Stay: A Second Chance Badboy Romance

by Melinda Minx

  “Guys that have been in wars most of their lives have a tendency to go back to whatever dead-end shit they did before...when they can’t cut it in the real world.”

  I laugh dryly, and I’m starting to feel pissed off. “You saying the wars I fought aren’t real, Mr. Sinclaire? Ask my brother—or anyone else who died in those wars—if they weren’t the real world.”

  Hank’s shoulders sag, and he puts one hand on mine. “I didn’t mean it like that, son, I’m just saying that it must be hard. You learned to do one thing, and now you have to start over.”

  “You’re worried I can’t provide for Sophie?”

  Hank laughs. “No, she can provide for herself, Mason. This isn’t about money. I’m worried she’s with you again, and she’s not going to keep her head in the game. I’m worried you will somehow keep her from going to Boston.”

  “I’m not anchored down to Tuckett Bay,” I say.

  “Make sure Sophie knows that,” he says. “For her, you and Tuckett Bay are connected. She might think she has to choose between her career and you. I want her to be happy, and if being with you makes her happy...then fine. But make sure she knows you don’t have to stay here, Mason.”

  “In that unreal world,” I say, glaring at him; I’m still a bit pissed off that he said it, “we learned to adapt. To handle anything that is thrown at us. If I can handle ISIS-occupied Syria, I’m pretty sure I can handle Boston.”

  Marv’s truck pulls up right then, and he gets out and nods to Hank and me as he passes by.

  “I gotta get to work,” I say.

  “Alright,” Hanks says. “See you around, Mason.”

  Marv stops me before I get on board. “So? You decided?”

  I hadn’t decided, but talking to Hank decided things for me. “Yeah, I’m not taking your offer, Marv. Thanks, but I don’t think I plan to stick around here.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Positive.”

  “Alright,” he says, glaring. “Sorry that this isn’t good enough for you. I hope wherever you end up is better than this shithole, huh?”

  “It’s not like that…”

  “Just get to work,” he says, waving a hand at me and walking away, not looking back at me.

  Ashton and Samuel arrive a few minutes later.

  Samuel glares at me. He doesn’t look nearly as sober as he did yesterday.

  “Samuel,” I say. “I turned Marv down.”

  “You would. I work on this boat for over two years, busting my ass day in and day out, and you come on here for a few weeks and get offered a raise. And you turn it down.”

  “Well,” I say, “I turned it down, so if you step up, it’s wide open for you.”

  “You saying I don’t step up?” Samuel asks. “That I don’t do a good job?”

  Ashton pulls on his arm and hisses, “Drop it, man. John’s not here today, we gotta get along. Just get through the day, yeah?”

  Samuel shoves him off. “You trying to get the raise now?”

  “What do you mean, John’s not here?” I ask.

  “Oh,” Ashton says. “Sorry, I forgot to say he’s sick. He called me.”

  I frown. “He’s sick, or is he sick?”

  “He’s really sick,” Ashton says. “You don’t want what he’s got, trust me.”

  “You can only catch that if you fuck him!” Samuel says, erupting in laughter, as if he’s already forgotten that he was angry.

  Fishermen faking being sick isn’t too big of a problem. The crews are small enough that they hold each other accountable. It creates a hell of a lot more work for everyone with one man down, so no one will let John get away with calling in sick for something like a hangover or pure laziness.

  “I’m not trying to be some fucking leader,” I say, looking at both of them. “I just don’t want to fuck anything up while we’re down a man. Is everyone cool? If you’re not, just fucking say it.”

  “I’ll be cool,” Samuel says. “After I get another drink.”

  Ashton and I give each other a look.

  “One drink,” Samuel says, holding up one finger. “Just to calm my fucking nerves. Then we’re cool. All right?”

  “One drink,” Ashton says.

  I shake my head, not saying anything. Maybe I need to tell Marv that Samuel is a possible liability. Though I doubt Marv wants to hear a thing from me right now.

