“Because I have robust mental health and I don’t want that to fuckin’ change.” Mason was a Southside Boston boy, so his speech—when he actually spoke—tended to be liberally sprinkled with f-bombs.
“Oh, ha-ha. Very funny,” Alex said just as Mason appeared in the doorway.
Mason wasn’t a tall man, topping out at only 5'11". But what he lacked vertically, he made up for horizontally. With hulking shoulders and massive arms, he looked less like the SEAL he was—they might have officially snapped their final salutes to the Navy, but once a SEAL, always a SEAL—and more like he should be guarding the gates of hell. Slobbering and panting noisily near his feet was Meat, the English bulldog that followed Mason around like a fat, furry, excessively wrinkly shadow.
Bran wasn’t sure why, but he slammed the lid of the laptop and felt color rise in his cheeks. Mason glanced at the computer, then at Bran, lifting a brow. To Bran’s relief, Mason said nothing.
He couldn’t say the same for Alex. Standing next to Mason, she looked diminutive—diminutive and about twelve years old, thanks to her riotous mop of curly red hair and the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The first words out of her mouth were, “I take it you got the satellite dish up and running.” The next words out of her mouth were, “So, are you catching up on your daily dose of porn or what?”
Daily dose of… Bran choked.
“No judgment here.” Alex held up her hands. “Just…” She glanced around the kitchen, wrinkling her nose. “Not where we eat, okay?”
Bran shook his head and gave her a long-suffering look. “It wasn’t porn.”
Alex’s expression telegraphed her disbelief. “What else would make you slam the lid on that thing like you were trying to keep a barrel full of snakes from popping out of the screen?” Her green eyes flashed behind the lenses of her tortoiseshell glasses.
Uh-oh. Bran knew that look. He didn’t like it one bit. “Don’t do it,” he warned.
“Do what?” She blinked innocently.
“Whatever it is you’re contemplating that’s likely to piss me off.”
“Oh.” Alex nodded sagely. Then, proving she wasn’t the least bit scared of him—and that she had the reflexes of a ninja—she snatched the laptop from him, dancing out of his reach when he tried to lunge over the kitchen table to retrieve it.
“Ah, ah, ah!” She cackled like she was auditioning for the part of Cruella de Vil while turning her back on him and holding the laptop away.
“Fungule, Alex!” he cursed. The New Jersey Italian boy came out in him when he got worked up.
“You know the rules.” She tsked. “We have to share.”
Wayfarer Island was a remote spot of land between Cuba and Key West. It was officially owned by the U.S. government, but for the last century or so it had been leased to LT’s family—LT being Bran and Mason’s former commanding officer, the one who had invited them to join him on his hunt for the legendary ghost galleon when they bugged out of the Navy.
To recap, for months now Bran had lived on this island with endless sun, cerulean waters, and a cooling breeze that rustled through the palm trees and a person’s hair. Sounded pretty good, right? In fact, what could be better?
Well, Bran could list a few things that were better. For starters, how about some damned cellular service? Unfortunately, that was a pipe dream since they were hell and gone from the nearest cell tower. They had to rely on their marine radios and one lonely satellite phone to communicate with the outside world by any means other than the laptop.
So, how about some damned electricity? Okay, to be fair they had electricity. But the solar panels attached to the roof of the rambling house supplied just enough juice to keep the refrigerator, the Wi-Fi, and a few other items working. Which was why they all shared a laptop, taking turns watching movies or sports, or emailing friends and family back on the mainland.
“I’m dying to see what you were looking at that made you blush to the roots of your hair,” Alex said, plopping into the ladder-back chair across from Bran. She shoved her glasses up on her pert nose and grabbed the silver tin of biscotti next to the salt and pepper shakers. Prying open the lid, she took out a biscuit and bit off half, talking with her mouth full. “If not porn, then what? Ooooh, the mystery! It must be solved!”
A crumb of biscotti flew from her mouth to land on the table. She absently brushed it onto the floor where Meat was waiting to lap it up like it was manna from heaven.