Oaks
The lake don’t make a sound after the shot.
That’s what gets me. Not the hole in my boat. Not the fact that I’m stranded on a floatel with a twenty-one-year-old woman I shouldn’t want and can’t stop thinking about.
It’s the quiet.
Quiet means somebody’s disciplined. Quiet means they knew where the hell to aim. Quiet means they didn’t fire a second round because they didn’t need to.
Brittany’s still on the porch, knees tucked up, arms wrapped around herself like she’s holding her bones in place. Her eyes are wide and furious and shaken all at once, like she’s trying to decide whether to scream at me or thank me or do both.
I pull my phone from my pocket and step just far enough away that she can’t hear every word.
Holler answers on the second ring.
“You good?” he asks, no greeting.
“Boat’s fucked,” I say low. “Somebody put a round through it.”
There’s a pause, then a slow exhale. “You sure it wasn’t just old fiberglass giving up?”
“It’s clean,” I snap. “Hole’s clean. That ain’t rot.”
Another pause.
“Bethany?” Holler says.
I shake my head automatically, even though he can’t see it. “She’s mean. She ain’t stupid. That’d be war. She knows that.”
“You sure?”
“No,” I admit, jaw tight. “But this feels different.”
“Want me to bring a boat and get you?” Holler asks.
My eyes drift back to Brittany. She’s staring at the water like it might climb up the dock and grab her by the ankle.
“No,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Morning. Bring one in the morning.”
He grunts. “Legend’s already asking where you are.”
“Tell him I’m watching the perimeter.”
“That what you’re calling it?” Holler mutters.
“Shut up.”
He chuckles once, but it dies fast. “Be careful, VP.”
“I am.”
I hang up and stand there a second longer than I need to.
Truth is, I could’ve left. Holler would’ve been here in twenty minutes if I asked. But Brittany’s safer with me here tonight, and that ain’t just me telling myself what I want to hear. Whoever shot my boat wanted me stranded or wanted me dead, and either way, they were aiming at my access to her.
I step back inside.
She looks up fast, like she expects bad news.
“You call for backup?” she asks.
“Morning,” I say. “We’ll deal with it in the morning.”
Her brows knit. “So you’re staying?”
“Yeah.”
She nods once, like she don’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say.
“You better.”
That almost makes me smile. Almost.
I don’t sleep. Not really.
The floatel creaks. Water slaps against the pontoons in slow, steady thuds. Every noise sounds like a footstep if you listen too long. I lie on the couch staring at the ceiling, boots off but jeans still on, one hand resting near the knife at my hip.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the way she looked earlier.
Sun on her skin. That defiant little smirk.
The way my palm landed on her breast, felt her nipples harden too, and my body reacted like it found home.
I hate myself for that part, for the instinct to claim, for the hunger that don’t care about vows or optics or the fact that she’s young enough to still have softness in her face when she laughs.
I shouldn’t be picturing her in that bed in the next room.
But I am.
Half asleep, half awake, my mind builds a stupid, dangerous fantasy. I imagine pushing open the bedroom door. Imagine slipping into the edge of her bed just to feel her warmth, not touching, just close enough to prove she’s real and safe and here.
A scream rips through the floatel.
I’m on my feet before my brain catches up. Knife in hand, breath in my throat, heart slamming.
I shove the bedroom door open.
Lights are on. She’s sitting upright in bed, breathing hard, eyes wild, hair everywhere.
“It moved,” she says.
“What moved?” I demand.
“The bear,” she says, pointing at the mounted head on the wall. “It moved.”
I glance at it. Glass eyes. Open mouth. Dust on the snout. It looks dead because it is dead.
“Brit…”
“I’m not crazy,” she snaps. “I turned on the light and I swear to God I saw eyes behind it. Human eyes.”
I step closer to the wall, every muscle tight. “You were dreaming.”
“I wasn’t.”
She throws the covers back and climbs out of bed, still in one of the shirts I bought her. Bare legs. Bare feet. All that exposed skin in a place that suddenly feels like a trap.
