Page 51 of Ship Outta Luck

To her credit, June doesn’t argue.

She doesn’t obey, either.

My jaw drops as she tugs her dress over her head, revealing tanned, smooth skin and a barely-there purple bikini.

I can hardly think straight at the sight of her.

“What are you doing?” I finally manage.

The boat’s definitely coming closer.

“Sunbathing. Seems like a good time for a distraction. You know, if it’s the bad guys?”

“Did you hit your head last night? Get in the cabin, princess.”

June stabs a finger in my chest, exactly where she was snuggled up just seconds ago.

I lick my lips, unable to look away from her. The way her body moves with the rolling of the boat is incredibly distracting.

“Listen, buddy, you said you need me. That means you don’t get to boss me around and tell me to get in the mother-loving cabin. My boat, my rules. I’m no use if I have a panic attack.”

Her tears are gone, eyes now blazing.

“My op, my rules.” It sounds stupid, repeating her words like we’re having some kindergarten spat on the playground.

“Oh, are you paying me? I’m part of the ‘op’ now? Do I get some kind of finder’s fee if we find your stupid drugs? And what if you turn out to be wrong, huh? What if this is about theSantu Espiritu?”

“It’s not about the fucking wreck, princess.” I shake my head, the noise of the outboard motor intensifying. “Either way, I don’t want you to get shot.”

“I don’t want that either.” She frowns.

“Then get in the damned cabin.”

But June winks at me as she heaves herself onto the catwalk, walking the narrow strip to the bow, then unrolls a towel I’d somehow been too distracted to notice. In one smooth motion, she sinks onto the towel, rolling over onto her stomach, looking for all the world like she’s been there all day.

The glint of the shotgun shines from under the towel.

Clever girl.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

JUNE

Seconds tickby and the boat approaches, bigger than theBetty, from the looks of it. Definitely nicer and newer, not that that’s hard to accomplish. My breath comes in short bursts, my pulse somewhere around a hummingbird’s.

I keep one hand on the shotgun under the towel, the other under my chin.

That’s me, yep. Not a care in the world. Except, you know, the whole being hunted by drug smugglers thing.

The boat rocks. A shadow passes over me.

Dean’s stalking toward me, murder in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Adapting to the plan.”

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