Worth Its Weight In (Felicity)
Alaska’s face says volumes when he comes up.
He’s found something big.
He crests the water like some kind of sea god, all dark and sleek in his wetsuit with his hair slicked back against his skull, hard body gleaming in tight, hard contours against a rubber skin that leaves very little to the imagination.
Slayed.
That’s my state of being, no question.
It’s only the tight, restrained look on his face that keeps me from falling completely under his Poseidon spell.
The boat rocks heavily as he hauls himself over the side.
I grab the railing as my stomach goes sideways from the sudden jolt.
“Sorry,” he pants out, pulling out his mouthpiece and dropping down hard on the bench on the opposite side like he’s using his own weight to counter the sway. “Wish they had heavier boats to rent. This thing’s barely a tinfoil frame.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been on rubber rafts in rougher waters.” I right myself, biting my lip. “So? Was there anything down there?”
“Oh yeah.” He grins, brandishing his camera. “Found your plane. Tail’s pretty smashed up so I couldn’t match the numbers to the logs, but it’s a Cessna, all right, and...well, see for yourself. ”
He thrusts the camera at me with a boyish eagerness that would probably be charming if I wasn’t trying not to hyperventilate.
My dad’s plane.
It’s really down there.
It’s not just a crazy dream.
There’s no way it could be anyone else’s.
God, what was he doing?
Was he even the one who crashed it?
My mind spins with a thousand scenarios.
I can see the most likely scenario—Dad getting high off the Lockwood syndicate’s supply on a shipping run, crashing his plane and getting out, but after straggling back to his truck the heroin overloaded his system and he died.
Second most likely? He ODed first, and the Lockwoods sank his plane to hide his connection to them and avoid any implication in his death.
But as I activate the screen on the digital camera, I realize both options are wrong.
Dead wrong.
My breath goes out of me in a whoosh that practically deflates my lungs as I struggle to process what I’m seeing.
Piles and piles and piles of flipping gold bars hidden inside the plane’s dark belly.
My heart pounds like a drum.
My veins shrivel up, suddenly too small for the hot blood rushing through.
“Wh-what? How? I don’t...”
“That answers one question,” Alaska whispers, suddenly there, his hand warm and heavy on my back, guiding me to the seats. “Sit down. Take a deep breath. If you think you’re gonna pop, put your head between your knees.”
“I’m...I’m...I’m o-kay...”
I’m not okay.
I drop, letting the camera fall into my lap. But that image is still there, staring up at me.
So. Much. Gold.
Millions of dollars’ worth.
My first thought is that I wouldn’t ever have to worry about anything again.
Not the café. Not that rickety old station wagon. Not whether I can afford a couple treats for Shrub this week. Not how to pay my employees, where new equipment will come from, or—last but certainly not least—the next time that mackerel-eyed bitch shows up on my doorstep with that creepy-ass knife she treats like a pet.
I feel Alaska settling down next to me, the warmth of his body.
The heaviness of his bulk makes the boat dip.
I snap my head up, a question on my lips, all stalled breath making my chest flutter and my fingers shake.
“Alaska, I—”
I freeze, realizing how close he is.
He’d been leaning toward me, his hand still on my back...but now he freezes, too, as our noses almost bump.
There’s a silence so loud it’s deafening.
I can’t hear my own heartbeat but I can feel it against my eardrums, slamming so hard it mutes everything.
And in that silence I can feel too much: the broad spread of his fingers on my back, the delicious heat of his breaths against my frozen cheeks, the tingling proximity between us when his lips are so close I could just lean up and in a fit of passion—
My gaze drops to his mouth.
It’s like that thick, lustrous black beard of his just makes the redness of his mouth stand out that much more.
Honestly, it’s equally cruel and magnetic and I can’t take my eyes off it.
Until his lips move. At first I’m just hypnotized by their seam, the gleam of wetness, the shape of the tip of his tongue...
...and then I realize he’s saying something.
“—ou okay?”
“Huh?” I jerk my eyes back to his—warm swirling mocha watching me with such concern, and I flush as much with guilt as with his closeness. Clearing my throat, I jerk back, trying to hide it by straightening up in the seat. “I—yeah. I’m—I just—that’s a lot. That’s a lot to take in. I was expecting so many things, but not this.”
“I can imagine.” He starts rubbing my back, but it’s not soothing me. If anything, it’s just making my nerves ratchet up higher when the cold lake air painfully reminds me just how hot he is. “So you think your dad had something to do with all that gold?”
“I mean, how could he not? He must’ve been—”
I catch myself before the words slip out.
He must’ve been hauling it for the Lockwoods.
I can’t let Alaska that deep into my world.
I can’t let him face-plant into my trouble with a mafia princess who’s way too into knife play.
This time, it hits me for all the wrong reasons, chasing away that overheated buzzing high from finding the gold and from Alaska being this achingly close.
Jesus. This is what Paisley’s been after all this time.
This is why the little drips and drabs I tried to pay her off with would never be enough.
She thought I knew and lied to her through my teeth.
Which means Dad must’ve done something atrocious to get his hands on this much gold.
And if she finds out I know where it is, I’m beyond hosed.
I’m a dead girl walking.
She’ll skin me alive the second after she gets the coordinates out of me.
Oh, fuck.
“Okay,” Alaska says. “That’s not an okay face. If you’re gonna throw up, head over there and I’ll—”
“I’m not throwing up,” I whimper.
But I do throw myself against him, hanging on with all my might, holding in a panicked sob.
I just need sixty seconds.
A minute to hide; a minute to let someone shelter me; a minute where I’m not thinking anything except how safe Alaska makes me feel when I’m the exact opposite of safe.
I bury myself against his chest and hold on tight.
He has every right to push me away.
I think he should.
But he doesn’t.
Those big redwood arms fold around me, and it’s like this wall of stone wrapping me up, even with the rubbery wetsuit clinging between us.
He’s this great rocky house of a man that makes me feel like I’m home, even when I’m over an hour away from Heart’s Edge.