by Teagan Kade
“What happened to her?”
“She survived, but the people who shot her in the first place came after her wanting to finish the job. Thankfully, my friend knows a thing or two about survival, managed to get them into witness protection.”
Winter has stopped eating, her expression almost scowl-like. That skittish, paranoid look is back, her eyes darting behind me, to the darker corners of the restaurant. What is she looking for? I wonder. Who?
Her eyes find me and focus. “They were together, your friend and this girl?”
I smile picturing Ethan. “Yeah, fell for each other in the hospital, I guess you could say. Real rom-com stuff.”
“That’s sweet... You were in the Army? Those are your Army friends in that photo?”
“That’s right, and better guys you won’t find.” I don’t want to elaborate. Not now.
I play with my fork, turning it over and over. Outside, a siren whoops, Winter jumps in her chair.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Calm down. You’re safe here.”
She brushes her hair back over her shoulder. “I’m not so sure.”
“The chef here’s a kickboxer the size of a bulldozer. Everyone knows you come in here looking for trouble, you’re going to wind up on the pavement with half your teeth missing.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring? What happens if you don’t like the food?”
I point down to it. “Come on. You tasted it. No one’s ever disrespected the food here.”
She smiles, but it’s fleeting.
On impulse, I reach across the table and take her hand, surprised how delicate it is in my fingers but also how warm and soft it feels. “Listen, I know you said you didn’t want to get the police involved, but I do have a contact, a friend, who works in the local PD here. He was also in Army with me, in my squad, actually. He’s solid. He could help.”
It’s not like I haven’t considered the possibilities. Winter didn’t just wash in from across the ocean. She must have been out there on a boat, a cruise… something. My guy could run checks, dig up files—a fuck-load more than I can do from the tower.
But Winter isn’t interested. Her hand slides out of mine. She crosses her arms over herself. “Look, Archer, I appreciate the concern, but I have to think first. Can you trust me?”
“Of course,” I reply, putting my hands up. “As I said, I only want to help.”
“And you’ve been a huge help, but I need to figure this out on my own.”
“Okay,” I relent. “It’s your call, but I’m here if you need me, and you’re welcome to stay at my place as long as you like.”
“Just as long as you keep your clothes on,” she grins
I’d forgotten all about our little encounter earlier, though it comes right on back in a second flat.
Every. Vivid. Detail.
She was lucky I didn’t poke her eye out.
I smirk, nodding easily. “I promise. No more surprises.”
She smiles back, returning to her meal.
We finish up, standing outside where the next wave of nightlife is busy meandering around the streets. It’s an eclectic mix.
A guy on a rainbow-colored Segway goes blasting between us, Winter immediately moving back into position by my side. “Where to now?” she asks.
I look at her stunned. “You’re still hungry?”
She shakes her head. “No, no, no. Any more food and you’ll have to carry me home, but I don’t really want to go back yet.”
I have to smile. “How do you feel about salsa?”
*
The Ball & Chain is a popular club any night of the week, but tonight it’s especially pumping.
“Archer!” the security guard on the door beams, reaching for my hand. “Long time no see, my friend.”
I give him a wink to suggest he can cut the act this time. He winks back in acknowledgement, directing his attention to Winter. “And ma’am. Nice to see you.”
Somewhat shy, Winter hides behind me, continuing to do so as we’re ushered through into the club proper. I stop by the cloak room, Winter looking at the dancefloor with something close to wonder.
I join her. A DJ’s up on stage cranking out an upbeat, heavy salsa groove so thick you could carve it with a knife. “Drink?” I offer, raising my voice to be heard over the music.
I’m surprised when she grabs my hand and basically runs us to the dancefloor. “Let’s dance first!” she shouts.
Now, I like to think my salsa skills are up to scratch, but Winter is something else. She heads right to the middle on the dancefloor and immediately starts sashaying and swinging her hips with such perfect syncopation it’s like the music is part of her.
I try to match her tempo, but her feet are moving like lightning.
She’s smiling so wide I don’t know where her face starts and her mouth stops, eyes yellow, then blue, then pink in the changing light. “I haven’t danced for so long!” she says, twirling and cheering.
I take her in position and we dance together, but it’s clear she’s doing the leading here. It’s hard work, and being this close to her isn’t exactly helping my concentration. I feel the side of her breast against my arm, the soft weight of it there, the natural, soapy scent of her body as she moves, her hair brushing past my face.
Before long we’ve started to attract attention, a space opening up for us. Winter takes full advantage, leading me into a complex series of breakthroughs. I almost miss a step, correcting just in the nick of time.
Winter’s lips are at my ear, her breath warm on the shell of it. “What’s the problem? Can’t keep up?”
Before I have time to reply she shuttles us into a Noventa, twisting and turning so fast I’m not quite sure what’s up and what’s down before immediately lurching into a slingshot.
We break apart and pull back, the crowd clapping and cheering us on.
I thought I could dance.
It would appear I was wrong.
I manage to use the shift in music to pull Winter away, reluctantly, from the dancefloor and over to the bar. I order two mojitos and take a seat, my feet, quite literally, burning.
