Undertow

3. Prey

3

PREY

Breathe.

I shift on the splintered bench, studying the decaying building in front of me. A café of sorts, or so I was told. I’ve spent countless hours in cafés over the years. The anonymity of being isolated in public, combined with the inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee, was a prime writing environment for me. One of the few places the words flowed freely, uninhibited by judgment and secrecy.

But there’s nothing comforting about the rundown shack called “Mama’s Café.” The tops of the As on the eroded sign painted above the entrance have chipped off, making it look like “Mumu’s Café.”

They call Undertow The Pit. And twenty minutes into the exploration of my new home, I can see why the residents of Palmetto Acres consider this side of the island inferior to their palace grounds.

It’s like this region has gone out of its way to mock the glitz and splendor beyond the gate. Palmetto Acres is a fantasy oasis. Hartford territory is cluttered with shanty-like buildings that have been weathered by time, storms, and something more sinister. Even the air reeks of neglect.

I spent all morning after Scarlett’s unfortunate visit developing my strategy. According to the paltry notes, Julia Hartford runs this café on weekday afternoons, so my best hope at establishing contact is to plant myself at this location. I was hoping for a visual before making a play, but now that I’m here, I see there are no windows for a glimpse inside, just an old rocking chair beside the open doorway.

Added to my long list of grievances against the McArthurs for this assignment is the utter lack of information they provided to carry it out. For sharing a tiny three-mile island, they sure haven’t shared much about their rivals. I got more from an internet search and satellite view of the area than the notes they gave me.

Use Julia to infiltrate their inner circle and discern, then dismantle their operation— the extent of my instructions. The rest is up to me. And as always, they made it clear I’m on my own if things go badly.

I pull in a deep breath and rise from the bench.

Julia’s face is etched into my memory, so I don’t think I’ll have trouble identifying her. She might be the only beautiful thing in Undertow. My mission for this first pass is to insert myself into her awareness and establish a connection.

Just get noticed. That’s never been hard for me.

As I move toward the building, I work to clear my mind of the details so my performance doesn’t come off stiff and scripted.

A cold rush of anxiety surges through me with each step, more than I’ve felt from all the other roles I’ve adopted over the years. Strange, since for the first time that I can remember, my role requires playing myself.

Which “self”?

Exactly. That’s the problem.

No host waits inside, so I take an open booth in the far corner and stuff my small suitcase under the table. Based on the curious gazes trained on me, I’ve been detected. Good.

Eighteen occupants.

Four families.

An elderly couple.

A middle-aged couple.

Two single men and one woman at the counter.

Three employees.

One visible exit.

I locate the door leading to the restrooms and what’s probably the kitchen. At least one, maybe two employees would be back there. Another exit too, most likely. A camera in each corner of the ceiling stakes out the entire interior. There’s no sign of an alarm, though.

Or Julia.

A server approaches, but by her short hair and airy demeanor, she’s not the person I’m here for.

“Hi, what can I get you?” Her targeted smile tells me she could still be an asset, however. I search for a name badge but don’t see one.

I return a lopsided smile and rub my forehead. “Honestly, I’ve had a really shitty day. What do you recommend for that?”

Her smile grows, and I make direct eye contact to cement my impression on her. She steps closer to the table.

“Bad day, huh? Must have been awful. It’s hard to have a bad day in paradise.”

“This is paradise?” I say dryly.

“Sun, sand, water. What else could you want?”

“How about a job? Got fired today.”

Her smile dims as she shifts her weight in sync with her concern. “Oh no. Really? I’m sorry to hear that. From the Palmetto Resort?”

I nod and feign surprise. “How did you know?”

She waves at my shirt, and I return a sheepish grin. “Oh. Right. The uniform.”

“Yep,” she says with a laugh. “Plus, no one crosses from the mainland just to come to Mama’s, and you definitely weren’t working here in Undertow.”

“You know everyone who works in Undertow?” I add a flirty smirk.

Her grin widens as she scans me. Hard. No question I’m her type.

