Ship Outta Luck

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

JUNE

I blink twice, my best polite smile starting to slide, much like the sweat dripping down my collarbone. The fan clicks lazily overhead. It doesn’t so much cool the room as simply push the stagnant South Texas air around.

A white silk button-down? In the summer? No deodorant could make this right.

I chose… poorly . Though at this rate, I wouldn’t mind disintegrating à la an Indiana Jones enemy if it meant relief from this heat.

The mere thought of Indiana Jones sends a shockwave of grief cresting through me. It was my dad’s favorite movie franchise. There were so many late Sunday nights spent watching them with him on the couch, but they’ll never be enough.

It’s been three weeks since my dad’s funeral. Three weeks of trying to piece myself back together, only to find everything crashing down around me.

I fan myself, rewarded with puffs of stale air as I try not to cry.

“Dr. Legarde, are you paying attention? You look like my undergrads when I ask if they’ve read the syllabus.” Dr. Weaselton, my boss, snorts at his own joke. As the history and archaeology department chair at our small state university, he holds the future of my research in his hands, and he regards me over horn-rimmed glasses that went out of style three decades ago.

A faint smile stretches my lips at the joke, my throat bobbing as I nod once.

“Yes, sir,” I say, stretching my fingers across the hem of my skirt. “But I fail to understand your reasoning. My research is air-tight, but to continue it, I need assistance. Financially.”

The wooden chair creaks as I try to scooch forward, my thighs glued to the seat.

Dr. Weaselton narrows his eyes at me, and I half-listen as he drones on about budget cuts.

“I understand,” I finally bite out.

I’m not an idiot. I don’t need my hard-earned PhD to understand he isn’t going to sign off on my grant application. That there are other professors that have much less risky research projects. That they need the meager funds just as much as I do, if not more.

Hunting for a long-lost sunken treasure might sound exciting, but the chances of finding it are slim to none, and my colleagues’ chances of finding the texts they need in libraries overseas are much, much stronger.

Awareness prickles the back of my neck, and I glance over my shoulder. Unless the ceramic bust of Herodotus sitting on the bookshelf is staring daggers at me, I’m imagining it. Again.

Still. I can’t shake the feeling someone has been watching me for days. Other than Herodotus, that is. And my father taught me to never ignore my gut.

“Dr. Legarde, I hope you can understand that this isn’t personal, although I know your current focus is personal to you. We were all saddened by your loss, and we do wish you the best.”

A tart reply sits on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it.

I sigh as my Dr. Weaselton closes the manila folder with my paper application in it, unsigned. Paper, of course, because even kind dinosaurs like Weaselton are nothing if not set in their ways.

“The university simply will not accept the risk of funding such a venture, and our department has other priorities.”

The curt dismissal hurts, and my fragile porcelain fa?ade cracks.

“It’s not a risk.” My eyes sting with stubborn tears as I lean forward. “I know the Santu Espiritu is out there; you have all the research and proof anyone could ask for in front of you. I just need the money to continue looking for its final resting place.” My voice grows jagged the more I talk, and I know it’s not helping.

I know, and I can’t stop it.

Years of research, nearly a decade of charting currents over the past four centuries, years’ worth of weekends spent digging through archives, and untold hours splashing down on dives all over the gulf. It had all been fruitless—until I’d stumbled upon docking logs challenging the ship’s assumed departure date, setting it back by a month… and placing it in the Gulf of Mexico during one of the worst hurricanes on record.

“I can go over the data again, if you’d like.” I motion to the closed folder, somehow maintaining a calm, even tone. “I have strong evidence indicating that hurricane in 1554 knocked the ship off course.”

“You went over that source already,” he says shaking his head. “It’s not incontrovertible proof, Dr. Legarde. And I can’t sign off on this. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, if you’ll excuse such a puerile cliché.” His tone is gentle, but the words are a slap in the face.

I wish I could shake him, make him see reason. But shaking him wouldn’t get me the money; he isn’t the stuck vending machine outside my office. So I take a deep breath, my smile sharpening.

“Even if I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was there… an underwater exploration of this size?” He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dr. Legarde, we simply do not have the funds we once had. If we had the money, we would give it to you.” Despite the incontrovertible no, his eyes are kind as he pushes my application to the side. “As always, you’re impressive. Publish what you’ve found so far in one of the academic journals. I can see a lot of promise in your research, and I’d enjoy looking over any papers you produce.”

