Chapter 12
JACOB
T he Eclipse had dropped me at the dock with a duffel full of gear for Camille’s team, Marcus’s parting wink still burning in my head.
Atlas’s guys had a bead on her—quiet shadows trailing her like ghosts, ten paces back, just as they’d promised.
I’d caught sight of them as I’d stepped off the yacht, their nondescript SUV idling near the marina, eyes on the world but not on me.
It didn’t surprise me they knew where she’d be.
What did surprise me was that she was back at Salty Mike’s. Was this her usual haunt, or was she looking for me? I hoped the latter, the thought sparking heat low in my gut, but I kept my face blank, my stride steady as I crossed the parking lot.
The neon “Open” sign buzzed in the window, the deck lights casting a warm glow over the weathered wood.
The air smelled of fried fish and tide, the Ashley River lapping at the pilings below.
I was running on fumes—too little sleep, too much whiskey last night, my mind churning with Marcus’s cryptic hints about family, Caleb’s silence, and the Navy’s mess with Camille.
I should’ve been headed to bed, crashing in the cheap motel until I could call my brother and figure out what the hell Dominion Hall wanted.
But when I pushed open the door, the sight of her stopped me cold.
Camille sat at a high-top near the rail, her dark hair loose and free, spilling over her shoulders like ink. She was laughing, a throaty sound that hit me like a shot of Jack, her head tilted back as one of her colleagues said something I couldn’t hear.
My cock shifted, unbidden, and I cursed under my breath. She was surrounded by her team—three of them, two women and a guy, their table cluttered with beer glasses and a basket of hushpuppies.
Disappointment flickered. I’d hoped to find her alone, maybe waiting for me. I almost turned around, figuring I’d track her down tomorrow, play the liaison Marcus had saddled me with.
Almost.
But something about her—the way her laugh lit the room, the way her tank top clung to her curves, the fire in her eyes even from across the bar—kept my feet rooted.
I tried to play it cool, feeling anything but. My head was a mess, the day’s tidings—Marcus’s billions, Caleb’s secrets, the Navy’s bullshit—churning like a storm.
Fuck it.
I’d sleep when I was dead.
I crossed the deck, duffel slung over my shoulder, and stopped at the rail near their table.
Camille’s eyes flicked to me, surprise flashing before she masked it, but her colleagues lit up, especially the women.
The taller one, with a braid and a grin that said she didn’t miss much, leaned forward.
“Well, damn, he’s real,” she said, her voice carrying a playful edge.
The other woman, younger, blonde, blushed but smiled. “Becca,” she said, sticking out a hand. “This is Tamika, and that’s Miguel.”
I shook her hand, nodding at the others. Miguel, the guy, eyed me with a protective glint, his posture stiff, like he was sizing me up. I kept my face impassive, setting the duffel down.
“Jacob,” I said. “Marcus sent me with some gear for your team. Tent, some other stuff.”
Camille’s gaze sharpened, but she didn’t speak, just sipped her beer, watching me over the rim. Tamika grinned wider. “Marcus, huh? Haven’t met that one yet. Sit, Jacob. Tell us about your day.”
I hesitated, my body screaming for a bed, but Camille’s presence was a current, pulling me in.
I slid onto a stool, keeping the duffel close. “Long,” I said, keeping it vague. “Yours?”
They launched into it, their voices overlapping, animated. Miguel warmed up fast, his protectiveness easing as he talked about the whale—a pygmy sperm whale, they called it, small and stubborn, fighting to breathe in their quiet pen.
Tamika chimed in about a false alarm at the Washout, some pelican stealing a churro, and Becca rattled off numbers—lactate levels, respiration rates—that went over my head.
I didn’t understand half of it, but I didn’t need to. Camille was in her element, her eyes bright, her hands moving as she explained something about a tonal ramp and the Navy’s lies. She commanded the room without trying, her voice sharp but warm, her laugh cutting through the bar’s noise.
My need for her built, a slow burn turning to a roar. I tried to focus on their words, but all I could see was her—naked, gasping, mine.
I told myself to cool it, to take a damn chill pill, but my body wasn’t listening. Her tank top hugged her breasts, her lips parted slightly as she spoke, and every gesture was a match to the kindling in my chest. She didn’t know what she did to the room, to me, and that made it worse.
I gripped my glass—water, not whiskey, because I needed my head clear—and forced my eyes to the table, to the hushpuppies, to anything but her.
Then the musclehead showed up.
He was big, the kind of guy who lived at the gym, his T-shirt stretched tight over pecs he’d probably flexed in the mirror before coming here.
Karl, fucking Karl , I heard one of his buddies call him.
He had two friends with him, not as big but cut from the same gym-rat cloth, their eyes glassy from too many beers.
They’d been at the other end of the bar, loud and posturing, but now Karl made a beeline for Camille, nudging in close, his beer breath overpowering.
He was oblivious to me staring, my gaze hard enough to bore holes.
Karl flexed, trying to make it look casual, but it was pathetic, like a peacock strutting for a lion.
“Hey, baby,” he said, leaning into Camille’s space. “This a work thing? Ditch the nerds and come hang with us.”
Camille’s eyes narrowed, but her voice stayed calm, edged with steel. “Like you said, it’s a work thing. I’m good here.”
Karl didn’t take the hint, grinning like he’d already won. “Come on, baby, you don’t need these geeks. We got a table over there, better view.”
I felt the snap building, my fingers tightening on the glass, but Miguel stepped in first, rising from his stool.
“She said she’s good, man,” he said, polite but firm. “Let it go.”
Karl’s mistake was pushing him. A quick shove, hard enough to send Miguel stumbling back. I caught him before he hit the deck, my arm steadying his shoulder. Then I turned, facing Karl, my voice low, controlled.
“Time to head back to the gym, or wherever you call home.”
Karl bristled, his buddies closing in, their postures shifting like they thought this was a game.
“Who the fuck are you?” Karl snapped, stepping closer, his chest puffed out.
The world slowed. I saw it all—the bartender reaching under the counter, probably for a weapon; Camille opening her mouth to say something, her eyes flashing; Tamika rising from her seat, ready to jump in; Becca freezing, her face pale.
But I was ahead of the motion, my training kicking in, the snap in my chest breaking free.
I moved, fast and methodical, my fist slamming into Karl’s sternum with a crack that doubled him over, gasping. His buddies lunged, but I was ready—one took a sharp jab to the jaw, dropping like a stone; the other caught an elbow to the temple, stumbling back into a table.
Three moves, three seconds, and they were down, the bar silent except for Karl’s wheezing.
Time sped up. Miguel stared, mouth open. Tamika looked terrified, her hand half-raised. Becca was pale, her eyes wide. But Camille—her gaze was wide-eyed, intrigued, a spark of something that wasn’t fear.
The bartender raised his phone and a bat, ready to call for backup, but Camille was faster. She jumped from her chair, grabbed my hand, her grip firm, and pulled me toward the door.
“Come on,” she said, her voice low, urgent, but laced with something else—excitement, maybe.
We were out the door before anyone could react, the humid night air hitting us like a wall. The marina lights danced on the water, the duffel slung over my shoulder again, my pulse hammering.
Well, that was one fuck of a way to start liaising.
I didn’t know if I’d just burned a bridge or built one, but the feel of her hand in mine, the fire in her eyes, told me I was in deeper than I’d planned. The ghosts were quiet for once, drowned out by the heat of her, the fight, the night.
I’d figure out the rest later.