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I’m safe here. Must be. A place I’d never have chosen to hide in. Too far from my usual haunts. Seeing this in broad daylight, after a good night’s sleep and with food in my stomach, it doesn’t look so bad. I could stay here for a while, lick my wounds and catch my breath. And truth is, this is the best place I’ve been so far in my life. No roaches—at least that I saw—in the rooms, nice bathrooms, space and quiet, and the beach.
I’d forgotten how much I love the sea. Its color. Its scent. Its vastness. Its power.
Movement from my right catches my eye from time to time. An old, grizzled man is trimming a hedge outside a frosty pink mansion. A woman in a white bikini and huge straw hat, her skin the color of burnt caramel, walks around a waterfall swimming pool and stretches out on a chaise lounge. A worker is kneeling in the sand, repairing a wooden fence in front of a two-story colonial-style mansion, his back bare.
Slowing down, I take a better look. A tattoo curls up from the small of his back like black smoke. I can’t make out what it is, but holy crap on a cracker, it’s a hell of a back. Muscular, the hips and waist narrow, the shoulders broad. Muscles ripple through it as the man lifts a hand and tugs down the baseball cap he’s wearing, shadowing his face, and reaches for more nails in his toolbox. I stare at the hammer he’s holding in his other hand and shiver, not knowing why.
He looks big and strong. Wild. Like the sea.
Yeah, stop drooling and keep moving, Ray. Sure, stay for a few days here. Knock yourself out. No need to interact with the locals, too. You’re taking enough of a risk as it is.
Remember Megan. My last roommate. Such a nice girl—skin like chocolate with milk, a bright smile, working two jobs and never complaining. Feeding my cat and checking on me. We were on our way to becoming friends, and it felt so good. Moving about as much as I do, always hiding, that’s a luxury I normally can’t afford.
And I was right. I can’t afford it. When I realized I had been spotted by the men after me, that I was putting her life in danger, I skipped town and left everything behind.
Left her behind. Left my cat and most of my stuff. Uprooted once again, I drifted away.
The sunlight fades, a veil sailing over it. I lift my gaze up to the sky. Clouds are gathering, rolling in like a dark tide. A gust of wind whips out of nowhere. The man lifts his gaze, shakes his head and stands up. Tall, definitely tall, with the body of an MMA fighter, lean and tight, but with those shoulders that seem wide enough to support the sky.
God, Ray. Snap out of it.
Turning on my heel, I hurry back to my borrowed home.
***
The wind howls outside as I climb onto the roofed beach terrace. Storms fascinate me. I love how they tear everything in their path, that magnificent violence that nothing can stop. That I can’t stop, and it feels good not to try for a second. Not to fight and scratch and bite at fate, trying to change things that can’t be cha
nged.
The first fat drops of rain hit the roof over my head, and a smile tugs at my lips. The wind brings the scent of the sea, salty and fresh, and with it childhood memories from a trip we did when I was little. Dad, Mom, my brother and I running by the surf, chasing its lacework of foam.
A gray curtain of rain is moving over the ocean, approaching the shore. In a moment it’s going to be here, lashing the sand. Waves roll over the sea, rising higher and higher, walls of water.
Fierce.
I stand there, the wind tearing through me, and pinpricks of rain blown sideways hit my skin. It’s getting cold as the rain drenches me and I shiver.
That’s when I see someone running. Has to be the guy I saw last night. He’s bare-chested like yesterday, in shorts and running shoes. He comes pounding down the beach, his head down, his fisted hands held at his sides. Controlled. Strong. Beautiful.
I barely glimpse his back as he passes by—that tattoo curling up from the base of his spine—and recognize him as the worker I saw fixing that fence, and then the rain crashes down, swallowing him in noise and blurry lines. The wind howls as it drives the column of water across the shore.
He’s spat out of the blurriness again, a solid, gleaming shape—and then the waves crash over him, and I lose him.
Shit. What the hell just happened?
My feet start moving, and I’m jumping down the three wide steps and running after him. Why didn’t he move away from the water’s edge? Didn’t he see the waves? Doesn’t he know how easily they can knock you over and drag you into the sea?
“Hey!” The rain whips at my face, fills my eyes, blinds me. I can’t see him. I keep running, my feet sinking in the wet sand. The shorts hang heavy on my hips, sodden with water, my blouse clinging to my chest and shoulders, tight like a straightjacket. “Guy!”
My heart is hammering. I stop, turn in a circle. What the hell? Where is he? And why am I in such a panic? This makes no sense—except I’ve been hit by the waves life sent my way, and I’ve lost so much. I’ve lost people, and the moment of calm acceptance is gone. I fight, that’s what I do, that’s what’s kept me alive so far, and there’s no way I’m letting the sea have this stranger.
More waves crash, and I back up on the beach, looking for higher ground. So this is what a tropical storm is like. The wind shoves me sideways, and I stumble.
Christ. Maybe my eyes played tricks on me. Maybe he came running out of that wave and is long gone, heading home.
What am I doing?
As the rain comes down harder, a solid wall of water that robs me of my senses, I’m not even sure anymore. I should head back. This guy has probably been living here. He has to know the beach like the back of his hand, its whims and ways, in sunlight and stormy weather. Hell, he has to know the climate of this place all year round, unlike me.
