Brian snickers. “Dude, there's a lot of fruit on this island, right? Good one!” he says, clinking his glass with Brendan's.
I sigh and sip gingerly at my champagne.
Then I glance behind me, but Charity has, of course, already disappeared. She took her champagne glass with her, and I'm positive she's cornering Rusty somewhere, making double-entendres about, I don't know, rocking waves or the wet, wet water. When she sets her mind on something, she is kind of unstoppable...and Rusty, I can tell, is crushing on her hard.
I smile indulgently for them as I down the rest of my champagne, and then I slip away, too, holding my camera, feeling the alcohol rush through me and crash into my empty stomach. God, I'm probably going to be tipsy soon. Well, a little drunkenness might help me survive the rest of this “three-hour tour.”
I head toward the back of the boat, breathing a relieved sigh as I curl my fingers over the railing, grateful that I can enjoy a moment of fresh sea air without inhaling the scent of hair gel. For a long while, I just watch the water, taking in deep, salty breaths. I missed the scent of the ocean, and I hadn't even realized it.
It takes some time—this large boat doesn't move as fast as, say, the speed boats that keep whizzing past us—but we finally sail beyond sight of land. The lightning is beginning to flicker faster and brighter along the edge of the horizon, and as I watch the natural light show, that tremor of anxiety deep in my belly begins to grow into a full-scale earthquake.
For some reason, I can't look away. The lightning dances between the sky and sea, beautiful, terrifying. I'm keenly aware of the fact that there are now miles of ocean between myself and the shore, and I can't swim. I tighten the buckles of my life vest, tugging them taut. And then I take my camera in my hands. Snapping photos calms me, and it's why I'm here, after all. So I lift my chin and bring my camera to my eye, gazing through the viewfinder. But my camera is trained along the horizon that we're headed toward, and through the lens, the lightning flashes and flickers, dazzling, blinding me.
A hand comes down gently on my shoulder as I press the shutter button.
“Are you done flirting with Rusty?” I tease Charity.
But it isn't Charity who answers me.
“I don't flirt with my twin brother. Anyway, he's manning the boat,” says a low, husky voice that sounds just the tiniest bit amused.
I whirl around, instantly flushed, as Ivy removes her hand from my shoulder with a slight shrug, her green eyes extra green in this weird, stormy light.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, rocking back on her heels. “I didn't want to startle you. Guess I did, anyway.” She gazes at me intensely. Maybe she looks intense because of the weather, because of the angry waves crashing all around us—but I'm fairly certain that everything Ivy does is intense.
“It's okay,” I tell her weakly. Honestly, I feel a little bit like a teenage girl again when I'm in Ivy's presence. She renders me speechless, flustered; right now, I'm actually suppressing the urge to twirl my hair around my finger. Ugh. I like to think that I'm usually more articulate than this. But there's something about Ivy that's tapping into my secret wants... I just didn't realize how deeply I'd buried them inside of me.
“You're a photographer?” Ivy asks then, folding her tan arms in front of her chest. (God, I need to stop noticing how tanned she is, and how much I love that. And how her arms are slightly muscled...)
When I don't reply, she nods to the camera dangling around my neck.
I clear my throat, lean back against the railing in a mockery of playing it cool. “Yeah,” I tell her, “that's why I'm here. To take pictures of the island for the Board of Directors at Coyne Hotels.”
Ivy watches me for a still, tense moment, her eyes reflecting the flickering lightning. We're standing very close, I realize, as I catch her amber scent in the air between us.
“Must be hard, being an artist in Brendan's playpen,” says Ivy then, growling out the last few words as she frowns.
Artist?
I sigh and glance out to sea again. I don't know how to respond to that.
I used to think of myself as an artist. I was obsessed with photography, with honing my craft; it was all I could think about, and I drove my friends and family crazy with my incessant photography chatter. But I haven't considered myself to be an artist in a very, very long time. I guess that's what happens when you take the corporate job for stability. You reason, I'll be a corporate drudge for just a little while. I've got to pay the bills, don't I? But soon, soon, I'll be making my living from my art.
