Savage Beauty (The Arrow Tactical Series Book 5)

Chapter 14

Max was right. Snorkeling is fun. And I’m experiencing no signs of motion sickness. The sun is warm on my skin, and the salty air is invigorating. My mind feels sharper. I feel more awake and vibrant.

We walked into the water directly in front of our villa. The waves roll in smoothly on this section of the island, lapping the shore. There are sharp rocks partially submerged in the sandy ocean floor, but it’s easy enough to sidestep them thanks to the crystal-clear water.

The view of the undersea world through my mask mesmerizes me. Small fish scurry below, flitting near, then zipping away.

If Max is bored, he’s not letting on. He’s a diver, meaning he goes deep. I’m guessing he, like Sam, has all the diving certifications.

Sam once told me they nicknamed Navy SEALs “frogs.” Amphibians. He got a tattoo on his ribs of a frog with a gun and a dagger. It looked ridiculous. I told him. He ignored me. Or so I thought. About a year later, he had the strange tattoo removed.

A school of slender silver fish swims by, and I point. Max simply increases the pressure on my fingers. He can’t smile. The plastic mouthpiece prevents smiles. The skin inside my mouth is drying, but I don’t want to stop. The salty water coats my tongue, leaking in, probably because I’m not doing something right, but the sides of my mouth and around my lips need fresh water.

The black fins on our feet allow us to glide over the aquatic paradise with little effort. If it weren’t for the mouthpiece, I could do this all day. Of course, breathing through the snorkel is loud, as is the water sloshing near my ears. Loud noises often bother me, but this is oddly soothing and rhythmic.

Sage would enjoy snorkeling. There’s a meditative quality to passing over mounds of white sand, shaped in uniform patterns by current, and a sporadic thrill at a fish sighting.

Face down in the sea, it’s easy to forget the outside world. I suppose this is why people choose to vacation on islands.

Max tugs at my hand. He’s stopped. Standing.

The front of my fin sinks into the sand, and my knees buckle. Max’s arm slips around my side. His skin is warmer than the water, and I lean into him. I didn’t realize how cold I was getting. His mouthpiece dangles below his chin. He’s smiling.

“You okay there?” His other hand lifts the mask, and there are deep lines across his forehead and cheeks where the mask created an airtight seal around his eyes and nose. “We’re back.”

My fins stick in the sand, and it’s virtually impossible to straighten my legs, but next to him, I’m secure. His golden chest hair is slightly rough against my waterlogged skin, but it’s…nice. My knees give, and the full weight of my body presses against him, causing him to stumble back.

“Sorry,” I mumble through the mouthpiece.

Coordination is not a strength of mine. Sports and I are oil and water.

But he lifts me with one arm, supporting me with his strength. I’m tall, but he’s taller, and he lifts me until my fins dangle above the sand and the water swirls around them. I spit out the mouthpiece, and with one hand, he lifts my mask.

“Why’d we stop?”

“We’ve been out here for hours. Your shoulders are getting pink.”

I push away from him, not because he doesn’t feel good. He feels better than I would’ve expected. I rather like being manhandled in the sea, which is another result I would not have expected. But pink skin means I’m probably already sunburned.

I lathered on SPF 80, but you should reapply every two hours. It’s in the instructions. We’ve been out here for hours? How many? How?

Max moves gracefully through the water. It’s like the fins are a part of his body. His deeply muscled and toned cover model physique, while appealing, troubles me. He looks like an amateur body builder, and it’s conceivable he’s using steroids.

My bathing suit bottoms ride up the middle of my butt, halting my progress. As soon as I can easily stand and the water laps my calves, I remove the fins, one by one, using Max’s forearm as a brace. He didn’t need a brace. He’s an athlete. Possibly a doping athlete, but an athlete.

On the shore, I straighten my bottoms and adjust the small triangles that create the illusion of breasts. My skin prickles. It’s the strangest sensation. I stop fumbling with the wet suit to scan my body, searching for a jellyfish tentacle or telltale pink skin. I lift my gaze and meet Max’s.

He’s staring at me with an expression I recognize. He’s looking at me like he wants to have sex with me. But I’ve offered, and he’s turned me down, so no matter how much I enjoyed this little outing of ours, I’m not offering again. Besides, I’m probably reading him wrong. Interpreting other people’s intentions is not one of my strengths.

“Did you enjoy that?”

It’s obvious I enjoyed it. I wouldn’t have spent so long out there that I burned my skin if I didn’t. Does he want me to say thank you?

I’m barefoot and step carefully, an eye out for sharp shell pieces jutting through the sand. Most shell pieces on this cove are bleached white, but some are a striped gray. Many are smooth, but some are sharp and hurt.

“You said you’ve never done it before.”

“That was my first time.” We reach the villa, and there’s a spigot that’s knee high. I turn it on to wash the sand off my feet and ankles.

“You okay?”

I take stock as the water streams over my prune feet. Nothing burns or hurts yet. The spigot water is cold, but the sun’s heat overpowers the chill. I’m thirsty, but other than that, my muscles are relaxed, and a mild, tired sensation plagues my eyes. I haven’t had that much fun in years. If Sage were here, she would thank him. He had to have been bored.

