Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
ARIANA
M y board is tucked under my arm, my feet in the sandy ocean bottom, when I spot a man who has no business surfing in this weather. He flips off his board, getting bashed in the head with it, then the wave topples over him. My stomach plummets, and I wait for him to surface, but seconds tick by, and his head doesn’t pop up to the surface.
Shit.
Fellow surfers shout to each other, but they’ll never reach him in time. I’m the closest, so I ditch my surfboard, quickly tug off the ankle strap, and swim in a sprint to the spot where I saw him go down.
If I find him, it will be a small miracle. The current most likely dragged his body. When I think I’m close to the right spot, I dive. The saltwater stings my eyes, but only a bit. My eyes have grown used to it from years in the ocean. Out of all the places I’ve lived, the ocean is the only place I can clear my head.
I frantically circle, not finding any sign of his body, until my lungs burn, and I have no choice but to resurface. I take a quick breath and dive back under. It’s dark, and the current tugs my body in different directions, but a flash of white catches my eye.
There.
I use all my strength, kicking and pulling my body down farther. Catching his hand, I tug him, swimming with the last of my strength to the surface, pulling his head above water and dragging his back to my front. I band one arm around him and swim toward shore.
He’s unconscious, which honestly is probably better. In my years as a lifeguard, I’ve experienced near-drowning victims firsthand, and they often panic and fight against the person saving them. This man is large and muscled. If he were to fight me off—or worse, use me as leverage to keep him above the water—there’s a good chance I’d drown.
I’m panting when we reach the shore, but I take his wrists and drag him up onto the sand, just far enough that the waves don’t fall over him. My chest heaves as I check for a pulse, not finding one.
“Damn it.”
I straddle his waist and begin chest compressions, using all my might to push on his chest before I breathe air into his lungs. I hum the Bee Gees’ song, “Staying Alive,” which some might find ridiculous, but it’s what I was taught because it has 103 beats per minute—the correct rate for doing chest compressions.
My voice grows labored as I sing when he doesn’t come to after the first couple rounds.
I’m vaguely aware of people gathering around me, and I hear someone on the phone with 911, but my concentration doesn’t break.
I alternate between compressions and mouth-to-mouth until I’m so exhausted I’m not sure how much longer I can continue. As if someone granted this man a miracle, he finally sputters and chokes up water.
I slide off of him, falling to my back, sucking air into my lungs. “Roll him on his side,” I manage to say to one of the gawkers.
Coughing sounds next to me, which is a good sign. He’s expelling his lungs, though he’ll definitely need to make a trip to the hospital to be sure he doesn’t succumb to secondary drowning.
Once my breathing stabilizes, the realization of what I just did sets in, as does the panic. I sit up and stagger onto my hands and knees, getting my bearings before I stand. I walk over to my bag I dropped down the beach, leaving my surfboard behind being beaten up in the ripples of waves at the shore.
“Hey!” someone calls after me, but I ignore them.
There’s no way I’m going to be here when the ambulance and police show up. Even if I was a good Samaritan, I can’t be on their radar—even for saving someone’s life. My dad and brother would kill me.
And so, I leave the man behind, hoping I did enough to save him.
A couple of days later, Bastion barges into my room without knocking.
My brother’s not actually my brother by blood. My father took him in when he found Bastion as a runaway on the streets when he was eleven because Bastion was pickpocketing, and my dad thought he could be useful, which has proved right over the years.
I whip around from packing my change of clothes for my shift at the local bar. I’m scheduled to work tonight after I’m done with my regular job at the law office today.
“What the hell, Bast?” I narrow my blue eyes on his green ones.
“I should say the same to you.” He tosses a folded newspaper onto the bed in front of me.
My forehead scrunches, and I pick up the paper, reading the headline of the article — “Mystery Woman Saves Billionaire from Drowning.” Billionaire? Schooling my features, I drop the newspaper next to my bag.
“Why are you showing me this?” I neatly fold the T-shirt with the bar’s name on it and place it in my bag, then shoulder the strap of my bag to face him.
He narrows his eyes. “You know exactly why.”
“I don’t.” I try to move past him, but he steps in front of me.
“Cut the shit. I know it was you who rescued that guy.”
I keep my features smooth, not about to give him the reaction he’s searching for. “Oh?” Arching a brow, I continue. “Seems to me the headline reads mystery woman.”
“Yeah, well, the article says it was a woman with long red hair and that it was a miracle she was able to drag him out of the ocean in that weather and administer CPR. I’m thinking that miracle happened because my little sis spent three years as a lifeguard at country clubs and is an adept swimmer.”
I stare blankly at him. I shouldn’t have to hide the fact I saved a man’s life, but in this family, doing anything that might put a spotlight on you, good or bad, is seen as wrong.
“It could have been anyone.” I shrug and shoulder past him.
“Maybe, but it was you. Ari, what were you thinking? You could’ve had the cops question you.”
God, I’m so sick of this. This is exactly why six months ago, I told my dad and my brother that I wanted no part of their lifestyle.
I wheel around and face Bastion. “The guy was going to drown, and I was right there. What was I supposed to do? Swim past him and catch the next wave like a guy wasn’t dying?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what you should have done.”
I narrow my eyes. Is he for real? “I guess that’s where we’re different then, Bast. Because I wouldn’t swim past a drowning man, knowing I could help him.”
Even if I have my own questions about whether he wanted to be saved or not. It was obvious he wasn’t skilled enough to be out in the water in that weather, so I’m not sure why he was.
My brother shakes his head. “You’re such a softie.”
It used to drive me crazy when he referred to me as a softie. Back then, I was so focused on proving myself to him and my dad, it made me cave to whatever demands they made. But at twenty-four, I see it for what it is—a manipulation. A way for them to get me to put my conscience aside and do their bidding. Generally, something illegal or immoral and something that involves ripping someone off.
“Well, I guess that’s why I left the family business then.” I turn to leave before my dad catches wind of this conversation and finds out what I did.
From him, I’d get a lecture about how we can’t do anything that draws any attention to us, especially from the cops. My dad would be concerned that the press might pick up the story and do some digging. And when you’re grifters, that’s not a good thing. The rule is to fly under the radar, move around a lot, don’t make friends. Basically, be invisible. Oh, and to do what I’m told without exception.
“Ari, we can’t let this just slip by us,” Bast says before I reach the door.
So that’s what this is really about. My brother can sniff out an opportunity from a mile away. He reads the word billionaire and automatically sees dollar signs.
With my hand on the knob of the front door, I turn to look back at him. “I told you and Dad I was done with all that. I’m not interested.”
Bast shakes his head for the thousandth time since he barged into my room. “So what, you’re going to work a nine-to-five making shit money, find some boring schmuck to marry, and settle down? C’mon, you know that kind of life isn’t for people like us. Or are you just gonna work two jobs for the rest of your life like you do now and put yourself in an early grave?”
I actually don’t blame my brother for the way he thinks. He’s a product of his environment, the same way I was. The day I finally worked up the courage to tell him and my dad that I was no longer going to participate in their scams was the hardest day of my life. I couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t kick me out because I’d no longer be useful to them. Sometimes I think my dad only lets me stay here because he thinks I’ll change my mind.
“Don’t worry about what I’m going to do. I’ll be fine.”
His lips turn down as if he pities me, and my hand tightens around the doorknob. “We’re not done talking about this, Ari.”
“We are.”
The screen door slams shut behind me, and I walk quickly toward the bus stop. I had to sell my car a few months back when I could no longer afford it. Unfortunately, Bastion is right—a regular job doesn’t pay nearly as well as crime.
But a clean conscience is worth having to use a bus pass. At least to me.