Wicked Luck

by Shannon L. Maynard

13. MIDDAY: THE KISS

  Dax

  The bow feels normal in my hands, but my aim is anything but. I can’t believe I missed a perfect shot. I never miss. But I can’t seem to focus on hunting. The image of Ava sprawled out on my hammock bed like a Victoria Secret’s Angel in her hot pink tank and white shorts that show too much of her long legs is now stuck in my head. Normally, I wouldn’t complain, but the vision is making concentration virtually impossible—like putting a crack addict in a room full of crack and asking them to pass a math test.

  At least my plan worked and she doesn’t seem to hate me anymore. She even asked to come with me, and the desperation in her voice made me think it wasn’t to try and pull off another escape. I just want her to give me a chance to be her friend again, and then maybe that friendship will lead to something more.

  I know she’s not really mean to the core like Roxy; she’s just upset about the unfortunate circumstances she’s had to deal with recently. And who wouldn’t be? I can only hope she learns to deal with her loss better than Roxy did. Roxy let the anger overtake her soul until there was nothing left but an overabundance of bitterness she feels inclined to pass around on a daily basis. Ava is softer, quiet and shy like I remember, but I can tell by her journal entries she’s also sensitive and caring, stubborn and loyal, naïve but smart, and if I can win her trust, maybe I can convince her to release some of her guilt and pain by talking to me.

  I settle further into my hiding spot, scooting along the thick branch of the tree to lean against the trunk and wait for something else to wander into my sight. Hopefully, it will be something other than a bird this time since apparently, I need a gigantic target in order to be successful today. Stillness settles in around me, and I resort to passing the time by pulling out the little book that’s become my favorite hobby.

  July 12

  Today finally came, and a million tiny birds took flight in my stomach at the sound of Preston’s voice calling over the radio for permission to land. Parking Hotel Charlie, placing the welcome mat, getting instructions from Kirk, and assisting Anna went by in a blur until Preston stepped off the plane and made time come to screeching halt. It seems like he’s become my reason for everything—eating, breathing, sleeping, waking up, and going to work are now just ways to pass the time until I can see him again. I wish he felt the same way about me.

  His eyes met mine and then he flashed my favorite smile. The words I was supposed to say pertaining to my job floated away like I’d written them on a helium balloon and let go of the string. He lowered his glasses to wink and asked, “Miss me?”

  I told him “a little” and didn’t realize I was biting my lower lip until his eyes pointed it out. Then I thought my heart would stop beating when he said he could hardly wait to take me to dinner tonight.

  He picked me up in the same red Ferrari he rented before and drove to the marina in San Diego. Making me close my eyes, he took both of my hands to lead me to his surprise. The air smelled of fish, and I could hear the seagull’s high-pitched screams and flapping wings mixed with random voices that got louder and then faded as we passed by.

  He squeezed my hand and slowed to a stop, then stepped behind me and placed both hands on my waist. The tips of his fingers brushed my neck to sweep my hair behind my shoulders, and then he tucked his chin next to my neck. My heart stuttered. This was an obvious change from the Preston I knew. Today, he seemed more relaxed, like the strange formality of our first dates had dissipated and now he didn’t seem to mind being close to me. In fact, it almost seemed like he was making up for lost time. “Open your eyes,” he whispered, and a pleasant shiver ran through me from his warm breath next to my ear.

  I peered through the boats in front of us, over the water to his sailboat, and saw immediately what he intended me to see. Miss April was now sprawled neatly across the back of his boat. The vibrant gold and black letters sparkled in the sunlight against the polished, glossy red background. The boat looked like new and I couldn’t believe the transformation, but it was nothing compared to what waited for me inside the cabin. My mouth literally fell open when I saw the candlelight dinner for two.

  Modern shades replaced the flowery curtains and the faded pillows on the couch were gone too. A few deep red and gray satin pillows were displayed elegantly on the black leather couch that surrounded the table. The shades were drawn, letting in only a small amount of light, and scattered around the room were red and white glowing candles of various shapes and sizes. The setting was beyond anything I could ever imagine.

  After dinner, we walked above deck and slipped off our shoes. I followed him out to the bow of the boat. On a silver tray sat a very expensive bottle of champagne and an opener. I remember him telling me that changing the name of a boat was considered bad luck and not only did he change the name, but he also named it after me—someone luck tends to avoid.

  He claimed he did some research and discovered that to avoid the bad luck, a name-changing ceremony must take place. I wasn’t convinced he didn’t make the whole thing up, but I decided to play along. He opened the bottle of champagne and moved closer, stunning me with his alluring smile, and I giggled as he shared the legend.

