Out of the Blue

by Kathryn Nolan

  I watched my surfing video, playing on a loop against the wall. I could just make out the very first comment beneath it: This bitch can’t surf for shit.

  My face went as hot as the mid-day sun outside, but I tried to restrain my anger. In surfing, women were viewed as bikini models first and athletes second. And I was outspoken and passionate, like Marty had said, but those weren’t the words a lot of male surfers used to describe me.

  “Anything Aerial can do to combat sexism and other forms of discrimination within surfing will make a huge difference, I just know it,” I said, thankful my voice was steady. “You could use your website and magazines to elevate the voices this sport ignores or leaves behind. The company could sponsor forums and events that highlight this issue but also propose ways for real change. You could push for pay equity and representation in leadership. Really, with the size of your platform, there’s no limit to what can be done.”

  I lifted my chin, expecting at least a little pushback. But the marketing team was all encouraging smiles and nods.

  “I love those ideas, and we can start implementing them right away. Change is what we’re all about,” the rock-climbing guy said next to me. “We want to do the work.”

  I let out a slow sigh. “I want to do it with you. Women in this sport deserve to be amplified and celebrated, not hyper-sexualized and diminished.”

  “And we agree,” Marty said. “You’re the perfect role model to embody that change, Serena. We’re proud to stand with you on these issues.”

  My fingers stopped twisting in my lap. I grinned, confident. “Then let’s do it together.”

  David looked at his brother, who was absolutely beaming. “I heard Trestles is going to get called any day now. Are you ready to get out there, represent this company, and win?”

  Behind him, I could see the determined expression on my face as I sailed confidently down a wall of water. I looked more than just ready on my surfboard.

  I was unstoppable.

  I leaned forward on my elbows. “There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll win.”

  The room erupted into happy, celebratory clapping.

  “Then welcome to Aerial,” Marty said.

  My cheeks ached from smiling, my anger forgotten in a moment I’d been dreaming of since I’d caught my first wave. My older brother, Caleb, had lied to our parents about an after-school activity so we could go to the spot on La Jolla beach where all the surfers our age hung out. There had been no hesitancy on my part as I stepped into those waves that afternoon. No reluctance, and not an ounce of fear.

  I was welcoming myself home.

  “We’ll let you get back to your full day of training, but we’ll be in touch about all of this. And the Heavy interview will take place here. Thought that would make things a little easier for you since you’ll be so busy the next few weeks,” David explained.

  “I can’t wait,” I said. “And there will be some phenomenal women competing alongside me at Trestles. I hope they’ll be given an opportunity for media too.”

  “Absolutely,” David said, emphasizing the word.

  Nodding, I grabbed my bag and dropped it across my chest as I walked toward the door. I didn’t expect to feel so listened to in this meeting, although I’d hoped for it. Aerial had shown, over the years, that they were dedicated to having a real impact on my community, so I was trusting that they really cared.

  “Oh, Serena?”

  I turned to Marty, my hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

  “We forgot to mention that, with the announcement of Aerial being an Olympic sponsor, we expect a heightened attention around our company, including our newest ambassador. That’s why we’ll be placing you with a security detail.”

  My nerves flipped from elation to panic. “Like… a bodyguard?”

  “Exactly,” he said warmly. “We’re also the lead sponsor of the next three ISC events here in southern California, which means you’ll be extra exposed to the public while traveling with a raised profile. We’ve had a few close calls over the years—erratic fans, press that’s too nosy. We might be a bunch of crunchy-granola types, but we’ve learned you can never be too safe, especially in the world of extreme sports. The last thing we want is for you to feel uncomfortable when you need to focus on the task at hand.”

  I gripped the door to steady myself, legs shaking. My body’s flushed, uncontrolled response to those words was irritating, as were the memories I worked to avoid every day. Sometimes every hour.

