Page 35 of Ship Outta Luck

“Good thing the Coast Guard isn’t around.” The words sound muffled in the aftereffects of close-proximity shotgun firing. That, and the Jeep exploding. “They’re going to have their hands full with the Russian canal swimming competition, anyway.”

Her chest heaves, and her pupils are nearly fully dilated.

“You’re in shock,” I manage, wincing at the dull pain in my side.

“You’ve been shot,” she whispers.

CHAPTER

NINE

JUNE

Biting my lip,I do my best to patch Dean up. Once we hit open water, out of the canal, I set the boat at a good clip and got out of the main waterways. Not fast enough to hit any waves too hard, not slow enough to be caught if we were followed.

Now we’re drifting, land a mere spot in the distant.

It doesn’t matter that the gulf is calm, glass-smooth, even.

I can’t seem to stop shaking. Can’t seem to focus. Especially with his shirt off.

“I’m sorry. About what the shotgun did to your hearing. And uh, this burn.” The angry red patch is already blistering. “It looks awful. And sorry about the whole being shot thing. And the Jeep.”

Oh good. I’m rambling. Great.

Narrowing my eyes, I attempt not to notice anything but the task at hand. Patching Dean up is priority number one. I don’t notice his bloody shirt, I don’t look at the old scars, and I absolutely do not memorize the ripped body my hands tremble over.

“None of this is your fault. Besides, it’s not that bad. His shot went wide. Just a nick is all,” he says, as if being shot at is an everyday occurrence. “The burn… it is what it is. You did what you had to do. I’m just glad you keep a stocked first aid kit on here.” His breathing steadies, eyes tracking my every movement. “My hearing’s already better. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Blood trickles from the wound, and I suck in a breath. Stretching the gauze across his impressive pecks, winding it around his shoulder and under his armpit, where the bullet grazed him.

Where it narrowly missed me.

My head swims, and I sway with it on my knees, attempting to remain steady. Whether the dizziness is from the lingering effects of too many tequilas or being shot at, or… shooting at?—

Strong arms anchor me, keeping me from falling.

“June. June. Look at me.”

I can’t. My chest heaves as I fight for more air, my breathing impossibly fast. Dean scoots closer, to the edge of the bench seat that hides another gun. Swallowing, I close my eyes.

Can’t think about guns.

“Look at me.” His thighs press on either side of me, caging me in. A firm hand lifts my chin.

I obey, opening my eyes, looking up at him.

“I’m okay. You’re okay, remember?” he says gently.

I nod. “I know.”

Dean checks me over, making sure the blood staining my clothes is his, and not mine. His careful hands seek out any injury. He’s methodical. Calm.

Eventually my quivering legs still, and he watches me. Seconds stretch into minutes as I breathe, staring into his eyes. Not wanting to say it.

If I don’t say it, it’s not real.

“How many?” he asks.

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