  According to mythology, gods of the air and the sea keep logbooks with the name of each vessel from the high seas. Whenever a new ship is built, it’s commissioned to the gods for entry into their logs. So, of course, it wouldn’t be good for any sailors on board if Poseidon, the god of the sea, looked up one day and found a ship sailing in his domain that wasn’t logged in his book. So if you wish to change a ship’s name, you must petition him to strike the old name from his rosters to avoid incurring any wrath from the gods. AKA—bad luck. Crazy, huh?

  Preston had already taken care of the first step and removed everything aboard the ship bearing the old name, then replaced the name on the ship and made sure everything else bore the new name. The next step was the ceremony.

  He poured some champagne off the bow into the water, and then held up the bottle in the air with one hand. His other arm draped over my shoulder. Then he said, “Great Poseidon, ruler of the sea, thank you for allowing this ship safe passage in the past. We humbly ask you now to strike ‘Little Red Hen’ from your rosters.” He finished the ceremony speaking in a silly pirate accent that made me laugh. Afterwards, he poured the remaining champagne into the water, and then sat the bottle back on the tray.

  I asked him if that was all we had to do, and he told me he’d added one last step. Before I knew what was happening, he took my face in his hands and leaned in to kiss me.

  Oh my gosh!

  My first kiss! It lasted for only a few seconds, but when he pulled away, I was more than satisfied. On a scale of one to ten, I’d definitely give it a ten. It was perfect—just as I imagined our first kiss to be.

  Then like an idiot, I asked, “Are you sure you should be kissing me?” and regretted it immediately. Leave it to me to ruin the moment—the one I’ve been waiting for FOREVER! He blinked at me, his lips curving into a mischievous grin before he said, “No. But I don’t care anymore. This is what I want—I want to be with you,” and he kissed me again. And I didn’t want to know his reason for holding back before because all I cared about was being in his arms.

  Great. The big first kiss. So that’s what girls do when you kiss them for the first time. They write about it in their stupid journal and rate it on a generic scale. A ten. Pl-ease. How can she rate it when she has nothing to compare it to? It couldn’t have been that good. Perfect? Completely satisfied? I mean, really? A kiss isn’t perfect if it leaves you satisfied. A kiss should blow your mind—leave you unsatisfied and secretly begging for more. Pathetic. I guess that’s what happens when first kisses are left up to pretty boys. Geez. If a girl doesn’t rate the kiss a twenty, then a guy isn’t doing his job.

  I will kiss Ava. And it will blow Preston’s kiss away. The thought makes me smile and disintegrates the jealousy. I take a quick look around the forest below me and then t
urn the page.

  July 13

  I think those mysterious notes are making me paranoid. Last night after the big kiss, Preston invited me to be the first overnight guest on Miss April. I dreamt Preston and I were sailing on the ocean, floating peacefully in the calm water while the moon reflected off the gentle waves. Preston went down into the cabin to get something and that’s when I noticed another boat—a big pirate ship, old and ominous, heading straight for the sailboat. We weren’t moving at all. Our sails were up, but an eerie stillness settled around us, leaving the air completely void of any breeze. I called for Preston, but he didn’t answer. I ran into the cabin to look for him, but he’d vanished.

  The huge, dark ship was approaching rapidly. A pirate stood at the bow, with a black beard and long, black hair, dressed completely in black from his boots to his large hat that hid his face. He faced me, but there was no place to hide and nowhere to run. I felt so helpless I wanted to cry, so I yelled out for Preston again, louder, my voice filled with panic. The pirate ship floated to a stop, the sailboat so small in comparison to the ship’s giant shadow.

  An unexpected blanket of fog crept across the water and surrounded Miss April. A small rowboat broke through and came to a stop at the stern of the sailboat. I ran to the bow, but turned to see the pirate in black step off the rowboat onto the stern. He came towards me, past the helm and onto the bow. The sound of his boots got louder—he was getting closer, and I was trapped. I cried out, one last plea for Preston, then turned and jumped into the dark, menacing ocean below.

  I screamed out loud and sat up in the bed, my heart feeling like it might jump out of my chest. The cabin door flung open. Preston rushed to my side with an alarmed look on his face and asked if I was okay. I flung my arms around him. Instantly, he wrapped one arm around me and put the other behind my head as I buried my face in his neck. We sat there for a minute and he said nothing, waiting for me to get control of my emotions and my breathing to return to normal. I told him I had a nightmare. He tucked my hair behind my ear and then said, “So my kissing gave you nightmares? That can’t be good.” He laughed, but I was mortified and assured him the kissing was not the cause.

  He lay down on his side next to me, and I rolled over to face him. After promising to stay with me, he kissed my forehead and then ran his fingers through my hair until I fell back asleep.

