Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
JUNE
Biting my lip, I do my best to patch Dean up. Once we hit open water, out of the canal, I set the boat at a good clip and got out of the main waterways. Not fast enough to hit any waves too hard, not slow enough to be caught if we were followed.
Now we’re drifting, land a mere spot in the distant.
It doesn’t matter that the gulf is calm, glass-smooth, even.
I can’t seem to stop shaking. Can’t seem to focus. Especially with his shirt off.
“I’m sorry. About what the shotgun did to your hearing. And uh, this burn.” The angry red patch is already blistering. “It looks awful. And sorry about the whole being shot thing. And the Jeep.”
Oh good. I’m rambling. Great.
Narrowing my eyes, I attempt not to notice anything but the task at hand. Patching Dean up is priority number one. I don’t notice his bloody shirt, I don’t look at the old scars, and I absolutely do not memorize the ripped body my hands tremble over.
“None of this is your fault. Besides, it’s not that bad. His shot went wide. Just a nick is all,” he says, as if being shot at is an everyday occurrence. “The burn… it is what it is. You did what you had to do. I’m just glad you keep a stocked first aid kit on here.” His breathing steadies, eyes tracking my every movement. “My hearing’s already better. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Blood trickles from the wound, and I suck in a breath. Stretching the gauze across his impressive pecks, winding it around his shoulder and under his armpit, where the bullet grazed him.
Where it narrowly missed me.
My head swims, and I sway with it on my knees, attempting to remain steady. Whether the dizziness is from the lingering effects of too many tequilas or being shot at, or… shooting at?—
Strong arms anchor me, keeping me from falling.
“June. June. Look at me.”
I can’t. My chest heaves as I fight for more air, my breathing impossibly fast. Dean scoots closer, to the edge of the bench seat that hides another gun. Swallowing, I close my eyes.
Can’t think about guns.
“Look at me.” His thighs press on either side of me, caging me in. A firm hand lifts my chin.
I obey, opening my eyes, looking up at him.
“I’m okay. You’re okay, remember?” he says gently.
I nod. “I know.”
Dean checks me over, making sure the blood staining my clothes is his, and not mine. His careful hands seek out any injury. He’s methodical. Calm.
Eventually my quivering legs still, and he watches me. Seconds stretch into minutes as I breathe, staring into his eyes. Not wanting to say it.
If I don’t say it, it’s not real.
“How many?” he asks.
Guilt and relief roil in my stomach, and I squeeze my eyes shut so tight rainbow sparks trail across my eyelids.
“How many did you get, June?”
“Get?” I repeat, barking out a harsh laugh and opening my eyes in indignation.
“Talking about it helps,” Dean just says.
“Two. Maybe three,” I finally admit.
Dean nods once, his gaze firm on me, warming me. His thumb strokes my jawline as his other hand pulls me close. He’s so close his breath whispers across my neck.
Collecting myself, I snip the bandage carefully and tuck it into itself. I ignore the warmth rising to my skin.
“June, you had to make a choice.” His fingers stroke my back. “It was us or them. You picked us. It’s okay.”
I tilt my chin up, our lips dangerously close, and his eyes drop to them, but I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to think about anything. His hand on my back makes small circles, sending shivers through me that have nothing to do with shock, and I arch into him. His lips part, both hands stroking, one along the side of my neck, the other up my spine. The heat of his bare skin is nearly too much, a contrast to the cold settling over me.
The swell of my breasts meets the hard planes of his chest and he sucks in a breath, his eyes heavy. His grip on my waist and the column of my neck tightening.
Leaning closer, I wait for him to close the gap between us. For our lips to touch.
A half-second passes, breathing the same air.
His eyes meet mine as he moves in, and my heart races.
A horrible screech fills the air, the sound of metal on metal jerking me back to reality.
“Shit.” I scramble off the deck, stomach sinking, and head to the steering wheel. The screeching dies away as I shift the wheel left. “We scraped a buoy. Can you hold the wheel straight while I check the damage?”