Uncurling my fists, I smile faintly at the praise. Relaxing slightly against the hard chair-back, my smartwatch buzzes; it manages everything from my breathing to my calendar.

“But this is coming from above.” He shakes his head. “The university simply won’t fund your search.” He smiles sadly, and I recognize the look.

He wanted me to get the grant.

Stomach sinking, I close my eyes.

I’ll find the Santu Espiritu without their help.

Though how I’m going to come up with the money…

The prickling sensation returns, and I cast my gaze out his office window, to the bay glistening under the blazing sun.

“I understand. Thank you for your time and consideration.” Somehow peeling my legs from the chair, I stand, resolving to leave with my dignity intact. “I’ll consider your advice regarding the paper.”

Ha. No way I’m writing that paper, all so some jerk treasure hunter can find the Santu Espiritu first.

I head for the door, blinking back tears threatening to ruin my ‘I’ve got my life together’ professor vibe. Straightening my shoulders, my hand closing around the cool metal doorknob, I swallow back an undignified sob until Dr. Weaselton’s voice brings me up short.

“June, do you really think it’s out there? This close to the Texas shoreline? Wouldn’t we have found it with all the oil drilling?” Even now, he is incredulous.

Not trusting myself to turn around, to make another plea for the grant, I take a breath. “I would stake my entire career on it, Dr. Weaselton,” I say, finally stepping into the blessedly cool hallway. The sticky hair on my shoulders practically floats as the AC blasts it.

The door snicks shut behind me as goosebumps prickle my skin.

Maybe it’s leftover adrenaline from the meeting. The failed meeting.

My shoulders sag.

Yeah, adrenaline… or maybe I’m getting even more paranoid these days.

My watch buzzes, congratulating me on standing up.

At least I accomplished that.

My heels clack against the empty tile floor as I barrel down the hallway, thankful classes ended last week and summer semester won’t start for another week.

I’m ready to escape, to rip off the sweaty silk shirt and heels and replace them with a swimsuit, cutoffs, and flip-flops. Then make a new plan to find the Santu Espiritu .

The ship my father spent a lifetime looking for.

Like I’m going to now—with or without the sanction of my employer. I don’t need them, not necessarily.

Nope .

All I need is cash-flow. Resolve stiffening my backbone, I inhale deeply, trying to shake off the disappointment.

I’m better than this.

When a door closes, a window opens .

With any luck, a window that leads directly to a pile of money and the GPS coordinates of the Santu Espiritu.

You know, lightning strike, lottery winning luck.

Outside, the sea breeze dulls the stuffiness of the small, under-funded liberal arts building. My shoulder blades itch, and I glance back at the Brutalist concrete building, completely out of place in the flat salt marsh landscape. Its small slits for windows, the only reprieve from the dun-colored cement blocks.

Unable to shake the distinct sense of being watched, I look around. But find no one.

“Fudge.”

I savor the euphemism, the shape my lips make around the f as it rolls from my tongue. But it isn’t as satisfying as the real thing, and my lower lip curls down.

Control is satisfying though. Control, with my carefully scheduled days. My constant reminders to stand, breathe, and exercise… routine and control are the only things keeping me from a complete meltdown.

“Fudge.”

Unbuttoning a few of my top buttons, which doesn’t make a difference at all, I stride towards my old, beat-up truck. The red paint peeled and pebbled in places, a victim of the same salt air I taste on my tongue. Another relic of my father, of our shared past.

My throat swells, my tongue thickening in my mouth.

The Santu Espiritu was our thing; the hobby we shared. Then the mutual obsession we shared, hours spent tracking tides and histories and leads that would go up in smoke. Just because I don’t know exactly where it’s collecting silt and sea creatures doesn’t mean it isn’t out there, waiting for me.

It should be waiting for us .

And now?

Now I go home, to no one. No boyfriend, no roommate.

Just the constant glow of my laptop, the endless cataloguing of historic tides and possible historic sandbar locations. Primary sources and spreadsheets. And checking my scuba gear. Cleaning the boat. Working on the boat. Remembering to eat, thanks to the reminders in my schedule.

Alone.

Maybe I should make time for something else—someone else .

