Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“What happened last night?” my father asks.

“Nothing,” I lie.

There’s a knock at the door, and we all go quiet as mice.

My mother stands and moves toward it.

“Stay behind me,” she urges, her muscles tense and ready. When she opens the door, Fathom is waiting.

“I wish to speak with Lyric Walker,” he says.

A million ugly words fight to be the first to come out of my mouth, but I never get the chance. Bex steps forward and points her finger in his face.

“You don’t get to talk to her anymore. Do you understand me?” she shouts.

He looks over her shoulder to me, clearly hoping I will intervene. All I can think to do is give him the finger.

“I’ve tolerated your brooding crap because she loves you,” Bex continues. “But we’re done! Your stupidity and arrogance bore me, and now you’re a traitor, too? There’s something wrong with you, man. Your head isn’t right, and we’ve got all the crazy we can handle right now, so turn around and go. In fact, why don’t you go back to your fiancée and try to explain to her what you’ve been up to? I doubt she’s going to be happy about it. I might not be able to kick your ass, but I know she can.”

“Lyric Walker?” he pleads. “Just a few words.”

For so many days and nights, Fathom has given me the strength to keep going. He’s been the escape from a terrible reality. Last night was more than I ever hoped it could be—gentle, passionate, loving, and when we fell asleep against each other, I was sure I would never trust anyone as much as I trusted him. Now he’s made me regret the best moments of my entire life, and I hate him for it.

“I’m such a stupid little girl,” I say out loud, but it’s not meant for anyone else but me.

“Please,” he begs.

“Leave me alone,” I say, and I turn my back on him. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

I hear Bex slam the door. The sound rattles my heart. She takes my hand and leads me past my bewildered parents and into the bathroom.

“Can someone explain what is happening?” my father shouts when Bex closes the door.

“Let it go, Leonard,” my mother says.

Bex sits me down on the side of the tub and puts my head on her shoulder and lets me cry and cry and cry. We have been in this same exact situation before, maybe not locked in a camp, but on the edge of a tub sobbing about some dumb boy. It’s oddly comforting that in this nightmare life of mine there are still some things that are familiar and dependable. Bex will always be here to let me cry.

“He’s not good enough for you,” she whispers. “You’re Lyric Walker, the second-hottest babe in Coney Island, behind me. He was totally dating up.”

I laugh through the crying.

“Plus, the whole love triangle thing played out in 2005. Why would you put yourself through that tired cliché? You’re better than having to try to convince someone to pick you. In fact, I know you are sad, but I have to be honest and tell you I’m really very ashamed of you. What the hell happened to your self-esteem?”

“I couldn’t help myself,” I cry defensively.

“At the center of every love triangle is always a complete ass.” She sighs. “He gets to be Captain Wishy-Washy while the dummies who love him fight for his attention. It’s manipulative and pathetic. They should call them loser triangles.”

“You’re still trying to make me feel better, right?”

Bex laughs and squeezes me tight.

“Well, I was saving this for your birthday, but I think you need it now,” she says, reaching into her jumpsuit and pulling out a tube of cherry lip gloss from the pocket. She places it in my hand. I pop off the top and smell it. The scent is fruity and biting.

“Where did you get this?”

“From Luisa and Carmen,” she says.

“Who?”

“The spa ladies! We’re tight. You know, you really should learn some Spanish. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

I apply a coat and taste the phony cherry flavor on my tongue, then hand it to Bex, who does the same.

“This is the worst hotel I have ever stayed in,” she says.

I laugh and laugh, and then I cry some more.

“When we check out of this place, we’re stealing the towels,” she says.



Doyle comes for me in the morning. He doesn’t say anything, but he watches my father and mother as if he’s concerned for them. He’s smart enough to know we don’t want him around, so he retreats to the hall while I get dressed.

“Honey, if you get your chance today, take it,” my mother whispers to me. She looks around the room as if she suspects we’re being listened to. I hate to admit it wasn’t even something I’d considered, but now I can’t stop imagining microphones hidden in the beds and pillows.

“If I fail, they will hurt you,” I whisper back.

My mother nods that she understands, then my dad, then Bex.