Out of the Blue

by Kathryn Nolan

  “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “I only talk like that to the ones I’m married to.”

  I spun on my heels and broke into a run. “We’re not married,” I yelled over my shoulder.

  “Tell that to the state of California,” he yelled back, but he caught up to me quickly. I didn’t have to tell him where we were going. Because the little blue beach house that I lived in had been our house. And the route I was running was the same one we ran together on the mornings I didn’t surf.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “This kind of charming interaction is really convincing me to respect that client-bodyguard relationship.”

  He tsked behind me, slowly moving up until we were shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk. “Try as hard as you’d like, but you’ll recall just how determined and dedicated I am. At everything.”

  My feet faltered for a second, but I pushed past it. “I don’t recall, actually.”

  I heard the soft growl of frustration in his chest and the steady sound of his breath.

  “You stayed in the house, I guess?”

  I trained my eyes straight ahead. “I was traveling a lot, still am. It’s been easier to stay, to not have to pack up everything and move. You know I always really—”

  I stopped, surprised at the admission. But Cope said, “You always loved that house.”

  It was bright and sunny and close to the beach. And it had been filled to the brim with our love once. Given that love was absent from my house growing up, it felt impossible to leave.

  “I do love it,” was all I could say. Our feet pounded against the pavement in perfect sync.

  “I heard about your win at Jaws. Congratulations.”

  I shook my head, panting slightly. “You don’t mean that.”

  “You don’t know what I mean, actually.”

  I picked up the pace out of sheer irritation. “So… how have the past four years been?”

  “Spectacular.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Four best years of my life probably.”

  “Well, good for you,” I said. “Since you asked me like a hundred times yesterday if I had a boyfriend—”

  “Oh, bullshit. I was doing my job—”

  “—do you have someone? A girlfriend or anything?”

  “Of course not,” he said. He turned, saw the amusement on my face. “Obviously, I receive a lot of attention and requests from, like, literally hundreds of women wanting to take me out on a date every day.”

  Our shoulders brushed together, and we both bounced away instantly.

  “Hundreds, huh?” I said. “Your inbox must be agony.”

  He waved his hand over his face and chest. “This body is basically a liability.”

  I felt the very beginnings of a traitorous smile, so I picked up the pace again until I noticed a distracting burn in my calves. “I’m so sorry for you,” I managed.

  “Heavy is the head that wears the… super hot face and stuff,” he replied.

  I smiled—goddammit—but covered it by wiping my arm across my mouth. “Are you going to tell me why you’re on thin ice at your job?”

  I heard his grunt of annoyance. I snuck a sideways glance and caught the clench of his jaw. “My boss, Marilyn, who I genuinely respect and appreciate, is pretty pissed at me right now. Clients complaining about my…” He paused, breathing heavily. “Attitude. Lack of focus. Apparently, I’m not taking things seriously, and I often come off as chatty and overly familiar.”

  “Wait, you?” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

  “Not everyone appreciates my unique work style or sense of humor,” he replied.

  “You referred to me as a royal pain in your ass not one minute into being my bodyguard,” I said.

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “I’d like to think the other agents are jealous that I’m so funny.”

  I shook my head, not buying it. Cope’s lightness and silly jokes had been one of the things I used to love about him. But he also used it as a shield when things got too intense. And in the months after the incident, when I begged him to open up to me, to acknowledge how scared I’d been, he used that lightness to shut down. To shut me out.

  Sometimes I worried he used it to avoid his grief.

  “What?” he pressed. “You don’t believe me?”

  “What exactly were you not taking seriously?” I asked. I could feel the threads of our past arguments drifting into this conversation and didn’t like it. But there was no escaping my morbid curiosity.

  Cope went quiet. We reached the outside of Dora’s gym and slowed to a stop together. I propped my hands on top of my head as I breathed heavily. He leaned against the wall, one hand up, and stretched his right quad.

