61. Ares
Ares
The rope jerks twice as the boat shifts against the anchor, dragging my leg sideways across the rock. The sudden movement vibrates through the neoprene and sends a sharp, piercing pain up my calf.
I twist instinctively, grabbing for the line before it can pull me farther off balance. Or tear my leg off.
The current surges again, and the damn rope tightens its twist on my leg. With this fucking anchor dragging, untangling myself is much more difficult. I’ve no choice because if I don’t get myself clear, the current will take me with it, and I’ll drown.
I force the panic down the way I have a thousand times before. Panic wastes air, and air is the one thing the ocean doesn’t offer to humans.
Slowly, I bend toward my trapped ankle and see the line is wrapped around it twice.
I slip my fingers between the coils and extend my foot as straight as it’ll go. All I need to do is wrench it sideways, ignoring the burn in my lungs. But the fucking current fights every movement. The rope refuses to give.
Oh fuck…
Then the anchor shifts, slipping across the sea floor, and the tension in the line eases just a bit. Just enough for me to loosen the coils holding me captive.
Moving quickly, I yank at the ropes and rip my leg free. With the last of my breath, I kick hard off the rock bed and shoot upward through the swirling blue water toward the light above.
My lungs ache now, the pressure building in my chest as the surface draws closer.
Closer, but still so far. Dizziness closes in, and I feel numb. I close my eyes and swing out my arms, giving one last kick, hoping it’s enough.
Mercifully, my head breaks through the surface, and air floods back into me in a harsh gasp. Coughing, I tread water until the dizziness passes.
For several minutes, I simply hold on to the boat while the echoing pain of that brief, violent pull lingers in my muscles.
Stupid. I made a careless mistake that could have ended very differently.
I’m distracted. What the hell will happen to me in New York if I can’t manage this heartache of missing my wife?
I drag myself up the ladder and step onto the deck, water dripping from my hair and shoulders.
A trick of light casts a shadow against the port-side rail.
The memory of Lourdes leaning against it and inviting my mouth between her thighs buckles my knees.
I grab the captain’s chair, my fingers digging into the leather so hard it might tear.
I strip the gloves from my hands and head below deck for a towel and to get away from the light and shadow of what I lost. I’m oxygen-deprived. I stumble into the small sleeping quarters to change and get dry.
In the berth, a book on the narrow nightstand catches my eye. Lourdes and I spent a lot of time in this cabin, even anchored further out for an overnight trip. She had me read to her from that book, a story about vampires, while she sucked my cock.
Hands trembling, I see a page with a corner turned down. It’s that scene. I slam the book closed, and a whiff of her scent hits me.
Christ, how many things are going to try to kill me today?
I sit on the edge of the bed, breath stuttering, like her scent stole all the air from my lungs again. In the next breath, the tears come. Overflowing from eyes that are conditioned to send death stares are now filled with salty fat beads settling on my lips and tongue.
I’m fucking crying.
I don’t try to stop myself. No one is here to witness my sorrow. And I allow myself to stay like this until I’m empty. No, I’m dehydrated. I gulp down a quart of water and eat Elani’s lunch, so I don’t pass out and then motor back to the dock.
Shaking and pretending I’m fine, I toss the lines and let the crew do their job with the boat, then get in my Land Rover. My sight hazy, I can barely breathe. I want to throw up, yet I still drive back to the house at a dangerous speed for my condition.
I feel wrecked. I pass through the kitchen and head straight for the study, slamming the door behind me. I look at the photographs on the wall. My father, alone. Alexander, defiant and solitary. They were men who built empires but died without knowing the warmth of love.
I almost joined them today.
I had love and warmth in my bed every night. And I walked away. I don’t want the same tragedy to be my legacy.
I reach for my phone, the decision settling into my bones and rearranging the flow of blood in my veins.
“Fuel the jet,” I say when the line connects. “I’m going home.”