“Thank you,” I say, stepping back from the stream of water. I also gather his fins and mask, because he did something for me. I should do something for him.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Eighteen months.”

“And you never went snorkeling?”

I pause on the top step to the deck. “You’re saying I’m foolish, right?”

Sometimes you miss the forest through the trees. Mom used to say that, and what she meant was that I’m foolish.

“Just saying it’s a perk of living on an island.”

He’s saying I’m foolish. But, in my defense, I do important work. Lifesaving work. And it’s not like I don’t exercise. I ride a bike to work. Or I walk. And on Sunday I video chat with Sage. I pause at the stairs inside the villa. If I explained my perspective, it wouldn’t do anything to make me look less foolish to him. I’m just different from other people, and many people don’t understand that.

“I’m going to go shower,” is all I say because there’s no point in saying anything else.

Goosebumps light my skin, reacting to the cold air. In my apartment, I never turn on the air conditioning. I don’t like air conditioning. I don’t like how it feels, and it increases my carbon footprint.

At the top of the stairs, I shout down, “Can you please turn off the AC?”

“Sure thing.” He’s amenable. Nothing seems to bother him. That must be a nice way to live.

After I shower, shave, and slather my skin in lotion, I get dressed in a pair of shorts and a white, long-sleeve SPF shirt that should protect my skin from any more sun rays today.

When I return downstairs, Max is studying a computer screen. A voice radiates from the computer speakers.

“They installed the cameras at all entrances and exits, but they aren’t wired. Battery-powered. And be aware. They’ve got security cameras too. You see this image?”

I step back and mouth to Max, “I’m going?—”

“Wait guys. Hold on a minute.”

He follows me into the foyer. I don’t like speaking on conference calls when I’m not a member and I’m unaware of all the participants.

“Where are you off to?”

“Bike ride.” His eyebrows furrow and his bulky arms fold beneath his chest. “Just down the road to the stand where they sell papayas.” I hold up some of the cash from the dresser upstairs. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Wait.” He leaves and comes back with a circular silver disc. “Put this in your pocket. You’ve got your cell?”

I shake it in my hand.

“Keep it with you in case you need to call. Here.” He takes my phone and types into it. “Now, you call me…this number…at the first sign of anything concerning.”

“Sam taught me defense skills. And I’ll die before I get into a car with a stranger.” Again. The word rings in my head. Yes, doing anything with a man because he was romance-cover-worthy was inordinately stupid. Stupid is worse than foolish.

“How long will you be?”

I shrug, trying to estimate where we are and where the outdoor market is. “Thirty minutes? I was just going to take one of the beach cruisers sitting outside, since my bike is back at my apartment.”

“Thirty minutes. Any longer and I’m coming looking.”

As I approach the door, a deep voice asks, “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Great. The conference call heard us.

The market is essentially an expansive tarp that covers multiple tables with fresh fruit from the island. Set back from the road, about fifty yards from the roadside market, is a small cinderblock building. Cars sometimes park in front of it, but I set my bike on the side in a shallow ditch that’s closest to our villa.

When I arrive, there’s a woman with strawberry blonde hair and long nails standing beside the coconuts. The ends of her pointy nails are a punch-colored pink, and the base is a milky white. On one nail, there are three diamonds clustered near the apex of the nail. Are those glued on, or did they puncture it like an earring? I can’t imagine having nails that long. They would click on the keyboard when I typed and probably make it harder to notate.

“Do I know you?”

“I don’t believe so, as I’m here on vacation.” I reach for a papaya as I lie. The fruit is ripe. Slightly soft, but not too soft. Perfect. My stomach rumbles, and a slight shake befalls my hand, most likely a sign of low blood sugar.

“You look like a woman who rents from me. But they say everyone has a doppelg?nger.”

She’s the woman who works behind the desk. I saw her once. She has a good memory. I don’t remember her nails, and I’m sure if she’d had them before, I would’ve remembered them.

An older man with wrinkled dark skin approaches, and he takes my money for two papayas.

“How long are you here for?” The eclectic nailed woman picks up a papaya and squeezes, the same way I did.

“We leave on Saturday.” Most people who come stay for a week. Saturday and Sunday are the busiest travel days of the week.

“Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes. I went snorkeling today.”

“Nice. If you get a chance, go on a sunset cruise. Have you seen any of those? I have a coupon you can use. If you use it, I get a little money from it, but it’s?—”

“I don’t like boats.”

Gravel churns under tires as a car slows, rolling past us into the parking area to the side.

“Hope you have a good day,” I say to the woman and step past her, watching the four-door car. I lift my bike off the ground and set the papayas in the basket. Just beyond the car, two men are talking. My body reacts like I’m in a movie.

I recognize one man. The markings on his back. Inverted triangles in a circle. An intricate pattern of lines partially obscured by a dingy white tank.

Anton Solonov’s tattoos. Unmistakable. Unforgettable. He’s talking to a man who is about a foot and a half shorter than him.

I grip the plastic handles on my bike and shove down hard on the right pedal.

Just go. Don’t look back. Just go.