He rests his palms on the metal railing along the side of the boat, looking up and down the skis. “Were you aware we’re training out on the water today? If people want to use the water, they’ve been asked to keep within the boundaries.”
“Oh?” I frown, playing dumb. It physically hurts. “I’m sorry, sir, we’re just doing what our boss asked.” And now I’m going to give him some crocodile tears and pray for the fucking best. I look at Leon, hoping he realizes this isn’t only for Danny and James. “Are we in trouble, sir?” I ask, forcing tears into my eyes.
His lips straighten, but I can see he’s thinking he hasn’t got time for this. “Make it back around the cove quickly before someone else stops you.” He takes off his cap and waves it, like run along now.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Leon whispers, eyes wide as he returns them forward, tucking his stock away. “Beau, babe, you just saved my life.”
“Stop calling me babe.” I start moving, slowly but surely, my heart not relenting. I make sure I keep my stare forward, not looking back, because I was always suspicious of anyone who looked back at me after I’d let them walk when I was a cop. Always.
But then I hear the building sound of an engine getting closer, and I look around instinctively, searching for the source. Nothing.
Then…something.
The loudest roar penetrates the air, and a jet ski comes from nowhere, zooming across the front of us, so fast, it’s a blur. “Shit!” I yell, frightened out of my skin, the spray hitting me, forcing my arm up in defense. I follow the white, foamy trail with my eyes, my ski rolling atop the waves that have been created, and stand in my seat, looking back, seeing the jet ski circle the Coast Guard, performing a few donuts, kicking up enough water to making it impossible to see the rider.
“Hey!” the guard yells, running to the other side of the boat, signaling to his colleagues.
Anger finds my veins and starts to burn them as I catch sight of the scroll down the side of the ski. But I’m not stupid enough to think it’s Danny on it. James couldn’t use his own because I’m on it.
He circles, switching direction abruptly, maintaining the constant roar and spray, before thrashing the throttle and speeding off across the open water, away from the shore. Away from me. Away from the boatyard.
And the Coast Guard is soon in pursuit.
“Beau, come on,” Leon yells, as I watch James get farther away, lowering into my seat.
I squeeze down on the throttle and head back to the boatyard, and I am seething the entire way, hoping to cool down.
Danny is in the water when we arrive, and he directs us to the shore rather than the jetty, where Jerry’s got the trailer waiting, attached to the jeep. The moment he looks at me, I make sure he knows I’m not happy. I get off and help get each ski wedged into the seabed on the shore, holding my tongue.
For now.
Jerry starts getting the skis on the trailer as Ringo returns with Goldie and a paddleboard onboard his boat. “Beau,” Rose calls, coming down the steps of the cabin. I look up and shake my head, warning her away. I don’t want my friend to get caught up in the shrapnel that’s about to fly.
I take myself fifty yards down the beach and start pacing up and down in the water, my hands on my hips, my face pointing toward the sun, my eyes closed, praying for calm. Bring me calm before you bring me James!
My prayers aren’t answered. I look out to the ocean when I hear the distant roar of a jet ski hitting the waves and see him. I hold my breath, waiting for the Coast Guard to follow him. No boats appear. It’s just James coming at us at full speed, standing in the seat.
He slows as he gets to the shore and the moment he can, he jumps off, landing in the water up to his waist and wading through. “Jerry, get this in the bunker,” he yells, pushing it into the bed and running a hand through his hair before yanking down his zip and struggling out of the top half of his wetsuit. An angry bruise on his pec has me looking away from his chest to his face.
James’s eyes find mine, inviting me to give him all I have because he’s fully expecting it. “What the hell were you doing?” I yell. There’s no build up to a shout. No warmup. I’m right in there, exploding, giving him my all.
“The Coast Guard was on you, Beau.”
“I handled it!” I throw my arms up into the air. “What are you, a white knight, saving me when I didn’t need fucking saving?”
He breathes out on a small laugh, turning away from me. “Of course. Beau Hayley doesn’t need saving, does she? Because she’s Lara fucking Croft. Former cop. Upcoming, talented FBI agent.” He swings around, his face red. “Except she’s fucking broken and as fucked-up as this fucked-up white murdering fucking knight.”
I recoil, injured, and James’s lip curls, his disgust a slap in the face that I probably deserve.
“I’m done with this shit, Beau. I don’t know what you want. What you don’t want.” He stalks off, throwing an arm up. “You’re clearly hell-bent on doing what the fuck you please, and I’m fucking exhausted trying to stop you. I don’t understand you anymore.”
I stand on the shore watching him walk away, his brutalized back a beacon of ruin. He’s never walked away from me before. Never. I look around me, circling on the spot, finding many eyes on me. Sympathetic eyes. “I . . .” What am I going to say to them? Try to make them understand my grievance? Will they? “Fuck!” I hiss, spinning around and walking down the shore, my hands in my hair, gripping tightly, punishing myself. I see James’s scared back. My scared arm. His gunshot wound, mine too. I look to the sky and yell, deranged, and walk on, breathing heavily, my heart thundering.
I hope this means you’ve finally found what’s saving you.
I need to stop trying to prove that I’m not glass. Because I am glass. I have shattered time and again, and James hasn’t fixed me. He’s broken with me, and sometimes having someone who understands you is all you need. Someone to take you away. Someone to escape with. I don’t understand you anymore. Those words hurt. I drop to my ass on the sand and look out at the ocean through my teary eyes, feeling so fucking lost, and my mind wanders to months ago. To his glass apartment. To the time we both folded under the pressure to stay away.
The pleasure. The pain. The complete and utter exhilaration.
I was numb to a world that had tortured me for years. And my senses were heightened to a man who would be a constant in my life. “God damn it,” I whisper, propping my elbows on my knees and burying my face in my hands. It’s true. I do have more demons now than I did when I saw Dr. Fletcher. But I don’t feel any worse. In fact, I feel more stable than ever. Low every now and then, maybe even depressed, completely mad sometimes, but the panic attacks are few and far between, the dark thoughts gone, and I am no longer a zombie, staggering aimlessly through the darkness, trying to find my way out. I no longer consider death better than living.
James.
He is my therapy.
My cure.
My peace amid the chaos.
And I keep pushing him away. Keep allowing the ghosts to take me.
Why am I living for ghosts when I have James?
I hear the door of his Range Rover slam shut and shortly after wheels spinning on the stones. I look back and see the rear end fishtailing, kicking up a thick smog of dust, and everyone is watching. And once James is out of sight, they all turn their attention to me sitting on the shore.