I look at Winter like she’s another person entirely. “Well, you can dance a lot better than you can cook. Where on God’s green earth did you learn to dance like that, and don’t tell me it was your father’s doing?”
Winter seats herself gracefully. I don’t think she’s even broken a sweat. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here like Aquaman.
“It was my mother. She was an excellent dancer.”
“You clearly enjoy it.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not so bad yourself. You actually dance behind the beat, like you should. Not many guys can pull that off, not in a busy, complicated percussion like salsa.”
“I lived in Cuba for a while,” I confess.
“A girl?”
I shake my head. “No, I was young, foolish, travelling the world. I ran out of money there, one thing led to another and before I knew it eight weeks had passed. It’s a beautiful country.”
Winter nods, but I also see sadness welling in her eyes. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
Our drinks arrive, momentarily breaking us out of our reverie. I use it as a chance to change the subject. “Have you ever thought about teaching?”
“Salsa?” she laughs.
“The way you were leading me around that dancefloor…” I give a whistle. “I bet you could teach a cinder block to hit the beat.”
“It looks energetic,” she says, “but the salsa is all about subtlety. It is pure expression, a gentle push and pull of the music… an ocean.”
“I’ve never heard it described that way before. Everyone just tells me it’s the horizontal equivalent of sex.”
I don’t mean to say it, but the line’s so practiced it simply slips out.
Thankfully, Winter seems amused more than anything. “Which tells me you like to dominate in the bedroom, take control. Am I right?”
Well, you’r
e not wrong. “Perhaps,” I reply coyly.
Suddenly, Winter’s face goes white, the color draining from it completely. I follow her eyes, turning around but unable to see anything in the mix of people there.
I turn back, reaching for her hand. “Winter?”
But it’s like she’s in a trance. She suddenly reaches for my hand, squeezing it hard. “We need to go.”
“Why?” I ask, still looking around for the source of this sudden change in demeanor.
“Please,” she begs, eyes wide and wet.
I stand and usher her around the side of the bar, heading us toward the exit. The whole time she clings to my side, unwilling to let go.
It’s only when we’re back in the apartment, the door closed and bolted, I see her relax, her shoulder sagging back, color returning to her cheeks.
I stand in front of the door unsure what to do. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
She sighs. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
CHAPTER SIX
WINTER
“Try me,” says Archer, moving around in front of me. I hadn’t even realized I was standing with my back against the door, blocking it… stopping anyone from getting in.
I take a deep breath and attempt to rationalize this, but my head’s a hot mess. “I thought I saw someone, that’s all.”
Archer is all concern. “I’m guessing it wasn’t Santa Claus. An ex? Old boyfriend?”
I nod, knowing it’s a lie but unable to get the truth out. “Something like that.”
Archer scratches his head. “Jesus, the guy must have really done a number on you to get that kind of reaction. I thought you were having some kind of nervous breakdown.”
I was, I want to reply, because I’m sure of what I saw. It means I’m not as safe as I thought I was, that they’re slowly closing in. Still, I don’t want to leave Archer. “Yes,” I smile, “I just needed to get out of there.”
Archer nods, satisfied, and heads into the kitchen. “How about tea, coffee… something to calm your nerves?”
I don’t want to tell him how shattered and frayed they really are. Given the way he was looking at me in the club, I think he knows. “Yes, thank you.”
His head pops back around the corner. “So, tea or coffee? Which was it?”
Stupid. “Ah, coffee,” I stammer, “strong.”
“One strong coffee coming up.”
It’s with some reluctance I peel myself away from the door and take a seat at the small dining table with Archer. Even sitting there he is the picture of calm solidarity, a rock. My rock.
I take the coffee with both hands and drink. He wasn’t wrong. It’s seriously strong. Even so, my hands shake as I bring the mug away from my lips. It says ‘I love the Hoff’ on it complete with picture of the man in question flashing that famous Baywatch smile.
I try not to laugh, but it’s too ridiculous. I hold the mug up. “Gift from one of your exes?”
He folds his hands on the table, smiling. “Hey, you don’t disrespect the Hoff, especially in our line of work.”
“Is that what you all aspire to be?”
“David Hasselhoff?” he laughs. “Well, the guy holds a record for the Most Watched Man on TV, looks like he’s barely aged in thirty years, can sing like a bird, and is basically a god. Not to mention he got to ride around in a talking car. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t want to be him?”
“I think most cars talk these days,” I correct. “Let me guess, you ride a motorcycle because you’re such a hunky, beefy slab of man meat.”
“You think I’m hunky?”
I choke on my coffee, doing my best to recover. “Did I say that? Sometimes my mouth just kind of runs along ahead of itself when I’m nervous.”
“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about, not around me.”
I know there’s deeper meaning there, perhaps a hint of suggestion, but I hide myself behind the mug, watching him carefully over the top for any kind of reaction, a clue as to what he has in mind. When it’s not forthcoming, I place the mug down and simply stare.
“What?” he asks, a smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, nothing. I was just picturing you pounding the sand to the Baywatch theme, sun in your hair…”
“Sand under my feet?” he laughs. “Trust me. The life of a lifeguard is a lot less glamorous than what it’s made out to be. Not every person I pull from the water is a blonde with double Ds and an hourglass figure.”
