Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE_
DECAF
I didn’t see him go into the water. Did he make it? Did he get off the boat in time?
Fake our deaths, they said. It’ll be fine, they said. Nothing will go wrong.
Everything has fucking gone wrong.
Smoke fills my lungs. Debris is scattered all over the ocean, floating on top of the water.
“Get another loaded up!” Iris screams. “We have to shake this fucking helo before the guys run out of air.”
They should’ve taken the bigger oxygen bottles, not us.
We should’ve split up, gone to our separate boats, and then met up.
Are the morons in the helicopter going to really say to their bosses, “Well, there were seven in the beginning, but we only saw three when it blew up”?
I really don’t think so. But the guys were adamant.
We all had to be seen getting on that boat for them to believe that we’re all dead.
For it to be believable that they weren’t the only black ops firm after us and they got beaten at the finish line by an untraceable agency. For all of our identities to be wiped.
“Decaf, an assist?” Iris yells at me.
Shit. Yeah. Okay. It’s up to me because Rogue is with Scout. Getting him out was scary, but he’s still holding on.
I jump into action.
All it takes for the helo to fuck right off is Iris aiming his RPG right at them.
Will they come back to the scene again to look for bodies?
Possibly. But we’ll be long gone. The explosion isn’t so far offshore that no one on land would see it.
This will make the news; we’ll be pronounced dead, or they’ll cover it up with some lie about who we were.
Drug runners trying to get narcotics into the US or some other bullshit line no one should believe.
People still will, though. They always do.
We speed off in the direction we’re supposed to go, somewhere we had hoped would be far enough away for the people chasing us not to see them climb into the boat, but that issue is the last thing on my mind. They need to be alive to climb into the boat at all.
My heart is in my throat, threatening to blow an artery or something, as the cold sensation of death washes over me.
It’s how I felt when Jesse died, and I’m trying to tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t. It’s my paranoia; it’s not Hazard at the bottom of the ocean, unable to breathe.
That thought alone almost has me jumping overboard to try to find him. Would be easy in something as small as the ocean. Who am I kidding—it would be a suicide mission. And that’s the only reason I haven’t jumped yet. Because there’s still a chance.
But when we kill the engine and begin to drift, the moment stretches too long. That chance is slipping away with each second that passes. My legs begin to tremble. My heart cracks open. It was fragile to begin with, and those scars never truly healed.
Iris puts his hand on my shoulder in solidarity, and as much as I want to yell at him to fuck off, I know he’s going through the same thing I am. Saint’s out there too.
“What if they don’t—”
A hand shoots out of the water, scaring the fuck out of me, and grabs a hold of the back cleat. Iris and I move quickly to pull the person out, both of us no doubt hoping it’s our loved one, but it’s neither. It’s Trav, and he’s a heavy fucker.
“Where are the others?” I ask as soon as he’s on deck.
“Behind … me …” he says in between deep breaths. Did their oxygen run out? Is that why he’s panting? Did the other two not make it? Are they within reach?
“How far behind you?” I shove him. “Tell me.”
A voice I was beginning to think I’d never hear again fills my ears, and it brings tears to my eyes, even if what he says is mocking me. “My man loves me more than yours loves you. Mine is willing to piss off Trav.”
I turn to the back of the boat, and there are Saint and Haz, pulling themselves out of the water. It’s so casual too. Like I have no reason to be an absolute wreck.
I’m frozen in … something—relief, shock, disbelief?—unable to get my feet to move toward him, but as soon as he’s made his way onto the deck and is standing two feet in front of me, I collapse into his arms.
He’s here. He made it. Our plan worked. It was messy and confusing, but we somehow pulled it off.
I kiss his salty skin, a million little kisses that assure me this is real. That we did it. That our future can start right this second.
“We’re all accounted for?” Trav asks. “How’s Scout?”
“He’s resting,” Rogue says, coming out of the cabin to greet Trav the same way I greeted Haz.
Once he’s done kissing the fuck out of Trav, he pulls back.
“We’re keeping an eye on him for infection, but he’s already started taking antibiotics just in case.
The sooner we can get out of here, the better. ”
Trav turns toward the wheel. “Let’s fucking go, then.”
After a harrowing immigration check on our brand-new identities, we’re able to make a flight that gets us the fuck out of North America. We’ve gone from one country to another to another, really getting a workout on our new passports, but at least we know they work.
