Page 62 of Bombshells
“Me too!” yells one of the girls who’s treading water nearby. “I want to see Sylvie play.”
Sylvie gives her a tight smile, and I realize that she might not see Sylvie play. And now I feel like a dick again.
I guess I’d better get used to that feeling. It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
“You might see me,” Sylvie says. “There are two goalies, and so my teammate Scarlet might be playing. But come, anyway. It will be fun. Now let’s get back to work, okay? We’re learning how to save a drowning person today. Everybody out of the pool. Get your towel if you’re cold. You need to listen closely to Mr. Fineberger.”
The Red Cross guy stands at the front of the group, manual in hand. I hover at the back, half listening as he walks through rescue techniques with a pole, a shepherd’s crook, and a flotation device.
He asks Sylvie to be the victim, and I wake up as she peels off that coverup and dives gracefully into the deep end.
The kids practice saving her, while I practice not letting my tongue hang out of my mouth whenever she looks vaguely in my direction.
“Now, what if you don’t have a flotation device?” the Red Cross dude asks. “It’s much more dangerous to swim out for a drowning person without a float. What’s a terrified person going to do when you reach them?”
“Grab your ass,” a kid offers.
“That’s right. An average of five people die every year while trying to save a drowning person. And most of those fatalities happen when there’s no flotation device.”
Every face looks serious, and there are no snarky comments coming from our teens now.
“So we’re going to show you the right technique for assisting a swimmer who needs help, in a way that keeps you safe.” He looks directly at me. “Would you mind rescuing Sylvie?”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Sure. Not at all.” I toss my towel aside and glance into the water where she’s treading water with minimal effort. “Incoming.”
I leap, gathering my knees to my chest and cannon-balling it right in. The teens are laughing as I pop back above the water, and Sylvie is wiping her face.
“Mr. Bayer would use a split-stride entry if he was guarding a swimming pool,” the instructor says sternly. “It’s bad form to splash the person you’re trying to save.”
In other words I’ve already fucked it up.
“But then again, he’d also use a flotation device. So we have to pretend this is a risky ocean rescue. Now Mr. Bayer, I want you to approach the subject from behind.”
Of course he does. And if I hadn’t already approached her from behind, this would be far less awkward.
“As we said a moment ago, if Miss Hansen is panicked, she’ll grab ahold of him.”
Sylvie’s face grows stony, as if I’m the last man she’d ever reach for during an ocean rescue.
“So if Mr. Bayer wants to keep use of his arms and legs, he should approach from the rear and hook his arms under hers. Don’t be shy, Mr. Bayer. Approach the victim.”
Call me crazy, but I’m positive my ass is in more danger right now than hers.
Twenty-One
Dumplings as Collateral
SYLVIE
Oh, so now Anton is shy?
I can feel his hesitation as he swims up behind me. It takes effort not to roll my eyes. If I’d known that Anton would start treating me like a leper, I would have never...
Okay, that’s a lie. I would have had the sex anyway. It was phenomenal. And let’s face it—if our friendship was so flimsy that it couldn’t survive one wild night, then I guess there was never much there worth saving.
Now there’s a depressing thought, though. I like Anton. A lot. More than I should.
But he still hasn’t saved me from a fake drowning. “Come on, Bayer. I’d be dead already.”