  “There was a kidnapping attempt on my last client,” he finally said. “I messed up, wasn’t paying attention. Got myself in a sticky situation, as it were.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Define sticky.”

  He shrugged, ran a hand through his hair. “I miscalculated the number of attackers. Ended up on my knees, restraining a guy, when a third guy stepped out.” He shrugged again. “He held a gun to my head.”

  I gripped my hips, focusing on my breathing to keep from being pulled under by bad memories. “Someone got the jump on you?” I asked.

  “I had him on his ass, gun in my hand, thirty seconds later,” he said. “It was fine. I was fine. Most importantly, the client was fine. Arnold Sheffield will live to swindle people out of their money for another day. It’s not that big of a deal. And no one got the jump on me, thanks.”

  I marched right up to him, angry. “You, Cope McDaniels, were reckless on purpose.”

  His answering grin was all charm. “I was never in any real danger.”

  “If I’d done what you did when we were together, you’d be giving me a lecture right now.”

  The grin vanished. “If? Serena, you put yourself in danger every goddamn day.”

  I blew an irritated breath out of my nose. “You had a gun to your head. I happen to think that men with guns are scarier than Mother Nature.”

  He pointed at the ocean to our left. “You’re surfing thirty-foot waves tomorrow, and you tried to escape from a bodyguard being paid to protect you right now.”

  I glared down at the ground, tapping my foot. “Four years later, and we’re still going ’round and ’round.”

  He crossed his arms. “For the record, you picked the fight right now. I’m just the bodyguard, remember?”

  “Really? Because earlier you were so sure you were my husband.”

  His gaze filled with anger and lust. “And you’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m not.”

  “Good.”

  “Great.”

  “And I don’t need your protection, by the way,” I said.

  A shaggy-haired guy with a strip of sunscreen down his nose suddenly walked right between the two of us, carrying his board over his head. Cope and I maintained pissed-off eye contact the whole time, both refusing to back down. But when the surfer turned, the heavy end of the board swung hard right at my face.

  Before I could even blink, Cope reacted. He reached out and caught it a mere inch from hitting me square in the forehead.

  “Oh, bro, sorry about that,” the guy said in his SoCal drawl.

  Cope still held the end of his board, which had the veins in his forearms standing out. “Hate to break it to you, bro, but the board goes in the water not onto people’s faces.” His voice was mild, but his grip was still strong.

  “Right on, right on,” the guy said. He struggled to break Cope’s firm hold, and when he did, he laughed nervously while Cope watched. “Thanks for the pro tip.” As if finally realizing I was standing there, the guy gave my body a comically long perusal. When his eyes reached my face, he bobbed his head. “What’s up, beautiful? You doin’ anything later?”

  “Competing as one of the most elite surfers in the entire world,” I said.

  “Damn, that’s hot.” He l
aughed, took a step closer, but I wasn’t in the least bit concerned.

  Cope had his palm on the guy’s chest a nanosecond later. “Watch it,” he snapped. “I only had a few fucks to give this morning, and unfortunately for you I’m now bordering on zero.”

  The guy gulped, audibly, before walking away backwards. “Okay, geez. See ya later or whatever.”

  The moment he was gone, Cope and I exchanged a much too intimate look. I stepped back, shaking my head. “I need to get to my workout. Are you coming with me or not?”

  His grin reappeared. “Of course. Three feet behind as the handbook says. Oh, and you’re welcome for protecting you from getting your face smashed in.”

  Rolling my eyes, I flounced toward the door before I could get sucked into his frustrating orbit. “I could have handled that myself,” I yelled, sounding pissy.

  “I’m so glad we’re going on this journey together!” Cope yelled back.

  8

  Cope

  Silently fuming, I followed Serena into her gym and was sucker-punched with nostalgia. Run by Serena’s long-time trainer, this gym had become an oasis for mostly women athletes—a majority of them surfers and swimmers—and the two of us were here, together, most days in a week. Large garage doors rolled up to let in the outside air, the crashing waves, the San Diego traffic. Music blared over the sounds of jump rope, boxing, and treadmills.