He backtracks when he sees my expression. “Not that I’m suggesting… that… you know…” He hangs his head in his hands. “Shit, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
I pick up the mug again, my nerves indeed starting to calm. “It’s fine. You’ve done more than enough for me. You don’t have to add personal linguist to the list.”
I realize how close that sounds to something else and blush.
Thank god Archer changes the subject. “Look, it’s my day off tomorrow. How about we get out of here, go and do something fun. What do you say?”
“What did you have in mind?”
He tuts a finger in the air. “Now, now, that would be ruining the surprise, wouldn’t it? So, what do you say? Are you in or are you out?”
I leave him hanging, letting the silence draw out until it’s almost unbearable. “A mystery adventure with Miami Beach’s finest, how could I say no?”
*
We start with breakfast by the beach and I’m starting to think I could get used to this kind of eating, even if I do feel like I’ve gained a hundred pounds each and every meal. I feel guilty eating so much food.
Under a Technicolor sky, Archer suggests a boat ride, but I immediately recoil. To his credit, he doesn’t push me or ask why not. He simply lets it be and moves on.
Mid-morning and we’ve found ourselves on the other side of the bay in what Archer tells me is Miami proper.
We pass an ice cream store. Archer stops, bringing his fingers to the sides of his head with his eyes closed. “Don’t tell me. You’re a cookies ’n’ cream kind of girl. No wait,” he continues, correcting himself, “buttered pecan,” opening his eyes to gauge my reaction. “Plain vanilla? Surely not.”
I shrug. “I’m a simple girl, but isn’t it a bit early for ice cream?”
He raises a curt eyebrow. “It is never too early for ice cream.”
One vanilla single scoop and a monstrous, sugary-loaded freak of an iced creation called a ‘killer cone,’ we sit on a bench nearby and watch the people passing. It’s strange, everyone going about their business with no idea what’s happening in the wider world, everyone caught in their own little bubble.
Archer can see I’m lost in my thoughts. His tongue’s being kept busy stopping his ice cream from turning into a puddle. I have to admit seeing it in action has me considering how it could be put to other, more private uses.
I snap my thighs shut to stem off the growing need there.
But you are attracted to him, aren’t you? I ask myself.
At first it felt like a childish crush, but spending time with him, seeing how he interacts with people who others seem too quick to reject, I think I’m falling for him harder than I realize.
He stops licking, the drip-fest abated for now, locking me with eyes the same Blue Moon hue as the scoop on top of his ice cream. “You look deep in thought.”
I smile, delicately taking a small bite of my ice cream. “I was just thinking what a nice day it is.”
Archer leans back against the bench seat. “Somehow I don’t think the weather’s what’s on your mind.”
“You’re right,” I answer cryptically, looking to change the subject. “Can I ask what it’s like, your job?”
He rocks forward, the top of his arms bulging, the poor t-shirt he’s wearing stretching to accommodate them. “Being a lifeguard, you mean?”
“Yes.”
He takes a moment, nodding to himself and holding his killer cone with two hands. “Well, it’s the best job in the
world. You’re at the beach. You’re in the sun. You’re saving lives.”
“Like mine?”
He looks down at his ice cream. “Not everyone’s as easy to save as you were. You get drunk idiots out there, huge, aggressive, or freaked-out kids. They’re panicking, trying to pull you under, and they will. Someone who’s drowning loses all rational thought. Their only focus is breathing, getting above water, and if that means pushing you under to get just an inch higher, closer to that sweet, sweet air, they’ll damn well do it. That’s why we’re trained to throw out our flotation device first, swim to help them once they’re calm. That said, there comes a certain point where you have to think about your safety first before you can save anyone, and you can’t save them all,” he adds.
“It sounds intense.” I can see by the look on his face it is, his own thoughts probably turning to the less-successful rescues, the lost.
“Every summer we’re tested. You’ve got to be able to run a mile in under nine minutes, swim five-hundred meters in under ten minutes, though Miami basically doubles that for good measure. We spend an hour each day doing shuttle runs, swims, drilling rescue scenarios. We’ve got this eighty-pound sack of sand we call Jabba we haul up and down the beach. That’s a real bitch.”
“What about sharks?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
“Probably the most misunderstood creature in the ocean, not that we get a great deal of sightings. People freak out when they see a fin, any fin. It’s usually dolphins. Those guys are a blast.”
“You make it sound like they’re friends of yours.”
“I’ve headed out there for a surf early and spotted them. They’ll ride right with you, jumping through the waves, almost taking your damn head off,” he laughs, wide tongue moving out to lap at his ice-cream.
“If the weather turns,” he says, “it can be kind of miserable. You’re cooped up, the beach is empty, and you basically have to entertain yourself in the tower. Let me tell you, yacking away to someone you don’t get along with for eight hours straight isn’t a good time.”
“What if it was me?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I’d happily spend eight hours inside with you.”
‘With’—that’s the key word there. Without it that sentence would have a whole different meaning, but I don’t want to read between the lines.