Page 45 of Break Out the Girl

I dive into the freezing water, shoving the hull of the Sadie-Mae out past the breakers before hauling myself over the side. London is already pulling the sheets, the canvas catching the wind with a loud snap.

The boat heels hard, cutting cleanly through the frothing waves as we leave the burning island behind us.

Next stop, the jet boat, then Sky.

This might actually fucking work.

15: AURORA

The throbbing of the jet boat’s engines vibrate straight through the fiberglass hull and into the soles of my water shoes.

Out here in the open channel, the rolling gray fog is a dense curtain, walling us off from the burning island behind us.

I look over my shoulder at the little timber dinghy, it’s attached by a rope and bobbing over our wake like a faithful duckling.

Gods.

We actually made it off that horrible rock alive.

But that victory feels entirely microscopic compared to the battle we’re about to head into.

One thing at a time, Aurora.

First—Basil

“Hold still,” I murmur, keeping my voice soft as I kneel on the deck.

Basil lets out a sharp, defensive hiss, his fingers clawing into the upholstery of the passenger bench. His bare feet are covered in cuts and bruises from going barefoot on the rocks, and his left ankle is already the size of a baseball, turning a deep, bruised plum color.

“I told you, I’m fine, lady,” he spits, though his high voice cracks on the last syllable. He tries to pull his foot away, but I keep a firm, gentle grip on his calf.

“I know you’re tough, Basil,” I say, unrolling a fresh length of elastic compression bandage. “But wrapping it will help. Unless you want to be carried everywhere?” I raise an eyebrow and he scowls, his dark eyes flashing with so much anger.

I know it’s not aimed at me exactly. It’s aimed at the whole world.

He looks out over the dark water instead of answering. His slight frame shivers in the biting sea wind. The thin shirt he wears doesn’t hide a fresh red line of tattooed numbers on his pale chest.

François and London are in the front seats, so I call over to Tally. “Can you pass me that life jacket?”

He hands the vest over, and I pass it to the boy, who instantly growls again. “I can fucking swim, you know.”

“It’s just for warmth, honey.”

His scowl deepens further at my endearment, but after a beat he reluctantly threads his arms through the armholes. Then I pass him the bag of stale trail mix and an extra-strength ibuprofen from the med kit. “You’ll have to dry swallow. There’s no water left.”

Unfortunately. I’m parched.

Basil stares at the nuts and raisins like they’re a hallucination. For a second, the hard-ass street kid completely vanishes, replaced by a starving boy who hasn’t seen a decent meal in who knows how long.

“Thanks,” he mutters, so low I can barely hear it over the rumble of the exhaust.

“Are you feeling better, young Fuckwad?” London yells from the steering wheel. “Kitten’s got a proper mother-hen vibe when she gets going, hasn't she? Very comforting. Like the best hot-water bottle on a rainy Tuesday.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” Basil grumbles, licking the salty residue off his fingers.

Before I can answer, François is climbing over the seats towards us. Without a word, he grabs one of the empty plastic water bottles, then leans over the low gunwale of the boat, filling the small container brimful with the murky sea water.

I watch him, my brow furrowing. “François? We can’t drink that. The salt will just make the dehydration worse.”