Chapter Ten #2
“Yeah. Sure.”
He smiles (again) and heads to the waterline, tossing me a final glance over his shoulder.
I watch him for a second longer than I should.
Huh. Okay. That was… unexpected.
I usually get a quick once-over or a polite mental shrug, while the man scans the crowd for better options. But he was leaning in and definitely interested.
So, not everyone avoids me.
Why brain? Why are you such a jerk? You’re thinking about Cole again? Seriously?
A perfectly attractive guy just handed me a clear, uncomplicated invitation, and my thoughts immediately go to the asshole forty feet away, who’s pretending I don’t exist.
What is wrong with me?
Cole has crawled into my head, rearranged my mind like he owns the damn place, and I want him gone.
I don’t want to think about men or relationships or lov—
Absolutely not.
The L-word was never part of the weekend plan. And whoever authorized that thought is fired.
I have one agenda. The big O.
Opportunity. I meant opportunity. Obviously.
… both would be nice, but that’s not why I’m here.
Blaze’s voice hits a pitch that usually ends with paperwork, a viral clip, or a lawsuit.
“HOLD UP, HOLD UP, my dudes. I’m DEAD ASS SERIOUS!”
I snap my attention to the livestream on my feed.
He’s shin-deep in the surf, both arms out like he’s about to baptize himself in bad decisions, staring down into the sea. Waves slap around his legs as he announces, “There’s something in this water—and it's MASSIVE—AND IT’S ALL TANGLED UP—”
I hit my mic. “Cole. Shoreline only.”
No response.
Blaze bends, reaching into the surf. “Whatever this is, it’s GNARLY. Nah, this can’t stay. It’s trashing the ocean. We’re YANKING this out.”
The chat starts freebasing adrenaline:
BLAZE! Don’t die!!!
He’s gonna eat shit
SCEPTER SACRIFICE TIME
Tetanus shot incoming
I lean around my monitor, and, of course, there’s Cole. Already wading in after him.
Ankle deep.
Calf deep.
Camera up, moving forward with the easy swagger of a man who thinks rules are more like suggestions.
“Cole!” I bark into my mic. “We agreed, waterline perimeter only.”
“Relax. I’ve got the shot,” he says.
Gah! There he goes again, ignoring safety protocols like it’s a game for clicks. This is why it would never work between us.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not fucking ever.
Sienna reaches Blaze—cool, efficient, already assessing—as the waves lick at their calves, each roll in harder than the last.
The chat pivots:
science girl is back
BLAZE FOUND HIS MERMAID
Kiss her, you coward!
THEY’RE ENDGAME, FIGHT ME
Blaze turns toward the camera. “YO, DUUUUDES! We may have found a GHOST NET, and let me tell ya, we are being—uh—what’s the word, Sienna?”
“Cautious.”
“EXACTLY. Careful as shit.”
“For those watching, do not attempt this,” she says. “Ghost nets aren’t a social media challenge, they’re a death sentence. Get tangled, and the ocean decides your fate.” She pauses. “You spot a ghost net? Back away. Call the experts.”
“FACTS,” Blaze says, grinning. “Snag a HOTTIE PRO like Dr. Alvarez here.”
She doesn’t quite roll her eyes. “We move as one. Blaze, those edges will slice you open like butter. Gloves. Now. Or your bleeding stumps will need to be wrapped in duct tape.”
He goes dead serious for a millisecond before his boyish grin sneaks back.
They drag it onto the sand together, a soggy, cursed casserole of filth. The net spills its guts onto the sand. Seaweed. Plastic. And the hollowed-out husks of creatures who once swam.
Blaze jabs it with a stick, nose wrinkling. “brO, this reeks like Poseidon took a dump in here. But also, what if there’s buried treasure?”
Cole drops low for a close-up shot. He reaches into the debris with his bare hand and lifts a dripping rope of seaweed toward the lens. A cracked shell. A strip of plastic. A sludge-coated little mesh wad packed with bait rot and dead crustacean bits.
“Hartwell. Gloves.”
“Shit.”
The word cracks in my ear.
“What?!”
“Cut myself.”
“Okay, I’m bringing you a first aid kit. We have to set a good example.”
“Not happening.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“It’s a scratch.” His voice goes tight, stubborn. “I’ve bled more from paper.”
