Page 67 of Broken Lines

“For the record,” I snap at him. “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on fucking earth.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night sweet—”

“Have a nice life, douchebag.”

I whirl, and I storm out the door.

15

Melody

For the second time,the words “what a fucking asshole” flash like neon in my head as I flee Jackson’s clifftop manor.

I meanwhat a fucking prick.

At the tree line where the path leads down to the dock, I whirl to glance angrily back at the house.

It isn't that Jackson has shut himself away from the world. It’s more like fate or karma has imprisoned him here. Because the world does not deserve to have Jackson Havoc let loose upon it, like Satan himself rampaging across the lands.

Fuck you, asshole.

Mercifully, the storm seems to have let up. The sky still looks like the apocalypse. But the rain has stopped, and the winds have died down. I might still have no idea how in the world I’m going to get off this island. But at least I’ve got that.

I stomp angrily down the stone steps—angry at myself, angry at him. Angry because I let go of my defenses for one second and look where that got me.

Humiliated. Mocked. Scorned.

My lips curl into a sneer as I continue down the steps towards the shore, without a single goddamn idea what I'll do when I get there. Swim maybe? A signal fire? Or maybe I can line the beach with rocks until a low-flying plane picks me up like a shipwreck survivor.

Because I willnotbe the subject of a Netflix true crime special. Certainly not one that shines any fucking light on the king asshole who rules this island. Women already swoon at fictional versions of Jeffrey Dahmer.

Jackson would probably have an armada of boats full of panty-less women surrounding his island if that special ever aired.

I'm trying to mentally calculate exactly how far of a swim it's going to be back to the mainland when I surge out of the woods onto the rocky beach, and my jaw drops.

Because miracle of fucking miracles…

My boat is back.

I don't even know how. I don't care. And I’ll thank whatever deity needs thanking later.AfterI get the fuck off this godforsaken island away from the devil himself.

I rush over to where the boat is half beached a little way around the rocky bend of shore, caught on an old log trapped between two boulders. I run my hands over it as if it's some kind of mirage and I need to make sure my mind accepts this is real.

Yep, it's real.

Without a second thought, with another look back, without another single fuck given towards Jackson, I toss my bag in, shove the boat into the surf, and clamber in, splashing water up my jeans all over again.

But fuck it. I can get dry jeans. I’ll find them along with my sanity, self-respect, and wits when I land back in the real world again.

I grip the oars tight and put my back into the wind. Then, I’m rowing as fast and as hard and as desperately as I can.

Awayfrom him.

I’m completely soakedby the time I hit the mainland, because—of course—I made it halfway back before the rain started to pelt down again. That and surprising no one…I’m still a terrible row-boater.

When I do climb out of the boat, my plans instantly change.

Forget jeans. Forget my wits. Forget my self-respect, apparently, as well. Because the first place I land after assuring the guy on the dock that I'm fine after disappearing for almost twenty-four hours, is the only bar in town.

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