Dean winces, unsteady on his feet, but nods.
“You need water.”
Keeping my eyes on the dark sea, I rummage around one of the under-seat storage bins. Sure enough, the heavy flashlight’s there, along with two gallons of water. My emergency stash.
If there’s ever been an emergency to use the stash up, this is it.
Dean grabs a gallon with his left hand, and I put the seat back in place.
“ You need water,” Dean says, holding the jug out to me.
“Take the aspirin from the med kit.” I ignore the water, picking up the flashlight instead.
“I’m fine.” He unscrews the cap, tipping water into his mouth.
“You want to be in pain? Whatever. Stupid Marines,” I mutter, sure he won’t be able to hear.
He chokes on the water, patting his chest. “I’m not a…” Shaking his head, he lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s ex-Marine.”
I shake my head . Apparently, he can hear just fine.
“Once a Marine, always a Marine. My dad didn’t believe in pain killers either.” I squint, trying to make out his face. It’s unreadable in the settling dark.
“Check the boat.” He nods to the water. “Don’t have the light on longer than necessary.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I snap, suddenly beyond annoyed. “You think I want them to catch us?”
I’m furious with this stupid ex-Marine, who is the reason my house is torn apart, my dock in pieces. I’m furious with myself for almost kissing him. For even wanting to kiss him. The only thing I truly know for certain about him is that he looks hot as hell with his dumb shirt off.
Well, and that he’s working for the DEA in some capacity.
Anchoring myself on the side of the boat, I lean over the metal railing. Saltwater sprays, coating my face and body in a fine mist. I turn the flashlight on, quickly whipping it up and down the side of the Betty , assessing the damage.
“Fudging fudgesicles.” The bilge pump.
Teeth bared, I flip the flashlight off and push myself back into the boat.
Of course, it had to be the bilge pump.
Resting my forehead in my hands, I curse myself for never getting around to fixing the faulty automatic sensor. Worried I’d need to replace the whole dang thing, I set up a manual switch instead. And now we’re on the freaking water with a bilge pump that needs to be manually activated every six hours or so, if we want to keep the boat from sinking. Which we do. Especially since we’re on it.
Casting my gaze skyward, stars begin to wink into view. Shining in the velvet sky, illuminating it and us.
Carefully, I find the janky manual switch on the control panel and flip it. The noise of water ejecting from the pump starts, and I sag against the captain’s chair.
At least the manual switch hasn’t failed. At least the battery’s new enough that it can power it.
The watch screen on my wrist lights up, the haptics buzzing against my wrist.
Standing up for one minute can help keep you on track to your goal!
“I am standing up, you jerk,” I mutter. Why do I let this stupid thing boss me around? Tapping the screen, I set a six-hour timer to check the bilge pump again. “How you like that? You work for me .”
“Did you say something?” Dean’s gravelly voice surprises me, and I clutch at my chest. God, I’m so jumpy.
“No.” My eyes stray to Dean, and I carefully guide the boat between the faintly glowing buoys. Red for port, green for starboard. Drifting in the gulf in a boat this size, the chances of us hitting a salt flat and tangling the propellors in sea grass aren’t slim. It would be a pain to get free of them, so the deeper we can get, the further out we go, the better.
“How bad is the damage?” he asks, glancing back at me.
“It looks worse than it is. It’ll cost a fortune to fix it, but if I don’t get it fixed, it’ll weaken the hull. We’re fine for now, though.”
I don’t mention the bilge pump. That problem’s taken care of, too. For now.
If my dad was around, he would do it himself. Would teach me how to do it. A sharp ache sears my chest.
But he isn’t around.
He would be teasing me as he sanded it down, telling me about elbow grease and hard work.
“That’s good.” Dean nods.
Carefully, I step over to the empty live well where my handgun’s taped inside, safe in a waterproof Ziploc. Ammo taped next to it. Not that the Glock would make him tell the truth. In our close quarters, there’s no guarantee I’d be able to fire off a shot before he tackled me again.