Even if my new name will forever be—
“Ready for the last leg of the trip, Mr. Seeman?” Haz snickers as we wait at the harbor in Montenegro for one of the guys already on Trav’s island to come pick us up.
It’s been a long-ass journey to get here, and I’m not talking about the adrenaline of exploding boats and then a million layovers.
To get here. Emotionally, physically … Our new life is beyond that water, within close enough range to almost touch it.
“More than ready, Mr. Pinkstaff.”
Haz smiles, his eyes hooded and puffy from not enough sleep, and then lays his head on my shoulder as we stare out at the water. This water is so different to the overcast and windy setting of our final goodbyes off the coast of Vancouver.
Here, it’s bright, sunny, perfect temperature, and the world is … calm. At least, the world inside my head is. There’s a soft breeze that cools our hot skin, and this is the true meaning of paradise. Inside and out.
Maybe we should stay in Montenegro if this is how it’s going to be.
“You really hate your new name, don’t you?” Haz asks.
“It’s fine,” I grumble. It’s really the only down part of this new start.
Trav claims he didn’t let Iris rename us, that Iris somehow went above his head, but how would he do that? And why is Trav and Rogue’s new name Cox a perfectly normal and only somewhat sexual name? Convenient. I wouldn’t have put it past him to do it himself and blame Iris.
Then again, as I watch Iris and Saint leave a nearby boutique in Port Montenegro, he enjoys it way too much as he passes and says, “Here come the Slutzkys!”
Iris is probably … most definitely behind the new names.
He likely went easy on Trav so Trav wouldn’t shoot him.
It’s also telling that he gave Trav and Rogue the same last name, as well as himself and Saint.
Both couples were set to marry before everything happened, so they will start their lives as husbands, even if it’s not legal because legally, none of us exist anymore.
With only passports to our names, if Haz and I do get married at some point, our names will stay the same.
I’m sure we could rustle up some fake documents like birth certificates to go with the passports, but that’s an extra risk I’m not willing to take.
I’d rather keep us safe than share a last name that doesn’t mean anything because it’s not us. A name does not make an identity.
“I don’t know about you, Brock, but this Slutzky loves this Seeman right here.” Iris throws his arm around my shoulders.
That’s the other thing we’re probably never going to get used to. Iris is using Saint’s real name. We all kept our first names because it’s easier that way, but really, we probably should’ve changed them legally to the names we’ve called each other forever.
Despite our horrific new last names, I no longer fear what comes next.
Ever since Corey Haz—Pinkstaff showed up in my life, all I’ve been doing is running.
Running away from my grief and my guilt.
Running from my feelings for him. Running for my life, trying to save Haz, trying to make everything better for him. For us.
No more running.
I shove Iris off me. “I’m still trying not to think about why you chose Pinkstaff for my boyfriend or how you’d know, so I’d be careful if I were you.” My tone is missing the necessary edge to actually make that sound threatening.
“Aww, you’re going to miss me when Saint and I move on.”
Moving on. We haven’t even made it to Trav’s island yet, had a chance to map everything out. “You two got an idea of where you’ll want to live yet?”
“I want to move to the Swiss Alps and become a snow bunny,” Iris says. “I’d make a good snowboard instructor, and Princess Smooshy Face would love the cold.”
Saint shakes his head beside his husband. “He’s forgetting to mention he doesn’t even know how to snowboard.”
“How hard can it be?”
“Damn, I wish I could be there to see that,” I say.
“Me too,” Haz agrees.
“Move there with us!” Iris is way too enthusiastic with that answer.
“Pass.” I pat his shoulder. “I love you and all, but I feel like I’ve been living with you for the last decade.”
“Besides,” Haz says, “I hate snow.”
My brow furrows. “Have you ever been to the snow?”
“No. But I find LA cold.”
We all laugh because that is ridiculous.
I hold Haz tighter against me. “Guess we’re settling down somewhere tropical, then.”
“Easy as that?” Haz whispers.
“I promised to make you happy, so yes. It’s as easy as that.” I kiss the top of his head, and he nuzzles in closer.
This is what our future will be. Him demanding things and me giving it willingly. We might not have explicitly said we’re following each other to the ends of the Earth, but we don’t need to. Because we’ve already done it.
We’ve already chosen each other.