Page 7 of Hooked

4

Vinny

After patching up Sia’s hands, grabbing what I could from the fish shack, and taking a much-needed shower, I’m out like a light.

I wake up to someone singing.

I look over at Taco. Not him: anyways, I picture him more as a smoky bass rather than the clear soprano I hear. Must be Sia. Guess she feels better.

It’s a pretty voice. She’s singing a Christmas carol, one of the depressing ones about missing your loved one.

Not something I’ve ever had a problem with. I’ve always found it easier to be alone.

So I’d better work on fixing my roof.

Carefully I ease out of the bed. My body’s a little stiff from the rescue operation, but otherwise in decent shape. The singing fades as I throw on some clothes then head downstairs to the kitchen. Sia hums to herself as she reaches for the kettle, but hisses in pain, dropping it with a shrill clang on the burner.

“You need to let your knuckles heal,” I say.

She startles, spinning around to face me.

Her big blue eyes are still wide with fear, but she relaxes as she recognizes me. Her auburn hair cascades down her back in waves, still slightly damp from the shower. She’s wearing a ridiculously large shirt—Danny’s, obviously—and a pair of sweatpants that drown her.

Maybe not the best expression to use.

“Oh, hi,” she says, her cheeks flushing. Better than the cold blue of yesterday. Her lips are pink now, and my gaze lingers on them.

My body reacts. Well then. Been a while since a woman did that to me. I walk over to the coffee maker and pour myself a cup.

“Vinny,” she says. “I just wanted to thank you. You and your crew who saved me and Oscar. He’s okay—my uncle checked in.”

“Good to hear,” I reply, taking the kettle from her. Filling it up with water, I wait until it’s topped off and drop it on the stove. Oscar never should’ve gone out in the storm, and sure as hell shouldn’t have brought this woman with him, but what’s done is done.

She’s looking down at her hands. Her knuckles are badly bruised and scraped. Nothing broken, but her hands will be stiff for a week or so.

“It’s from the grip you had on Oscar,” I offer.

And from my having to pry her hands open when they were wet. Skin tears more easily when it’s wet.

“You held him above the water.”

“I don’t really remember,” she says.

“We got him out, but I couldn’t get you to drop that giant bag of yours. Probably weighed more than you did.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she says, gently taking a mug from the cabinet. “It has a lot of important things inside. I’m just glad I’d weatherproofed it. Not everything survived, but enough did.”

“Things don’t matter,” I say with a shrug.

She folds her arms over her chest. An unwelcome image of her in bra and panties flashes through my mind.

“Well, people matter far more.” She leans against the counter. “But I’m glad I salvaged something, with my other bags at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Too bad the one you saved didn’t have clothes.”

It comes out meaner than I intend, but I’ve never understood the obsession some people have with material things. Who the hell cares? Clothes at least are useful. I can’t imagine that there’s anything in that tote that was worth risking her life for.

“Clothes I can replace. But a good part of my business was in those bags. My portfolios, samples, catalogs.”

---