Page 5 of Washed Up
“Right.” The giant vacates his position looming over me and starts rummaging through the fridge.
“Any requests? Or you’ll be getting the full works.”
“Toast will be fine.”
“Ah, now you’re insulting him. Full works, Max. Why don’t you bring your brew into the lounge, Iris, and give the man space to do his thing, and maybe you can tell us how you wound up here.”
I’m not sure I have a definite answer. I can only surmise what happened after I hit the water. Nor am I sure I want to revisit the part that led to me jumping from the pier. My reluctance to part ways with the cupboards keeps me still, but it’s soon obvious that Max needs the stretch of countertop to deliver whatever culinary masterpiece he’s set on creating. The kitchen isn’t large.
“Got a spot right here for you, Ariel,” Reid calls.
Nervously, I follow Wynter back into the open plan living area.
“Reid,” he snaps at his band mate, prompting Lucidity’s lead guitarist to compact himself, ensuring there’s room for me to sit.I do so warily, bottom perched on the edge of the leather, the remains of my brew still clutched tight in both hands.
“Thank you,” I say, when neither of them speak. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as my stuff dries.”
“No rush. It’s not like we’re busy, or anything,” Wynter remarks, a thread of sarcasm lacing his words, so that I’m not sure if he’s narked about the interruption I’ve caused or not. Guess he has a sharp tongue to go with all those impressive edges. In contrast, Reid, the man beside me on the sofa, is like an oversized golden retriever. Scratch that, he’s nothing so pedigree. He looks as if he’s been dressed by a toddler and ate his last meal with one too, but warmth exudes from him like pheromones. He idly scratches an armpit, then widens the hole in the knee of his joggers.
“I appreciate the clothes and stuff.” And them rescuing me.
“It’s fine,” Wynter says.
Reid flashes me a grin. “It livened up the evening no end.”
I’ll bet.
“Provided all sorts of inspiration.”
“Lyrics?” Wynter quirks one of those evil villain brows.
Reid laughs.
“Fucker! Don’t you fucking dare assault my eardrums with your fishy fantasies.”
“Huh?” I contribute.
“Well, Ariel,” Reid claps his hands and rubs his palms together.
“Someone set the table,” Max hollers from the kitchen, cutting off whatever explanation Reid was about to give. Judging by his impish grin and the way he’s unsubtly checking me out, that’s maybe a good thing. I’ve a feeling whatever inspiration I provided in my comatose form may have leaned towards the sordid. After all, at least one of them got me naked. Was it Reid Rushmore, giant Max, or mister sharp edges?
The guys set about doing as Max asked. I sit back, after they wave away my attempt to help, and watch them work. They dance around one another in a well-practised rhythm. I still feel out of phase with reality. How can this be real? Last night was a nightmare, and now I’ve woken in heaven. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I actually drowned. I give myself a sly pinch and instantly regret it. I have bruises that, in several places, such as my right thigh, have turned my skin into an abstract canvas of mottled blues and purples. If this was the afterlife, I’m sure I wouldn’t feel so sore.
“Grub’s up.” Max arrives carrying all four breakfast plates at once. It’s a fry-up. The sort of breakfast my dad used to make. Full of things that are bad for you but taste like heaven. I realise as the scent of eggs and bacon wafts up off the plate exactly how ravenous I am, and how desperate to tuck in. I skipped a meal last night, and lord knows where my next one will come from.
Max pulls out a chair for me and pushes it in once I’m seated. The guys ply me with both orange juice and a fresh brew, but despite the fact they obviously have questions, they don’t press me while I eat. Only after I’ve set my cutlery down and pushed away my plate with a contented sigh do they give in to their curiosity.
“How’d you end up in the water, Iris?” It’s gentle giant Max who asks, and after the feast he’s just served, I’m favourably inclined towards him.
“I jumped off the pier.”
“Jumped jumped?” Wynter asks. “Or like jumped for a dare?” He exchanges concerned looks with Reid, whose brow furrows as he returns the gaze. I swear a whole silent conversation occurs between them.
“There was a guy following me,” I admit, mostly because I don’t want him to think that I’m suicidal.
“You fucking what?” Wynter growls. Apparently aloofness and sharp edges don’t restrict his sense of moral outrage.
“A guy you know?” Reid’s hazel eyes are riddled with curiosity.
