We were anchored in the shadow of a steep cliff. Dozens of pelicans were diving into the water, and coming up with sardines for breakfast. Sometimes they hit the water at the same time and the resulting splashes sounded like shells exploding in a war zone.
Damian was swimming on the other side of the boat. His strokes were long and lean, and he was oblivious to the chaos around us. He had the perfect swimmer’s body—powerful legs, broad shoulders, narrow hips. He rotated his body left and then right, one shoulder out, as he breathed through each stroke. He was quiet and efficient, barely lifting his chin above the surface, but I was so focused on each inhalation that everything else faded—all the noise, all the birds—until there was only him, his breath, and the wet rasp of his lips. It was rhythmic and steady and forceful and mesmerizing and . . . overwhelmingly male.
Something clicked inside me at that moment. I stood outside of myself, realizing how easy it was to judge someone, to vilify and condemn the things we don’t understand, because:
OMG. How can she even THINK that way about the guy who kidnapped her? HE CUT HER FINGER OFF!
Or
That person should have known better than to get into the car with a stranger.
Or
How could she stay with him that long when he abused her day in and day out?
Or
Monster. He shot and killed his own family.
Because those are all things we’re not supposed to do, and yet inside of me was a kernel of the inexplicable from which dark things bloom, something I couldn’t understand or justify. I knew better than to romanticize my captor, but there it was—sick and twisted and disgusting as it was. And it scared me. It scared me because I saw a glimmer of all the terrifying things we’re capable of, because the human psyche is such a fragile thing, a yolk contained within a brittle shell—one crack and out it spills: a neighbor goes on a suicide mission, tribes massacre tribes, countries turn their faces away from injustices. And it all starts within, because within is where all things begin.
I ran to the bedroom and shut the door. I needed to barricade myself against . . . myself. I needed to think about foosball and Pacman and pizza with Nick—a triathlon of nice, normal things with a nice, normal guy—someone worth romanticizing.
“Breakfast.” There was no knocking or privacy or nice, normal courtesies with Damian. He just walked in.
We faced each other for the first time since my stupid, clingy breakdown the night before. I didn’t know where he’d slept, but he hadn’t come down after he put me to bed. He looked at me like he always did—intense and impenetrable. He must have showered because he smelled like absinthe and mint. And I really, really wanted him to smell like pelicans and sardines.
“We’ll be anchoring in Bahia Tortugas tonight,” he said as we ate. “We need to refuel and fill up the water tank.”
I had no idea where Bahia Tortugas was, but fuel and water meant some kind of port or marina, and that meant we’d be around people.
Damian was warning me. Don’t do anything stupid.
I nodded and finished my food. We’ll see about that.
I was even more desperate to escape now.
It was dark when the rugged hills of Bahia Tortugas came into view. I had a feeling it was more out of design than coincidence. Damian had planned it so we came in when it attracted the least amount of attention. My heart started to race as we approached the harbor. I had to grab whatever opportunity presented itself in the next few hours.
I stood in front of the mirror and took a deep breath. My hair was dirty and knotted, and I was floating in one of Damian’s t-shirts. I jumped in the shower and washed my hair. People were less likely to help a greasy haired androgynous runaway, so I rifled through my shopping bags and put on a slinky top and frayed denim shorts. Boobs and legs always get noticed. I found a make-up palette and applied some eyeliner and lip gloss.
By the time I was done, Damian had dropped anchor. We weren’t as close to the pier as I’d hoped to be, and looking out from the porthole I could see only two other boats. It was the perfect lonely outpost for a pit stop.
My spirits lifted when a couple of pangas came out to greet us. If it weren’t for the yellow glow from the kerosene lanterns on their masts, I would have missed the small dugout canoes. I remembered enough Spanish to figure out that the men were offering their services and negotiating rates for diesel and water. I thought of running topside, screaming for help, but it was dark and Damian could easily overpower me before I attracted much attention.
I was still peering out of the stateroom window when Damian came in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me. For one full, glorious second, he wasn’t in control. His gaze swept the length of my legs, over the hip-hugging shorts, and lingered on the swell of my breasts under the scandalous top. Ha! He wasn’t immune after all. He caught the smug look on my face before I could wipe it off, and his eyes narrowed.
Shit.