by Josie Brown
I grab Jack’s arm. “I think I know which one to decipher! When I asked him about the Quorum’s villa, he pointed here.” I shiver as I put my finger over Hector’s left ear.
“That gives us a place to start.” Jack tosses me the iPhone. “But go ahead and take pictures of every inch of your friend. The more samples we supply Arnie, the easier it will be for him to break the cipher. In any event, it’s time I call Ryan.”
He’s given me the easier of the two tasks.
I’ll thank him later, in a way I know he’ll appreciate.
First, I click off a few shots of the tattoo over Hector’s ear. Then I move the iPhone’s lens ever so slightly, to another section of Hector’s head.
Rest in peace, Hector. You smart ass.
Turns out you were certainly smarter than you looked.
As I snap away, Jack radios into Acme. In no time at all, Ryan’s gruff bark is echoing through the submarine. “How’s the party?”
“Bad news.” Jack pauses. “It got crashed. A shark ate our Chihuahua.”
Ryan’s curses would make a sailor cringe. When, finally, he calms down, Jack adds, “But we saved enough of him that I think we may still have a chance to save this operation. The guy seems to have written his life story on his bod. You’ll see what we mean. We’re transmitting now. Have Arnie take a look. Maybe he can make something out of it. Tell him to start with the first code we send, the one over Hector’s left ear. Donna thinks he indicated that it’s the magic number. ”
He gives me the high sign. Within a few minutes, I’ve texted the .jpeg in question, followed by all the other tats, too.
“If you’re right, it’s the nuttiest thing I’ve ever heard.” Despite the doubt we hear in his voice, the next thing we know, Ryan is shouting to Arnie to get on it.
The line is silent for too long. Finally, Arnie’s jubilant shout confirms our suspicions. “Damn, this is awesome! My guess is that the computer will crack it within the hour.”
Jack’s lips graze my forehead with a congratulatory kiss.
For the first time since I saw that godforsaken island, I’m breathing easy.
But not for long. The submarine’s engine lets loose with a bang and a wheeze—
Then silence.
Not good.
Only the emergency lights keep us from groping around in complete darkness.
I’m almost afraid to ask, but someone has to. “What the hell happened?”
Jack checks the life support data on the control console. “Looks like our battery died. We have, at the most, another thirty minutes of back-up power and oxygen.”
Unfortunately, we’re still one-hundred-twenty-two nautical miles from Cabo.
Jack shakes his head. “We’ve got to capsize quickly, before this sardine can sinks like a stone.” He tosses the radio receiver and the iPad at me. “Radio Ryan. Tell him to send a helicopter for us. He can track our whereabouts with the iPad, via its GPS coordinates. When you’re done, put both in waterproof pouches along with our ops gear, while I inflate the portable DSVR. And as much as I’d personally prefer you in that bikini, I’m guessing you’d be more comfortable if you wore a wetsuit when we get topside.”
Thank goodness our sub is equipped with a Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle.
Suddenly, I remember Hector. “But… what about him?”
Jack laughs and then gives me a swift kiss. “Sweetheart, this isn’t weekend at Bernie’s. We’re not dragging him along. If his tats are encoded, we’ve got what we came for.”
He’s right. Hector’s fate is a burial at sea.
Not mine. Somewhere thirty feet above us is a piña colada with my name on it.
And a date with the Quorum.
After explaining the reality of our situation to Acme, I pack up our op gear and stow it securely inside the DSVR. Then I jump into a wetsuit and fit a scuba mask over my face.
When Jack gives me the high sign, I push the button to the sub’s exterior antechamber—
Nothing. Won’t open.
I pound on the button, then on the door. Nada. Zip.
I shrug. “Your turn.”
Jack grabs a crowbar from the utility closet and tries to pry open the door of the antechamber. Granted, he’s six-foot two-inches of gumption, charm, and sinewy muscle, but even he’s not Superman, and it ain’t budging.
My eyes scan the cabin. The only portion of the hull that is not made of reinforced fiberglass is the glass bubble at the top of the submarine.