But “soon” becomes “eventually” and then “someday.” Until finally, deep in your heart of hearts, you know it's fast approaching “never.”
When I lift my eyes, Ivy's gaze is pointed toward the sky—or, more specifically, the storm clouds gathering in the sky. Her jaw is tight, and her eyes are narrowed as she watches the clouds thoughtfully.
“We're sailing right into it,” she murmurs, then curses under her breath, gripping the railing now as she stares out at the ocean. My mouth goes completely dry as I watch her, as fear flickers around the edges of my heart, mirroring that now not-so-distant lightning.
“Are we—I mean, is the boat in any danger?” I ask her, embarrassed that my voice rises with fear.
Ivy continues to stare off at the water, but she shakes her head, relieving my nerves. “Don't worry,” she says softly, with a sigh. “We're not in danger, not if I have anything to say about it.” She ducks her head toward me, glances me up and down, her too-bright green eyes raking over my body. My heart rate skyrockets again, but this time it has nothing to do with the storm.
Then, with a sinking sensation, I realize that she wasn't looking me up and down, after all. She was just inspecting my life vest. “Make sure to keep that life vest on, okay?” She closes the distance between us as she reaches up. “But hold on—you've got it tied wrong.”
I hold my breath as Ivy's fingers curl around the ties of my life vest. Slowly, methodically, she unties the bows that I had made and reknots them tightly over my breasts.
At this point, I have to breathe, but it comes out ragged as our eyes meet, and Ivy's lips part. Her lips, I notice, are wet; she just licked them. My blood pounds through me, and I can hardly hear her as she murmurs, in her low, lush voice, “Sorry about the whole luggage thing earlier. I was irritated with your boss, not you and your friend... Just—sorry,” she sighs, and when her brows lift, I can tell by the shine of her eyes that her apology is a genuine one.
“Don't worry about it,” I manage, with a small smile. “If I'm only irritated with him ten times in a 24-hour period, it's a good day.” My smile grows wider as I chuckle, shaking my head. “Granted, normally I'm mortified and enraged, in addition to being irritated.”
“Yeah,” says Ivy ruefully. “I kind of got that feeling.” And for the first time in the very short time I've known her, Ivy's lips curve up into a smile. A real smile, the kind of smile that hits you with a whoosh, like, I don't know, a good punch to the gut. My knees turn to jelly as my own smile mirrors hers.
Then I'm shocked: Ivy reaches across the space between us and takes up my hand. Her fingers slip between mine, her skin hot, smooth, just as I'd imagined it would be... Still smiling, she makes a show of shaking my hand firmly.
“Well, we were never introduced,” she offers in explanation, her head tilted to one side as she watches me. “I'm Ivy, captain—er, co-captain of Swan Song. And you are?” she asks, one brow rising a little impishly, teasingly.
“Oh. Right. I'm Gillian.” I draw myself up, shake my head, blink, eyes fixed on our clasped hands. “Media Director for Coyne Hotels—for better or for worse.” I smile weakly.
“Well, Gillian,” Ivy says, sliding her fingers out of my grasp gently. She tugs a little at one of the tendrils that the sea breeze blew out of my ponytail. Her fingers feel light against my hair, right, as my blood rushes through me, and I take a deep breath. “Some say it's bad luck to have a redhead on board,” she
tells me, her smile softening. “But I'm not superstitious. And,” she adds lightly, in a low tone, “I've always been partial to redheads myself.”
Immediately, I blush, and I find myself thinking that I've always had a thing for blondes...
Wait.
Was Ivy flirting with me?
Is Ivy into women?
Oh, the most important question in the world when you're a lesbian with a crush. The question that's always so hard, sometimes impossible, to ask...
Ivy glances over her shoulder then, toward the prow, lifting her chin. “Welcome to the Swan Song,” she tells me, shrugging. “She isn't much to look at, but she's safe, strong. Sincere.”