I’m everyone’s type when I need to be.

“I know most people. But even if I didn’t, I’m pretty sure I would have remembered you.”

“Yeah?” I give her my best crooked smile and wait as she melts into it. “What’s your name?”

Charming and playful might not work on Julia Hartford, but it’s definitely working on this one.

“Nicole.”

“Hi, Nicole. I’m Shaw.”

“Shaw. Like the writer?”

Not sure which writer she’s talking about, but that connection will work well for me. “Damn. Is everything about me so obvious? I’m like a pathetic lost puppy, huh.” I infuse just enough sadness into my banter to trigger… that.

She leans closer, her eyes locking on mine. I sense her desire to touch me. Just a small brush to comfort the unfortunate stranger, she’d tell herself. She’d feel the same for any guest in this situation, right?

Except, I’m not any guest. I’m a tantalizing puzzle she wants to solve and experience and maybe ravage later tonight.

I rest my hand on the table, tempting her. Sure enough, her focus shifts to my fingers. So predictable. Her gaze moves to my lips where it settles, hungry and eager.

“Definitely not pathetic,” she says with a coy smile. “If you?—”

“Everything okay over here?” a woman interrupts.

Nicole blushes and straightens. “Fine. Just helping a customer. Um, this is Shaw.”

I shift my attention to the intruder and hold steady through the direct appraisal of Julia Hartford. No doubt in my mind. Her gaze drifts over my face before traveling down my chest and arms, which are clearly on display through a fitted Palmetto Grande uniform shirt. Two open buttons at the top reveal a tantalizing peek at the tattoos running from my chest up my neck. The crisp white sleeves rolled to the elbow also contrast perfectly with the intricate art on my forearms.

I’m the picture of an enigmatic rebel. Exactly what my research told me she’d want. When her eyes linger on my face with a flicker of heat, I know she’s taking the bait.

Inside, my heart is pounding. Outside, she sees the same disgustingly attractive, “unemployed poet” Nicole just met.

She sees what I want her to see.

While Julia scours me, I use the opportunity to make my own assessment. Her hair is shorter than the photos and has been lightened with highlights. She looks her age, almost twenty-six, per the reports. But what makes her unmistakable is the severe expression and guarded look in her eyes. The research said she was smart. Cunning would be a better word. She’s not just intelligent; she knows how to use it.

And I like that.

A lot.

My heart rate picks up at the impending challenge. What will it be like to seduce someone I’m actually attracted to?

“He just got fired from The Palmetto Grande,” Nicole says, interrupting the long silence.

Julia’s stern expression intensifies at the announcement. Interesting.

I try to read more, but come up empty.

“Sorry to hear that. Why’d they fire you?”

I let my smile fade as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Um…” I glance around the room, as if searching for something. “I probably shouldn’t talk about it.”

Curiosity flashes in her cavernous eyes, now scanning me with open interest. Her focus rests on the graphic image on my hand. I’m not surprised that one would catch her attention.

“Doesn’t he look like an artist?” Nicole says.

Random, but okay.

I shrug when Julia’s gaze locks on my face. “Maybe. Are you an artist, Shaw?”

“Does sculpting words count as art?”

Did her lips just tip up? If they did, they return to their flat stasis in the next breath. Her eyes, though, they’re still touching me. Caressing my features with intense concentration. Her mind is definitely on a much different trajectory. The one I want?

“Somehow I think your words would. Well, sorry about your experience in Palmetto Acres, but you’re always welcome in Undertow. Get him a piece of Lincoln’s key lime pie,” she says to Nicole. “And a shot of the corn fire.”

“Corn fire?” I ask.

Her pretty lips spread into their first genuine smile.

Damn . Now that’s a thing to write about.

Ethereal.

Magnificent in its transience.

“You’ll see,” she says, walking away.

For the next hour, I study Julia Hartford as discreetly as possible. More accurately, I study her studying me. I can tell she doesn’t like the fact that I’ve piqued her interest, but it doesn’t stop her gaze from wandering to my table every chance it gets.