She marches to the wall and grabs the mounted head.
“Brittany.”
“I’m not crazy,” she says again, voice shaking, and this time I hear the difference between fear and humiliation. She’s been doubted too many damn times.
She pulls hard.
The screws groan.
Then the whole thing tears free.
Behind it is a hole. Not big, but big enough.
My blood turns to ice.
I step forward and put a hand out, not touching her, just guiding her back. “Move.”
She does, breathing fast.
I stick my head toward the opening. There’s a narrow cavity behind the wall, closet-sized, and at the back of it an access panel that ain’t supposed to be open.
It’s open.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“What?” she whispers, voice small.
I shove the panel wider and crawl in far enough to see.
Blankets.
Old beer cans.
And tissues.
Used.
My stomach turns hard, violent, instant.
Somebody’s been here. Not once. Not accidental. Long enough to get comfortable. Long enough to leave trash. Long enough to watch.
Brittany steps close enough to see it too.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, and the color drains out of her face so fast it looks like she’s about to pass out.
Someone’s been watching her.
I yank myself out, breath coming rough. I turn and scan the water through the window on instinct, because whoever did this didn’t swim out here. They had a boat.
I rush to the porch, eyes cutting the dark like blades.
And there it is.
A motorboat. Small. Fast. It’s already pulling away, racing toward the treeline, no lights, just a black shape cutting through black water.
“Son of a bitch,” I growl.
I spin back inside, mind already mapping angles. The floatel is compromised. The lake is compromised.
Brittany’s shaking so hard her teeth might chatter.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I pull her into me.
She stiffens for half a second, like her pride wants to fight it, then she folds, hands fisting in my shirt like she’s drowning and I’m a dock post.
“You’re safe,” I tell her, voice rough. “You hear me? You’re safe.”
Her breath hits my chest in fast bursts. “Someone was watching me,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t crazy.”
“No,” I say firm. “You weren’t.”
I pull my phone again and call Holler.
“Bring the damn boat,” I say. “Now.”
Holler doesn’t argue this time. “On my way.”
He’s there in under half an hour, engine rattling, his face hard the second he sees mine. We don’t talk much while we load her in. Brittany doesn’t let go of my arm.
I don’t tell her to.
The lake is black glass under the moon. Halfway across, something hits us.
Hard.
The boat lurches, water slaps up, and Brittany gasps and grabs me like she’s already falling.
“What the hell was that?” she breathes.
Holler glances over the side, squinting into the water. “Told you,” he mutters. “Lake monster.”
“Shut up,” I snap, but my hand tightens around Brittany anyway, because my body ain’t laughing.
The water settles.
Nothing surfaces.
Nothing shows itself.
We make it back to camp without another hit. Lights flicker between trees. Engines idle. Voices carry. The brothers are posted like sentries, and that tells me everybody felt the shift, even if they won’t name it out loud.
Lottie’s already on the dock when we pull up. She rushes forward and wraps Brittany up before I even finish tying off,
“You okay?” Lottie demands.
“There was someone in the walls,” Brittany says faint.
Lottie’s eyes flash to me, pure fury and fear braided together.
“We’ll talk,” I say.
Holler jerks his head toward their cabin. “You two stay there tonight.”
Lottie keeps Brittany close and guides her up the path. Brittany moves like she’s made of glass, but her chin is still up. Stubborn. Still herself.
I hang back just enough to scan the dark water again.
Something is wrong here.
Not just Pearly Gates. Not just Bethany. Not just some peeping pervert hiding in a floatel wall.
The lake feels alive tonight, like it’s listening. And whatever brushed that boat wasn’t small. But that’s crazy. That’s adrenaline talking. I take a deep breath.
I watch Brittany step into the cabin light, shoulders tight, jaw set like she’s refusing to be broken by a jealous wife or a lake monster or a perv in a wall.
I made the right call staying.
And I’ll make the right call again.
Even if it burns every damn thing else down.