Chapter 12
BIANCA
Owen turns into the airport’s long-term garage without slowing, takes us up three levels, then chooses a spot between a minivan with two car seats and an SUV crusted in old salt.
The engine dies, and a plane drags itself into the sky, close enough that the sound vibrates through the walls. The alphas, to say the least, are on full alert.
“Everybody out,” Weller says. “We’re going to split into two groups and walk a few miles to the tourist shops.”
Owen’s hand tightens on the wheel. “I don’t like leaving the car.”
And I get it. It’s currently our only method of getting away quickly, but we need to scatter our movements and make it harder to trace us.
“You don’t like leaving anything you can use as a weapon,” Tristan murmurs.
“I could use you as a weapon.”
“Then you’d ruin my hair.”
“Have you seen what it looks like today?” Owen asks.
I push open my door, and warm late-April air slips beneath my clothes, carrying jet fuel, the smell of hot pavement, and a layer of humidity that has my skin instantly glowing.
The burner Winston gave us is switched off and buried at the bottom of Weller’s bag. Owen locks the doors with a look of longing.
We use the stairs instead of the elevator, with Weller checking each landing before the rest of us continue, Owen behind me, and Tristan near the open side of the garage where he can see the roads below.
Every time tires turn toward us, all four of them tense, shoulders settling and hands emptying as their bodies make room for violence.
It’s weird seeing them like this, out from under Whitney’s house and collars, Montgomery’s gates, all four of them moving like they finally answer to themselves.
For one flight of stairs, I let this feel like the first normal vacation we’ve ever taken together.
Then sweat stings beneath the glued cut at my neck.
Owen closes the distance behind me, blackcurrant and spice hitting the fever under my skin.
Outside, Owen and Weller take either side of me, while Freddie and Tristan walk together far enough behind us that we don’t look like a group.
We follow a service road beneath palms that look too cheerful and carefree basking in the morning sun.
The airport recedes behind a string of businesses targeting travelers, but the sky remains exposed, and I keep waiting for the insect whine of a drone.
A large white van slows beside us. Owen moves closer, and Weller’s hand wraps around mine, but then it turns into a hotel driveway while we keep walking.
The tourist shop sits at the end of a sun-bleached strip beside a closed seafood place. Its windows are crowded with beach towels, shell necklaces, and a headless mannequin wearing a bikini made of so little fabric the price tag is shocking.
“Freddie will go in alone and get what we need,” Weller says.
Freddie glances at the others. “Is it because I’m so charming?”
“Yes,” Tristan says. “And you look just the type to buy a bunch of touristy bullshit.”
“That’s mildly offensive, but I’m just going to assume you mean I look like I’m always down to have a good time.”
“Don’t get me anything too dorky,” Owen mutters.
“Can the three of you be quiet, please?” Weller gestures for Freddie to proceed inside.
Freddie squeezes my fingers and kisses my forehead before walking inside with his easy smile already in place.
I watch him through the large window, and within a minute he has the cashier laughing while the rest of us arrange ourselves as naturally as we can along the storefront as if we’re not watching every reflection, passing car, and person holding a phone.
A woman across the street raises hers. Tristan steps in front of me so smoothly his shoulder blocks most of my view, but she turns toward a painted marlin on the restaurant wall and takes three pictures without ever glancing our way.
“This is fun,” I say.
Weller’s eyes stay on the dark glass. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
Freddie returns with two enormous plastic bags with a surfboard logo on the side, far too pleased as he distributes floppy hats, sunglasses, and aggressively cheerful shirts and swim trunks, while for me he has an entire bag of swimwear and sun dresses.
Freddie holds up a hand and catches a tossed key. “Bathrooms are around the side. Let’s go get changed.”
We pile into the single bathroom together, trying not to touch any of the surfaces that could benefit from a good scrub, and quickly change.
I select a cute one-piece with crochet panels at the waist and throw a semi-transparent cover-up over it.
I can’t help but giggle at Tristan’s neon-pink flamingo shirt. I’ve never seen any of them in clothes like this, and it tickles my soul.
Weller’s in green and pink Hawaiian floral, Owen’s covered in palm trees, and Freddie is wearing a shirt with smiling fruits dressed like rock stars and the words Bag Packed. Back Waxed. Belly Ready for Vacation Snacks. across the back. Completely ridiculous.
While the other three groan about what he chose for them, Freddie says, all wounded, “Don’t be so lame. We’re supposed to look like tourists. The point is to fit in.”
“I think you all look adorable. Very festive.” I give them a final once-over, then catch Freddie’s hand and squeeze. “And I love what you picked for me. All of it. You did good.”
His smile softens, dimples deepening as his thumb brushes over my knuckles. “I knew the green would look good on you.”
That gets Weller to look at me. The sheer ivory cover-up does nothing to hide the green crochet one-piece beneath it, from the scalloped neckline to the open panels baring strips of my waist, although the suit itself covers everything required by both law and basic decency.
His attention moves slowly down me anyway, and his mouth flattens.
“No.”
Owen turns at the word and immediately scowls. “Absolutely not.”
I look down at myself. “What?”
“That cover-up is transparent,” Weller says. “Everyone can see you.”
Owen pinches the fabric at my hip and pulls it away from my body, holding it up as though the clear outline of his fingers through it settles the matter. “It covers nothing.”
