Page 50 of Ship Outta Luck

The remains of whatever godawful mixture her father baited the pot with spill out on the white decking, the violently yellow dry box following.

June reaches for it, but I’m faster.

With one last look at her fuming face, I unscrew the cap. It opens easily, the suction that kept the inside dry popping as the seal gives way.

“What the fuck?” I shake my head in frustration.

I dump the open dry box into June’s waiting hand. She stares into the cylinder with furrowed brows, then pours the sea glass onto her other hand.

Smooth green pebbles glitter gently in her palm.

Eyes watery, she stares at them a full minute before turning her attention to the horizon, resolve etching her features.

I was right.

She does know something.

June Legarde is the key to the whole damn thing.

I thought I’d be happier about my hunch being right.

Instead, I feel like shit. June knows just enough to be dangerous to herself, knows enough that I need to keep her with me instead of keeping her safe.

“What does it mean to you?” I keep my voice low, gentle. Calming.

“It means he found something. It means he wants me to go somewhere.” Her dark laugh stills the air. “Although I guess I should use past tense. He doesn’t want anything now, does he?”

“June, I…”

“You can tell me whatever you want about him, you know that? You can tell me he was a bad man. That he hurt people trafficking with the Russians.” She shifts her focus back to me. “But he was my father, Dean. He wasmyfather. And he took care of me when no one else could. I loved him.” She looks tired, drawn. “He might have made some mistakes, but you cannottake him away from me.” Her knuckles are white on the yellow box.

I move toward her, drawn by the fury, the angst in her eyes.

I want to soothe her pain.

“I’m not trying to take him away from you.” My fingers feather over her wrist. “I am here for a job. This,” I point to the sea glass, “is the best lead I have. I feel lucky that the lead is… you, June.”

Her eyes widen as I say her name. Not babe, not Dr. Legarde, and not princess.

“June.” I repeat.

Her breath catches. For a second, my brain short-circuits, the need to kiss her, to taste her lips overriding any sort of sense I have left.

She buries her head in my chest, her ponytail tickling against my skin, chest heaving as she lets out one sob. Two.

Hot tears mingle with my sweat.

I hold her close, burying my nose in her citrus-scented hair, breathing her in.

We stand like that, holding each other, until she stops crying. Her breath slows, gentle and warm against the bare skin of my chest.

I wonder if she can hear how loud my heart’s beating against my ribs.

Kissing her would be so easy. A small tilt of her face is all it would take.

The dull roar of an outboard motor fills the air and June freezes, then pulls back, every line of her face etched in fear.

“Get into the cabin and stay there.” The words clip out of my mouth. The authority I tuck away around Pierce and the DEA stream from me like this is another Marine op.

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