I shouldn’t think like that, though. I think… if Dean were out to hurt me, he’d already have done so.
He’s certainly had every opportunity to do something.
His heavy hand settles on my shoulder, spinning me around.
“You ready to have that talk?”
“About how you’ve put me in danger since you ran over my phone in the bar parking lot?” It comes out rude, and I don’t care. Rude is better than noticing his smooth skin, his rippling abs.
Moonlight dances across the water, the light brighter as the moon rises, and I’m grateful for the fact we at least have good weather.
“What do you know about what your father did for a living?” Dean cocks his head, an eyebrow raised. I expect anger when I look into his eyes, expect judgment. He isn’t angry, though.
His eyes are sad. Understanding, even.
“He’s gone now. He’s dead.” My throat closes, the familiar panic building until my chest aches.
I doubt swallowing grief ever gets easier.
Dean just waits for me to truly answer, his soft brown eyes never leaving my face.
The bilge pump shuts off, the gurgle of water and whine of the bilge motor dying replaced by the steady lapping of water at the hull.
“He was retired,” I finally say. “Like I told you, ex-Marine. You know something about that. He made investments, played the stock market. Worked as a fishing guide and was great at it.” I gesture around the boat, resigned. “Obviously. Now tell me what you’ve gotten me into, or I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Finally, a smile dawns across his face.
I can’t help sighing in irritation. “You’ve got me there. There isn’t much I can do.” But I don’t feel unsafe with him. I’m irritated. On edge. Overwhelmed by what just happened, definitely.
But… he doesn’t make me feel like I’m in danger.
No, Dean Evans makes me feel safe.
“Fine.” He sighs, then winces and touches the bandage on his side. “Let’s start over. I’m Dean Evans. Marine.” He points to his tattoo. “And now a contractor for the DEA. Which brings us to the smugglers,” he pauses, his eyes tracking over me. “And to your involvement with them.”
He holds out a hand, but I don’t shake it, and he finally drops it, a hint of amusement causing that dimple to peek out.
“And why, Dean Evans, does the DEA suspect me? Why are Russian smugglers trying to kill us?” My stomach clenches, and I bring a hand to it. A nasty suspicion rockets through me, but I clamp down on it. Refusing to let that voice have a place in my head.
“You’re a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.” He frowns, his hands clenching at his sides. “I’m not sure how much information I’m cleared to give you.”
“Uh-huh. That sounds convenient.” I raise my hand to flip the hair off my shoulder, but he catches my wrist.
I lock eyes with him, his fingers gentle on my skin.
A frisson of heat passes through me before I wrench out of his grip.
“Dr. Legarde, do I look like I’m lying to you?”
“It’s dark. Hard to tell what anything looks like right now.”
He snorts a laugh. “Fine. Do I sound like I am?”
“I don’t know you.” Still, I relax slightly, sinking down onto a pleather chair. I put my head in my hands, trying not to cry as the adrenaline finally abates, leaving me exhausted and hollow.
And scared.
“None of this makes sense,” I mutter. Part of me doesn’t want to know. My stomach sinks. I don’t want the answer. I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing the mere idea of it.
I glance up to find him studying me. His eyes drift to my lips, only noticeable because of the bright moonlight, before he finally shakes his head.
“Fine. The smugglers are after a missing shipment, and they think you’re involved, too. Because of your father.” His voice is low. Gentle.
“My father?” Anger and suspicion curdle my stomach.
“You handled them just fine, though, even the guy you blinded at the bar. You know, after your friend Charlie ran him over.” He lets out a low chuckle and I take a deep breath, wrapping my hands around my chest so he won’t see them tremble. Dean settles next to me, the boat rocking as the ocean swells beneath us. “Is that what they mean when they say, ‘Don’t mess with Texas’?”
“No, that was an anti-littering campaign.”
“June,” he hesitates, “there’s no easy way to say this. Your dad ran drugs for them. For about ten years, maybe more. They think you have them. Or that your dad told you where to find them.”