I point to it. “The bubble is just big enough for the DSVR to squeeze through it. I say we strap ourselves into it, then we break the glass with the portable ejection system we have in our ops gear. We can also use the ejector to propel the DSVR to the surface. We’ll cut loose after we’re clear of the sub.”
“Works for me.” He stares up at it. “Okay, get into position and hold tight. I’ll launch on the count of three.”
I huddle into the DSVR and wrap my wrists tightly around the straps on the inside of its hull. Jack follows suit. It’s not the best of circumstances for cuddling, but hey, it could be worse.
He shouts, “Two…and three—” then pulls the trigger on the ejector.
Under water, the usual shriek of shattering glass is dulled to a thud and a whoosh. But instead of sprinkling down on us, we fly upward after it.
As we hurtle toward the surface, the tiny shards sparkle like shiny guppies as they float away.
The real fish scurry off in a panic.
I know I should be scared, too. Instead, I’m calm because Jack is holding on to me, as if he’ll never let me go.
Of course he won’t. Because he loves me.
Like he said: always and forever.
Chapter 19
When to Say Y-E-S to S-E-X
So, when is it okay to say yes to sex?
Here are three sure fire signs that you’re both ready for the kind of intimacy that leads to the right kind of ring (that is, engagement, as opposed to cock):
Sign Number One: You can’t keep your hands off each other. This includes (a) above the waist, (b) below the waist (c) over your clothes, and (d) under your clothes.
Sign Number Two: He whines and begs, “Please? Pretty please? I promise it won’t hurt!” He’s right, it won’t hurt. Unless, afterward, he never calls you again. Should that be the case, feel free to make him hurt as well. Recommended method: a zap from a taser gun.
Sign Number Three: You’re over forty. At that point, (a) it’s time to give up the ghost that you’ll find anyone else who finds you desirable, (b) you deserve to be called something other than “spinster”; and (c) if you don’t do it now, your lady bits will dry up like an sun-parched prune rotting on the dusty ground of a Sonoma orchard.
In that case: Just. Do. It.
A fuzzy peach sun is melting into the jade horizon. Hot pink clouds float around the baby blue sky like God’s lava lamp until, finally, the sun’s last rays flicker out, revealing starry pinpricks in the indigo night.
Our three-hour sunbath has browned Jack’s face, but it turns pink at my touch.
I touch him often.
I am still holding onto him for dear life.
For the past three hours, our emergency raft has been slapped silly by foamy whitecaps. Although our wetsuits have kept us dry and the wind has finally died down, the night air is chilly enough that we shiver as we lay in each other’s arms.
“Acme is sure taking its sweet time getting here,” I sigh.
“Maybe the helicopter hit some headwinds coming out of Los Angeles. Fine by me. I’m enjoying a few hours of down time.” He closes his eyes, which have darkened to the color of the sea. “Hey, what do you say we make the most of it?”
“Ha! If you think this rubber dinghy is my idea of a romantic getaway, you’re mistaken. After sitting in this thing for three hours, I’ll need that massage more than ever.”
“Your wish is my command. Turn over.” Even in the dark, I can make out Jack’s playful grin.
He laughs. “Okay, I hear you. But I do have something else to keep us busy until the chopper shows up. I was going to save your birthday gifts for after we’d made love in our very own seaside cottage, but I’ll let you have them now.”
He pulls a small red heart-shaped box from his ops bag, and hands it to me. “For you, milady.”
“Really?” I can feel myself blushing. I hesitate only a second before untying the box.
Inside is tiny pink doll, a baseball covered in autographs, a Magic 8-Ball, homemade cookies shaped like hearts and wrapped in cellophane—
And a jeweler’s box.
I clear my throat. “Hmmm. Interesting combination.”
“Go ahead, read the tags. But save the 8-Ball for last.”
I would have guessed he’d have asked that of the jeweler’s box.
