither.” He keeps his voice easy, conversational. “Shoved a lolly up my nose when I was five.”
“Oh God.” His admission shocks me back into the present. “What?”
“I remember the examination table and the crinkly paper. My sister brought me. Must have been almost Christmas because some drunk in a Santa hat tried to punch out a doctor.”
“Where were your parents?”
“Dunno. Maybe Frankfurt…Hong Kong? Dad works in finance. Mum goes where he does.”
I let that sink in. “They left you and your sister alone for the holidays?”
“Gaby’s much older.” He surveys my face, no doubt noting my pallor, the way I keep chewing the inside of my cheek. “Let’s see, what else is there to say? Mum was almost forty-three when I came along. She never recovered from the shock. When I was ten, they packed me off to boarding school across the bay at Geelong Grammar. That’s where I met our mutual friend—Jasper Bartholomew Kingston, the third.”
“Jasp—wait a second…Jazza?”
“The one and only. Our fathers play golf together.”
“Do you see your folks much?” I follow his words like breadcrumbs, hoping they lead me from the encroaching panic.