  Despite the bad start, we get everything prepped and ready. Marv does a check through, and he takes the ship out to the deeper waters. The visibility is still piss poor, and the damp cold starts to seep into my bones, even as it chokes out the sun.

  I head into the equipment room to grab the gill nets, and I spot Samuel drinking out of a flask.

  I stare him down, but he takes another swig. I step right up in his face and sniff. “One drink, huh?”

  “Come on, man! It’s cold. This is only my second drink. What’s one more?”

  “We’re a man down,” I say. “And there’s a lot of fog.”

  “All the more reason to drink,” Samuel says.

  Samuel caps his flask, shoves it into his jacket, and grabs the nets from my hands. “I got those. Mind your own business, man. We’re cool, but just get off my back.”

  Once Marv anchors the boat, he heads onto deck with the rest of us. He steps up beside me and says, “Everyone is in a shit mood. I’m blaming you, Mason.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “You hurt morale,” Marv says. “These two have been hoping I’d offer them the job, How you think it feels for them to see you turn it down?”

  “Look, Marv,” I say. “I know you’re pissed at me, but I gotta tell you that Samuel is—”

  “Worry about yourself,” Marv says, shoving a finger into my chest. “You’re just regular crew, remember, you don’t gotta get your panties all in a bunch about others. You didn’t want that responsibility, so don’t try to take it on now. You turned down my offer, now stay in your place.”

  I glare at him. He’s being a fucking baby. Even if I tell him that Samuel seems unstable, he’s not gonna’ fucking listen to me. Not today.

  Marv heads back to the helm, and we continue our usual routine.

  We pull in a few of the nets we set up the day before, and we all work together to get the fish out of the nets and onto ice.

  I clean and roll up the net to use for later, while Samuel, Marv, and Ashton set up a new net.

  When I get back outside, the fog has been blown entirely away. Unfortunately, the wind that blew it away is carrying fierce rain, which I can see on the horizon coming straight for us.

  “Shit, Marv,” I say.

  “We get this net down,” he says, “and turn back. This is not a day to go fishing, but I want to get at least one fucking net down!”

  We all nod. Leaving without getting a single net down will hurt us bad tomorrow. Marv heads back to the helm to move the boat, and Ashton goes to raise the anchor.

  “You good?” I ask Samuel.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  We start to pull the net out of the bucket by the floats, uncoiling it foot by foot. Samuel gets all the floats gathered, hands them to me, and I toss it overboard float by float as Marv chugs the boat along. As the boat moves, each bob I throw down spreads the net farther across the water.

  I look over toward Samuel—he’s supposed to be handing me more floats—but he’s nodding off.

  “Fucking shit, man,” I say, shoving him out of the way. “Just stay out of my way.”

  I start pulling the net out of the bucket, but Samuel shoves me back.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job!” he shouts over the rising storm. “I’ve been doing this my whole life, man! Way longer than you.”

  He grabs the net again and starts to throw it over by himself. Some of the floats hit the edge and fall back on deck.

  “You’re fucking it all up,” I shout back at him. “You’re going to get us killed.”

  The first rain
starts to hit the ship. We’ll be balls deep in the storm soon.

  “Fucking give me that,” I tear the net from his hands and tug. I throw the floats over, and I hear the engine roar. Marv has hit the throttle. Good, the net is almost all in the water anyway, and—

  I hear a scream.

  I turn around and see what looks like Samuel being lifted up by the ankle by God himself. But it’s not God, it’s the damn net.

  I sprint toward him, slip on the rain-soaked bow, and scramble on hands and knees toward him. But the weight of the fully extended net—over thousands of feet—pulls Samuel up, up, and over.

  I see him disappear over the edge.

  I grab my radio and shout for Marv to kill the engines.

  Moments later the boat stops. The rain is on us in full force now, and Samuel is drowning.

  I lean over the edge, but I don’t even see him struggling. He’s already been pulled under. He’s got just seconds left in this freezing water.

  “Fuck!” I hear from behind me. Ashton’s voice.

