Page 22 of Stay Close
Lucas bumps the cooler against my leg.Keep moving.
My knees shake, and I try not to think about how vulnerable we are in these clothes. You can’t hide when you’re neon orange and swish with every step you take. I struggle with the cooler, eyes on the rows of feet. Only 70 of them, Lucas said. 35 to a side. Not so many.
When the ground levels, we shuffle through a gravel car park. “This way,” Lucas murmurs, guiding me left.
Halfway down a long row, we hear the voice of a man, screaming a string of American and Sondish curse words.
Lucas pivots but my view is obscured. “Down,” he growls, and I drop to my knees as a man leaps onto me, knocking the wind from my lungs, smacking the side of my head with a piece of metal. My ears ring but he doesn’t have me for long. Lucas rips him off, throwing him halfway down the row of cars. When he rises, face swathed in a filthy bandana, he has a nasty-looking hook gripped in his hand. Lucas tosses me the keys while I’m still gasping for air.
“Start the engine,” he shouts, his tone forcing me to my feet.
I abandon the cooler and run—swish-swish, swish-swish—one pant leg unraveling. Thick drops of rain plink against my back, and I worry about everything at once. The man with the hook. Lucas. With so much yelling, the others will be on us soon. I slide into the driver’s seat, batting the hood away and forcing air into my lungs. When I press the starter, the engine leaps into action. Before I can get the car out of park, Lucas slides across the hood, throwing himself into the passenger side.
“Go. Go, go, go, go, go!” he shouts. I don’t think. I only trust.
In a spurt of gravel, we shoot forward. He grabs the steering wheel and forces us through a tight turn. “Give it more gas.”
I slam the accelerator, praying he’s right, narrowly missing the gate as we speed through. We’re half a mile away before he falls back into his own seat, throwing off layers ofPVC suiting. Three miles on, I pull into a layby behind a protective stand of trees and lean my head against the steering wheel as the storm breaks over our head.
“Are you okay? You did amazing,” he says, hand stroking my back. “You’re not hurt anywhere? Edie—”
Lifting my head, I give a shaky laugh, peeling my cap off. “I’m good.”
CHAPTER 8
Lucas
“We have to getyou out of those clothes,” I say.
Her eyes widen, and I give a half smile. “Where is your mind? Look at this color. You’re a sitting duck.” She pops the trunk, and I meet her at the back of the car, peeling the articles from my body with quick efficiency. Cold rain beats on our backs, and Edie sheds the jacket, struggling with the heavy plastic clips of the coveralls.
“I got you,” I say, shaking blood into my frozen hands. I pinch the clips, and they spring loose. She pushes the heavy material to her ankles, and I stuff the coveralls into the trunk, swapping seats when we return. I turn up the heater, and warm air fogs the windshield.
“Your head,” I say, touching her temple. “Did he hurt you?”
She guides my hand through her hair, over a small lump on the skull. “It’s just a bruise. Hey,” she says, checking my face, touching one of the grooves bracketing my mouth. “I’mall right.” I want to pull her close, but she moves away. “Who was that, anyway?” she asks, clicking her seatbelt into place.
She was drowning in the rain gear, but it was better for my peace of mind than her sweater, which somehow manages to be both thick and clinging, and the relaxed-fit trousers sitting easily on her waist. As easily as my hands.
A sudden rush of adrenaline does funny things. The laser-sharp focus that served me when we were running for our lives is no longer necessary, but the intense, primal rush hasn’t released me from its grip. It’s looking for an outlet, and I feel the drag of attraction between us, narrowing the distance.
I sway, breathing hard. Edie looks up at me, eyes trusting. Maybe the man with the hook only meant to menace her. Maybe his target was the soft tissue of her thigh or arm. I reach forward, halting at the sound of chattering teeth.
I drop my hand. This isn’t the time for an outlet. I pull away and pull onto the road, checking my mirrors. The memory of the attack flashes through my brain—not the calm and clinical kind of memory I use to write up reports to be sent back to Black Swan. This memory burns everything it touches.
“I think he was part of the fishing community,” I say, tightening my jaw, remembering the deadly-looking hook he carried, remembering how he raised it over Edie’s crouching form. For a brief, terrifying second, her life was in his hands. I would have killed him and never lost a moment of sleep about it for the rest of my life.
I press the accelerator, putting more miles between me and the man I left sprawled in the parking lot. Not dead. Not maimed, even. Neutralized until I could get to Edie to safety.
“What makes you think that?”
I force the part of my brain used to making cool-headed observations to take over, caging the animal I almost never let out. “The hook.” She bites her lip, and I go on. “Everyone else was waiting for us at the head of the dock, fooled by the cooler and the clothes. He intercepted us near the car—like he knew where we parked when we came in.”
“You think he was the one who tipped off the crowd?”
“Someone did, and it would have to be someone who had business in the harbor.”
“Or followed us from the palace,” she says.
