15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
The Only Stable Thing
Simone
I used to think I loved island life.
Santorini. The Maldives. Anywhere with white beaches, expensive cocktails, and staff whose entire purpose is making sure you never experience discomfort.
This is different.
This is being stranded on an unknown island after barely surviving a plane crash.
No resort.
No boat.
No cell service.
No visible trace of civilization.
Only a burning aircraft, a forest that may contain a murderous pilot, and Luca Moreau.
Two weeks ago, my life was close to perfect.
I was preparing for my tour. Working constantly, yes, but doing the thing I love most.
Music.
Performing.
Building something that belonged to me.
Then a bullet struck Dad’s shoulder, and everything collapsed.
Security protocols.
Movement restrictions.
Twenty-four-hour surveillance disguised as protection.
Then someone fired at me during my own performance.
A bullet tore across my arm.
And now I’m sitting on an isolated beach with a concussion, a destroyed Chanel outfit, and no idea whether anyone knows we survived.
There are worse people to be stranded with.
But none more dangerous.
Not because of what Luca might do to me.
Because of what he makes me feel with a single look.
I’m angry.
Frustrated.
Sad.
Terrified.
Somehow, I haven’t broken down yet.
Maybe that’s because I’m not alone.
I hate crying in front of an audience.
Not that Luca hasn’t seen me cry before.
I was practically sobbing on the side of the road when he kissed me. Even then, I restrained the worst of it.
I’m an ugly crier.
There’s no graceful tear sliding down one cheek while I stare beautifully into the distance.
I cry hard.
My face swells. My nose runs. I make sounds that shouldn’t come from a human body.
Right now, every muscle in me is working to prevent that collapse.
I’ve done almost nothing since Luca moved us away from the wreckage.
He has done everything.
He checked my injuries again, rationed the emergency water, examined the tree line, followed the pilot’s footprints far enough to determine their direction, and found a rocky overhang where we can spend the night without being visible from the beach or the forest.
As much as I hate relying on anyone, Luca’s competence is the reason I’m alive.
He got me off the stage.
He found the bullet wound.
He pulled me from the plane.
He returned to the wreckage for supplies before it exploded.
Now he’s building a shelter while I sit near the water and attempt not to unravel.
When I close my eyes, I see him kneeling in front of me on the plane.
His hands tightening my seat belt.
His voice promising we weren’t going to die.
Then I remember grabbing his face and kissing him.
A ridiculous, terrified decision.
I can still feel the warm pressure of his mouth.
The way he kissed me back before pulling away.
The almost-smile he tried to hide when I explained myself.
I touch two fingers to my lips.
Heat rushes beneath my skin.
This is absurd.
I’m stranded without contact with the outside world, and my brain has decided Luca’s mouth is the emergency worth revisiting.
I bury my face in my hands.
“You’re an idiot, Simone.”
The ocean offers no disagreement.
When I look up again, the sun hangs low over the water.
Orange light spreads across the horizon, mixing with shades of pink and violet. The smoke from the wreck has thinned into a dark stain above the trees.
The scene is beautiful in a way that feels almost cruel.
My mind immediately begins shaping it into lyrics.
Fire against water.
A ruined sky.
Two people alive when they shouldn’t be.
Music has always done that for me.
It takes whatever hurts and begins searching for rhythm.
“Simone.”
Luca’s voice carries from behind me.
I turn.
He stands near the rocky overhang several yards from the shore.
“Come here.”
I push myself to my feet.
My body protests immediately.
Everything aches—the wound in my arm, the bruise on my hip, the muscles in my back, and the cut near my temple.
Still, I walk toward him.
The shelter is tucked between a wall of stone and several low, wind-bent trees. Luca has cleared the ground and layered it with dry pine needles, soft branches, and one of the thermal blankets from the emergency kit.
More branches lean against the exposed side, forming a crude barrier from the wind.
It isn’t glamorous.
But it’s solid.
Protected.
And positioned so we can see anyone approaching from either the beach or the forest.
I laugh quietly.
Not at his work.
At my life.
Luca’s expression darkens as he looks toward the shelter.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“I’m having difficulty accepting that I’m about to sleep beneath a rock.”
“You can sleep on the open beach.”
“I’ll take the rock.”
His mouth shifts.
Almost a smile.
I gesture toward the shelter.
“This is impressive. You could have asked me to help.”
“You would have complained.”
“I can complain and work simultaneously.”
“You can barely stand without swaying.”
“That’s unrelated.”
He looks pointedly at my feet.
My bare toes are coated in sand. One knee is scraped, my performance outfit is ripped at the thigh, and dried blood marks the edge of the bandage around my arm.
The evidence supports his argument.
I choose to ignore it.
