Page 12 of On Dry Land

“Unfortunately, we do not have time for my lawyer to draw us up a contract,” he replies, slightly sarcastically. “Will it suffice for me to promise not to harass or intimidate or harm you in any way, sexual or otherwise?”

Clenching my teeth, I look away from his pretty black eyes and his pretty face and his pretty car. In the distance, the road curves lazily through the trees, barely visible through the snow falling steadily from the sky. I’m running out of time and options. It’s either Dryden Roy or the public restroom, a warm, soft bed or a cold concrete one.

“Do not touch me,” I warn. “Ever.”

“I will not,” he replies.

“Don’t touch my things either,” I add, feeling childish for the request but standing behind it nonetheless. This backpack is my entire life, and I cannot live without it.

“I promise.” Hoping I won’t live to regret this decision, I nod. Dryden reaches for the rear of the car, popping the trunk for me to put my bag in the back. There’s a coil of rope inside. Catching me looking, he says, “For lobster traps.”

I flush but nod again, gratefully. I can’t decide whether my gut is backing this decision or not, as it’s flopping around like a fish on land. I’m nervous, but I’m also sure that this is my best of the bad choices. I can’t fight back against frostbite the way I can a man, which makes Dryden Roy that much safer than sleeping outside.

He walks around to the front of the car. Pulling open the driver’s door, he raises an eyebrow at me when I don’t move.

“If you’ll give me the address, I’ll walk.” Rule number two: never get into strange cars if you can help it. Feet are safer than wheels.

“I live thirty-seven miles that direction,” he responds, pointing up the hill through the trees. My eyes burn, and it’s no longer something I can blame on the cold. Voice rough with emotion, I repeat my earlier request.

“Please don’t touch me.”

“I won’t. You’re not my type anyway.”

“What’s your type?” I ask without thinking about it.

Sliding gracefully into the driver’s seat of the Porsche, I barely catch his reply before the door slams closed.

“Clean.”

Chapter Six

DRYDEN

In my previous line of work, I dealt in calculated risks. Informed decision-making based on thorough analysis and risk mitigation. Potential benefits would be weighed against potential drawbacks, risks, and consequences. Choices were deliberate and carried out with a strategic approach. Even as a lobster fisherman, I do the same. I took a calculated risk, grappling for those lost traps. I knew, as I know every day I take the Maiden Seas out on the water, that one of a hundred things might go wrong. I’d weighed the potential of retrieving those traps and the tags on them against the loss of profit during the high season if we didn’t have them. I’d scored the potential of bad weather high and the possibility of maintenance issues low. I was wrong.

But that’s always the possibility when taking a risk of any kind, and there is comfort in knowing that nothing was rushed. I didn’t push us to go out that day without considering all my options first, and I didn’t cut any corners on pre-launch checklists. I did everything by the book, and still, as they do, things went wrong. It happens. Nothing to do but get on with it.

This, what I’m doing right now, is not a calculated risk. It’s a foolish one. It’s temporary madness. I am not a bleeding heart. I do not spend my weekends volunteering at soup kitchens or sorting donations at our local charity shop. I don’t do handouts. I don’t involve myself in others’ lives. I mind my own business and expect everyone else to mind theirs.

Engine rumbling, I sit and wait for Spencer Davis to nestle his backpack in the limited space at his feet and clip his seat belt in. He refused the offer of the open trunk, which I choose not to comment on. The Porsche growls lowly as I pull out onto the street, extremely aware of the man sitting next to me and wondering if there is a way I can get rid of him. Sighing quietly, I glance over at him. His gloves are off, nestled in his lap, and his fingers are wrapped into the straps of his pack like he’s prepared to bring it with him if he needs to jump from the moving vehicle.

“Seat warmers are there,” I murmur, pointing at the button. “Feel free to adjust the heat.”

He’s already sitting still, and yet I can feel his pause as he considers my words. After a few minutes pass, he reaches carefully toward the dashboard. The knuckles on his hand are dry and cracked, a badly healed scar jagged across the meat of his thumb and disappearing up into the cuff of his jacket.

“Thank you,” he replies.

I keep an eye on him as I drive, noting the minor movements of his head and how his eyes seem to be on a constant swivel. He’s memorizing the roads we’re taking, I realize after a couple miles, making sure he has an escape route. Smart.

“What happened to your boat?” he asks suddenly, doing a good job projecting a calm tone and demeanor, were it not for the way he’s gripping his backpack giving it up as a lie. I’m slightly mollified by his fear, hoping that if he’s intimidated by me, there’s less risk of him trying to slit my throat tonight.

“Mm?”

“Your boat? Is it not…the one that was towed in? When you came by the shed yesterday morning, I figured it was yours.”

“It is,” I agree, finding little point in hiding it. He could ask any person that lives in Siren’s Point, and they’d tell him that and a whole lot more about me.

“What happened?”