As Ivy's mermaid gaze again locks onto me, I have the strange suspicion that she was describing herself, rather than the boat. If so, she got one descriptor criminally wrong. Ivy is beautiful, and the boat is beautiful, too—in a well-loved, comfortable sort of way. The deck chairs are chipped but have soft cushions decorated with a pattern of starfish.
Ivy's beauty, though, is timeless, strong...courageous, even. When I look at her, even without knowing her, I see her strength. It's in every curve, every gesture. I'm sure she has an incredible story, and I wish I could draw that story out of her. I wish that I could talk with her, get to know her...
But Ivy and Rusty are dropping us off on the island and then picking us up after our week there is over. So our time on this boat is all we'll have.
“Thank you,” I tell her, disappointment making my words low and flat, “for fixing my life vest,” I say, tugging at one of the tightened straps.
Ivy watches me quietly for a long moment. The smile has faded from her mouth, and the intensity of her green eyes takes my breath away.
“Anytime,” she whispers.
Far out on the ocean, thunder rumbles as Ivy turns and walks away.
Chapter Two
“I knew I should have brought my wool coat,” Charity complains from her seat beside me. She has her thin arms wrapped around herself, and the generous amount of decolletage peeking out from her sailor top is covered in goosebumps.
“We live in Florida. Why do you own a wool coat?” I ask, teeth chattering. Both of us are shivering, side by side, in the deck chairs. I rub my arms with cold hands as the rain puddles around us, pouring from the sky.
“Wool coats are fashionable. Besides, Macy's was having this great sale—”
A crack of thunder drowns out the rest of her words.
We're in the middle of the storm, and since the boat is moving along at a fast clip, the wind feels sharp and icy against my skin. The rain is so cold, and the wind is so cold; there's nothing but cold. Still, to soothe my nerves, I'm trying to stay positive: at least the lightning hasn't struck the boat—or anywhere near the boat—yet. But...it seems like it will soon. The rolling drone of thunder circles us again, and Charity glances at me quickly, her eyes a little wide.
“Do you think we're safe or—” she begins, but she's interrupted by Rusty.
“Hey, ladies,” he says, striding quickly and keeping his balance well despite the bucking, heaving boat. He has a few blankets folded and clasped in his arms, and he hands them to us with a sheepish smile. “They're not exactly dry at the moment, but they're something. I'm sorry; it's all we have,” he says apologetically, as I unfold the top blanket. It's as soaked as we are.
“Don't worry about it. We're okay,” I tell him, only half-believing my words. The chattering of my teeth makes the words come out in staccato. “We'll survive.”
But as a new roll of thunder vibrates around us, I realize that I'm starting to wonder whether we will survive or not.
The waves are high, smashing up against the side of the boat with a great spray of salt and freezing water. The ocean's surface roils in a churning, boiling mass, smacking the Swan Song with the force of a giant's hand, causing the boat itself to rock. My stomach churns as I tuck the blanket around myself, trying to ignore how cold the wet fabric is. At least it shields me from the icy impact of the driving rain.
Who knew that it could get this cold in Florida in the summer? Although I suspect that this storm is a bit worse than your average thunderstorm at sea.
And that suspicion makes me dizzy with fear.
I've got a very bad feeling about this...
“Rusty!” I hear on the wind, and Rusty turns around with a jerk. It's Ivy calling for him. She calls out again, her voice sedate and steady as it's buffeted about by the wind. Despite her coolness under pressure, my heart starts to pound harder, and my palms turn clammy.
My very bad feeling is getting worse.
Rusty dashes away, throwing us a salute over his shoulder. “Hold on, ladies! We're almost there!”
Almost there. Thank God. All I can really think about at this moment is surviving this moment, but the idea of standing on ground, something that doesn't rock and pitch violently beneath my feet, is a necessary lifeline. So I focus on the island—and not on the fact that bigger boats than ours have been known to sink.
In the deck chairs across the boat, Brendan and Brian are shivering, too, mirror images of Charity and me, but their hair gel is still holding up. Which either means that they use the most industrial-strength hair gel that money can buy...or that I'm exaggerating the strength of this storm. I'm wet and cold and miserable... It's kind of hard to gauge anything in my current physical state.