  “We need to focus on the task at hand, sunshine,” he said, clicking his tongue like I was about to get in trouble. His firm lips glided along my inner thigh. Big, calloused palms skated up the backs of my legs, squeezing my ass. “Because I only have fifteen minutes before I need to get to work, and I intend to spend every single second with my—”

  “Serena?”

  David’s calm voice dragged me back to the conference room.

  “I’m so sorry.” I laughed, hoping it sounded carefree. “I’m already thinking about the competition.”

  He tapped his forehead. “We love that winner’s mindset. And we’ll be in touch about your security detail. You’ll be meeting them tomorrow night, here at our offices.”

  “Great,” I said, much too brightly. “I’ll see you then.”

  I slipped out into the hallway then walked quickly, distracted, back through the open-air lobby filled with plants and big windows and outside into the heat. I blew out a slightly shaky breath.

  The odds of it being him, of all people, were essentially zero to none.

  Right?

  I walked even faster around the side of Aerial’s offices, heading towards my pink surf van. A person barreled into me. It sent my bag flying to the ground, a few of my things scattering out—sunglasses, sunscreen, mango-flavored lip balm. I managed to stay upright and grabbed the person by their shoulders.

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” It was a woman, shorter than me, but about my age. She had long black hair, light tan skin and expressive, dark eyes. “I bumped right into you, I’m so embarrassed.”

  She dropped down to scoop everything up, and I noticed her hands trembling as she did so. I mirrored her pose, knees on the asphalt, and lightly touched her shoulder. Her smile, when she looked up, was strained.

  “Don’t even worry about it,” I said. “I get knocked over by giant waves literally every day. I’m used to it.” I extended my hand. “I’m Serena, by the way.”

  She shook it. “Catalina Flores. And I know who you are, and I’m a huge fan.” I stood and helped her up. She swept her hair from her face before handing me my bag. “I’m a lawyer for Aerial. In-house counsel. But in my spare time, I’m a wanna-be surfer. A total newbie.”

  I waved off her comment with a smile. “All it takes is a little practice, I promise. I surf every morning with a bunch of badass women at the northern-most point on La Jolla. We’re dawn patrol all the way, so if you wanna get up early, come hang out with us.”

  I slid my bag back over my head and caught her staring at it. “That’s so kind of you, thank you. My parents are from Mexico, and when we visit family in the summer, I surf at Playa Hermosa in Ensenada.”

  “That’s totally rad,” I said, slipping on my sunglasses. “Have you tried the waves at Isla Todos Santos yet?”

  She bit her lip. “Not yet. I want to, but I’m scared.”

  I touched her arm. “Come find me if you join us at our surf spot. We can start practicing if you want. The more the merrier, right?” I started walking towards my van. “It was really nice bumping into you, Catalina.”

  She laughed, still sounding nervous, but I hoped she came out with us. If there was one thing being a surfer had taught me, it was that we were all newbies when it came to the mercy of the ocean.

  And the world needed as many fearless women as possible.

  3

  Cope

  I held my palms up and gave Marilyn my most charming smile. “You know, Falco said you were going to kill me
. But I see no evidence of that.”

  Marilyn’s lips twitched. “If I wanted you dead, Copeland, you’d be dead. And, trust me, you wouldn’t see it coming.”

  I pointed at the coffee pot. “Poison my drink, huh?”

  Another secret smile. “How pedestrian. And no.”

  “Then how?”

  “Secrets like that are for keeping,” she said. “And you are currently here not to make jokes but to listen to me tell you, yet again, how gloriously stupid and reckless your actions were today.”

  I dropped my hands, dropped the act. Marilyn Banks had hired me four years ago, when I was heartbroken and directionless. She was as fair a boss as you could get, easily earning and keeping your respect. She was a fifty-year old Black woman with short gray hair and an addiction to tailored pant suits that cost more than my salary.

  And she was right. If she wanted to kill me, I’d never see it coming. Whatever skills I’d developed in this line of work were amateur compared to her decades of experience.