As much as I enjoy the view as well, I only let our eyes lock a few times. Just enough to indicate I might be interested, but not enough to assure her I am.

The rest of the time I act like I’m engrossed in my book, a biography of an obscure Eastern European sculptor. I actually have been reading it, which is why I have the book with me in the first place. Not surprisingly, the literature selection in the gift shop of The Palmetto Grande was woefully lacking when I looked for a prop before I left.

“Good book?” Julia asks.

I pretend to be surprised when I look up, even though I saw her coming. By the spike in my blood pressure, she’d be locked in my awareness even if she wasn’t my mission. I can’t remember a time I’ve had to manage my own impulses in these encounters. I’m in deep shit if I don’t get my reactions under control.

Emotion is weakness. A lesson learned long before Montgomery McArthur.

Torn pages, bloody faces, shredded traces of what’s left to be locked away.

“What is this garbage?! How is this our son?”

Always with a physical sting to punish what I am.

Smiling, I hold up the book to display the cover. “Actually, yeah. This artist sculpts gardens.”

“She’s a landscaper?”

I shake my head. “Not real gardens. She uses scraps of salvaged materials to design flowers and plants, then installs them as an outdoor collection to resemble a garden. I looked up some of her work. It’s pretty cool, actually.”

“So, she’s a scavenger of beauty.”

Wow.

“Like I’m a scavenger of words,” I muse to myself. Except it wasn’t to myself.

Shit. Where did that confession come from?

Her gaze finds me again. “A scavenger of words. I like that.”

I swallow a cringe and look away. The truth has no place in this conversation—or anywhere in my life. Only one notebook knows what’s real. The words that hide in the dark.

“What do you scavenge?” I ask, adding a flirtatious grin.

She doesn’t return it, choosing instead to scan me with a direct challenge. Ask me that for real, her look says .

I’m beginning to see the report on her was right. Depth. She likes depth.

“Sorry.” I shake my head with a shy smile. “That didn’t come out right. It’s… my head’s always going, you know? What makes sense there can sound weird out loud.” I add a self-deprecating laugh. “I should… uh… probably get going anyway.”

I close my book and reach for my wallet, fully aware of her fixated attention.

“Music.”

“Huh?”

“What I scavenge.”

Her smile grows in sync with mine.

I drop back to the seat.

“Yeah? Do you play an instrument?”

She shakes her head. “I collect pieces of songs. You know, that one moment you wait for, the part that gives you chills? The huge explosion into the bridge, or the alternate melody on verse two. The bassline in the chorus or the harmony at the end of a phrase. Those little things that take your breath away.”

Damn.

I do know. Like her, I don’t listen to music—I experience it.

“I’d like to hear some of the things you’ve collected,” I say seriously. Shit, I am serious. My head rushes with the thought of connecting with someone on that level.

What are you doing?! You can’t. You know you can’t.

But it would be different this time. I’m supposed to do this. I’m supposed to lure her in.

Her. Not yourself. Which one of you is on the hook right now?

“And I’d like to read some of what you’ve collected,” she says, drawing me back. More forbidden fruit.

My smile is forced this time.

“Maybe.” I look away, picking at a scratch on the table while she continues to stare. “I’ve never shared it with anyone.”

Intrigue pools in her eyes when I look up.

Another truth, Shaw? How much of that are you going to vomit out before it destroys you?

“How long are you staying in Undertow?” she asks.

Relief washes through me at the question I’ve been working toward.

“I don’t know yet.” My hint of a smile sends another silent message. Make me an offer.

She squints at the door, and my stomach buzzes with anticipation of a win as she gathers the nerve to ask something. “I was just about to turn things over to Renee for the evening shift. I usually go for a walk along the beach before dinner. You want to go with me? Maybe tell me the real reason you’re in Undertow?”

Her playful tone doesn’t match the wary look in her eyes. She doesn’t fully trust me. Good. She shouldn’t. But I also catch the flicker of latent sparks, evidence she’s feeling this electric pull as well.

