3. Her-icane Gigi
THREE
HER-ICANE GIGI
JACKSON
Nothing amuses me more than watching Gigi argue with the staff as we leave the hospital. Despite her repeated claims she could walk, she stubbornly sits in her wheelchair with her arms crossed. She’s always been feisty, which is why I don’t let her stand as soon as we step outside. I lift her out of the chair and march her in my arms over to my truck, laughing to myself at the way her face turns red.
“Get mad all you want, G. You’re at my mercy for the next twenty-four hours—deal with it,” I say, barely concealing my smirk.
“Why are you doing this? Who even are you? Can you please bring back the Jackson I know—the one who doesn’t go out of his way to do nice things for me?” she snaps, rolling her eyes while clutching my neck for dear life.
“Nothing’s changed. I’m still the same awesome me,” I reply.
She snorts at my arrogance. “Put. Me. Down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, unlocking the door and settling her into the passenger seat. She flinches as I fasten the seatbelt around her body, tugging the strap snug. “Safe and sound—just how you’ll be after twenty-four hours with me on guard.”
“Nope. Take me to my dad’s,” she retorts, her posture stiff with indignation.
“Are you sure about that?” I stare her down. I know her better than she realizes. “Or do you want answers? I can see the questions about last night in your eyes coming at me from a mile away.”
Her shoulders sag, as though a part of her pride falls away.
“I thought so.” I shut the door and hurry to the other side before she can even consider jumping out. As I drive toward her place, I continue, “Here’s the deal—it goes both ways, G. I need answers too. What the hell were you doing at the docks?”
“That’s my number one question for you, “ she fires back.
“I was there on a mission. You know, one of those dangerous military situations where you shouldn’t have been poking your nose around,” I assert, unable to keep my anger contained as I recall finding her on the floor, bleeding from a head wound an unknown assailant gave her. The guilt plagues me. I’ve replayed the night over and over in my head. Could I have gotten there a minute faster and prevented her attack?
“So, you’re investigating the illegal game fishing ring, I presume?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as if waiting for me to confirm that we’re on the same case. Compared to my actual case, fishing is trivial, but I play along despite the long-standing rumors swirling around Love Beach about illegal fishing off the coast.
“Yep, you got me, darling—just trying to take down some bad guys for catching fish,” I reply with a twitch of a smile that gives me away.
“Screw you, Jackson,” she mutters, diverting her eyes out the window. “If you want to mock this, then go ahead. I’ll be busting my ass figuring out who’s behind it.”
I dodge the topic and glance at her sideways. “How did you even know to be at the docks in the first place?”
“I have my sources.”
“Who?”
“I’m not legally obligated to share that.”
“Gigi, if you know anything that could help take these guys down, you need to talk.”
“Not happening. I never compromise my sources.”
“If it involves a federal crime, you might as well. You could be subpoenaed and forced to talk if the illegal fishing takes place in international waters. So, what exactly do you know about this ring?” I ask, gripping the wheel tighter. Our task force isn’t focused on this case—it doesn’t really concern me—but I can’t stand the thought of Gigi getting into deep trouble. My years in Texas in the Coast Guard taught me a thing or two about ruthless bastards in illegal game rings, and I don’t want her to cross paths with them.
Something isn’t sitting right about her investigation and my mission. But I can’t put a finger on what.
She clams up like she’s holding a precious pearl in her mouth. At a red light, I observe her profile: she somehow tamed her wild red curls into a ponytail, and her graceful neck curves for my view—flawless creamy skin under her earlobe is a lickable spot to start.
I remember the first time I fell for her back in eighth grade, not reciprocated, of course—maybe thanks to my relentless teasing, a clueless kid with his first crush. I recall our head-to-head match in the Love Beach Spelling Bee, where neither of us missed a letter until I finally bested her with the word “logorrhea” and claimed victory.
I’ll never forget how her pink lips pouted and puckered, and how her green eyes burned into me, vowing revenge. Back then, I wanted her attention, so I fought her like hell in any competition I could.
These days? I’d let her win any game if she’d let me in… Deep inside of her.
Damn. I shake that thought away. “Look, people have been catching fish they shouldn’t for ages. Why are you suddenly so obsessed? Did you become an environmentalist while I was gone from Love Beach?”
“Sharks deserve to live, too,” she replies with a shrug, her gaze drifting back to me, with a subtle plea. “I need this, okay? No one here takes me seriously since Dad retired. The Buzz is just a quaint small town newspaper.”
“Hate to tell you, sweetheart—Love Beach is exactly that, a quaint little town. Haven’t you noticed?”
“You sound just like my dad.”
“He’s a smart man. I’ve always liked Bill Baymont.” I add, “Keep your company simple and you’ll be safer darlin’.” And I wouldn’t have to worry about her next investigation landing her in even deeper trouble.
“Sure, small town news has its place. But I want to elevate the paper with some real journalism, and hard-hitting investigative stories. There’s nothing wrong with taking what my dad built and doing it better,” she explains.
“I don’t know. This town might not be ready for Hurricane Gigi unleashing a story about fish,” I snort, aware it’s a low blow. Judging by her contorted expression, she hates me for it—even though a part of me revels in seeing her get worked up. My preference would be that she channel all that anger into letting me fuck her good and hard with her back up against the wall. We have years of pent-up frustration with each other, so by my estimation, we should get started now, making up for it before we get any older.
I know I’ve pushed too far, when she shoots back, “And what exactly were you and Davis doing at the docks? My source told me a ship was arriving with fish and that a truck would meet them and make the transfer of goods. So, I’m guessing you’re back in town chasing the same scum I am?”
I flash her the widest, most cocky grin I can muster and reply with a classic military quip: “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” I fix her with a smoldering look, and she simply rolls her eyes—tough crowd tonight.
A block away from her place, I realize I can’t let her stay angry with me for the next day or two. One of us has to give. “Look, G, even though you shouldn’t have put yourself in danger, the moment I saw you, I rushed over to pull you from what could have been a really dangerous situation if my team had closed in on the perps. You could have been caught in the crossfire. But by the time I reached you, you were already on the ground. The perps got away—we didn’t see a thing.”
I don’t divulge how our drone ended up following the truck, but lost it when it parked under a clump of trees at a nearby library. The occupants dispersed before the drone and our team could find them.
“You tried to play hero once again,” she retorts flatly, her voice winding down into a tired yawn. The painkiller the doctor gave her must be finally working.
“Would that have made the front page of The Buzz? I can already see the headline: ‘Love Beach Hero of the Day: Jackson Alexander Saves Gigi Baymont from the Clutches of Evil Fishermen.’”
At least she manages a half-hearted laugh, shaking her head. “Could you be any more cocky right now?”
“Hell yeah, I could,” I reply as I park in her driveway. Too bad she doesn’t peek down at my lap, where my confidence is growing by the second. She defiantly unbuckles and reaches for the door handle. “Hold on. Wait for me.”
I jump out and dash around to catch her as her feet hit the ground, meeting her face-to-face once more. We’re so close that I can see the depths of her eyes in the soft light of sunrise. But I can tell she’s exhausted. Suddenly, I feel guilty for teasing her so relentlessly when her body and mind are trying to recover from a vicious attack.
“Gigi, I’m?—”
“I’m fine,” she insists, not letting me apologize, pushing past me as she moves toward her front door. I keep a couple of steps behind, ready to catch her if she stumbles. Because that’s me. The hero. And I could be hers if she’d let me.