“That’s not paper, it’s a biohazard buffet.”
“I said I’m fine, Ivy. Let me do my damn job.”
Sienna brushes sand off her hands and faces the camera. “This section is torn, which means the rest of the net is likely still out there.”
“NOT TODAY, EVIL SEA TRASH!” Blaze spins back toward the waves, finger pointing. “Poseidon sees all! What you’re doing is NOT okay!”
He charges back into the surf.
“Blaze!” Sienna splashes in after him. “Pieces can turn up hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles apart.”
“SWEET! I won’t rest ’till I find them all!”
Sienna addresses the audience, “Guys, this is not a game. We are recovering deadly debris.”
On my screen, Cole swings the camera hard right, then yanks it left, tracking Blaze through the surf.
“Your angle’s off,” I say into my headset.
“No kidding,” he says, clipped.
Blaze whoops, wading deeper until the water hits his waist. He spins in slow, dramatic circles.
“Cole,” I say, sharper this time, “your horizon took a nosedive. Stabilize the shot.”
“Maybe you should tell the ocean to hold still,” he mutters, clearing his throat.
His breath, all huffing and annoyed, hits my ear. As if I’m the problem.
“Plant your feet.”
“I’ve got it,” he grits out. “Trust me.”
“I wish I could.”
And there it is again. Silence. Just his obnoxiously heavy breathing filling my headset, because apparently words are too much to ask for.
I push back from my station and peer around the canopy, shielding my eyes against the sun.
There they are. Blaze’s neon shirt. Sienna’s hat. Cole behind the lens, waist-deep, the waves rolling through him in sets, each one bigger than the last.
I should end this. Every professional instinct I have is pulling the alarm. Call them in. Cite the protocol. Be the person who holds the line.
I look at the donation counter… it’s tripled since the net.
Unbelievable. This is so unfair. He wades into restricted water, breaks the rules again, and the internet whips out credit cards. And honestly? Why would he behave when they keep handing him cash for being a menace?
I watch him drag a hand across the back of his neck and there's something slow and tired in the movement. His fingers slide over his jaw before he resets the camera.
A wave plunges into his waist.
He doesn’t move.
The frame holds.
I study the live shot on my display. It should not be that steady. Not in this current, not with the water pushing, pulling, and demanding he lose control. And yet, somehow, Cole stays grounded, as if the ocean knows it can’t win.
Well. Hell. His shot is annoyingly good.
“Cole, your shot is pretty—”
“It’s hot out here,” he barks, voice rough, his words slurring slightly at the edges. “You want perfection? Try doing this without drowning.”
“I was going to say your footage is impressive. I’m trying to compliment you. But sure. Go off.”
Silence.
A long one.
On my monitor, Blaze stands waist-deep, waves slamming into him hard enough to shove his hips back. Yet he beams at the audience, undaunted by the ocean’s raw power. Without warning, the shot starts to drift.
Great. I say something nice, and now he’s trying to piss me off.
He coughs. “I think I need a minute.” Something in Cole’s voice isn’t right.
“Uh, okay let me—”
“Ivy!” he gasps my name, barely a word.
The image on my monitor lurches.
Sky.
Sand.
Water.
SPLASH!
The lens plunges underwater. Sound distorts into a muffled roar. Bubbles streak past. The world goes blue-green.
And on the live feed, there he is.
Cole.
Floating. Limp. Eyes closed. The camera still strapped to him. Still streaming.
He’s not moving.
Oh fuck. Why isn’t he moving?
Then—
A blur.
Blaze’s inked arm pushes into frame, grabbing him hard. The image explodes back into daylight, water spraying the lens, and Blaze’s voice rips through the feed:
“HEY—hey bro—stay with me!”
I’m running.
One word drives every step.
Cole.
Blaze is waist-deep as sand blurs under my feet, hauling Cole backwards through the shallows with one arm, the camera raised in his other hand.
“Move. Move!” I shove past people as they gather.
By the time I hit the waterline, Blaze has hauled him onto the sand.
Cole’s not moving. My knees slam down beside him.
“911! Somebody call 911 right now!” I shout.
The crowd responds. Phones up everywhere—some dialing, some filming.