“It covers several important inches.”
“I like it,” Tristan says, his attention moving slowly down my body. “A lot.”
Weller closes his eyes for a second. “You’re not helping.”
“I bought her three full coverage sundresses,” Freddie offers. His pleasure over my compliment is already collapsing beneath the combined disapproval of the other two. “But I thought she’d like it.”
“It’s cute, and I’m fully covered.” I rise onto my toes and kiss his cheek before facing the other two. “You do not get to dictate what I wear because somebody else might look at me. I’m wearing it.”
Owen’s shirt strains across his shoulders, and Freddie might have bought him a size too small because he keeps yanking at the hem as if it will grow longer.
Weller has buttoned his shirt up to his throat as though proper fastening might restore his dignity, and Tristan leaves his open, showing off tan skin I’d like to lick...
Freddie asked the cashier for the closest taxi station, and he pointed him toward a stand two blocks over. The first driver we come across barely looks up from his newspaper when Weller asks about the ferry drop-off, though his eyes sharpen when Weller offers a handful of cash.
“Five of you?” the man asks.
“Yep,” Freddie says. “It’s our sister’s college graduation trip.”
Four heads turn toward him as the driver grabs our meager belongings and puts them in the trunk.
“Our sister,” Tristan repeats under his breath.
Freddie’s smile doesn’t move, but the tips of his ears turn bright red. “I panicked.”
Weller waits until the van is moving and the man has turned his radio up before speaking. “Next time, let me do the talking.”
“A group of clowns would have raised fewer questions,” Tristan offers.
Freddie sinks lower in his seat. “I hate all of you.”
“Love you too, big brother,” I tell him with a laugh and a pat on the shoulder. Owen grunts in displeasure and Weller ignores us.
The driver takes us toward the coast, singing along with the reggae music playing and the windows cracked. We’re all watching our surroundings.
I keep waiting for something to go wrong. Flashing lights. A fleet of drones. The driver to turn around and say gotcha and return us to our evil captors. Instead, he complains about seasonal traffic, Freddie apologizes like this is somehow his fault, and nobody comes for us.
When he drops us near the ferry terminal, the air that rushes through the open door has enough salt in it that I taste the ocean before I see it.
Diesel and fish smells hang around the marina too, but neither can bury the briny, clean air, and I draw another breath just to feel it coat the inside of my lungs.
Families cluster around piles of luggage while a uniformed employee checks names against reservations. Weller takes one look and keeps walking.
“The marina is this way,” Tristan says.
Weller doesn’t break stride. “How do you know?”
“I looked at a map.”
Past the terminal, the boardwalk narrows along a row of slips where fishing boats knock gently against their bumpers.
Owen checks behind us while Weller speaks to a gray-haired man coiling rope beside a white center-console boat.
The man looks us over, then names a price high enough to insinuate he’s not interested in being our personal ferry unless we make it worth it.
Weller hands over a pile of cash without negotiating.
“Wrecker’s public marina?” the man asks, counting the bills once.
“That’s right.”
“Be about twenty-five minutes if the water behaves. Wind changed last night, and the current’s running hard along the ocean side. Don’t swim out there unless somebody local says it’s clear.” His gaze catches on Freddie’s shirt. “Celebrating something?”
Freddie looks at Weller, but I smile at the captain. “Graduation trip. Our parents made all four of my big brothers come with me to protect my virtue, which is incredibly inconvenient because I had plans to lose it before sunset.”
Weller stares at me, but the salty air must be going to my head because I continue, “Local boy, a moonlit beach, one terrible decision to commemorate higher education. But I got stuck with these assholes.”
“There will be no local boy,” Owen says gruffly. “Unless he wants to get murdered.”
I point at him and frown. “See? The vibes are absolutely oppressive.”
The man laughs, but he nods his head toward Owen as he gestures for us to get on the boat. “I have sisters. I understand.”
Weller’s stare is a burn on my skin as I follow the captain and take my seat.
We idle out past the breakwater. The passenger ferry is already pulling away, its upper deck crowded with people pointing at things in the water. The guys track the boat until the distance widens.
Then the captain opens the throttle.
Wind tears the hat from my head before I can grab it. Tristan catches it against his chest and hands it back without taking his eyes off the boat’s wake. The bow rises over the first swell, drops hard enough to lift my stomach, then levels as we clear the inlet.
Land falls out of sight, and there is water as far as I can see, farther than my brain can make sense of. Sunlight paints the surface gold in thousands of moving pieces, my lips taste like salt, and the air is cool enough to soothe the heat gathering under my skin.
I turn and catch Freddie’s eye. He is settled back and watching me. Not this beautiful view. His dimples appear when he says, “Crisis finally handled.”
“Which one? We have many.”
“The beach crisis.” He looks back at the water. “You said you never got to see the ocean... unless you did, while you were gone?”
The old conversation comes back in pieces, almost painfully. “No... this is my first time.”
A low strip of green appears ahead, then weathered rooftops and the metal decking making up the marina.
As we get closer, I can make out people moving between shops, golf carts gliding along narrow lanes, and bicycles leaning against every available railing.
Music carries across the water, a guitar and a woman’s voice breaking apart whenever the wind shifts.
Wrecker’s Point.
The name sounds like a warning, but the island is pretty enough to belong on the side of a cookie tin.