Page 8 of Sink With Me

“Home is fine.” I say, delayed. I swallow hard and try not to think about how high we’ll be going. “I mean, nothing’s changed, ya know?” A smile forces its way to my lips, feigning the cool composure as the cart shifts and the wheel starts to turn.

Her sigh carries the weight of the words I know she wants to say, but as always, she holds her tongue. This isn’t the time for interrogation, I’m not a prisoner, though I feel like it, trapped in this stupid flimsy little seat. Nothing would stop me if I slipped, or if it tilted too much, or… or…

“That’s good.” Her statement interrupts my growing panic, her head turning to take in the sight I refuse to acknowledge. “So, I’m stuck with you for two more days, huh? Or are you going to lock yourself in the gym again?” She laughs, tossing her hair, those thick mascara-coated lashes flicking over her deep gray irises. The gym is a tempting idea but who knows if this is the last chance I get to spend time with her.

“Two full days of me crashing on your couch and eating all your pickles until I’m packed up and shipped back off.” I weakly laugh in return, even though I can feel the pizza threatening to remerge out the way it entered. My knuckles whiten as I grip the cart harder.

Her nose crinkles, the soft white and blue hues cascading along her pale skin to highlight a faint scar on her brow. She is the type of woman I envy, the confidence she holds in her curves as she crosses one leg over the other and her arm resting along the back of the bench. She never covers the marks of her past; you can see them peek from the deep v of her top. We never talked about where they came from, but I don’t speak about mine either, so it’s understandable.

The sudden jerk of the carriage knocks the breath out of my lungs. I look up at the one ahead, two kids, maybe twelve or thirteen laughing. How do they do it? At least in planes I can shut the window and pretend I’m in one of those stupid stimulators. Here, I am fully aware of the plummeting drop below our rocking cart.

“Speaking of shipping off,” Karma continues, glancing behind us to the empty carriages as if I’m not having a heart attack beside her, “your mode of transportation will be by ship. You’ll be docked about four miles off from their base and you’ll have a team, of course, but—”

“A ship?” My throat begins spasming and I shake my head in confusion, unsure if she is trying to be funny or if she did just speed past her first sentence as if it was completely insignificant news. I don’t care how many times my parents said it was rude to interrupt, it’s not going to stop me when I’m threatened with my worst fear, wading deeper than shallow waters. I’m only called Sharkie thanks to my dad’s humor about my childhood penchant for biting.

Her long slim arms cross in front of her chest, unamused by my legitimate concerns. Her expressions really say everything for her, the narrowness in her stare, and the slight snarl on her red-painted lips.

“Yes, that's how Tide transports new recruits. Dutton personally picked the route, you know, so we knew you’d be safe.” She looks at me. There’s that signature sigh again. “Take a breath, your anxiety is really fucking up my ride.”

I take a small inhale through my nose. It feels like she lives inside my head. I just have to focus on how this will end; either Depth will burn to the ground and I’ll walk away or my body will burn with it. There will be no in-between, and this time, there will be no second chances.

Forcing my head, I straighten my back and peer at the only safe spot that exists—the horizon where the water curves along the world. I have nothing to fear.

“Are you good?”

“Yeah.”

“Liar.”

The cart jerks rounding the circle again, but I hardly notice, too lost in the horizon. Too lost in knowing he is out there.

“As I was saying,” Karma continues over the squeak of the cart, “you and the team will have plenty of time to get to shore. You’ll enter the base fifteen minutes apart, going under different aliases. Don’t worry, yours is perfect.”

I roll my eyes at the amusement in Karma’s voice. The lower we get, the looser my chest feels and the easier it is to breathe.

“Dutton has given you free rein from there. Use the team as you see fit. I’ve already sorted your loadout, the best of the best.” Her chin tilts up. I can practically taste her self-assurance, it’s tangible, a force field that surrounds her like a second skin. There’s no question that half of the equipment given will be her ideas brought to life by expert craftsmanship.

My legs wobble on their own as the door finally opens. I’m almost willing to drop to my knees and kiss the ground. As if sensing my internal thoughts, Karma wraps her arm over my shoulder.

“Free rein over my own team? How generous.” I mumble, my brows furrowing from my sentence. He was the best choice. He was the best choice. And it was my choice. After a beat of silence, I already know what’s coming. Raising my palm in her direction, I continue weaving through the crowd. “Don’t fucking sigh again!”

I swear her laugh overpowers the masses. Her shoulder bumps into mine as swarms of people push past. My favorite booth lies ahead, and I refuse to leave here without a prize, especially since it’s probably my last chance being home that I’ll be able to do so. Putting a crumpled ten dollar note down, I pick up the stack of darts behind the counter. The vendor gives me a dirty look, but I don’t care, living with my life on the line gives me the right to do it how I like. I stick my tongue out at him and he turns away.

Before I can even toss my first dart, a large figure steps in front of me, a muscular wall between me and my mission. Karma’s pointy fingers push into my back, amusement radiating off her.

“Instead of focusing on a child’s game, why don’t you focus on getting laid?” It’s a whisper all too loud for my liking, causing the man’s muscles to flex beneath the tight black sweatshirt he’s wearing.

My elbow lodges backward into Karma’s ribs, hoping she’ll maybe shut up and not draw attention towards us. In the end, it’s me who fucked up. Her dramatic grunt makes the man’s head turn in our direction.

Something about the intensity in his glare, barely concealed by his pulled-down hood, has my stomach flipping again. It’s not like I don’t get laid, recruits are perfect for that, but when was the last time? More importantly, when was the last time I enjoyed it? Then it clicks and just as quickly as my stomach flips, it plummets.

“My apologies. Did I cut in front of you?” The man’s voice comes out in a smooth American accent, rendering me speechless. My brain feels fried trying to process what’s happening. The last time I saw him, his physique was smaller, and less stubble lined his jaw. Even his voice is unfamiliar with a hoarse edge to it like he’s just inhaled smoke that doesn’t faze him. Not even his database profile headshot looks like the man standing in front of me. There is no way he’d be stupid enough to come into my territory.

But I know it’s him.

The sharp point of the dart skims over the tip of my thumb, grounding me as the seconds tick by. Does he recognize me? Why is he here? Is he armed and ready for revenge? His deep green eyes flick between mine, searching for some clue that I recognize his face. I keep still. He wants me to realize it’s him but all I can think about is how this dart is sharp enough that if I throw it into his eye, I might hit his brain.

He gestures to the booth and for a moment, I don’t even realize what he is doing. When my brain finally catches up, I step forward.

---