I duck beneath the angled branches and enter the shelter.
The space is small.
Very small.
The thought of spending the night inside it with Luca sends an entirely inappropriate sensation through my stomach.
I look at the thermal blanket.
Then at him.
“Where are you sleeping?”
“Near the entrance.”
“So, in here.”
“Yes.”
“With me.”
His jaw tightens.
“There’s only one defensible shelter.”
He says the word defensible as though that makes the situation less intimate.
It doesn’t.
“If sleeping beside me is too upsetting,” he adds, “you’re welcome to take your chances with the armed pilot.”
“Rude.”
My stomach growls.
Loudly.
Aggressively.
Like an animal attempting to escape my body.
Luca looks down.
Heat floods my face.
I lift my chin and pretend nothing happened.
“We need food,” he says.
“What a surprising observation.”
“There was one ration bar in the emergency kit.”
My eyes widen.
“You’ve been hiding food?”
“I was saving it until we finished the shelter.”
“You’re cruel.”
“I’ll bring it.”
He turns away.
“Where are you going?”
“To the supply case.”
He points toward a cluster of rocks no more than thirty feet away.
“It’s there. I’ll remain in sight.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“Of course not.”
He walks toward the rocks.
I sit on the thermal blanket and stare at the narrow opening.
Home crashes over me unexpectedly.
My penthouse.
The estate.
My studio.
My guitars.
A closet filled with clothes that have never been dragged through a plane wreck.
I miss Bran.
I even miss Dad, despite the terrible things I said before leaving.
I miss Adrien and his ridiculous messages.
I miss my shallow, wealthy friends and their relentless gossip.
I miss Charlie tapping a pen against his laptop.
I miss my fans.
My life.
They must believe we’re dead.
The thought constricts my lungs.
Dad watched Mom leave one day and never come back.
Now his daughter’s plane has vanished.
Bran must be losing his mind.
I pull air into my chest.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
The shelter suddenly becomes smaller.
The stone presses closer.
My heart begins beating too fast.
I look through the entrance.
Luca isn’t beside the rocks anymore.
I stand so quickly the world tilts.
“Luca?”
No answer.
My chest tightens further.
I stumble out of the shelter and scan the beach.
He isn’t there.
The water.
The tree line.
The wreckage burning in the distance.
Nothing.
“Luca!”
Panic strikes with brutal speed.
Maybe the pilot found him.
Maybe Luca followed the tracks and was ambushed.
Maybe he’s injured.
Dead.
Maybe I really am alone.
I wrap both arms around myself, but I can’t stop shaking.
Footprints lead from the supply case toward the rocky inlet farther down the shore.
I follow them.
“Luca!”
Cold water rushes over my toes as I reach the edge.
The sunset reflects across the surface, making it difficult to see beyond the glare.
Then a dark shape moves behind one of the rocks.
Luca emerges from the inlet.
Water reaches his waist.
His white shirt clings to his chest, and his dark hair is slicked away from his face.
He’s holding something in one hand.
Relief hits so hard it turns immediately into anger.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He wades toward the shore, lifting the object.
“Finding food.”
It’s a fish.
A large, silver fish impaled on the sharpened end of a narrow branch.
I stare at it.
Then at him.
“You said you were getting the ration bar.”
“I saw movement in the shallows.”
“So you decided to go swimming after surviving a plane crash?”
“I was never more than twenty yards away.”
“You disappeared behind the rocks.”
His eyebrows draw together.
“Did you think I left you?”
“No.”
The answer comes too quickly.
“I thought you might have been murdered.”
“Comforting distinction.”
He steps from the water.
His shirt is almost transparent against his skin.
I try not to stare.
I fail.
Water travels along his throat and beneath his collar. The fabric outlines every muscle across his chest and stomach.
He looks like he walked directly out of an advertisement created specifically to destroy my remaining common sense.
Luca studies my face.
“You’re pale.”
“I’m hungry.”
He raises the fish.
“This should help.”
My stomach turns.
“I can’t eat that.”
“You’ve eaten fish before.”
“I developed an allergy last year.”
He lowers the improvised spear.
“You’re allergic to fish?”
“Yes.”
“All fish?”
“Most of it. Unless you want to spend the night watching my face swell while I stop breathing, I suggest we don’t experiment.”
His jaw shifts.
“You could have mentioned that before I walked into the ocean.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“We were discussing survival food.”
“I didn’t realize you planned to become a spear fisherman.”
The fish jerks.
I take one step back.
Luca looks at it, then at me.
“I can eat it.”
“Good.”
“And you’ll have the ration bar.”
“Even better.”
He carries the fish toward the rocks.
I follow him.
“You aren’t going into the forest?”
“Not tonight.”