Page 20 of Everything You Hate
I lean out over the rail, desperate to catch one more glimpse of the calf.
A hand closes around the back of my jacket and hauls me upright.
“You’re damn determined to end up in that water, aren’t you, Hollywood? It’s forty degrees. Fall in and I’m not going after you.”
Dean sets me back on my feet, and I whirl to face him. He’s scowling like I personally offended him. “I didn’t ask you to go in after my suitcase this morning,” I snap back, smoothing my jacket where his grip wrinkled it. My cheeks burn, partly from the cold spray, partly from the embarrassment of being manhandled like a child. “And I didn’t need your help now either.”
His gray-blue eyes narrow and the scowl lines around his mouth deepen. “One good wave and you’d have been swimming with the orcas.”
“I was being careful.”
“You were being stupid.” His jaw works like there’s something behind his teeth he’s decided not to say. “Sit down. The water’s getting rougher.”
“I don’t need to sit?—”
He puts a big hand on my shoulder and steers me toward my seat. He’s not rough, but he’s also not giving me a choice either. I sit. But mostly because my legs are still overcooked pasta, not because he told me to.
“Stay,” he says like I’m a dog, and goes back to the wheel.
I should be furious. Iamfurious. But he’s already smiling again for the little girl in pink like the last thirty seconds didn’t happen, and, dammit, he’s probably right about the wave. I glare at his back, but I stay seated.
The orcas have moved on, their dorsal fins cutting through the water in the distance, and the tourists are buzzing with excitement, comparing photos and videos. I pick up my notebook, flip past the color-coded feud questions, and find where I wroteWhy so grumpy?in handwriting that looks like it was written during an earthquake. I underline it. Twice.
Because Malcolm Merrick gave me a story about a hundred-year feud and a lost treasure. It’s a fine story. It’s the story I came here for.
But it’s not the one I’m interested in anymore.
Back at the marina, the passengers file off one by one, thanking Dean, tipping him, the little girl in pink waving until her mother scoops her up. I take my time gathering my things. My legs have mostly remembered how to be legs, and the solid, unmoving dock under my feet is the best thing that’s happened to me all day.
Dean crouches on the dock, tying off the boat with those big, capable hands, when a door bangs open behind me. I turn. There’s a squat, weathered building at the top of the dock, OLD SALT’S BAR hand-painted on a sign above the door, and the man coming out of it looks like he’s been inside since noon. He’s sunburned to the color of a boiled ham, a sweating beer open in his hand. He notices me standing on the dock, and his whole face splits into a grin I don’t like at all.
“Somebody get a camera,” he says loud enough to alert everyone at the marina and points the beer at me. “It’s the lady who lost her damn mind on live TV. Smile for us, sweetheart.”
My stomach, which had finally forgiven me, drops all over again.
“You are, aren’t you?” He’s coming closer now, unhurried, enjoying it. “That clip where you screamed at that poor barista over a latte.” He snaps his fingers like he’s trying to remember a name. “The one where security had to drag you out kicking. What was it—oh right. Scarlett Crawford.” He laughs, and it draws even more notice from the tourists. “Yer the kind of woman that thinks the world owes you something, aren’t ya? Think yer something special.”
The dock feels very small suddenly. The tourists have stopped filing past. The little girl’s mother has her hand on the back of her daughter’s
head, steering her away, and I can feel every eye on the dock turning toward me.
My face is on fire. My hands have gone cold.
The man takes another pull from his beer. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue? Usually you got plenty to say.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Not a single one of the sharp, practiced comebacks I used to deploy on camera. My throat has closed up the way it does when the panic hits, that oldfamiliar tightening that started eighteen months ago and never fully went away.
“Curt.” Dean’s suddenly there, stepping between the drunk and me.
“Aw, come on, Coastie.” Curt’s grin comes back, but it’s thinner now. He gestures around Dean’s shoulder at me with his beer. “I’m just havin’ a conversation with the lady. She’s famous, ain’t she? Eighteen million people watched her lose her shit over a cup of coffee. I figure she’s used to the attention.”
Dean doesn’t move. “She’s a passenger.”
“She’s a sideshow.”
“Not on my dock.”
The two of them stand there, and the air between them goes tight in a way that has nothing to do with me. Curt’s jaw works, and he takes another pull from his beer, eyeing Dean over the rim. Dean just stands there, arms crossed.