  “Marilyn,” I said. “We stopped one of our most elite clients from being kidnapped in broad daylight. That’s my job, and I did it.”

  Her eyes blazed with irritation. “You made a basic mistake and assumed you had visual confirmation of the number of attackers when you did not. You’re a highly trained guard, with an extensive hand-to-hand combat background, and yet an amateur kidnapper had his gun to your head while you knelt on the ground.”

  I exhaled slowly, still pissed off. Being outsmarted by anyone in a fight wasn’t something I was used to.

  “According to your partner, you were distracted all day. Not paying attention. And then almost got yourself shot in the process.” She paused, mouth pursed. “And this right after Arnold Sheffield had already complained to us about your attitude.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m sorry, really. There’s no excuse for not handling the situation the way I’ve been trained to. But, for the record, I’d like to say that spending hour after hour of watching Sheffield humiliate people while making a gargantuan amount of money isn’t exactly engaging.” I shrugged. “Or heroic, for that matter.”

  “That’s interesting,” she said. “Because last I checked, I don’t pay you to be heroic. I pay you to take your job seriously and to take the safety of your client seriously. I pay you to know your routes, do your background checks, and be aware of the movements of every single person in the room.”

  I swallowed a frustrated sigh. “Ask anyone I know. Hell, ask my mom and little sister. I take everyone’s safety extremely seriously. In fact, my family and friends would call it my most annoying trait.”

  The subtle arch of her eyebrow let me know I was tap-dancing on thin ice. Working for Marilyn was a professional privilege—her leadership and mentorship had allowed me to level up in my career. But I didn’t have a clue about what to do with her recent frustration with me. I fully believed protecting people was my actual birthright. And, quite frankly, thought I was pretty damn good at it.

  My boss stood up, walked around her desk, and perched on the edge. She handed me a thin file and said, “I’m pulling you and Falco from Arnold Sheffield’s detail and placing you with a new client. Falco has already been asked to keep an extra sharp eye on your performance. It’s an easy client, to help me decide your fate.”

  I paused in the act of opening the folder. “My fate?”

  She crossed her arms. “I’ll start by saying this, and you’d be smart to listen. You’re unhappy with this job, and it shows. It’s been showing, especially these past few months, but I’ve been noticing it for an entire year.”

  My chest tightened painfully. That couldn’t be right.

  “Do this next assignment well, and then we’ll talk. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Her gaze softened just a little. “What happened today could have ended a lot differently. I know you know that.”

  I flashed her a grin. “I’m indestructible, Marilyn. I’m here to stay until I annoy you so much you send my ass packing.”

  But she didn’t return the gesture. “Just because you believe it is your duty to protect those around you does not automatically make them helpless. And it does not automatically make you indestructible. There’s a line between acting on behalf of the client and recklessly seeking out danger, and you obliterated it today.”

  I didn’t have a quick retort for that. I was indestructible because I had a calling.

  And if I wasn’t? Then my father died for no reason.

  “I’m really, truly sorry,” I said, sincerely. “I understand what you’re saying, I promise.”

  She held my gaze until I wanted to squirm. Then she said, “I’m placing you at the outdoor clothing company, Aerial. Their headquarters are downtown, and they need two agents to cover their new brand ambassador for the next three weeks. This time of year, there are three popular competitions—”

  “Trestles, The Wedge, and Huntington,” I said automatically.

  She paused. “That’s right. You’re familiar.”

  “If you’re from here and were the child of a pro surfer, then you know the competition schedule better than your own math homework.” I lifted a shoulder. “Not that I ever did my math homework.”

  She nodded, tapped the file. “Then you understand that they’re high-profile events with huge crowds that aren’t controlled.”

  “Security’s usually lax, yeah,” I said. “Who’s the client again?”