I shake the thought off.

No .

The wreck—it’s my life’s work. I won’t give up now, not with success so close I can taste it. There isn’t time for anyone. And it’s selfish to expect anyone else to understand how much the ship means to me.

The hair suddenly rises on the back of my neck. That feeling’s back—that I’m being watched. Did I hear something? I stop walking, listening intently.

The calls of seabirds replace the crunch of caliche under my heels, but there’s nothing else to hear.

I inhale deeply.

I could have sworn I heard something.

Another rustle.

My eyes dart to the massive plumbago border of the parking lot, its powdery blue blooms swaying gently.

Nothing . It’s nothing .

I need sleep. Mmhmm . And maybe a really big, salty margarita.

Still, despite the heat, I shiver. Reflexively, I palm my car keys, turning them into a weapon. Just like my dad taught me.

Along with plenty of other tricks.

“June?” A voice pings off the truck, and I levitate briefly before regaining my balance, clutching my chest.

A tall blonde strides around another car.

“Charlie.” I press my hand to my heart. “You nearly scared me to death.”

It’s just Charlie. There’s no one hiding in the plumbago. God, sleep deprivation is making me slightly insane.

“There you are,” Charlie chirps. “I’ve been looking for you. How’d it go?”

“Not good.” I swipe my hand across my forehead. Sweat clings to my skin, and I scrunch my nose. “I didn’t get the grant.”

“Oh, shit, June. That fucking sucks. Fuck Weasely Weaselton. You okay? You look… not great. Hot, but not in a good way.” Charlie pushes her white-blonde hair back, tying it up with a ponytail holder, pinning me with an appraising look.

“Wow. Thanks.” I snort.

“Sorry, that was rude.” Charlie grins, and it’s full of sympathy. “You seem off. Jumpy.” Her blue eyes narrow, and I can practically see her brain working behind them.

“Just wound up.” I’m not about to tell her I might be paranoid about being followed. I like Charlie, but I think it’s better to keep that little tidbit to myself.

“Sounds like you need a drink. And hey, guess what?” She smirks. “So do I.”

The plumbago bush rustles, and we swivel towards it as a rabbit bounds out, racing off to another clump of bushes.

“Did that sound like a bunny to you?” I ask, clenching the keys tighter.

“It looked like one.” Charlie shrugs, but she stares at the bush for a beat longer than she should, too. “Come on June, first round’s on me. I’ll drive. But we take your truck.”

“Okay, that sounds—” I pause, staring at the plumbago’s non-threatening flowers, despite the massive bumblebees swarming the fragrant blooms. “Let’s get out of here.”

I try not to jog to the truck, but by the time I get there, I’m slightly out of breath.

Better safe than sorry.

With an apologetic grin at Charlie, I toss her the keys and climb into the passenger’s seat. Shucking my heels, I toss them and my work bag into the back seat. I sigh in relief, wiggling my toes as I slip on my sandals.

“That was fast. You must really want that drink.” She laughs, the sound slightly manic.

Is paranoia contagious?

The old Toyota roars to life as Charlie slams it into reverse.

Into something .

Something that screams.

“Was that the bunny? Did you hit the bunny?” My voice is a high-pitched squeal. I glance into the side-mirror, my brain not quite catching up to what’s just happened.

White dust partially obscures a man, lying on the ground.

He moans.

“Whoops,” Charlie breathes. But it’s barely audible over my high-pitched screams.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, Charlie. I think you hit someone, oh my god.” I fumble with the button on my seatbelt before the dilapidated thing finally releases.

“That’s not a bunny,” Charlie finally manages, her nose scrunching. “Oops. Shit. Is he okay?”

“Oops? That’s all you have to say?” Cold sweat breaks across my skin, my heart threatening to leap out of my chest. “What the hell, Charlie?”

“I did ask if he was okay. But, yeah, I’ll go check on him. Big yikes.” Charlie jumps out of the car, her huge eyes looking to me one more time before she heads to the back of the car.

“We were barely moving. He has to be okay. Is he okay?” I scream at her. My legs are shaking so bad, I’m not sure I can get out of the car.

Will insurance cover this? Did I pay my insurance?

Of course I did. It was on the calendar.

Where the hell did he come from?