“I mean, I’m pretty busy,” I tease, lifting the book.

Her smile broadens into something genuine. Fucking gorgeous.

“Give me ten minutes.”

Nausea threatens deep in my stomach as Julia and I graze the edge of the ocean. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this close to a large body of water. I do everything I can to avoid it.

The crash of waves competes with the violent pounding in my head as grisly images blur on the outskirts of my consciousness. The memories would be enough to wreck me, but I keep them locked away with everything else.

Focus, Shaw.

My mission right now is to make sure my hand brushes Julia’s by accident and my eyes search the depths of hers just a little longer than necessary for polite conversation. Since storing my suitcase at the café, I’ve been doing both, and it seems to be working. We’ve barely started our impromptu stroll, and already I sense the undercurrent of desire.

The way she walks closer than she should.

How her gaze strokes my face. My body.

It won’t take much to trap her. A few more glimpses of my intriguing artist soul, along with an angsty confession or two, and she’s mine.

After the first couple of hand collisions, the contact begins to originate from her side as well. The conversation has flowed seamlessly, bolstered by a quick bypass of small talk, straight to exploring the layers beneath. Usually, the “alpha rebel” is my play, but I’ve settled nicely into “broken artist” for this one.

In a weird way, the real me is both.

We walk in a long, easy silence, sparks swelling between us. I’ve never connected with someone through silence before. It feels wrong that our fingers aren’t already entwined.

There you go feeling again.

I shake off the traitorous emotion.

“So why did you really leave The Palmetto Grande?” she asks finally.

Interesting how she’s not letting this go.

At the bump of our hands, I hook my fingers with hers. She inhales sharply, and I pull away with feigned embarrassment.

“Sorry,” I laugh out. “Tripped on a hole in the sand.”

“Yeah? Or were you avoiding my question?”

Her teasing tone draws another smile from me, and I notice how she stays close. When her gaze drops to my lips, our smiles fade. I’ve been staring at her mouth too.

Focusing back on the sand, I continue our leisurely pace.

“Not avoiding. I just don’t think I should talk about it.”

Her attention isn’t just attraction anymore. The flash of gravity in her demeanor sets me on high alert. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off, that this is going too well. I’m good at what I do, but she’s no bored socialite eye-fucking me during my shift at the bar.

Julia Hartford was supposed to be a challenge.

“Why can’t you talk about it? Why would you protect the organization that fired you?” she pushes.

“It’s not them I’m protecting.”

More bait. Her flash of surprise means it worked.

She stops abruptly and pulls me around. Her fingers remain locked on my bicep, sinking into dense muscle as her blue eyes blink up at me. A stray lock of hair caught in the ocean breeze obscures our connection. I follow the path of her fingers along smooth skin and into silky tresses as she tucks it behind her ear.

I don’t write romantic bullshit. You have to love something to be broken by it. But damn if the word scavenger in me isn’t digging for pretty adjectives right now.

I force my attention back to reality.

I’m reading compassion in her expression, but I don’t think it’s real. At least, it’s not alone. There’s something else. Something that triggers another alarm in my well-trained survival instinct. I’m also reading protectiveness.

For me or her?

I definitely made the right call in playing the “broken artist.” I double down and project a hint of fear.

“Shaw, if something happened—if they did something to you—you need to report it.”

“Even if it could hurt me more?” I search her eyes, and her grip tightens on my arm.

“Especially then.”

I look away, partly for the act, but also to buy time. I’m not sure how far to take this. I wasn’t planning to get here so soon. I was counting on having more time to strategize.

Time for a distraction.

Our eyes lock again, and I’m encouraged when she steps closer. We’re almost touching now, less than six inches apart. Much too close for a virtual stranger.

Her gaze sinks to my mouth, and I suppress a flinch when she reaches up to trace my lips.

“You feel it don’t you,” she says softly.

“Feel what?” I reply in the same intimate tone.

“This weird chemistry we have.”

