Page 39 of Ship Outta Luck

DEAN

A jagged pulserockets through my body, the ache in my chest intensifying as my heart rate goes up. June’s skin pales under her tan, the wan light from the sliver of the moon turning her ghostly.

The boat’s drifting in the gulf, saltwater-soaked air turning chilly without the sun to warm it. It’s not a safehouse, but we’re likely as safe here for the night as we would be anywhere else.

“That can’t be true.” She clutches her stomach, staring at the navy expanse of water and sky.

I swallow, my throat dry. “It is.”

Goddamn, I’m no good at this.

“What proof do you have?” Her hands curl into fists on either side of her torso, then relax. Before clenching again.

“Dr. Legarde, all I can give you at the moment is my word.” An uncomfortable emotion ripples through me.

Guilt. But I need to press her, get more information, despite her apparent ignorance.

It could be an act.

June doesn’t strike me as a liar. For one, she is wildly different from my ex. My therapist would be proud of me, realizing not all women are like her, would probably call it a breakthrough and have me do a positive affirmation.

I cough to hide a chuckle at the thought.

“Why?” she asks.

“Why what?” For a second, I wonder if I’ve said a positive affirmation out loud.

“No way would he work with them,” she scoffs. “Not after everything that happened to me. Why would he…” She trails off, her face inscrutable under the heavy veil of night. “It’s not important.” She straightens her back, becoming little taller, like she’s ready to face the facts.

I’ve seen that look on fellow Marines before.

She sucks in a breath.

“What is important is that you think he did these things, and that there are,” she pauses, pressing her hand to her stomach, “bad dudesafter us.”

“Bad dudes,” I repeat. I choke back a laugh as her watch buzzes, the light from it briefly illuminating the scowl on her face.

“What is it?” I ask, concerned by her reaction. “Do you have service out here?”

“It’s telling me I need to move around, as though I haven’t been hunted down and chased or shooting and fighting. I swear on all that is holy I hate this mother fudging thing.”

“Mother fudging,” I echo, a real laugh finally bursting out. It seems like the wrong emotion at this moment. I rub the back of my neck, then wince as the bandage pulls at the wound.

“Dr. Legarde, I hate to ask you this…” I pause, realizing I don’t want to delve into her obvious grief. Wanting to keep her ranting about her watch. There is something so normal andsweet about it, abouther. “Do you have any idea where your father might have hidden the shipment?”

“Are you being serious?” She wheels on me, even the darkness unable to hide the fury blazing across her face. “You come into my life, whisk me off like a hostage on my own gosh-darned boat, drop this… thisbombshellon me and then expect me to know where a boatload of drugs are?” Her voice cracks, sadness seeping through her fury.

“Probably a sub full of drugs, actually,” I correct.

She makes a feral noise of frustration, her feet slapping against the fiberglass floor.

“Anything could be helpful,” I add.

She steps closer and I hold up my hands, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

“Just think about it. Maybe he hinted at something. Or there is a place, some location, where he traveled often.” It sounds cold, but I don’t know what else to say to her. “Anything you can tell me about your father could help.” It sounds cold, but I don’t know what else to say to her.

I’m not good at warm and cuddly.

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