Page 24 of Theta

And then I met Jocko, and let myself get swept up in that disaster of a relationship, and it kept my mind off of Killy for a while, at least. And then things soured with Jocko, and that soured me on relationships. At that point, I'd accepted that Killy didn’t like me that way, and figured that was that. End of. The pang of attraction was still there in spades—you don't just fall out of love with someone just because they don't return it.

My eyes fly open wide as that thought ricochets through me like a bullet off of metal—fall out of love?

The cold waves of the ocean, whichever one this is, couldn’t be any more of a shock to the system.

It's not love.

Is it?

No. No way. Right?

Just a crush.

But I'm twenty-seven. I've known him for nearly twenty years. It's been more than four years since I first realized I was attracted to him.

I've been fighting the draw to him for almost five damn years.

That's more than a crush.

Well…shit.

I flick a surreptitious glance at him—he looks like he's almost enjoying this, white-knuckling the handles and grinning crazily as we plummet down the slope of a wave—he’s not the type to whoop and howl, or he'd be making all sorts of ruckus.

I wonder what kind of sounds he'd make when I—

No. Bad girl, Story. We're on a tiny boat in a big ocean, swamped by waves, held at gunpoint by whoever these goons are, for unknown reasons. Revenge, most likely. Nothing to do with Killian or me, most likely.

This is not the correct scenario for ruminations on what kind of noises Killian Harris would make during orgasm.

A monster wave nearly subsumes the boat, and it's long, drowning seconds of choking on seawater and the blatting, curtaining rain before I can catch my breath, and all thoughts of Killian's orgasm noises are swept away as we fight to hang on.

The spare goon—the one not piloting—is positioned in the prow, watching ahead. A futile endeavor, it seems, considering you can't see a thing except waves and sky. But as we rock on the knife-edge of a wave's crest, he points and shouts something. And then all at once there's an outcropping of boulders, each one the size of a small car, and the pilot-goon guns the engine and slews our nose away, frantically spinning the wheel to stop us from smashing on the rocks. We barely skid past them, and then a wave slams into us sidelong, and we're tilting precariously sideways—Killian lurches across the boat to the other side and hangs on, providing ballast to keep us something level; I kick across too, and another wave tries to crash us against the wave-break. The orange rubber side scrapes along the boulder, making a gut-wrenching ripping sound. Yet, when we clear the edge of the wave-break, the boat is intact, just scuffed, although the scrape looks bad enough that I think it was a near thing.

Now that we're around the wave-break, the sea is calmer, although the wind is still a howling gale blowing an ocean's worth of rain in whirling, scudding, blinding sheets.

Killian and I right ourselves; the bottom of the rescue boat is half-filled with seawater, and we slosh and splash as we scrabble back to our butts in the middle of the craft.

Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the skyline ahead—low, squat buildings with tall hills behind. I can't make out much more than that in the quick blast of blue-white light.

"Can you tell where we are?" Killy asks, his voice pitched loud enough to be heard over the wind and rain.

I shake my head. "No. We could be literally anywhere. I have no idea how long I was unconscious. I know you've been out of contact for nearly two weeks, and if you were on the boat for most of that, this could be the Mediterranean, South America, Asia…no way to know."

The ride across the bay is mercifully brief, and we're nudging up to a dock; the lookout goon scrambles onto the dock and ties us off as the pilot goon kills the motor.

"Out," the chief goon orders with a jerk of his chin.

Killian climbs out and leans down to hand me up, one arm hooked around a dock piling. Once I'm on my feet, he keeps hold of my hand, tangling our fingers as we stand waiting for the next instructions. The chief goon gestures at the rescue boat and snaps an order—both of his underlings crack off a trio of shots at the boat’s rubber sides, and within seconds, the craft is bubbling under the waves.

Clearly, these guys aren't taking any chances of being discovered.

Killian and I exchange looks as the boat sinks out of view, and then Chief Goon plants a hand in the center of Killian’s back and gives him a rough shove.

"You could just say 'let's go,' you know," Killian snaps. "We've cooperated so far, yeah?"

Chief Goon jams the barrel of his shotgun into Killian's left side, hard; Killian grimaces silently and twists away from the blow, turning an ugly look of raw fury on our captor that promises repayment in kind, with interest.

"You have no value. You are only alive because I do not yet have orders to kill you." Chief Goon kisses the underside of Killian's chin with the shotgun barrel. "Push me and I will not wait for orders. Yah? You understand?"