Sienna tilts his head back, checking his airway, fingers sure and steady like she’s done this a thousand times. And God, I am so grateful for her competence.
I press my hand to Cole’s leg. I don’t know why. I just need to touch him.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come on…”
Blaze continues to film, voice shaking but pushing through. “We’re still live, dudes. Cole’s out, Sienna’s on him. She’s got this, she’s trained… Stay with us.”
Sienna leans down.
Two rescue breaths.
Waits.
The silence is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
“He’s not breathing.” She locks her hands over his sternum. “Starting CPR.”
“Hartwell—” My voice breaks. “Cole, can you hear me? Breathe. Please. Come back to me.”
Sienna shakes her head between sets. “This isn’t right. He wasn’t under long enough. I don’t hear any fluid.” Her eyes narrow. “He sounds constricted.”
I look at his neck.
Hives.
Red. Raised. Spreading fast up his throat toward his jaw.
“There!” I point, voice raw. “See that rash? What’s that? He was fine, then wheezing. What the hell is happening?”
Sienna doesn’t slow her hands. “Does he have any allergies?”
“Shellfish.” The answer comes fast. “There was shrimp at lunch, but he didn’t—”
My eyes drop.
His hand.
The cut.
Everything clicks.
“He cut himself on the net.”
I grab his hand, turn it over.
Swollen. The same red rash tracking outward from the wound in every direction.
Sienna swears under her breath. “There were crustaceans in that debris. Elevate his legs,” she orders. “Now! He’s in anaphylactic shock.”
Her voice tears across the beach, cutting through the chaos.
“Ambulance! Where’s the ambulance? Does anyone have an EpiPen?”
“His bag.” The words tear up my throat.
I don’t wait for a response.
I run like I’ve never run in my life.
The canopy is impossibly far away. The sand grabs at my feet, fighting me with every step.
Move faster. He needs you.
Heat, glare, bodies—I shove past all of it. My calves scream from the pace. I can’t stop.
I slam into the table hard, rattling it as I grab his backpack. It slips from my grip, slick with sweat.
“Dammit! Hold still.”
I flip it.
Everything spills out in a violent scatter.
Batteries.
Tangled cables.
Paper. Cards. More useless shit.
A smashed protein bar hits the ground.
“Where is it!”
My hands shake. I can barely see straight.
Orange.
I recognize his bright orange zipper case buried at the pile’s bottom.
“Oh, thank God.”
I snatch it. I’m sprinting, faster than before. Like if I push hard enough, I can rip back time, undo the last ten minutes, and fix everything.
The shoreline comes into view.
Cole’s color has darkened, angry red climbing his neck and flooding his face.
Sienna hovers over him, her hands pumping his chest—steady, unyielding, refusing to let go.
Blaze paces, camera rolling, voice rough and loud, as if talking might keep this from being real.
Dropping beside Cole, I shove the case aside, breathing fast. “I’ve got it. I’ve got the EpiPen.”
“Outer thigh.” Sienna’s face is serious. “Denim won’t stop the needle. Straight in. Hold for three.”
“I know.” I swallow hard. “I watched a video.”
God. That sounds ridiculous.
No time to second-guess. I jam it deep into his thigh.
Click.
One.
Two.
Three.
Nothing.
I keep holding. Keep counting. My eyes locked on his face.
His lips are still wrong. His chest still isn’t moving.
Then, his whole body jolts in one savage inhale, a man clawing his way back into his own skin. He chokes. Coughs. Hauls in another breath. Another. His chest heaves with the effort.
Yes. Yes! There he is.
I grab his hand without thinking, and his pulse is the only thing holding me together.
Cole’s eyes flutter open.
And lock onto mine.
Not the crowd. Not Sienna. Not the camera Blaze is still somehow filming with.
Me.
The noisy world rushes back, voices overlapping, waves roaring, sirens slicing through the air. Something deep in my chest fractures: fear, relief, something bigger I won’t name. It hits all at once.
Because he’s breathing.
Because I didn’t lose him.
“We’ve got him,” a paramedic says, dropping beside us.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
His pulse thrums beneath my touch, his skin warm, his grip weak but there.
Alive.
“Ma’am.”
“No. Not yet.” I shake my head, my grip tightening.
They ask again.
Only then—
only when I feel him squeeze back—
do I let go.