Page 135 of Defenders of Jawhara

She was babbling, she knew, running off at the mouth the way she always did when she was a little nervous. She shouldn’t be spilling everything. She asked him about his work, just to get the focus off her.

“I’m happy doing anything that gives me time to catch the good waves when they’re breaking.”

She nodded. She could imagine he had part-time jobs—and maybe rich parents. Her eyes widened at his car. It was a newer Jeep with the top down and two surf boards stuck in the back. Definitely rich parents.

The wind ruffled her hair as he drove. He found parking close to the shore—a difficult feat at the best of times, near impossible on a beautiful night like this. Clearly the surf gods saw him coming and made sure to open up a parking space for him.

She climbed out of the Jeep and turned her face to the ocean. The salt breeze cooled her cheeks. She’d never get tired of the sound of the waves breaking, the sea gulls crying, and the sight of all that water. Pulling in a deep breath, she shivered. The kelp-tanged air was cooling down fast, and a fog had started to roll in from the ocean.

Trent came over and slung his arm over her shoulder. “Too cold?”

She laughed. “You’re asking a girl from Wyoming, where the snow can get to be six feet deep, if it’s too cold? This is just a nice breeze.”

He grinned, but he left his arm over her shoulder. “Snow’s a dry cold. Water chills you to the bone.”

“Sounds like you’ve been in Wyoming—or at least in deep snow. Do you ski?”

“Some. I’ve been around. Enough to know that there’s no place like home.” He swept his arm out. The sun was dipping into the Pacific, leaving a streak of orange on the water and in the sky.

She smiled. “You know, I always loved learning about marine life when I was in school. I used to watch shows about deep-sea diving, but growing up in Wyoming, the closest you get to that are a few lakes or swimming in some of the cattle drinkers.”

“Yuck.” Trent’s face screwed up. He walked with her along the shoreline. In this part of La Jolla, the water was mostly rocky cliffs, with only a small strip of sand down near the cove, so they stayed up on top of the cliffs, on the sidewalks. The biggest beaches, she knew, were around Mission Bay. San Diego itself was mostly harbor, fishing boats, marinas, and large Navy ships.

As they walked, Trent talked about having grown up in San Diego—it sounded like he’d just about grown up on the water and in it, and he told stories of surfing at Torrey Pines and getting into trouble on the boardwalk in Mission Beach. The stories were entertaining, but he soon steered the conversation around to her again and asked her where she lived. He made a face when she mentioned the street.

“What? It’s cheap and close to work.”

He turned them back toward the Jeep. “It’s dangerous. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the sirens at all hours of the night.”

She glanced sideways at him. “I just stay inside after dark.”

They’d come back to the Jeep. He shook his head and jerked a thumb at it. “Come on. We’re finding you a new place to reside tonight.”

Chloe backed away a step. “Uh, I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, well, I know so. That street isn’t safe for the criminals who live there. Trust me. I know an awesome bungalow, and it’s only five hundred a month. Bet you’re paying twice that.”

She winced. She was paying twelve hundred for what she’d call an efficiency that was hopelessly inefficient, and that was without utilities. Trent’s offer sounded too good to be true.

He seemed to understand her hesitation. He jingled his keys and said, “Look, I’ll drive you over to see it. You don’t like, you don’t take. You can meet the landlady. She’s cool, and, hey, I wouldn’t mind a good neighbor. What do you say?”

4

Trent wasn’t sure why he was pushing for her to move out of that apartment complex. She was a grown woman, capable of taking care of herself, but the moment he found out where she lived, he knew he needed to get her out of there. He kept telling himself that having Chloe nearby made good sense, as far as monitoring Guardians of the Earth. Having spent a few hours with her now, she seemed up front, but he couldn’t rule out that Chloe knew more than she was saying about whatever was going on behind the scenes.

He also had to admit that he was attracted to the lovely Chloe, with her baggy clothes and her great smile. She wasn’t the kind of girl he usually dated. He went for party girls who knew the scene and who didn’t mind some casual fun. But something about Chloe—the air of naiveté and vulnerability, maybe—told him his usual methods of flashing a lot of charm with limited substance might not work on her.

He decided to go for the long game here, which started with him showing off the extra bungalow behind his.

His landlady worked for Slade Security, actually. Mrs. Wilson was a tough old broad, retired Navy herself, who’d buried two Navy husbands. She smoked, swore like the sailor she’d been—WAC, actually, back in her day—and liked her bourbon. She also kept an eye on the place, which included a spare bungalow that was usually kept empty so that they could use it as a safe house if they needed to.

Trent pulled up in front of the place and glanced at Chloe. Her eyes lit up. “Flowers.” She breathed out the word like it was a miracle.

Trent glanced at the bungalows. There were four of them set around a courtyard, with the two back ones kept empty. He lived in the front one on the right, and Mrs. Wilson had the left. The back wall was planted in blackberry bushes with razor wire fencing—no one was coming in the back on this place. All highly defensible. Hydrangeas and roses flowered along the street and all through the courtyard—Mrs. Wilson’s retirement hobby was gardening. She swore she’d spent long enough on the water, and a body had to put down roots sometime, which in her case was her garden. Trent wasn’t so sure about putting down roots. While all the time spent in the air got old, he loved the excitement of new places and new jobs.

He was pretty sure Chloe was already sold on the place. Getting out of the Jeep, he told her, “Come and meet the house mom.” Mrs. Wilson—hair cut short and graying—had on a loud, loose muumuu splashed with color. The TV was on behind her, showing a WWE fight with the sound muted. With a cigarette in one hand, she sized up Chloe and swapped a stare with Trent.

“Brought you someone to rent the back bungalow, Mrs. W.,” he said, drawling in his best surfer dude accent. Mrs. Wilson blanked her face—she’d caught the hint that something was up. “She’s like totally not believing it’s only five C-notes a month, but I like totally told her it’s not so much the money, as you lookin’ for a renter who won’t trash the place like that UCSD kid who had all the parties.”

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