Page 83 of Ship Outta Luck

“Keep it. You might wake up hungry.” He winks, and Dean throws him a murderous look. “Going fishin’ for amberjack, boss?” He stuffs his hands in his pocket.

“Amberjack?” It comes out a whisper, barely audible over the crackling fire. I smack a palm against my forehead. Of course.

“What?” Dean asks.

Even Thompson wanders over, and the three men stare at me. Waiting.

“Amberjack. It’s a fish.” I gesture at the lure. The puzzle pieces start to click together in my head.

The gigantic patriotic cat t-shirt slips off one shoulder as my mind races.

What did my dad tell me about amberjack? I know, I know he mentioned it. I’m sure of it.

Dean reaches over, heat rising in his eyes, to slide the shirt back up my shoulder, but doesn’t move away.

“It is a fish. A damn big fish, too. We used to call them the money fish where I grew up. Hard to find, harder to land,” Thompson supplies. Thorne shoots him a silencing look.

Dean’s knee nudges against me, leaving it there, and I lean into him. “You said your dad used to take you fishing, that he was a fishing guide.”

“And you said my dad was a drug runner.”

Thompson shifts from foot to foot, and Thorne settles in the sand next to us.

“Why would he have left an amberjack lure for you?” Dean’s voice is soft, low. Gentle.

Closing my eyes, I pull my legs in tight to my chest. As though my knees might stave off the deep hurt in my chest. A hurt that only seems to get worse the more I learn about my father’s past.

Ourpast.

I suck in a shaky breath. How much of it is real? My father loved me, I know that. Could feel it, see it in the way he’d look at me. It was as quick and sure as breathing. But did I really know him? Can a child ever truly know their parent?

“June?” Strong arms wrap around me and I look up, squinting at the stars spangling the surface of the water, breaking and foaming in front of our makeshift camp. Thompson and Thorne wander off, talking in low tones next to the cooler of supplies.

“Listen. I know this must be hard for you. I don’t know what you’re going through. Not exactly. But,” Dean pauses, then scoots so close I can smell the pine-scented soap he washed up with. “But I’m happy to listen, if that’s what you need.”

“If he did this… it was my fault.” I choke on the words, hot tears flooding down my face, eyes never leaving the horizon. Unable to look at him.

“No, no, princess.” Dean pulls me onto his lap, and I bite my lip. He strokes my back through the thick blanket as Thompson and Thorne start walking down the beach. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“They took me. The Russians. Right before high school.”

Dean stiffens underneath me, then resumes stroking.

“I thought… I thought it was a boy from school I had a crush on texting me to meet him at the mall. That’s all it took.” I need to get it out before it swallows me whole. “To get me out there, for them to grab me. They put a bag over my head.” I bury my face in his neck.

It’s been years since I let myself think about it. Sure, I took some self-defense, know how to handle a gun, a knife, but it takes more than physical competence to erase the scars.

I don’t think they’ll ever really be gone.

Dean tightens his grip, his fingers ghosting along the back of my neck.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

“Dean, he paid the ransom. But that must not have been all they wanted. I’m not an idiot, but I’ve been so stupid. I should have seen it. They must have forced him to do it. Right? That must have been the payment they wanted.”

“Could be.” I expect him to be patronizing, but he genuinely sounds like he is chewing it over, analyzing everything. “Doesn’t change anything.”

“No, no.” I bite off a harsh laugh. “Doesn’t change anything, does it?”

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