My nails scratch against the door handle before finding purchase, and I leap from the car. Some part of my brain registering gratitude for abandoning my heels in favor of sandals.

I cover my mouth, taking in the sight.

Clutching his head, the man grabs at something lying on the ground next to him. Looking more pissed off than anything.

“Holy shit,” Charlie says, crouching next to him. “Oh no.” Her voice is oddly flat.

His eyes narrow as I approach, and for some reason, he’s scooting back from Charlie, eyes darting between us.

“Are you okay, sir?” Frantic, my voice escalates to a pitch probably capable of breaking glass. “Are you hurt?”

Stringy blond hair pulls back from the man’s face, and I wince at the scrape on his head, blood trickling from the wound. His pants are ragged where his hip hit the crushed-shell parking lot.

“Sir, may I render aid?” I crouch, trying to help the man to his feet, but he swats my hand away.

“Fuck you,” he spits out, a thick Russian accent nearly rendering the words incomprehensible. He presses up onto his hands, sitting up. The man mutters something in Russian that I don’t understand at all. Obviously, seeing as how I don’t speak Russian.

“May I render aid?” Charlie snorts. “What the hell, June? Who says that?” she says covering her face with a palm.

“It’s not funny.” I glare at her. “Stop laughing. Nothing about this is funny, Charlie. It’s what they taught us to say in that safety training. Remember? That weekend course with all the liability stuff?”

She laughs at me while I turn back to the man. “Sir, would you like me to call 911? May I administer first aid?”

Another snort erupts behind me, and I shoot a disbelieving look at Charlie’s silently shaking figure.

How is she laughing at a time like this?

Still covering her face, Charlie holds a hand up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Hitting this guy must have been too much for you. I think you’re in shock, Charlie.” I shake my head, glad one of us is at least trying to help.

“Get away from me, you bitch.” He barks something else out in Russian, stumbling and wincing as he stands.

“Sir,” I gasp. “I understand you’re upset, but it’s good that you are talking?—”

“June, June, stop it,” Charlie says, and I turn back to her. “He’s being so mean to you.” A tear runs down her cheek, eyes crinkling in the corners.

Is she still smiling?

I glare at her.

“Charlie, I am pretty sure you’re in shock.” My hands shake at my sides, my heart doing its best impression of a hummingbird trying to take flight. Heck, I think I might be in shock. “I’m going to go get my phone and call 911. Sir,” I call over my shoulder. “Stay where you are. Help is on the way.”

“You stupid fucking suka.”

Surprised at the venom, I turn back to him, only to see him running away. Well, more hobbling at a high speed, something shiny and black dangling in his hand.

“I thought hit-and-runs were where the driver ran away,” I say, cocking my head.

“June, stop it.” Charlie snorts, pulling me back toward the truck. “Come on, he’s fine. Those margaritas aren’t going to drink themselves.”

“Seriously, what the heck is wrong with you? How can you think about margaritas at a time like this?” I spin back to her. “You hit a man. You ran him over.”

Charlie’s hand is firm on my shoulder though, and she just shakes her head as she guides me back to the truck. She holds the door open for me, gesturing to it, and I relent, climbing into the truck.

“Answer me,” I demand, though. “We can’t just run people over,” I reason with her.

She shuts the door, but it doesn’t drown out the gale of laughter she lets out.

“What?” I ask as she plops down in the driver’s seat, gratified to see her hands are a little shaky. “What is so funny? We need to find him and get him help.”

“You’re talking to me like I’m one of your freshmen. ‘We can’t just run people over,’” she mimics.

“Are you for real right now?”

“I didn’t really run him over. I just bumped him a little.” Charlie shrugs, helping me buckle the seatbelt, which I’m grateful for. My own incessant shaking made it impossible to do myself.

“How can you be so calm about this?” I’m screeching. I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t really help.

“Probably all my years of training,” she says, buckling her own seatbelt. Seems a little late for safety first, but what do I know?

“Training?” I echo.

“Yeah, you know, liability training.”

I shake my head, dizzy with adrenaline, shaky and sick. While Charlie takes the most bizarre hit-and-run ever completely in stride, and despite the odd strangled laughter bubbling out of her, she seems almost fine.

I’m not . Not by a longshot.

No grant, no search for the Santu Espiritu , and Charlie hit a man. With my truck.

“Fuck,” I finally say.