Page 3 of Make Me Yours

If anyone in our families had been close enough to hear, we’d both be in deep shit, and all for nothing.

Mark doesn’t love me, either. Mark likes the way I look—despite my permanently chapped lips from being on a boat all day, I have the blue eyes and long blond hair he tends to go for—but he likes the way a lot of girls look. He likes inviting other girls to sleep over on his dad’s yacht, too. But not me. I was never special enough to score an invite to stay the night on The Merry Way. Not even when it was basically the only place in town where we would have had a chance of being alone without our families catching on.

The Merry Way has a private slip at the edge of the cove, shielded from easy view by the ice cream shack, with access to the beach trail on the other side. I could have parked at the trailhead, hiked over the dunes to ravage Mark on his dad’s yacht, and been back at my truck before sunrise, with no one the wiser. I’m used to getting up at the ass crack of dawn to be outon the water and so is Mark. If we’d wanted to take things to the next level, it would have been the perfect solution.

But Mark never issued the invitation, and I never hinted that he should. We both knew what we had wasn’t worth the potential fallout.

If only I’d remembered that before I had two hot toddies with Elaina and walked home feeling hot all over and way too alone. If only I’d never snapped that shot while I was stripping down for a shower. If only Mark had responded to one of my five texts begging him to delete the picture once I sobered up.

If only I had magical, time travel powers and could turn back the clock far enough to tell Elaina not to mix me that second drink.

“It’s okay. You came to your senses in time. You can do this. How hard can it be? He’s probably already asleep,” I mutter, creeping farther down the dock and peering around the edge of the shuttered ice cream shack.

It still smells vaguely of waffle cones, even two months after it closed for the season, and my stomach rumbles at the scent of sugary, toasted dough. I press a hand to my midsection, promising my tummy a bowl of ramen when we get home, if it will just keep it quiet for a few more minutes.

Rodger Tripp’s boat is a yacht, but it’s a small yacht. There are only so many places Mark—and his phone—can be. And he must be sleeping pretty hard if he isn’t answering his texts.

Like most of our generation, Mark’s cell might as well be permanently attached to his hand. He always answers texts in a minute or two, even when he’s out on his boat or with another girl. The only time he goes quiet is when he’s unconscious, and even then, only when he’s had a few too many.

It’s Friday night and all the boats in town will remain docked tomorrow in deference to the hurricane sweeping through New England. The storm will pass by a good distance from the coast,but the water will be choppy as hell tomorrow and not worth fishing. Which means every lobster man and woman in town was at the pub tonight or tossing back a few with friends around a backyard bonfire.

I passed three gatherings on my half-mile walk from home and can hear music coming from farther down the shore, where the folks in the heart of town are likely in full, block party mode.

For a moment, as I peek around the side of the shack, I hope that Mark is out at one of those parties. Maybe he dropped his phone on the yacht earlier in the day and forgot about it, and that’s why my “track your friends” app led me here. Maybe I’ll be able to sneak in and grab his cell without risking discovery, after all.

But when my gaze lands on The Merry Way, there’s a light on inside. It’s just a faint light, but it’s a sign of life that wouldn’t be there if no one were on board. Say what you will about the Tripps, but they don’t believe in wasting money or electricity.

I hear Gramp’s voice in my head, insisting that’s another sign that they’re a bunch of greedy bastards, but I ignore it.

I have to stay focused on the task at hand.

Pulling my black hoodie up over my hair and ducking my head, I hurry quietly around the ice cream shack and over to the narrow stretch of dock connecting The Merry Way’s private slip to the rest of the complex. The clouds are on their way, but for now the moon is high and bright, emitting enough light to make my blond hair glow like a beacon.

But that’s why I put on dark clothes before I left the house. Now I blend into the shadows as I creep up the gangplank and step onto the deck, my boots making an unexpectedly loudthunkas they make contact with the polished wood.

I freeze, my stomach dropping and my heart lurching into my throat. I hold my breath, my ears straining for the sound of movement from below, but there’s nothing, just the whistle ofthe wind through the tattered wind sock on the ice cream shack and the lapping of the waves against the hull. After a beat, I feel safe enough to follow the faint glow of the deck’s solar lights around to the entrance to the living quarters.

I swallow and will my racing pulse to slow.

Mark is a strong guy, but he’s not a gun fanatic like some of the men in town. If he catches me, worst-case scenario, he jumps me before he realizes who I am. I’m not going to get shot for trespassing or stabbed with a rusty fishhook, for goodness’ sake.

The thought reminds me of Sea Breeze’s most persistent local legend, about the sea captain with the hook where his right hand should be, who hunts teenagers at the local make-out spots.

Many towns have versions of this particular legend, of course, but what makes Sea Breeze’s special, is that our sea captain, in his big yellow slicker streaked with blood, always leaves a piece of his coat behind when he claims a victim.

Teens have been finding pieces of that blood-soaked slicker around town for generations. It doesn’t matter that no one’s been murdered around here since the early 1900s, news that a scrap of coat has been found always gives me the creeps. Elaina thinks it’s hysterical. She hates scary books and movies, but for some reason, real-life evidence that someone wants teens to be too terrified to make out in their cars around these parts, gives her the giggles.

At this point, I doubt I’m ever going to giggle again.

By the time I reach the base of the stairs leading down into the yacht’s main living area, my heart is punching holes in my chest, and my throat is so dry it makes a strange sound as I swallow.

So, I stop trying to swallow.

No sounds. No noise.

Just a silent journey to the bedroom where I will retrieve Mark’s phone from where it hopefully sits on the bedside table,delete my five text messages and the incriminating photo, and then make an equally swift and silent retreat.

For a moment, all appears to be going according to plan.

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