Chapter 18 #2
Before Fletcher could make a break for it, let alone finish her sentence, Naya’s teeth flashed in warning.
Waylon wedged himself between them, one hand outstretched toward Naya, the other shoving Fletcher farther behind him.
That cat was going to tear him limb from limb.
And then her. And then, their respective limbs would be left there in such a haphazard heap that thousands of years from now, archaeologists would hypothesize that Lydell Island had been so biologically isolated that a subclass of four-armed humans had evolved.
Naya lunged.
All Fletcher could do was shield her eyes. She’d seen enough blood for a lifetime. Which made sense since her lifetime was about to be over as soon as Naya’s teeth ripped out their jugulars.
Except Waylon wasn’t screaming.
Slowly, Fletcher pried her hands away from her eyes. Naya wasn’t gnawing at his leg, licking her lips. Her massive head nudged into Waylon’s open palm. And she was…
Purring.
The cat lifted onto her legs, front paws resting on Waylon’s shoulder as she nuzzled into his neck, her nose running over the last reaches of his scruff. Like a house cat. A giant, saber-toothed house cat.
Cold flooded Fletcher’s system. Relief and confusion and a secret third thing that felt an awful lot like affection. A nervous laugh bubbled out of her. Whether it was from the close encounter with the jungle cat or the loving way Waylon scratched at Naya’s chin, she couldn’t tell.
“Is this your cat?” she asked.
Naya’s purrs halted. For two blissful, uneaten seconds, the cat had forgotten Fletcher existed.
That was over now.
Naya glared like Fletcher posed an imminent threat to Waylon’s safety, despite the fact he could bench-press her with two fingers.
“Easy, easy.” Waylon guided the feline back down onto all fours. He patted her head as if she were nothing more than an ornery tomcat. “I think it’s more like I’m her person.”
Judging by the way Naya’s claws extended when she refocused on Fletcher, she clearly took her role as Guard Jag seriously.
“When I was seventeen, my dad brought his buddies out here, and I tagged along. Didn’t know what I was getting myself into.
He handed me a gun, told me to hunt. I am a man of many talents, but hunting is not one of them.
” A soft, sad little grin rose to Waylon’s lips as he ran his thumb along Naya’s jaw.
“Naya found me before I knew she was there.”
“And didn’t eat you?”
“I’m sure she would have tried if she’d weighed more than a couple pounds,” he said with a laugh. “She was just a cub. One of my dad’s friends had poached her mom already.”
Fletcher realized. “Right. The jaguar room.”
“Naya knew how to be a cat about as well as I knew how to hunt one.”
He didn’t finish his story, but Fletcher filled in the blanks. A peach-fuzzed Waylon with a tiny shadow that turned into a much-less-tiny shadow. A protective friendship that went both ways.
“Pretty brave for a guy afraid of a bush baby.”
“First of all, I was sneak attacked. And secondly, animals with opposable thumbs are objectively terrifying. Ask anyone.”
“Thumbs?” Fletcher laughed.
“They’re too powerful.”
The jungle cat hummed unhappily.
“See? Naya agrees.” A proud smile lit his face. “Here, you can pet her.”
Before she could argue that that definitely wasn’t a good idea, Waylon captured Fletcher’s wrist. Naya watched them with anticipation, her stomach definitely already growling.
In the back of her mind, Fletcher wondered if cats could smell fear.
Waylon wove his fingers through Fletcher’s and steered her hand toward the bridge of Naya’s nose.
A deep-bellied grumble rose out of Naya but Waylon batted it away with a tsk. To Fletcher’s immense surprise, it worked. Naya bowed her head and brushed her coat against Fletcher’s fingertips.
“She’s so…” Fletcher’s words faded out, unsure which could accurately describe this moment.
When she thought about traveling the world with Jet-Setter, these were the things she dreamed of.
Unexpected encounters. Breathtaking scenery.
The kinds of experiences Lincoln County locals would only ever see on glossy magazine pages.
Waylon craned his nose toward her. His open hand found Fletcher’s waist, flattening against her stomach and pulling her closer. “Beautiful?”
Fletcher turned, too. Her nose brushed his.
Much closer than two not-coworkers on a not-work retreat should have ever been.
Much, much closer to Waylon than Fletcher ever thought she’d be again, barring a few extenuating circumstances she imagined might have included an expertly wielded paper cutter and an off-key rendition of “Cell Block Tango.”
“I bet that works on all the ladies,” Fletcher whispered.
