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CHAPTER4
- DAX -
Tapping on my voice recognition button on my steering wheel, I turn the corner, looking for Millie’s house. “What’s the surf report for tomorrow at my location?” I ask it.
“A surf report is a representation of the atmospheric and wave conditions at any future point in time, including size and intensity,” the app chirps back at me.
My shoulders deflate. “No. What is tomorrow’s surf report for Tybee?”
“Playing,Surfing Safariby the Beach Boys,” it replies, then fills my Jeep with a 1960s retro vibe as I groan, clicking the radio off.
I love my Jeep, but the voice which inhabits it seems determined to make me insane. We’re barely on speaking terms.
I pull into Millie’s driveway.
Immediately, I feel my luck shifting.
It’s… perfect.
I knock at the door, unleashing a maelstrom of barking. So when no one answers, I decide to sit on a rickety lawn chair in the middle of her front yard as I wait. I could sit on her front stoop, but I’ve been warned what happens when her dog gets overly excited.
In fact, Millie warned me at least three times this week, almost as though she was expecting me to back out of our deal to rent her room.
It’s been raining off and on tonight, but I don’t mind. I could sit in my car and wait for her to come home, but I love it right here, where I can hear the surf breaking just a few blocks away.
Besides, if I didn’t like getting wet, then I wouldn’t have spent my entire day in the ocean.
Yep. This place is perfect.
I look up at the sky as the drizzle stops, and one of those glorious island breezes seems to be blowing away the clouds. It’s dark, but with the moon peeking out from behind the clouds from time to time, the sky is a multitude of shades—from the blackest black to a gray that hints slightly of blue—the kind of night perfect for sitting in the backyard, roasting marshmallows, and telling ghost stories as a kid.
Not that I did much of that in my neighborhood, growing up.
This location is better than I had hoped for. Millie even said I can bring my surfboard and bike inside the house, and she’s got a fenced-in backyard where she said I can store my kayak.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this kind of luck, but I hope I can figure it out so I can do it again.
And I don’t even know what the room looks like yet.
I shrug internally at the thought. No matter. I’d sleep on a hammock if it means I can be so close to the ocean that I don’t even need to drive to it.
My phone rings in my pocket and when I pull it out, I see the name of one of the guys in my battalion. I tilt my head to shield my phone from the rain as I talk. “Hey, Jackson.”
“Dax, we’re all at Smuggler’s. The place is packed. Are you here yet?”
“Nah, man. I told Conner I wasn’t coming. I’m out on Tybee Island already.”
“Tybee? Why the hell would you want to be there when you could be here? They’ve got two packs of bachelorette parties.”
My eyes roll. Even when I was in my twenties and still enjoying how easy it was to find sex when you’re a Ranger in Savannah, I wouldn’t have found a pack of likely inebriated bridesmaids appealing.
“It was a rough call,” I lie. “But I want to be on the waves first thing in the morning.”
“Dude, were you always this boring?”
I chuckle. “Priorities. A guy can’t have it all.”
“Okay, man. Enjoy your beach,” he says the same way he might say, “Enjoy your broccoli”—like he can’t quite figure me out.
