Page 168 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

Thankfully, it’s too late for him to get onto the boat. I don’t need him going back to hell on earth with me, when I’m already feeling off in ways I don’t want to admit.

My gaze narrows slightly, but I don’t look away from him. Even as the crew shouts their assent for takeoff and the horn blares like the bellow of a great beast, I find my attention glued to Larkin on the shore.

Why is he here?

Surely he didn’t follow me here on purpose, though I’m not sure what other explanation there is. What reason would he have for coming to the dock on his own? His connection to Whidbey Island is, as far as I know, purely through Derek Prescott.

Or at this point, through me.

The ferry starts to pull away, yet I still can’t break his gaze. Larkin is the one to move, and it’s just to lift one hand, giving me a little wave with a small, half-smile that’s clear in its intent, even if I can’t hear him.

See you when you get back, silly girl.

That makes me shove away from the railing. I don’t wave, or flip him off like I consider doing. No. That would be too easy. So I simply don’t acknowledge him at all. My retreat isn’t particularly impressive, due to the fact that I’m walking across the upper level of the ferry on shaky legs that want to jump back onto solid ground, but I somehow manage to make it into the interior of the upper deck and navigate to the market-like area this ferry has. Absently I buy myself a drink, opting for coffee over soda at the last minute, before sitting down in one of the booths pressed against the window.

Esme was right about me not being on a ferry in a very, very long time. The memories it drudges up are uncomfortable, to say the least. It’s hard not to jump anytime a woman walks by, as if my mother is going to come back from the dead and sit across from me with a meal for us to share and an indulgent smile on her face.

“Why are we going to the mainland this time?” I’d ask her every time, my little legs swinging back and forth under the table. “Can we at least go see the horses at Uncle Roger’s?”

My mom would always give me the sweetest smile, split the grilled cheese she ordered mostly for me, and tsk at me. “There’s nothing wrong with the mainland, sweet girl,” she’d tell me, holding out half of the sandwich until I took it in my pudgy fingers. “And if we have time, we’ll see if Roger’s home. I bet Rio misses you.”

I’d always brighten at the name of Roger’s big-boned bay stallion that I loved ever since I was a baby, according to both of them. While I was never able to ride him, due to his slight tendency to overreact at the sight of a stick, shadow, or stray speck of dirt if someone was on his back, I still loved him.

Back in the present, I blink, shaking my head to clear it. “You’re being dumb,” I sigh to myself, running a hand through my hair. “This isn’t even the same ferry.” There’s no little restaurant with sandwiches and bakery items. No smell of fresh fries or people laughing and joking across the deck while other kids run around to make friends with strangers they’d never see again.

It isn’t the same.

But my heart doesn’t know that.

By the time the ferry has docked against the far shore of Whidbey Island and the ramps are out, my heart has tried to slam out of my chest at least sixteen times. My fingers tap against the table rhythmically, and I gaze out from the glass windows without really seeing anything.

I didn’t miss this place, I realize with a pang. Not one part of me has ever wanted to come back, and I hadn’t told Esme that this will be my first time back since the night everything went to shit and I couldn’t take the abuse anymore.

My eyes flick up when I hear the announcement from overhead for passengers to disembark, but I’m still not in a hurry as I push to my feet and wait for the others in the large dining area to file out, some excited, some seeming bored by the whole operation. For a lot of these people, I assume, the ferry is their ticket to working on the mainland or to shop for…well, anything.

It’s not like Whidbey Island is a hub of consumerism, or tourism. The only places of interest are the coastal towns, or maybe Deception Pass up north. The rest of the island is just rugged. Frankly, that’s the only word I can think of that comes close to describing Whidbey with any kind of accuracy.

At last I can’t put it off any longer, and I’m forced to confront the burning nausea in my throat as I stalk toward the dock. I don’t make eye contact with anyone, and I barely look up at the employee who mumbles something about having a good time on the island, or welcome home for those who live here.

My mother would be ashamed of my rudeness. She always⁠—

I force that thought to come to a stop, trying to sweep it away like I can push it under a mental rug. But being that I’m here on the island, it’s not going to work for long, I’d wager.

The wind hits me in the face, along with the once-familiar smell of salt air blowing off the ocean without being impeded by buildings or mixing with car fumes. It’s clean and sharp, and I can’t help but take a deep breath of air that used to smell like home.

But now? It just doesn’t. It smells foreign to me, and the realization sends a confusing flurry of emotions through me that nearly have me stumbling up the steps of the dock. Absently, I look around for a taxi, assuming that the Uber situation on the island is limited, at best. At worst, I could be sitting here waiting for a ride until it’s time for me to leave, like so many of the tourists already on their phones and scowling at the app.

Amateurs.

A small wave of smug pride eases the burn in my chest, and I walk toward an idling taxi sitting by the road, knocking on the window when I see the driver is on her phone. She glances at me, and it takes her a moment to put on the fake customer service smile and tell the person on the other end that she needs to go.

“You need a ride, hon?” the middle-aged woman asks, rolling down the window to blast me with a wave of warm, nicotine-scented air.

“Yeah. To Sunnyside Cemetery, if we could?” I keep my voice level as I get in the back of the taxi, hating that it really reeks of the cigarettes she probably chain-smokes throughout the day. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to mind when I crack the window, and I stop myself from gasping for air like a hooked fish, though it’s a close call.

“You have loved ones buried there?” She fiddles with the meter for a moment, cursing under her breath with a string of insults that almost make me smile. “Family? I’ve never seen you around here before. Come to visit someone from the family tree?”

God, she’s talkative. I keep a smile plastered on my face, but I wish she was a stereotypical cab driver without a conversational bone in their body. I’d even take old country music blaring through her speakers over this, if it would get me through this ride without playing twenty questions.