  “Get ready to pull us out,” I shout, without even looking back at him.

  I dive headfirst into the icy water.

  It hits me like a fucking wall. It saps all of my body heat away in one moment, and it sucks the air out of my lungs along with it.

  I ignore the pain, and I grab hold of the first float, then I pull myself along the net. My hands go instantly numb, but I don’t let that stop me. I pull along the net as the storm rages above me.

  I hear Ashton and Marv screaming above me. I look back for a moment and see the life preserver they’ve thrown behind me. It’s many feet away already. The normally bright orange floats are almost grey beneath the oppressive storm clouds, but I swim on, following their trail. Finally I see the rope disappear into the water. I take in a deep breath—maybe my last breath—and I dive under, following the rope.

  I pull myself down and down, foot by freezing foot, and just when I think I can’t swim down another inch, I grab hold of what can only be Samuel.

  I use every last ounce of strength to saw through the net with my fishing knife and free Samuel. The rest of the net drifts away as I sever the rope, and I grab hold of the rope on the side still attached to the boat, which I see Marv and Ashton have grabbed hold of.

  They tug us in, and when I reach the life preserver, I force it over Samuel’s shoulders, then give a thumbs up. I can barely get my thumb up, it feels like it’s going to shatter off.

  They tug, bringing Samuel up. As soon as he’s on deck, they throw the preserver back down for me.

  I pull my arms through it, clutch to it numbly, and feel them pulling me up. If the water was cold, the air hitting my soaked and frozen body is even fucking colder. I pass out as soon as it hits me.

  When I wake up, I’m wrapped in blankets, and there’s a vague sense of a toasty heat encircling me, but it’s only reaching the outside of my skin. Inside I am as cold as a glacier.

  “Marv,” I try to shout, but my voice comes out as a whisper.

  I see a radio above me. I realize I’m in the captain’s quarters. Marv’s room. I grab the radio and hiss into it in a ruined voice, “Tell me he’s okay, tell me Samuel made it.”

  I let go of the button. There is a long hissing sound. Maybe they didn’t hear me. Or maybe they are all looking at each other, deciding who has to pick up the radio and be the one to tell me.

  Fuck that. I press the button down again. “Fucking tell me he made it!”

  I let go, and I hear Marv’s voice. I don’t know what he’s saying, but I can tell from the tone of his voice that Samuel is gone. He died. I may as well have wrapped that net around his ankle myself.

  “Fuck!” I find the strength to shout now. I throw the blanket away, and in shivering rage, I slam the radio against the wall. Again and again until the case breaks open. I throw the ruined thing across the room and start to punch the wall with my numb fist.

  I could have told Marv he was drinking. I could have kept him away from the net. I could have checked before I started throwing the net out—when I heard the engine get louder. I could have been faster, I could have caught hold of him and cut the net before he got pulled over. I could have—

  I could have been a better man. The kind of man who didn’t let his own brother die. I was fucking fighting Samuel right before he died. I wasn’t even thinking about protecting him, I was just angry. How can I be with Sophie if this is the kind of man I am? What if I get mad at her like I did at Samuel, and what if that anger gets her hurt, or killed?

  I look down at my knuckles. The skin is so white it looks dead, and blood is everywhere. But I don’t feel a fucking thing.

  23

  Sophie

  Dad gets home just before I leave for work. When I woke up, he wasn’t there—his car was gone.

  “Hey, Dad, where were you?”

  “Just had to run an errand,” he says, panting.

  “It sounds like you went for a jog.”

  “Just a bit out of breath,” he says.

  “Weren’t you driving?”

  He furrows his brows at me and frowns. That means I’m supposed to stop asking him questions.

  “I made some extra food in case you came back,” I say, going to grab the plate I made for him out of the refrigerator. “Want me to microwave it?”

  He sits down on his chair at the table and leans forward, his elbows pressed onto his knees. His head is tilted forward, and he’s still panting.

  “Hey,” I say, crouching down to meet his face. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Sophie,” he says, but his voice sounds strained.

