Page 31 of The Captain
“Who the fuck are you?” Karl snapped, stepping closer, his chest puffed out.
The world slowed. I saw it all—the bartender reaching under the counter, probably for a weapon; Camille opening her mouth to say something, her eyes flashing; Tamika rising from her seat, ready to jump in; Becca freezing, her face pale.
But I was ahead of the motion, my training kicking in, the snap in my chest breaking free.
I moved, fast and methodical, my fist slamming into Karl’s sternum with a crack that doubled him over, gasping. His buddies lunged, but I was ready—one took a sharp jab to the jaw, dropping like a stone; the other caught an elbow to the temple, stumbling back into a table.
Three moves, three seconds, and they were down, the bar silent except for Karl’s wheezing.
Time sped up. Miguel stared, mouth open. Tamika looked terrified, her hand half-raised. Becca was pale, her eyes wide. But Camille—her gaze was wide-eyed, intrigued, a spark of something that wasn’t fear.
The bartender raised his phone and a bat, ready to call for backup, but Camille was faster. She jumped from her chair, grabbed my hand, her grip firm, and pulled me toward the door.
“Come on,” she said, her voice low, urgent, but laced with something else—excitement, maybe.
We were out the door before anyone could react, the humid night air hitting us like a wall. The marina lights danced on the water, the duffel slung over my shoulder again, my pulse hammering.
Well, that was one fuck of a way to start liaising.
I didn’t know if I’d just burned a bridge or built one, but the feel of her hand in mine, the fire in her eyes, told me I was in deeper than I’d planned. The ghosts were quiet for once, drowned out by the heat of her, the fight, the night.
I’d figure out the rest later.
13
CAMILLE
Ididn’t stop pulling Jacob until we were past the deck lights and down the stairs, the river breathing beside us like it had opinions. He matched my pace, the canvas duffel still slung on his shoulder.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked, eyeing it because I needed a problem with zippers and not feelings.
He hitched the strap higher. “Stuff Marcus shoved at me for your team. Shade fly. First-aid. Bungees. A … tent.”
“A tent?” My pulse did a stupid little kick. “Useful.”
“Figured you’d approve.” His mouth curved. “You want a drive or a walk?”
“Drive.” I wanted the ocean close and the people far.
We cut across gravel to my SUV. The AC coughed out air that smelled like beach and old coffee.
My phone buzzed twice—night crew check-ins, both animals steady.
I thumbed back:On radio. Twenty out. Ping me if anything twitches.
“Work?” he asked, voice rough, curious without the kind of prying that made me bite.
“Always,” I said, rolling out of the lot. A nondescript SUV eased from the shadows two lengths behind us—Atlas’s detail. I let it be a comfort instead of a complaint. “Your friends keep good distance.”
He looked in the mirror, clocked them, and didn’t comment.
We ran Folly Road with the windows cracked, night air licking sweat off my neck. Neither of us spoke for a few miles. He rode quiet, hands loose on his thighs, the kind of stillness you learn when stillness keeps you alive.
“You pulled me like a grenade,” he said at last, not accusation, more inventory.
“Bar fights waste oxygen,” I said. “I have better uses for yours.”
A laugh, low and ruined. “Jesus, Camille.”