  I stretched my neck from side to side, attempting to soothe my irritation with my client-wife. Serena stopped in front of me to toss her bag on the ground and grab a bottle of water.

  I allowed myself four seconds of watching her.

  Which was part of my job now. It wasn’t my job to linger on the nape of her neck and the sweat that clung there, or to admire her taut stomach or her firm ass in those tight workout pants.

  I used to bury my face in every inch of that luscious, tan skin, lick every curve, scrape my teeth right where her neck met her shoulder while I tangled my fingers in that ponytail and yanked—

  “Well, holy hell in a hand basket,” Dora said, walking over to us wearing a gray tracksuit and an expression of bemused shock. “Now isn’t this a freaky-ass coincidence.”

  “Theodora,” I said, opening my arms. She stepped right into them, as small and wiry as ever.

  “How you doing, big guy?” she asked, voice muffled. When she stepped back, she threw me a few shadow boxes. I ducked and dodged, laughing.

  “My reflexes are still faster than yours, so I’d say I’m doin’ mighty fine.”

  Dora planted her feet wide, hands propped on her hips. She contemplated the two of us, desperately trying—and failing—to stay serious. “So, uh… this is your new bodyguard, huh?”

  Serena reached up to tighten her ponytail. “Unfortunately, yes, and if it’s not obvious, I’m not happy about it.”

  I held up my finger. “Nor am I.”

  She tossed me a scowl before strutting towards the front of the mat. “I’m starting with weights and jump rope to warm up.”

  Dora watched her over her shoulder. “A light day, Serena. So help me god, I’ll smack those heavy weights right out of your hands. I want you loose before we get in that pool.”

  I took a second to scan the room, noting the three entrances and two exits I knew well, plus the pool off to the side. There were no weird vibes, no sudden movements, just the usual steamy gym environment. I tracked back to Serena, dipping into a squat with a barbell on her shoulders. Sweat shone on her stomach, and her cheeks were flushed.

  Light day, my ass.

  She dropped the weight, caught me staring. I mouthed, “It’s my job.”

  She gave me the finger.

  And then she picked up the jump-rope and faced the mirror.

  I swallowed a growl of irritation.

  “Well,” Dora said next to me. “This is fun.”

  “Compared to what? A fucking root canal?”

  Dora pinned me with a look I knew well—one part maternal, one part asshole. It was her whole vibe. “It’s gonna be nice, watching you two swear up and down to anyone in hearing range that you aren’t secretly happy about this.”

  “Happy?” I huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “No way.”

  Yeah, sure I might have woken up this morning with an interesting lightness in my chest at the thought of seeing her again. And there was the requisite 24/7 erection situation I always had around Serena. But none of that qualified as happy.

  Dora ignored my flustered sounds, sipping from her coffee cup with mirth in her eyes. “You look good, Cope,” she said. “Really. It’s nice to see that mug of yours. I thought I wasn’t going to see it again, to be honest.”

  I opened my arm and pulled her in for another side hug. “Nice to see you too. I’ve missed you a lot.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t tell anyone though,” I said. “Don’t want to ruin my hardened agent reputation.”

  She eyed me carefully. “Did you put on some weight?”

  I winked. “All muscle, of course.”

  The first time I met Theodora, I’d been dating Serena for a few weeks. I’d walked into this gym, and she’d stared at me like I was a ghost. Like most local surfers her age, my father was her friend, her surfing buddy, and her mentor. Even as I knew, deep down, that Serena’s chosen career had the potential of breaking my heart, there was a part of me that couldn’t stay away from this town’s surf culture. It had been ingrained in me so deeply that not even my grief could smother my connection to it entirely. Having lost people herself, Dora understood the complicated gray area that left me in.