  Even though my Ph.D. is in research, I’ve taken enough medical courses in my long years of study to know that this doesn’t look good.

  “Get back in the car,” I say, grabbing the keys. “We’re going to the ER.”

  “Ah!” he barks at me, swatting toward me. “I just need to catch my breath!”

  I take a deep breath myself. He’s being extra stubborn, but if I can just convince him to get into the car, I can get him to the ER as fast as possible. I’m close to just calling an ambulance. I’m not worried about the cost, but if I’m wrong, Dad will make it impossible for me to convince him something might be wrong in the future.

  “Here,” I say, taking his arm. “Stand up for me.”

  “I just got a headache,” he says. “It’s making me tishereedd. Tire. Tishhhuh.”

  Jesus.

  “Dad!” I squeeze his arm in raw fear. He looks up at me, and half of his face is dropping down. Both eyes are terrified, pleading.

  He keeps trying to speak as I dial 911, but only a slurred jumble comes out.

  “Can you get him safely to the ground or a couch?” the 911 operator asks.

  “He’s too heavy,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “He’s on a wooden chair.”

  “Keep him there,” she says. “Make sure he doesn’t lose balance and fall.”

  I hold his hand as he looks up at me in horrible confusion, but thankfully he never tries to move or fight, which could make him fall onto the tile.

  After an eternity, I hear the ambulance sirens. I shout through the door for them to open it—Dad didn’t lock it when he came in—as I don’t want to risk leaving his side.

  The EMTs come in with a stretcher, and they take over. As relieving as it is to know they are taking over and that he is now in good hands, an intense feeling of powerlessness overtakes me. There is nothing I can do. The stroke may already have caused permanent damage, and there’s not a fucking thing I can do to help him.

  I should have done more. I should have forced him to exercise more. I should have been more strict about his diet. I should have—

  “Sophia,” the EMT says.

  I look up and realize it’s someone I recognize from the Crab Shack. Jason Myers.

  “Yes,” I say. “You can’t ride in the ambulance, but you can follow us there. The valet will take the car and you can go right i
n behind him.”

  I nod, suddenly I have something to do, even if it’s as trivial as moving from point A to point B.

  I grab my keys, get in the car, and follow them to the hospital.

  I arrive in less than ten minutes, right behind the ambulance. I see them pull my dad out the back doors, and I nearly throw my keys at the valet. I stay right behind Dad as they wheel him through the hospital. It’s a small hospital, and I start to worry that it won’t have the right equipment or staff to give Dad the best chance of recovery.

  They wheel his stretcher into a room, and Jason stops me. “You can’t go in yet, Sophie.”

  I shove him. “Let me through!”

  “You want him to get through this?” Jason asks, grabbing my shoulders and staring me in the eyes.

  I nod, crying.

  “Then you have to stay out of the doctors’ way. Sit down here.” He grabs a chair and slides it right next to the door. “He’s just on the other side of the wall. You’re right there with him, and you’ll see him as soon as they’ve stabilized him. Do you need to call anyone else? Family, friends—”

  Mason. I need to call Mason.

  I grab my phone and dial. It rings out, and the default T-Mobile voicemail message comes on. Mason hasn’t even bothered to set his own message. Just like he never bothered to buy furniture. Is he really planning to stick around? Or is this all some kind of vacation to him? Why unpack your bags if you’re going to leave in a few days?

  I call him again. And again. He never answers.

  I’ve never tried to call him during work. It could be that he’s far enough out to sea that there’s no signal.

  I text him. “Dad had a stroke. I don’t know if he’s okay yet. Please call me when you see this. I’m in the hospital. I’m not okay.”

  I check the time. It’s 11:00 a.m. He should be docking for lunch soon. He’ll see it then.

  I sit in that chair, with my dad just on the other side of the wall, and my body never leaves fight or flight mode. I just tremble and cry and worry, and soon enough it all takes a toll on me. I start to feel cold, and tired. But I can’t sleep, I just feel more and more tired. More exhausted. I will not sleep.