But that small hope is swept from my brain as a humongous wave roars up and over the side of the boat, crashing onto the deck. It comes so far and so fast that my feet are soaked instantly.
That's when my fear becomes palpable; I swallow down a gulp of watery air.
Okay, I'm trying to remain calm. Charity, beside me, isn't panicking. And Rusty said that we were almost there.
I can do this. I can do this. I hunker down in my blanket, drawing it tighter as I close my eyes to block out the nightmare scenes all around me.
Suddenly, there's a terrible cracking sound. A deep, reverberating crack that is all I can hear for a handful of moments; I am completely deafened by it.
Time stops. The lightning flashes brilliantly in the sky, blindingly.
And then it's instantaneous, how the boat shifts from being right side up to dangerously tilted. I'm flying over the deck, the two heavy chairs sailing along with Charity and me as, I realize in one numb-with-panic instant, the boat begins to capsize.
I'm screaming.
There's screaming everywhere.
My ears are ringing with screams.
I grapple, scrabbling for anything fastened down, anything that's not moving. For precious seconds, I try to cling to the locker door, the edge of the cabin, but my fingers are too stiff to hold on, and there's nothing substantial to grab, anyway. I tumble toward the side of the boat, frantic...
My hands grip the edge, but it's too wet, and the world is too dark—and then I'm underwater.
The intensity of that frigid water, the burn of the salt at the back of my throat, the press of the ocean all around me... I'm so shocked by this, by all of this, that for a heartbeat, I can't move. I'm paralyzed. But then instinct rears up, and I'm kicking, kicking with all of my might in a mad race for the surface.
I burst into the air and inhale a deep gulpful of oxygen and immediately try to get my bearings. For a moment, all I see is waves, waves everywhere, pummeling me, towering over me.
And then there. There's the boat.
Oh, God.
It's sinking.
Swan Song isn't going down slowly or gracefully. It's sinking like a stone: now there's scarcely any part of it visible above the waves. I can only see it bobbing on the surface because it's right next to me. I kick back with my legs, grabbing onto the hull, trying to find anything hanging from the ship to hold onto, to climb onto.
Attempting to cling to a sinking ship? Not my wisest idea.
But I can't swim.
I can't swim.
I can't swim.
Those words spiral and knot in my m
ind, the only coherent thought in my head. All I am is panic, panic in the shape of a person. Vainly, I try to calm myself down, try to think about that one miserable summer when my parents paid for swimming lessons at the local pool. But it's all a blur. That entire summer is a blur. I never learned how to swim because the instructor was one of those types who just shoves the kids into the water and hopes they float.
I didn't float so much as almost start to drown.
And I'm going to drown right now if I don't do something.
Anything.
I grapple at floating trunks and luggage, at a plastic barrel marked fuel that bobs past me, but the waves are too harsh, and too many. I keep getting pushed under and torn away. When the waves dunk me, nothing but pure instinct compels me to kick my legs...but the panic is confusing my instinct, confusing my limbs, and I'm going to die here. I realize that as another large wave shoves me under the water.
I'm going to die.
I gag as I open my mouth, as I try to breathe, but I am, instead, dragged under. I inhale the ocean. I'm choking; there's nothing to breathe.
There's only water.
Oddly, as I'm drowning, I think I hear someone call my name. But that's impossible, I think dimly. Impossible, because I'm drowning, dying. I'm being dragged down, down, even with my life jacket on, and, besides, the storm is so loud that it'd be impossible for me to hear anything aside from the waves.
My eyes are open, but all I see is blackness as I attempt one last feeble kick, angry that this—this—is how I'm going to go.
If Brendan survives, I'm going to haunt his ass.
Nice, Gillian.
That might be the very last thought I'll ever have, I think to myself miserably.
Again, I hear my name, but it's far off, impossible...
And then, amidst the blackness, I see this:
Blonde hair framing a beautiful face. An angel? I wonder muzzily.
No, a mermaid.
Gillian's Island Page 3