I pick up the baseball. The autographs are from players with the Los Angeles Dodgers, my son’s favorite team. Pinned to it is a note:
Dear Mom,
For your birthday, I’ve cleaned out the garage in order to earn enough money to take you and me to a ballgame—only you’ll have to drive us, because even though it’s a date, I’m not legal yet.
Your loving and adorable son,
Jeff
“Very thoughtful,” I say with a smile. “Especially the part where he points out I should do the driving—considering you’ve been giving him lessons on the sly.”
Jack ducks his head in mock shame. “You know about that, eh?”
I nod. “I overheard him boasting about it to Cheever.”
“Every kid in the sticks drives the family truck, or the tractor.”
“Lousy excuse, Jack. We live in Hilldale, which is suburbia, not Farmville.”
“Hey, you never know. It may come in handy some day. If it’s any consolation, he’s already a much better driver than Mary.”
I punch him in the arm. “Some role model you are! That’s all I need, Mary and her twelve-year-old girlfriends rolling the car out of the driveway at night in order to meet their boyfriends for a joyride.”
“Like you did, I’m guessing?”
That stops me cold. Yeah, okay. Maybe. Not that I’d ever admit it to her, let alone him.
Time to change the subject and get that smirk off his face. I pick up the cookies. “Yum, what do we have here?”
The attached note says:
Dear Mom,
I made your favorites, chocolate peanut butter! Unfortunately, they’re a little burned on the bottom! Usually, I have you yelling at me to watch the timer, and this time I did it as a surprise while you were gone, so I’m sorry! Just don’t eat them all at once! I noticed that your thighs jiggle just a bit… but not much!
xoxoxo and happy birthday always,
Mary
Yep, that stops me mid-bite.
Jack is puzzled. “What’s wrong?”
“Um… nothing.”
Instead, I take the doll in hand. I recognize the haphazard block lettering in the note tied to her wrist as Trisha’s handiwork:
DEAR MOMMY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I HOPE YOU AND DADDY MAKE LOTS OF SANDCASTLES AT THE BEACH. MY DOLL WILL HELP. SHE WILL ALSO KEEP YOU FROM MISSING ME. LOVE, TRISHA
I tear up. “This is the first birthday I’ve been away from them.”
“Don’t forget, you left them with some pretty fancy going away presents. Those chocolate bars you made from scratch in the shape of their names were awesome.” Very gently, Jack swipes at the tear that is rolling down my cheek, but he can’t wipe away the heaviness I feel in my heart at the thought that maybe, just maybe, one day I may not come back to her.
If that were to happen, she too would get a note from me, telling her why:
Because I kill bad guys.
Jack knows how to change the subject. He hands me the ring box.
It is the moment of reckoning…
Wrong.
Yes, it is a very important piece of jewelry, but not, as I presumed, an engagement ring.
It is the antique locket necklace I had inherited from my mother.
“You always wear it at home, but you didn’t take it on this ops,” Jack says.
“Should something ever happen to me… well, let me put it this way, I would never want anything to happen to this locket, too. It was my mother’s. I know it will be important to the children one day.”
How can I explain to him that inside is the only picture of Carl left in existence?
The rest of them disappeared when he did: the night Trisha was born.
Should I fail at my lifelong mission—to defeat the Quorum—I’d want my children to learn about their real father. Between this locket and the handbook I’ve left for them in my curio cabinet, they will finally know the truth.
I pray to God that day never comes.
Not that I can say any of this to Jack. Instead, I lift my hair off my neck. “But hey, it’s brought us luck thus far. Will you do me the honor?”
After clasping it, he kisses me there.
The warm memory of his lips still lingers on the nape of my neck as he hands me the Magic 8-Ball. “Okay now it’s time for my gift. You get to shake it three times. Whatever pops up is something that will take place when all of this is behind us.”
Wishful thinking.
But seriously, will the Quorum ever go away?
I have to believe it will. And it better be tonight.
In any event, it’s a wonderful dream to share.
I give him the smile we both need right now. “Sounds like fun.” I shake it hard, six times. “Okay, here’s the first answer: ‘Without a doubt.’”
