Page 23 of Under Pressure
She stepped to the very edge of the cliff, extended her arms out to her sides, and took a deep, calming breath.
“What’s she doing, Norm?” A different, nervous female voice asked.
“It looks like she’s about to jump,” a man Blue could only assume was Norm answered, sounding not the least bit worried.
“Someone get Hank!” Another female voice called out.
Blue waited only a few moments more, slowing her heart rate. She bent her knees just so, then spring boarded off the edge of the cliff into a steep dive.
As the air broke around her, and her stomach lurched up, Blue once again had the brief thought that this was what it felt like to fly. Like being free. It was why she’d gotten so into extreme sports in the last decade. Cliff diving, bungee jumping, sky diving, base jumping . . . they all gave the temporary illusion of freedom, and she craved it.
She entered the water in a perfect arch, and as she shot down, down, down, the icy chill of ocean water wound through her core. She curved her body toward the surface so her momentum would propel her up. Moments of pulling and kicking brought her to the surface and she breathed in deep—a gasp for air. Above her, several men from the tour group and a couple of women stared over the side of the cliff, a few clapping. She waved at them to let them know she was okay, then swam around the edge of the cliff side and toward Diamond Cove Bay before any of them thought to take a picture.
A lesser-known fact about Diamond Cove was that it was popular with cliff divers. Not competitively because the cliff wasn’t quite tall enough for that, but it was great for training. It wasn’t in any brochures or online anywhere she could find, but she’d heard it from a friend who’d heard it from a friend, who’d heard it from an acquaintance, that if you wanted to dive in one of the most scenic places in the world, this was it. This whispered secret description called her to Diamond Cove like a cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper first thing in the morning. The refreshing carbonation burn down her throat was akin to the zing over her skin when she hit the water.
Of course, this was a sport she’d already done many times before, but when Marshall Stroup told them they had to move again—their five-year norm—Diamond Cove had been her top choice after her one visit. Thoughts of Stroup made her frown. He wasn’t a bad guy, by any means, but he wasn’t exactly likable either. She figured most of it was because she associated him with the constant, and total, uprooting of her life.
She pulled herself to shore near the stairs leading up to the lighthouse and shook out her shoulder-length, bleach-blond hair. That boat went by, the one she saw from the cliff’s edge, and one of the men on board yelled something out to her she couldn’t quite hear. His tone was flirtatious. She waved, then turned, and jogged up the steps, two steps at a time. At the top, she dashed to the parking lot, passing the tour bus which read “The Palms Retirement Community” on the side, and darted to where she’d left her Ninja ZX-7R parked with all her stuff.
Before any of the tour group saw her again, she quickly slammed her helmet on to hide her face, hopped on her bike, and sped out of there, her tires kicking up gravel as she went.
She’d have to find out more about the tour group and when it hit the lighthouse so she could avoid them in the future. If they were local, it shouldn’t be that hard.
Blue drove straight to her dad’s repair shop, Rider’s Respite, and rolled through the open garage door. It was nearby and a safe place to duck into. The place had four large bays, and skylights over every one that lit the room with natural sunlight. The walls were painted black, and the concrete floor stained with oil and other grease that permeated the air. Photos she’d purchased for him at an art gallery in North Carolina graced the walls. Close-ups of gears, motors, and tools.
Dad had only one bay door open, but the rest would follow as the day progressed. He liked people looking in at his projects. Said it brought in more business.
One of Dad’s employees, Kenneth, whistled at her over the nineties rock music playing from the overhead speakers. The other guys looked up from their work. She waved. Harmless catcalls and laughter followed as she moved through the space in her swimsuit.
Dad pulled away from the motorcycle he was working on, arched a brow at her then faced his guys. “Get back to work,” he barked. They all turned back to their projects in a flash. Their heads were down and their eyes looking at anything but Dad.
Blue smirked. You could take the man out of the mafia, but you couldn’t take the mafia out of the man. If these guys knew the softy under the bark, they’d never get any work done. Then again, if they knew the mobster under the grease monkey, they might never stop working . . .
Opening the top trunk on the back of her bike, she pulled her joggers out and slid them on. The drive over had mostly dried her off, but there was enough of a chill in the air that she slid into her big, warm sweater with the University of Tampa logo on it. She was practically swimming in the fabric, the thing was so big, but she loved it. Zipping it up, she snuggled into it allowing the worn-soft fabric to work its magic. She pulled her hair into amessy knot at the base of her skull to keep it from dripping down her back.
Dad waltzed over, and she gave him a big kiss on the cheek.
“Morning,” he said. “Went for a swim already?”
She nodded as she slipped out of her water-logged water shoes, and grabbed her socks and boots. “Yep.”
He lowered his voice as he glanced down at her bare feet. “Had to make a run for it?”
“There was a tour group with cameras. Not a big deal.” She dumped her wet gear in her top trunk, then with her socks and shoes in hand, headed for Dad’s desk in the corner of the old warehouse garage. Dad followed.
She spotted a daddy longlegs in the corner of the shop near the desk, hanging out in a web, and the sight of it sent her emotions reeling from happy nostalgia to grief. She settled on happy nostalgia and smiled, tore her gaze away, then plopped down in her dad’s rustic, dark olive-green armchair. The chair felt like butter and looked like it was the most expensive thing in the place. It wasn’t, not by a long shot. And not because the thing was cheap— it’d cost her six hundred dollars—but because the rusty old bikes they had in the shop were worth a whole heck of a lot more. The one her dad was working on, a 1972 Harley-Davidson XR750 Road Racer was likely to bring in over $80,000 once he’d finished restoring it.
Dad sat on the edge of his messy desk, grabbed a greased-stained red rag, and began to wipe his fingers.
She pulled her socks on, savoring the warmth of them before shoving her feet into her riding boots. “I didn’t want to make the drive back into town in my swimsuit.”
Dad pointed at her left hand. “No ring?”
Blue almost rolled her eyes, just barely stopping herself. This was a conversation she’d had with her dad more than once—about her engagement to Jonah.
“Because I went diving,” she said. “I didn’t want to lose it.” He didn’t need to know that she barely ever wore it these days.
He didn’t respond right away like he normally did when they were on this topic. The silence left her feeling uneasy, and she cranked her head back to look up at him. He had his hair pulled into a half ponytail today, his hair was as long as hers, maybe a little longer, hanging at his shoulders over his white button-up. He stared her down.