I blink back. “Is that what this is?”

“You’re the writer. What would you call it?”

Her coy smile sears through my blood. My lips burn from her touch.

“Dangerous.”

“Destiny,” she counters.

Deadly.

Our eyes explore the depths of the other in the electrified pause. This is what I wanted, right? This is the plan. Ignite her. Make her desperate for a taste. The prize is right there, willing and hungry. All it would take is the slightest encouragement. I’ve done this countless times, so why can’t I make the next move?

I don’t have to.

Her fingers thread into my hair as we come together with an urgent kiss that launches us somewhere else. A bed, a couch, anywhere but a public beach with a person you’ve known for an hour.

With a light moan, she dissolves into the kiss, her body melting into mine. Firm. Warm. Her soft curves press against my hard planes. Our hips tease and stroke each other as we guide them to the rhythm of our mouths. I have no clue what’s happening, but it doesn’t take long for my instinct to kick in.

I don’t even know what’s real and what’s an act as I angle her head to deepen the connection. Our tongues glide in lazy sweeps. Her grip becomes painful in my hair, until one hand lets go to slip beneath my shirt. Her palm curves around my side, her fingers diffusing fire over my skin like she already owns me.

I know lust well, but this is something else. Raw. Unhinged.

Wrong.

I pull away, staring at her in confusion.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

She blushes, but doesn’t let go. If anything, her hold on the waistband of my shorts tightens. I still have her head cradled in my hands. She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

“I don’t even know your name,” I lie.

“Julia,” she says faintly. “And I don’t know what just happened. I’m sorry. I’ve… never done that before.”

I study her closely. I don’t like that I can’t tell if she’s lying. I don’t like that I have to wonder if she’d lie.

“Kissed someone?” I joke to lighten the mood.

“Lost control.”

My humor fades.

“There’s something about you,” she continues. “I don’t…” Her eyes search mine, pleading, before dropping back to my lips. She wets her own, as if tasting the remnants of our lust.

As she steps back, her reluctant fingers drag over my skin, like they need to steal every touch they can.

Once we’re separated, she presses the back of her hand to her hot cheek. “Ugh, what is wrong with me? I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t like it,” I say with a playful smile. I can’t have her running away either. Her eyes venture to mine, and I reach for her hand. “Just, maybe we take it a little slower? Like, from the beginning?”

A smile slips over her pretty lips before she groans and leans her forehead against my shoulder. “Gah! I don’t even know. That was…”

When she straightens again, I’m blasted with perfection—her mouth curved up in a crooked smile, her eyes huge and saturated with evidence of her shy crush. Damn, she’s tempting. This is going to get very dangerous for me.

“Hey, um… I’m just gonna…” She nods to her right, and I follow her gaze to the small outbuilding with a rusted shower and doorless entryways labeled as restrooms.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll wait here.” I return a reassuring smile.

I meant it too.

Until I noticed her adorable expression drop just a fraction of a second too early when she turned. One second longer and I wouldn’t have known. I wouldn’t have secretly followed her to the public restroom. I wouldn’t have hovered just outside the door and heard a male voice say,

“Looks like it’s going well.”

I definitely wouldn’t have heard her reply.

“Really well. I think we got one.”

There’s a weight to this silence that terrifies the romantic in me.

The advantage of the predator is stealth, and I often wonder if I’m on the hunt or merely the prey.

It’s not within the natural world to condition your victim into comfort before bleeding them dry, but what about any of this feels natural? Should I have any reason to believe I’m not being led into the lions’ den, blinded by deprivation of my innate desire to be needed?

Should I have any reason to believe I don’t deserve this sort of ending?

I’ve been afraid of this all my life, caught somewhere between selfish and sick. What a difficult thing to navigate when you don’t know if you’re marching into your own demise or simply dragging someone to theirs, and how tragic it is to crave something in the middle.

Like a millstone on my neck, I think she and I both know where we’re headed, and the silent descent into the darkness is too familiar to disturb.

-JD August 12, Part 1