Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
DEAN
June’s face pales under her tan. Her perfect mouth is round with surprise as I move closer, gripping her slack arm.
“Breathe, June. Breathe.” I’ve seen this too many times.
Pure fear.
Her eyes are dilated, remembering something. Whatever it is, it terrifies her. My heart stutters.
“I’m going to count to ten. You’re going to breathe in deeply the whole time,” I say before counting. “Now out. Breathe out. Again.”
Slowly, so slowly, June regains some of her color. Her eyes welling with tears, for the second time today.
At least this time, it isn’t all my fault. I hope.
“It can’t be. My father couldn’t have done this. He couldn’t have worked with the smugglers. I don’t want to believe it.” She swallows, blinking back the tears before covering her eyes with her hands.
I stay silent, not wanting to press her for more.
A moment slips by, minutes ticking, evidenced only by the water rushing from the shore and the insistent passing of time on her watch.
I just wait. I’m good at waiting.
Slowly, June collects herself. Her toes uncurl in the sand, the hard muscle in her calves relaxing, the rise and fall of her chest slowing. Her color returns to normal, her breathing turning even and deep.
I would wait for her all day.
Finally, June peels her hands off her eyes, squaring her shoulders. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Her voice no longer shakes.
This woman is strong as hell. She’s seen something— I triggered some memory, and she beat it back. Moved on.
“Let’s find whatever message my father left.”
With that, she turns on her heel, heading for the mass of rocks that make up the jetty, nearly jogging. I follow quickly, sand sifting underfoot.
June stops, crouching down. Her finger jabbing against blocks, counting. Up, and then to the right, away from the beach.
“He used to leave things for me here.” Her voice doesn’t break, though there is a heaviness to it. “When I was little, we’d come out here and picnic, fish and swim. He’d leave gifts or shells or some silly thing he thought I might like. Right here.”
She scrunches up her nose, looking into a hole, and I step closer.
“Are you sure it’s safe? Sticking your hand into a dark hole is asking for trouble.”
“Mostly.” Her elegant hand disappears into the gap. “Oh. Oh.”
Her eyes go huge, her mouth dropping open in surprise—or is it pain?
“Princess?”
She screams.
I grab her wrist, my heart beating faster. “What is?—”
“Gotcha.” Her shoulders shake with slightly hysterical laughter, and she retracts her hand. “I’m fine. Sorry. My dad always…” Her voice trails off, leaving the sound of seabirds and surf filling in the silence.
“Here,” she says quietly, holding up a bag she’s retrieved from the hiding place in the jetty.
My chest tightens. She’s hurting. Hurting badly, and here I am, digging into her fresh wound. “He sounds like he was really good to you.”
“What does that matter if he was a smuggler? Hurting other people?”
I fucking hate the smugglers . Hate the people who spread crime and drugs across the country.
Still, I can’t shut her down again.
I don’t want to, either.
“People aren’t just good or bad. Life’s not…” I struggle, trying to find the right words. “Life’s not a superhero movie where everyone is a bad guy or a good guy. People are complex. Your father was no different.”
“I know that,” she says, but her fingers smooth across the bag she pulled out, seeming to consider my words.
Words I actually believe. Words I need to be true. I’d done shit in the Marines, followed orders, been called a patriot. But there’s right and wrong, and as complex as I know people are, I also know the difference between the two.
I have to believe it’s true.
My gaze dips to the bag in her hand.
“What’s in it?” My therapist would call that deflection.
She opens her palm, upending the small, waxy bag, letting the contents fall into her hand. Bright metal glints in the sun, garish sprays of lime green glittering next to it. Two massive hooks protruding from the end and center.
“A fishing lure?”
“Looks like it,” she says. The lure glitters, the hooks sharp against the soft skin of her palm.
“Any chance you’re going to tell me what that means to you? Or are you going to keep that to yourself?”
She frowns, her forehead creasing. White teeth gnaw her lower lip, and when she looks up at me, my breath catches.
“I don’t know what it means. Fishing was his thing. I just went along for the ride and his company.”
My fingers brush her skin as I pick up the lure. The South Texas sun glints across the metal.
“Did he have any spots he took you to fish when you were little?” I lower my voice. “You know, since this beach was special to you both?” Carefully, I slip the lure back in the bag.
“Not that I remember. This—” She gestures around at the beach, the salt grass waving in the dunes behind us. “This was our special spot. We both knew I didn’t care about fishing. I always wanted to be under the water with them, not reeling them into the boat. That’s how I got into scuba and later, marine archaeology.” She smiles at the memory, and while there’s pain in it, in her eyes, there’s happiness too. “He always helped me work towards my dreams. Except, according to you, he was running drugs to make it happen.” Her humorless laugh echoes off the granite jetty.
“It doesn’t mean he was a bad father.”
“What?”
My sudden shift in subject must have caught her off guard, and I rock on my heels. “So he wasn’t perfect. He still loved you.”
Her eyes go watery, and she looks past my shoulder towards the ocean.
“Perfect?” That same brusque laugh sounds again. “Running drugs isn’t the same as not coming to my school play or staying late at work or something. Even if he was doing it for me—which he wasn’t.” She stops, clamming up. “It doesn’t matter. What I believe doesn’t matter. At this point, we just keep following the clues.”
My brows knit. An iridescent oyster shell catches my attention and I lean over, picking it up.
Running drugs for her? My brain snags on the phrase.
“Wait. What do you mean, for you?”
Her gaze slips back to mine.
She sighs, her eyes narrowing at something behind me.
“Say you’re right. Say he did this thing. Worked with the smugglers.” Her face screws up like the words hurt as they came out. “School is expensive. A PhD? Even with fellowships, still expensive. He sent me to archaeology camps in the summers, then scuba camps, and all the gear, you know.”
I turn that over in my head. It sounds true. She chews the inside of her cheek, the sun playing off the sharp curve of her cheekbone.
But it’s a lie. Every instinct says so.
“Okay.” My eyes never leave her face.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. You can tell me what you really meant when you’re ready.”
She turns the full force of her attention on me, and for a second, I’m awestruck by everything I see in her. The perfection of her lashes against the tawny brown of her eyes, her full mouth. Intelligence working overtime. The way she matches me, would complement me. The way we would fit together like puzzle pieces.
In every sense of the word.
It takes everything in me not to steal another kiss, to see how hot I can stoke the barely banked fire in her eyes.
“Your little man-squad is back from their retail mission.” She tosses her hair, sending rivulets of water cascading down her collarbone. The oyster shell in my hand falls to the sand and I take a step closer, a moth to flame.
Sure enough, the noise of a motor roars into earshot behind me, the unmistakable strains of Jimmy Buffett still blaring from the speakers.
“Are you avoiding answering?” I shouldn’t press her—I should know to back off. I can’t resist.
I want to know exactly what’s going on in her head. I want to know more.
I want to know everything.
Her mouth parts in surprise, though. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”
I expected a witty comeback. A smart remark, a sassy look. Not her reaching up on her tiptoes and pressing a quick, searing kiss against my mouth. One that’s over before I can even process it.
“We’ll finish this later.” She ducks around me, racing into the surf, waving her arms, shouting at the boys to anchor at the sandbar, the lure glittering in her grasp.
Leaving me on the beach, wondering just what, exactly, she’ll let me finish later.