  I opened the file in my lap. The face that stared back at me was a white woman with wavy, dark-blond hair in a messy braid. Dark brown eyes, freckles covering her entire face. A sexy smirk on her full lips. And a scar that cut across her cheek from the time her broken board sliced her on a bad wipe-out. Later, after a couple stitches, I’d sat with her in our kitchen and held a towel wrapped in ice against her swollen cheek.

  “Do you think the scar will make me look like a badass?” she’d asked, eyes bright with mischief.

  I’d grinned at her. “You already are a badass, sunshine. I think it makes you look more beautiful.”

  My fingers crushed the edges of the folder. Seeing the love of your life without fair warning was like taking a hard punch to the solar plexus.

  Breathe, I commanded my lungs. Just keep breathing.

  Through sheer force of will, I dragged my attention away from a face I never thought I’d see again.

  “Her name is Serena Swift,” Marilyn said. “She’s a professional surfer, recently signed as Aerial’s new ambassador. The face of the company. They’re investing a lot of money and media attention into her career and want to make sure she’s protected.”

  “She signed with Aerial? Are there any active threats against her?” I managed to keep the note of shock out of my voice. Just barely. And I didn’t miss the scrutiny on Marilyn’s face. But she walked back to her desk, picked up a tablet, and handed it over.

  “There aren’t any active threats, no.” An immense wave of relief washed over me. “The company has had a few issues in the past, though. One of their ambassadors had a persistent stalker, and there was a confrontation on a beach during a competition. The man was ultimately fine, but they’ve been working with us for protection ever since. Also, our new client does have a bit of a reputation.”

  Marilyn had pulled up Serena’s Instagram page on the tablet and selected a recent post. I narrowed my eyes, taking it in, then covered my mouth to hide the smile I couldn’t suppress.

  Fucking Serena.

  “She’s a bit of a troublemaker, huh?” I said, clearing my throat. The picture was of Serena and a few other surfers I recognized as friends, all wearing hoodies and sweatpants on the beach. Her long, curly hair whipped around her face while she displayed not one but two middle fingers for the camera. Behind her was a roaring bonfire of what looked to be… magazines?

  “This is from a few months ago,” Marilyn said. “A popular magazine, Men’s Workout Journal, had a big hit after rele
asing a list of the top women surfers in the world, ranked by attractiveness.”

  My jaw clenched. “Assholes.”

  Her brows raised in question.

  Sighing, I shifted in my chair. “Women surfers get treated like this all the time. It’s atrocious.”

  Marilyn re-crossed her arms. “You mean a sport dominated by men has a toxic culture? Why am I not surprised?”

  I enlarged the caption on the screen. Serena had written: Dear Men’s Workout Journal: Please accept this message from some of the world-class athletes you recently objectified and critiqued. Here’s a pro tip: Women belong on these waves just as much as men do, and we’ll be out here whether you deem us “hot” or “not.” If you need convincing, we’ll be waiting on our boards to show you how we surf. Don’t worry, we’ll go easy on you.

  I tamped down my own rage on her behalf and set the tablet back on the desk.

  “She’s right to be furious. I would be and have been myself,” Marilyn said. “Unfortunately, you and I both know there are certain types of people—including sports fans—that don’t approve of women speaking their minds. We want to make sure Serena is safe from something like that.”

  I nodded silently, afraid I’d be unable to censor myself. Fearing for Serena’s safety was a feeling I understood deeply, and it always left me rattled. So instead, I pretended to study Serena’s report like it held new information. My connection to this woman was buried in my personnel file. There was no way I’d be gazing down at a picture of Serena if Marilyn knew the actual truth. That meant she was either testing my trust—in which case I was already failing—or this was a rare mistake. An oversight.

  Or, possibly, a fucking curse.

  “Do you foresee any problems with this assignment?” Marilyn asked.

  Was it a problem that I still dreamed of Serena every night? And that those dreams were so dirty I woke up to my hips punching into my mattress, grinding away my frustration?

  “Problems?” I repeated with a frown. “I don’t think so. It seems pretty straight forward.”