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The most euphoric moment in my life was when Droga and I won that street bike race in Camden. None of our Deene friends were there. No one in Camden knew who we were. We raced the street pros and won, the two of us cutting the finish line. Didn’t matter—Droga or me—we fucking beat them and celebrated like whackjobs. I remember cheering with him with beers on a dirt pullout on some deserted highway out of town, roaring at the top of our lungs and laughing madly, feeling high on the win like no drug has ever made me feel.
The happiest I’ve ever been? Before meeting Kat? Before our reconciliation? Before the two days on the yacht? When Droga and I did the cross-country trip through Mexico. It wasn’t a day, but an entire trip, with all its brawls with the local mules, and that drunk night at a roadside cantina when I threw up like a motherfucker, and a detour to Baja where we swam with the local fishermen.
Droga has been in more important moments in my life than anyone else.
And now this, stuck with him in the caves where we might drown.
We are swimming by now, or, to be precise, floating along the sides of the caverns, holding on to the walls. Droga turns to check on me now and then, saying things to keep me coherent, the flashlight between his teeth or in his hand.
We swim into a smaller cave and stop.
I’m not sure how long we’ve been in the caves but too long for an open wound to be in the water. My body feels heavy like it’s made out of lead. I’m following on instinct, without realizing how many caves we swam through, except the one we’re in is small, the water only two feet or so below the ceiling.
Droga turns to look at me.
“How are you?”
I breathe in tiny increments, the pain so sharp, spiderwebbing through my torso that I can’t take deeper breaths. I think I answer, but everything is dizzy. Something blocks my nostrils, and I gasp, choking on water.
“Crone-Crone-Crone! Look at me!”
Floating, still registering the stone wall I’m clinging to, I open my eyes.
Droga’s face is in front of me, only inches away. “You with me?”
I nod.
Not for long.
“Droga, if we get out of here, I’ll build you and Callie a fucking Taj Mahal.”
He spits out water. “Taj Mahal is a mausoleum, Crone.”
“Fuck. I know that. My bad.” I close my eyes, feeling dizzy, losing my grip. “I’ll build you a palace.”
“I don’t like palaces.”
“Right. I forgot. You like huts and shitty outside shower stalls.”
I chuckle but then hold my breath in excruciating pain. He doesn’t know that he’s in my will. If something happens to me, he and Callie will be richer than God.
“Archer, you are not fucking dying, okay?” It’s the first time in years he’d called me by my name. “Not on my watch. I don’t have any family left but Callie and you. So toughen up, fucker. If you don’t make it, Kat will kill me.”
Kat, my wild thing—I so fucking wish she were here. Not in danger. Just next to me.
Droga and Kat—the two people who went through shit because of me and still stuck around and now have to go through hell again.
And that’s when I hear Droga’s voice again. “I got your back, bro.”
Fucking tears well up in my eyes.
“I’m sorry, Droga. I fucked up so many things for you.”
“Stop whining, Crone.”
I’m not whining, just want to leave a few good words behind.
“You brought me to this island,” he says, bobbing in the water in front of me. “It’s fate or whatever you wanna call it. And I’m not letting you go. You are too important to me, yeah? Always have been. But I’m not a psycho like you. So my methods of dragging you through hell are a bit different than yours.”