  I told myself it was just a stupid dream but this morning before Preston brought me home, I noticed a familiar car in the parking lot at the marina. It looked like the same black Mercedes that’s normally parked across the street from my house that I’ve always assumed is a neighbor, but about fifteen minutes after Preston dropped me off at my house, the black car pulled up in its usual spot. I watched out my window for someone to get out, but no one ever did.

  Since Preston had some errands to run, I decided to make a quick trip to the library. Reading is a successful way to kill time when Preston isn’t around and that means I need at least five books to cover me for the next week.

  On my way to the checkout, I stopped at the Newspaper Archives and typed my aunt’s full name on the search line. A page full of articles popped up, so I opened the notebook I’d brought with me and began scribbling down some notes. One article included a picture of her at a charity ball, and at her side was the man from the photo in the cigar box. They were dressed in formal attire for the black-tie event, posing alongside other guests for the newspaper photographer. There were other articles with pictures similar to this one, at other formal events, my aunt always on his arm or at his side. Clearly, he was well known, someone worthy of attending all the events and also someone the public seemed to care about.

  I scribbled down the names of all the places where the events were held, hoping I could visit them and find out more info about this man. I couldn’t ignore the possibility that he may be my biological father, and if not, he might have information about my aunt. There was even a picture of them at a ribbon-cutting ceremony outside a building in L.A., which I thought might be useful for showing to people since I hadn’t brought the one from home. I wrote down the address of the building, then pushed print and walked to the counter to pick up the photo.

  A feeling of uneasiness made me look over my shoulder, but no one appeared to be paying any attention to me. I paid for the copy and slipped the printed picture into my notebook. Returning to the desk, I typed the man’s name into the search line. The page exploded with articles, but the name was common. Without a middle name, I’d be there forever. Forever was not an option when Mr. Gulfstream himself would be returning to my house in less than an hour, so I grabbed my notebook and library books and headed for the exit.

  While waiting on the sidewalk, I opened the inside jacket of one of the books to skim through the description. The crosswalk sign changed and I started to step off the curb, but someone yelled, “Look out!” A firm hand grabbed my arm and yanked me backwards as a car whizzed by only inches away. The pull to safety caused me to lose my balance and fall backwards onto the hard concrete. The books in my arms went flying through the air. So embarrassing! I was momentarily stunned, and a group of passersby gathered around me.

  The man in a baseball cap who had jerked me back immediately took to looking me over and asking me a million times if I was okay. Besides being embarrassed, I had no visible damage so he helped me up and then joined the strangers to pick up my items strewn all over the sidewalk. They handed me my books, and a nice woman put my wallet and other contents back into my purse. The man called the driver an idiot and someone else asked if I needed an ambulance. All the while, I’m brushing myself off with trembling hands and reassuring everyone I’m fine.

  I thanked the man for saving me and took a quick inventory of the books in my arms. He made a comment about how bizarre the whole thing was. I wanted to tell him not really since I was the person standing on the corner, but I was too preoccupied with finding my missing notebook.

  I scanned the ground while he picked up his backpack from where he’d dropped it and looked me over one more time. Someone asked if anyone got the license plate and a lot of ‘no’s’ shot through the crowd before my rescuer pointed out it was a black Mercedes. Such a weird coincidence. But even weirder was the fact that my notebook was missing, which meant someone in the small crowd of strangers must have taken it. I searched the faces looking for the traitor, but all of them looked suspicious.

  Three teenagers stood huddled together carrying backpacks, with earbuds stretching from their ears to the iPods in their pocket, and they were whispering in hushed voices. The woman with the glasses that helped put the items in my purse had a huge bag over her shoulder, large enough to fit a notebook. Even the man in the shirt and tie could have easily slipped the notebook into his laptop bag. I searched the others in the crowd with stacks of books in their arms and figured my notebook could be wedged in any one of those piles. It was a lost cause.

  They were eyeing me as I scrutinized each one of them. I thanked the man again and darted across the street to my car. If he hadn’t jerked me out of the way, I’d be dead or lying in a hospital somewhere with serious injuries, and dead won’t do because I plan to spend a long lifetime of dates with Preston. So for now, I’ll count my one lucky star that I’m still in one piece and chalk the whole thing up to coincidence and bad luck. And there are a million black Mercedes crawling around town, right?

  What the hell was that about?

  Movement in the bushes below grabs my attention before I have time to analyze Ava’s bizarre near-death experience. I carefully slip the journal back in my pocket and load an arrow into my bow before lifting it to take aim.

  The boar steps out. It’s a small one, but it will do. Just one step closer. That’s right. Keep turning… keep turning… right…there. Perfect. My left eye closes in preparation, and I slowly exhale.

  A bloodcurdling scream that can only be Ava’s pierces the air.