Page 39 of Shark Bait

Since it’s summertime and Valerina mentioned they’d remodeled this house, I assume she turned up the air-conditioning for the first time while I slept. Hence, the blanket to keep me warm.

I spot a fan spinning above me too. I’m sure I didn’t turn that on either. With a groan, I turn onto my back, but halt as I bump into a body. My breath catches in my throat, and I hear myself gasp as if I’m choking.

Before I freak out, Shark says, “It’s just me.”

I shift onto my side so I’m facing him, still a little tense, but since it’sjusthim, the guy who’sjustthere for me and with me, my breathing evens out.

“Hi, just you,” I say.

Warm brown eyes narrow at the corners as he smiles. “Hi back.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything ‘just’”—I make air quote with my right hand—“about you, Shark.”

He takes my hand and kisses it, then keeps it under his hand on the mattress. His head is propped up on his right hand, and as I look at his handsome face, I notice stubble on his jaw.Somehow, it suits his personality. Shark’s rugged, with refined, sharp edges one could cut themselves on if one wasn’t careful.

He’s not “just another dude,” which makes him interesting to me. He’s also attractive, with plush lips, chestnut eyes, and a straight nose. There’s a mysterious bad-boy appeal to him. I think that’s my type.

“You’re my type,” I announce.

He smiles wider. “Oh yeah? What type is that?”

“A walking red flag.”

“Lovely,” he deadpans.

We’re quiet for a while. The way he plays with my hair reminds me of Fis. I freeze up, and Shark picks up on it right away. “What’s the matter?”

If I tell him, he’ll never touch my hair or me again. “Memories I want to erase, is all. Don’t stop.”

Shark twirls my hair around his finger. “I’ve been where you are,” he says. I’m not even breathing for fear of distracting him.

He continues. “I decided I’m in the driver’s seat.” He taps his head. “This up here is the important part. You can hide all you want about what happened to you. You get to handle your misfortune any way you see fit, because the truth is, even if the pair of us experienced the very same thing, we would process it differently. We heal differently.”

I think he’s telling me I’m doing well and he won’t judge me for acting in whatever manner or however I choose as I try to move on from that life and into my newfound freedom. I’m also hoping he’s telling me he’ll offer support when I need it, which is more than I can ask from someone who rescued me and gave me millions so I’ll never have to worry about money again.

“You offer the wisest advice,” I tell him.

“Get used to it. I’m very wise.”

I believe it. I want him to tell me more about himself, but I don’t want to ask him things he isn’t ready to share. I tread carefully. “How old were you when…you were taken?”

“I wasn’t taken.” He taps his forefinger on the top of my hand, a movement that’s followed by an almost visible mood shift, a distancing of sorts. I can even see it in his eyes, in the emptiness of his gaze. He’s moving away mentally, but the body’s staying. The taps are starting to become more uniform. I count them, noting there’s a cadence to them.

He taps, then holds his fingers up for two seconds, then taps the mattress again.

Tap. One-two. Tap.

Tap. One-two. Tap.

One. One-two.One, one-two.Reminds me of rhythm, which makes me think of music.

Shark clears his throat. “I was nine when I lost my parents.”

Tap. One-two. Tap.

I tap the mattrass with him. He notices I’m matching his rhythm, and now that we’re doing it together, I get the feeling he’s succeeded in distracting himself from the memories enough to make it sound as if it happened to someone else. He can now talk about his past.

Which is exactly how I want these types of heavy conversations to feel. Like I’m telling a story that never happened to me. I wish I could tell the story that never happened to me, but I don’t think I can yet, so I tell no stories whatsoever.

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