He laughs. “That fits a lot of questions.”
“You’re right. I’ve got one, but first promise not to laugh, okay?” I take a deep breath. “Jack, seriously, should we be worried that the Cavalry hasn’t shown up? Granted, we’ve got another seven hours of battery time in the iPad.”
“I know you’re still spooked by the shark, Donna, but admit it. We’ve both been through worse.”
He’s right. To let him know that I’ve shaken off my fears, I take the ball and twist it right, then left, before taking a peek. “Okay, now it says ‘Don’t count on it.’”
His smile disappears. “Care to take another guess?”
I’m almost afraid to voice my fear. “I’m hoping the question is, ‘Will you ever leave me?’”
I don’t need to add, Like Carl did?
I have my answer in the way his eyes look deep into mine.
As if there is nothing in life more important to him.
Did Carl ever love me like this? Maybe. But it was a long time ago.
But Carl is gone.
And Jack is here to stay.
I know this because the Magic 8-Ball deems it so.
Smiling, I shake the ball one last time: “It says ‘Signs point to yes.’”
“Good. Because the question is ‘will you marry me?’”
His mouth hovers over mine, longingly. Finally our lips meet in a gentle kiss.
If floating on a raft in the Pacific after seeing a man eaten by a shark teaches you anything, it’s that life is too short and too uncertain to waste on coy flirtations. Jack’s tongue knows the inside of my mouth as well as his own. It also knows the curve of my shoulder, where it lingers oh so longingly.
Very slowly, he unzips my wetsuit, releasing my breasts. His lips tickle me as they roam over them. As much as he enjoys their plump softness, his prime objective is my nipples, which the cool air (or is it his tongue?) has enlarged, making them so, so stiff—
Just like Jack.
His wetsuit can’t hide the fact that his cock is now long and hard.
I am aching to have him inside me.
My fingers can’t unzip his wetsuit fast enough. He must feel the
same way about mine because he strips off mine, too—first the left arm, then the right one—until it hangs low around my hips. With one yank he pulls it down around my ankles, but holds me steady so that I don’t tumble out of the raft.
After that little project, my string bikini is a piece of cake. He unties one side, then the other. He holds it up and a breeze catches it and lifts it up and over the waves.
Jack isn’t watching because he’s too busy admiring the view between my legs. A long index finger and thick thumb are working in tandem at making me throb for him.
“Jack, I don’t think . . .” is all I can gasp.
I want to explain to him why I can’t say yes to his proposal.
Not yet, anyway.
Not until Carl is out of our lives, forever.
Jack enters me with a deep thrust. In no time at all we find our rhythm, along with that sweet spot deep within me. The combination of joy and ecstasy has me throwing back my head so that I am looking skyward—
Just in time to see a shooting star race across the galaxy.
By the time it disappears somewhere far beyond Orion, the moans from our passion-fueled orgasms have scared the fish away.
The helicopter hovering overhead is a different story.
Ryan’s voice shouts down at us through a bullhorn, “So, tell me, was it as good for you as it was for me?”
Chapter 20
Will He Jump Through Hoops for You?
There are three true measures of any man’s commitment to a relationship. Here they are, in reverse order of importance:
Measure #3: He’s keen on washing your hair, and giving you mani-pedis. Don’t laugh! A man who will do this for his sweetheart is a man worth waiting for. (Hopefully his heartache over the breakup with his boyfriend won’t last forever.)
Measure #2: He remembers all major dates in your lives together: your birthday, the anniversary of the day you met, the anniversary of the day you moved in together, the anniversary of the day you first whipped him into a frenzy. (Or just whipped him. And couldn’t stop. And claimed you forgot his safety word.)
Measure #1: He doesn’t balk when you ask him to commit murder to avenge your honor. Granted, your command that he do so shouldn’t be given lightly! That said, your waste not/want not list should include frenemies, old boyfriends, or anyone who jumps ahead of you in line. Why? Because if he’s stupid enough to kill for you, he’s stupid enough to leave a trail to your doorstep.