“I don’t know,” Waylon said with a lopsided smile. “You tell me.”
With absolutely no warning, Naya shifted back into a predator.
This time, her instant animosity wasn’t directed toward Fletcher, thank god.
The cat’s oblong pupils widened into blown-out spheres, searching through the depths of the jungle.
For what? Not even the leaves dared to rustle in Naya’s presence.
The cat prowled forward, low and slow. Waylon followed, his hand still wrapped around Fletcher’s, and against her better judgment, she followed, too.
While Naya crept silently, Fletcher and Waylon fumbled along behind her, and Fletcher was fairly certain she hadn’t imagined the annoyed way Naya peeked over her shoulder after Fletcher tripped over a particularly unruly root system.
When Naya slowed, so did they.
She’d led them toward the main road, where the branches had been snipped and shaped to create a tunnel. Twin dirt tracks carved toward the center of the island, toward the landing strip and the staff building.
They weren’t alone.
Two figures hobbled down the path, heading toward them. Sheila, one heel on and one dangling from her fingers, babbled about something Fletcher couldn’t quite make out. Next to her, Opal crossed her arms against her chest. Soot smudged her otherwise pristine silk blouse.
Even if Fletcher wanted to sic Naya on them, she couldn’t. The jaguar had vanished like an apparition.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Sheila whined as they marched closer.
Opal grimaced. “Ask me one more time.”
“Are you sure we’re—”
“Yes, Sheila!” Opal’s oversize sunglasses masked what was certainly the death stare to end all death stares. “I’m sure. Now, I’m begging you to shut up and help me look for more of these business cards.”
Fletcher raised her eyebrows toward Waylon, signaling for him to follow her, and then crept through the dense foliage, close enough to keep tabs on Opal and Sheila’s conversation.
Every few steps, Opal scooped up another little paper rectangle.
Pocketed it. And mapped toward the next, several feet ahead.
Slinking behind them, Fletcher pried up a card they’d missed. Matte black and embossed with Rick Evanston in bold type. His phone and company email squished into the corner. Dirtbaggy even in business card form.
Sheila bobbled on her single stiletto. Her shutting-up was short-lived. “Why couldn’t he have picked a hiding spot that wasn’t a million miles away?”
“I’ve seen you Citi Bike in heels twice that high. Don’t act like this is hard for you.” Opal flipped her sunglasses onto her head, reassessing their path. “Besides, when has Rick ever put the needs of others first?”
“Is that, like, a trick question?”
“Obviously. If I can’t convince you to let me walk in peace, at least tell me again what you heard yesterday.”
Fletcher’s boob-sweat situation multiplied rapidly. Could Sheila have listened in on her conversation with Jackie on the pool deck?
“It was this DJ mix of top songs from the dark ages, like 2005,” Sheila said sagely.
“I meant about Jackie. God, do you even have a brain in there?”
No. No. No way was Sheila blowing her cover right now. Not when Fletcher wouldn’t have a chance to explain herself to Waylon. If they spilled the beans, her feeble truce with Waylon would disappear faster than a happy hour martini.
Fletcher’s body moved before her brain caught up.
One leg jutted out—hard—in front of Waylon, and he tripped over it.
The two of them tumbled into the brush with matching thuds.
Her knees and palms screamed as they skidded against the earth.
A stiff breath through Waylon’s nose was his only external reaction, but the look he gave her could fill libraries.
Sorry, Fletcher mouthed.
“Was that…” Opal trailed off into an unsettling quiet until, finally, she said: “Forget it. Let’s just find Rick before somebody finds us.”
When they finally peeled themselves off the forest floor to follow Opal and Sheila, Fletcher gave the saleswomen a wider berth, just in case. Their voices grew faint. Any gossip blessedly unheard.
Dread gathered behind Fletcher’s ribs as they paraded onward. Every step charted toward the staff building’s little charcoal dot on the map. What should have been a quick in-and-out to grab the master key was proving to be anything but.
Summoned, the building rose out of the jungle in front of them, all stone walls with terra-cotta shingles.
Large windows had been framed with dark wood shutters, watching them.
Waiting for them. The jungle encroached on its territory with drooping branches and strangling vines.
Bright red blossoms dolloped the stone exterior, the hand-carved doorways.
Everything smelled sweet in a way that made Fletcher sick to her stomach, like overripe fruit forgotten in the sun.
Welcoming them with a gunshot salute was Asshole Rick.