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He doesn’t—he’s still flailing—but somehow I get my free arm around his head so that his chin is in the crook of my elbow. There's a second where I guess he realizes I’ve got him. His hands come around my arm, squeezing, and I pant, "Better not do that."
He's still making the awful sound—wet and hoarse from low down in his throat—and I can tell he's kinda bad off because I feel his body shaking.
"Just chill, brother. I gotchu."
His fingers claw my arm. The choking sounds keep coming. I’m almost glad he’s clawing me because at least he hasn’t croaked yet, but his hand is strong. He’s hurting my arm, and it’s keeping me from swimming as hard.
"Stop, dude! Relax and trust me."
I don't know if he does, or if maybe he passes out. His body feels near limp except the shaking and the awful gasping as I swim with long, hard strokes toward the mound of rock that marks the base of the bridge.
Jesus, it's a long way off.
"I gotcha, man. It's okay."
I feel panicked that I can’t do more than swim and drag him. He’s still gurgling, choking, and that sound is getting to me.
Long strokes, Miller. Focus.
Then he's coughing—which sounds milder, like when you sputter on some pool water. Dammit, I wish I could see his face, look at the color of his lips but I can't; the lifeguard hold I’ve got him in means that I’m basically dragging him through the water by his head, so I can keep his mouth above the surface.
Can't do anything but kick and pull...and kick and pull with my free arm. Inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth. Just when I’m feeling dizzy from the strain of dragging him, I remember: the boat.
Shit! I can’t call 9-1-1 without my phone. I cut my gaze down and back, trying to get a look at his face, and the guy gives a rumbling cough. I can hear his breath after—a shallow wheeze. His hand closes around my forearm again, and then he's prying my hand off his shoulder, causing me to lose my rescue grip on his head.
I grab at him, and he whirls around with a splash. I'm opening my mouth to ask if he can swim on his own when his cold hand gives my chest a shove. For a second as he coughs and his lips tremble, I just stare.
God, his eyes are made of river water. Deep gray-green with flecks of gold-brown. I take in his face—the stark cheekbones and lush mouth, slightly parted around chattering teeth. He's got hair flopping into his face, over dark, strong-looking brows. He coughs again, and I realize his lips are just a touch blue at the corners.
"Hey—" I reach for him.
He's treading water, clearly struggling, but I see him recoil.
"You don't want help?" I gesture at the boat. "Let’s swim to my boat. I'll take down the step ladder—"
He doesn't even shake his head. He just starts swimming toward the land bank that the bridge connects to. I swim after him because I'm scared he'll drown or something. I’m about to tell him to kick his shoes off when he turns around, splashing his hand toward me. "Get the fuck back!”
He’s angry, and I’m so surprised that I say, "Fine."
Ungrateful asshat. It’s not like I wanted to pull his half-drowned ass out of the water. I watch him for another second, confirming that he’s swimming okay. Then I turn back toward my boat and start swimming.
I can still hear his “Get the fuck back” as I pull myself onto the boat. After I get to my feet and dry off, I cast my eyes up to the trestle bridge, finding the fool perched right back where he was before.
Dripping.
I idle the boat closer. I can see the drips from his shoes and his pants hitting the water’s surface. I look up, but he’s not looking down at me. I’m sure he must be watching the boat, though. I grit my teeth as he coughs. He shouldn’t be up there. Dumbass.
I wrap my hands around my mouth. "Dude," I shout.
He doesn't bat an eye. His feet are swinging off the bridge’s side again.
He still has his shoes on. Just...wow.
I'm toweling my trunks off, wondering if the guy has got a death wish or something, when I smell smoke. Not the kind from a fire. That fucker is sitting up there smoking a damn cigarette.
"Dude, what are you doing?" I shout.
"Fuck off," he snarls. But his voice is raspy.
Shit, it’s almost time for the train! I pick up my phone and find the fucking thing is dead. God, I’m such a fuckup. Didn’t even notice the low battery.
"You need to get down off there,” I shout into my cupped palms. “There's a train coming."
