Page 37 of Ship Outta Luck

Well, and that he’s working for the DEA in some capacity.

Anchoring myself on the side of the boat, I lean over the metal railing. Saltwater sprays, coating my face and body in a fine mist. I turn the flashlight on, quickly whipping it up and down the side of theBetty, assessing the damage.

“Fudging fudgesicles.” The bilge pump.

Teeth bared, I flip the flashlight off and push myself back into the boat.

Of course, it had to be the bilge pump.

Resting my forehead in my hands, I curse myself for never getting around to fixing the faulty automatic sensor. Worried I’d need to replace the whole dang thing, I set up a manual switch instead. And now we’re on the freaking water with a bilge pump that needs to be manually activated every six hours or so, if we want to keep the boat from sinking. Which we do. Especially since we’re on it.

Casting my gaze skyward, stars begin to wink into view. Shining in the velvet sky, illuminating it and us.

Carefully, I find the janky manual switch on the control panel and flip it. The noise of water ejecting from the pump starts, and I sag against the captain’s chair.

At least the manual switch hasn’t failed. At least the battery’s new enough that it can power it.

The watch screen on my wrist lights up, the haptics buzzing against my wrist.

Standing up for one minute can help keep you on track to your goal!

“I am standing up, you jerk,” I mutter. Why do I let this stupid thing boss me around? Tapping the screen, I set a six-hour timer to check the bilge pump again. “How you like that? You work forme.”

“Did you say something?” Dean’s gravelly voice surprises me, and I clutch at my chest. God, I’m so jumpy.

“No.” My eyes stray to Dean, and I carefully guide the boat between the faintly glowing buoys. Red for port, green for starboard. Drifting in the gulf in a boat this size, the chances of us hitting a salt flat and tangling the propellors in sea grass aren’t slim. It would be a pain to get free of them, so the deeper we can get, the further out we go, the better.

“How bad is the damage?” he asks, glancing back at me.

“It looks worse than it is. It’ll cost a fortune to fix it, but if I don’t get it fixed, it’ll weaken the hull. We’re fine for now, though.”

I don’t mention the bilge pump. That problem’s taken care of, too. For now.

If my dad was around, he would do it himself. Would teach me how to do it. A sharp ache sears my chest.

But he isn’t around.

He would be teasing me as he sanded it down, telling me about elbow grease and hard work.

“That’s good.” Dean nods.

Carefully, I step over to the empty live well where my handgun’s taped inside, safe in a waterproof Ziploc. Ammo taped next to it. Not that the Glock would make him tell the truth. In our close quarters, there’s no guarantee I’d be able to fire off a shot before he tackled me again.

I shouldn’t think like that, though. I think… if Dean were out to hurt me, he’d already have done so.

He’s certainly had every opportunity to do something.

His heavy hand settles on my shoulder, spinning me around.

“You ready to have that talk?”

“About how you’ve put me in danger since you ran over my phone in the bar parking lot?” It comes out rude, and I don’t care. Rude is better than noticing his smooth skin, his rippling abs.

Moonlight dances across the water, the light brighter as the moon rises, and I’m grateful for the fact we at least have good weather.

“What do you know about what your father did for a living?” Dean cocks his head, an eyebrow raised. I expect anger when I look into his eyes, expect judgment. He isn’t angry, though.

His eyes are sad. Understanding, even.

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