Page 50 of Beach Reads
I track Betty back to base camp, staying hidden the whole time. It’s not hard—she’s too busy watching her steps to be observant, trying not to trip over roots or get tangled in a vine, and who can blame her? I’ve brushed two more spiders, a glossy beetle, and a large caterpillar off her before she reaches the camp. Betty’s a magnet for jungle critters—me included.
The canvas tents are clustered between the jungle and the beach, partly hidden by two rocky columns. I count five men in all—one with a headset, sitting at a table of electronics, and one in the kitchen space, chopping onions with a scowl. The other three lounge around the campfire in fold-out chairs, swigging beers as the pink sky darkens. I don’t recognize their faces.
Mercenaries, then? The agency does like using temps for the dirty work. And dragging me back in is the definition ofdirty.
“There she is,” one man by the fire calls, grinning at Betty in a flash of white teeth. The pale line of a scar cuts through his beard. She approaches the camp with stiff shoulders, ignoring everyone and making a beeline for a ramshackle tent on the outskirts. “Nice flower, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
I’ll stuff a melon down his throat.
Hers is the smallest, shabbiest tent, patched and leaning to one side where the rocky dirt turns to sand. Of course they stuckBetty in that tent when she needs the most protection. If it rains, she’ll get soaked. Pricks.
See, this is why I’m done with the agency. Back in the day, I could stomach a few gung ho idiots, one or two assholes on each mission. We were doing important work, after all. Taking down global criminals and keeping people safe.
But lately, it’s less good work and more sloppy, macho bullshit. More secrecy and lies. I don’t recognize half the agents, and I’m tired of it, alright? Getting too old for this crap.
It’s easy to slip around the outskirts of camp, darting from rock to rock. The men are done for the day, more interested in the bottom of their bottles than keeping watch, and their bursts of rowdy laughter set my teeth on edge.
Betty’s not safe here. This is a different kind of jungle, and she’s trapped right in the middle of it. Juicy and tempting.
Have they hassled her already? Or are they building up to it? Peeling the back of her canvas tent open, I slip through the gap. I’ll be here when they do.
Betty squeaks when she sees me, clapping one hand over her mouth. She’s in the doorway, but she can’t stay there. Too suspicious.
I put a finger against my lips. She nods, her eyes so blue even in the dim tent, then marches right back out.
Shit.
My gut sinks as her footsteps thump away against the dirt. Did I read this all wrong? Maybe she wants to be here; maybe she volunteered. The knife strapped to my belt whispers as I pull it loose, because I won’t hurt Betty either way, but the rest of these fuckers are fair game.
But then: “Here’s your earpiece. Now get this wire off me, will you?” Betty says on the other side of camp, her voice clear as a bell. “It’s giving me a rash.”
A man replies: “Fine. But keep those boots on.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
I smirk at Betty’s sarcasm, eyes adjusting to the gloom of her tent. My knife sighs back into its sheath.
There’s a narrow cot with a foam mattress, a tangled thin blanket and a pillow. A makeshift nightstand made from an upturned box. A flashlight, a toothbrush, a bar of soap in a travel dish. A hairbrush and a stick of deodorant.
It’s the barest sliver of her life, but I can’t help moving closer, nudging the flashlight with my fingertip. I lift the soap silently, breathing in the scent, then place it next to the hairbrush, tangled with a few golden strands.
At the bottom of her cot, a duffel bag sags open, spilling crumpled vest tops and underwear onto the mattress. A towel hangs from the tent bars overhead, dusted with sand and left to dry.
Have they gone through her stuff? Did they watch her bathe? My pulse slams in my ears, and I thank god I followed her back here. She’s alone with all these men, and so vulnerable. At their mercy.
Unacceptable.
I’ve been so caught up in getting an ocean away from this woman—keeping my distance. Keeping her safe.
I forgot there are worse monsters than me.
* * *
Two months ago
I’m back at the coffee shop, ordering the same drink from the same barista. It’s a pattern, and I know that’s dangerous, but for some reason I can’t resist.
