Page 7 of Into the Blue
I coast back into shore, walking out of the shallows with one arm wrapped around my damaged board. That’s the bit that upsets me the most, I think. And the fact that I don’t even understand why it happened. There are assholes at most surf breaks, despite surfing’s cruisy reputation. Increased competition for waves, especially at popular spots, means that locals can sometimes take a narrow view of visitors coming in to surf “their” waves. But this break isn’t even busy. There are three other surfers out there, and I waited my turn. What the hell was that woman’s problem?
I stand there for a moment, staring out to sea, then turn my attention to my board. The tip is completely gone, as is one of the fins, and there are dents in the fibreglass as well as a chunk taken out of the side. I bite my lip, trying not to cry, trying not to think of how long I’ve had this board and what it means to me.
The side of my leg feels cold, yet burns at the same time. I look down. Shit. Blood pours down my calf from a series of deep gouges. I need to clean them out properly. I can do it myself, but one of the cuts is deep enough I might need a doctor. Sun beats down on my shoulders, hot through my rash top, but the rest of me feels cold. Furious, I turn and start towards the cabins.
And, for the second time in about ten minutes, someone bangs into me.
Or maybe I bang into them.
Whatever. I’m so mad I don’t care. “Watch where you’re fucking going,” I snarl.
“Me? Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” The accent is American, like mine but more clipped. East coast, I guess.
I get an impression of storm-grey eyes, tousled sandy hair, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. The body I banged into is hard with muscle. As I stagger back, hands come to my arms, warm on my cold skin. “You’re bleeding.”
Axel
I didn’t mean to snap at her. But it’s been a difficult morning.
I’d decided to take a walk to the point. It’s a favourite place to sit, to breathe in the waves and their power without having to worry about them touching me, watching surfers I don’t want to join. There’s a pull in my chest whenever I do it, but whether it’s guilt twisting or the ocean calling, I’m not sure.
I suppose I could have gone anywhere to hide out, after it all happened. I had money and opportunity. But the ocean, despite what she took, still exerts a pull over me. Plus, I wanted to be somewhere I could make a difference. Where, perhaps, I could atone for my sins.
When I reached the point, everything seemed calm. The fresh morning air, the tang of salt, the faint warm smell of vegetation unique to tropical islands. A few surfers on the break, a sailboat visible in the distance. Yet I still had a feeling in the pit of my gut, a faint apprehension, as though things were about to change.
Then I heard the shouting. A couple of surfers, one heading out and the other coming back in. The one coming in was wearing a turquoise rash vest, almost the same colour as the ocean, her long blonde hair darkened by water, slicked back against her head. She seemed to be limping.
I picked up my pace, wondering if I could help, when my phone buzzed. I grabbed it, thinking perhaps it was Anna. Or the new guest.
But it fucking wasn’t. That storm, the one I felt was coming, just made landfall. A single line, but it was enough.
There’s nothing to reconsider.
I kept walking, quickly typing my response, anger burning in my chest taking all the calm from the morning. I stared at my phone, waiting for a reply. Then someone banged into me.
Or maybe I banged into them.
I was about to apologise when a voice snarled at me. “Watch where you’re fucking going.”
As I stared into furious green eyes fringed with long dark lashes, spiky with water, something snapped. I snarled back, regretting it almost immediately.
The surfer is gorgeous, her turquoise rash vest clinging to her damp curves. Something about her also seems vaguely familiar. My gaze drops to her slender tanned legs. Shit. Blood trickles down one of them, striping her shin in rivulets. She stumbles and I reach out without thinking, my hands on her cool skin. “You’re bleeding,” I say. “You need to?—”
She shrugs off my grasp. “Oh, thank you,” she drawls, her voice husky. “I hadn’t noticed. So why don’t you get the fuck out of my way so I can go and sort it out.” Her mouth trembles, though, and I find myself watching it, the lush curve of her lower lip.
Then she’s gone, pushing past me. For the first time I notice the damage to her board. What the fuck happened? I turn, calling out. “Wait!”
But she’s already gone.
ChapterSix
Jade
By the time I get back to the cabin I’m limping and shivering. Trying not to cry, I slide my board along the small veranda so it leans against the railing. I’ll have to get it repaired, but that leaves me with only one board for the time being, and I’m supposed to be keeping in shape for thenext comp. Not that I’m going to be in the water for a couple of days at least. My injured leg is numb, blood still leaking from the gouges, a trail of droplets in the sand. I go around the side of the cabin, to the outdoor shower. Tropical living is all very well, but I’m freezing cold and wish I could go inside and get in a steaming hot shower. Still, this will have to do. I turn on the tap, stepping back from the icy droplets. Once it warms up, I strip off, careful as I take my shorts and bikini bottoms over my injured leg. I drape my clothes over the screen and rinse myself off, trying not to get sand in my injuries, biting back a scream as hot water streams over the wounds. I’ll have to flush them out with salt water, which might seem an odd thing to do, seeing as I just got out of the ocean. But, beautiful and clear as the water is here, the sea still carries sand and debris and microscopic bits of seaweed, so I need to make sure the wound is clean enough to heal properly.
Finally feeling warmer, I turn the tap off and head into the small bathroom. My leg is bleeding again, so I stand on my wet shorts as I reach for one of the fluffy cream towels on the shelf. I squeak, more from surprise than anything, as a small gecko scurries out from behind them. I dry off, wrapping the towel around me. Then, with a silent apology to my host, I grab a hand towel, dampening it with cold water from the tap in the sink and holding it to my leg. I wish Manny was here. Or even bloody Zach. Just someone to be with me, so I don’t have to do this alone.
But it’s just me, so suck it up, buttercup. Holding the towel to my leg I go to the kitchen area. My first aid kit is on the counter where I left it. I open it, pulling out saline and bandages. It’s smart to carry a kit, as you never know where you might be when you get injured, some surf spots too out of the way to get quick medical help. But I hadn’t expected to be using it here, especially after not even getting one goddamn wave.
