Page 49 of Beach Reads
The unfairness, no, theaudacityof this man lecturing me from his comfy tent back at base camp—equipped with agenerator and no less than three electric fans—makes me want to swan dive into the lava after all. He’s the secret agent! They all trained for this, they getpaidfor this, and they have the skills, the equipment, the freaking cardio.
Meanwhile, I’m in borrowed boots and pinned with a tracker, left to fumble my way through this nightmare. I should be dusting cappuccinos with chocolate powder right now, not wiping sweat from my eyes in the middle of the ocean.
Stomping alongside the jungle, I’ve never felt more helpless. Swept up in the grand scheme of events, and forced to play a role that I don’t understand.
Bait.
For a man I barely know.
A man who probably couldn’t pick me out of a line up. And what happens when Agent Dawes doesn’t nibble?
River
She’s here. My barista ishere, a thousand miles from home, barging along the treeline and making more noise than a rampaging elephant. Twigs crack beneath her boots; her breaths are ragged and wheezing. Betty snarks out loud every few steps, carrying on half a conversation, her blonde ponytail swinging in the muggy air.
How is she here? How is this possible?
The red light of a tracker winks from her boot, answering that question. Obvious, really. It’s the agency, trying to entice me back in—dangling her like bait on a string. Should’ve known they’d see my interest in her, even as I tried to hide it.
Anger and hurt burn through my chest, but I keep silent, moving through the shadows. Why would Betty help them? Did they offer her money?
Doesn’t she care that I don’t want to be found? Can’t she respect that?
As I watch, Betty brushes too close to the trees and a hairy spider drops onto her shoulder. It’s stark against her pale top and tanned skin.
“Assholes,” she mutters, marching up the rocky slope, oblivious to her fist-sized hitchhiker. The spider lifts one leg, then another, and I keep parallel in the shadows, weighing my options.
That species is not venomous. Or not life-threatening, anyway. A bite might leave the barista with a swollen neck, but she won’tdie.I shouldn’t interfere.
Because maybe this is the agency’s plan—to put Betty in lethal situations over and over, until I snap and reveal myself like a sentimental fool.
I won’t do it. Betty doesn’t want a spider bite? She shouldn’t have played this game. Should have stayed the hell away from me—here, and in that coffee shop.
She has no idea what kind of man she’s toying with.
“Agent Dawes,” the barista calls, her words sing-songing through the trees, “where are you? Come out, come out.”
And I’d think she was mocking me, except her ear piece buzzes like a hornet as someone from the agency yells at her, probably telling her not to scare me off. Betty winces, rolling her eyes at her boots. Lines of sweat run down her temples.
She’s… warning me. Huh.
And she still has a spider on her shoulder.
Glancing around, I pluck a flower from the foliage: white with a pink blush spreading through the petals. I’m out in the open for a single breath, feet silent, the breeze warm against my cheeks, then I blend back into the darkness again, tossing the annoyed spider behind me.
Betty lifts a hand to smooth her hair. Her fingertips brush the flower tucked behind her ear, and she jumps like she’s been electrified. She snatches the flower down and stares into the jungle.
“Miss Hale,”a tinny voice says, just on the edge of my hearing.“Why have you stopped moving? Do you see Agent Dawes?”
Cornflower blue eyes rove between the trees, and I melt back further into the shadows. A monkey screams high above, and leaves rustle. Shouldn’t have risked it, shouldn’t havemoved, but Betty’s gaze sweeps right past me, and I sag, both disappointed and relieved.
“N-no,” she says.
No mention of the flower… so maybe she’s not in the agency’s pocket after all. Before she turns away, she smooths the crumpled petals, then tucks it carefully back behind her ear.
I watch her carry on up the slope, my chest burning.
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