  “You should come by my mom’s house,” I said. “See Billie. I can cook us all dinner, and we can catch up over—” I checked an imaginary watch on my wrist. “—the past four years.”

  She snorted. “Things weren’t exactly great there at the end between you two, and it’s not like there’s a handbook for keeping in touch after a breakup. I would have stayed away too.”

  I swallowed, directing my attention back to Serena. Her ponytail swung back and forth as she moved seamlessly with the rope.

  “Your understanding is appreciated, but my mom and sister really would love to see you. It can be like old times. We can drink some beers on the beach. You and mom can tell stories about dad that’ll make me and my sister uncomfortable.”

  Old times, but without the addition of Serena teasing my sister about school. Or Serena washing dishes next to my mom in the kitchen with a beaming smile.

  Dora started laughing—and then grabbed the whistle around her neck and blew on it.

  I winced, finger in my ear.

  “Did I not say a light day?” she yelled.

  Serena stopped jumping rope with a glare.

  “I’d love to get dinner as long as that ex-wife of yours doesn’t send me to the hospital with high blood pressure.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I fully expect to be there too. Maybe we can bunk up together.”

  She sighed, frustrated. “I need to go help her stretch before the pool. But I’m not done with you yet.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said with a nod.

  Serena’s eyes flicked over to mine and held for a fleeting moment. You, Cope McDaniels, were reckless. I broke away from her gaze first, trying to forget she’d said that. Trying to forget Marilyn’s insinuation of the same thing.

  I hated that Serena was right, that four years apart hadn’t given either of us more clarity on our issues or made us less obstinate.

  She was wrong about one thing though. Given the death of my father, risking my life didn’t factor into my decision-making. Ever. Meanwhile, I’d gone ahead and fallen in love with a big wave surfer who put herself in harm’s way for fun. In slow-motion videos of Serena, you could see her smiling as she glided through massive barrels.

  The woman I married looked danger right in the face and fucking smiled at it.

  My phone buzzed in my shorts pocket. Taking it out, I checked my messages as discreetly as possible.
>
  Quentin had texted: The next time we get a beer, let me fill you in on what my amateur sleuthing uncovered about Aerial.

  I glanced back at Serena, made sure she was safe. She was nodding with Dora, listening intently. Then I read the rest. The company has been tied up in private arbitration for years. A corporation all about public transparency hiding a bunch of lawsuits is fishy.

  I didn’t really know what the hell that meant, except that my best friend wouldn’t have mentioned it if it didn’t make him concerned. I typed back: Dangerous?

  Dora blew a short whistle at me before waving towards the pool. I slid my phone back into my pocket and followed with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Not because of Quentin’s poking around. Because I knew the real threat was about to happen next.

  I posted up by the pool—feet apart, hands clasped—while Serena changed quickly into a black bathing suit. She slipped into the water with the grace of someone more comfortable there than on dry land.

  I distracted myself with a brief check of the exit to my right, the locker room doors to my left, and the entrance behind me. That took ten seconds max, so by the time I reluctantly dragged my attention back to the pool, Dora was bent over handing Serena a weighted medicine ball.

  She stood back up, staring at the black-and-white clock high on the wall. “Biggest breath of your life, okay, kid?”

  I recognized the intently focused look on Serena’s face. She inhaled audibly, squeezed her nose shut with her fingers, closed her eyes.

  Muscle memory had me taking in my own breath.

  She dropped beneath the water, leaving behind a tiny circle of air bubbles.

  “Counting down from four,” Dora called out.

  My father practiced apnea training when we were growing up, which Billie and I thought made him magic. And it was magic, in a way—pushing the human body past its natural limits, clinging to that slippery edge, was a kind of alchemy. Surfers understood how important it was to be able to withstand holding your breath for impossibly long stretches of time—to stay calm, equalize your ears, manage your precious oxygen.

  Still.

  This vital technique had not saved his life.