He reached for me, pulling me into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Violet.”
There was true sorrow in his voice, real loss, and it made my eyes water because I didn’t feel any of the things I should for my dad.
“At least he won’t ever hurt anyone again.” That thought filled me with more emotion than his death did. “But I am sorry it’s falling to Jersey, yet again, to clean up the mess he’s left behind.”
Silas’s arms around me tightened. He could never understand my antipathy for my father. Not when he had two bright, shiny, loving parents who’d done everything they could to make sure their son soared.
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
I shook my head. “There’s no need. Honest.”
“Your dad just died. You’re my girlfriend. I think there’s a need to be there for you,” he said gruffly.
I winced at the emotion in his words and the term girlfriend. We’d started as a date that had turned into a kiss which had slipped into something more. Now, we’d been together for almost six months, and I wasn’t even really sure how it had happened. Like we’d just slid from one thing to the next without an actual conversation about it. It wasn’t until this moment that I realized exactly what I’d done by not speaking up. I’d let him think there was a chance of a long-term “us.”
I had to do something about it now. I had to break it off before it got more serious. I had to break it off before it had a chance to harden into a permanent substance that couldn’t be removed.
Dawson
BAD REPUTATION
“An' I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation,
Never said I wanted to improve my station.”
Performed by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
Written by Cordell / Jett
The seawater sprayed up over theside of the boat as I spun the wheel sharply. Gritty droplets landed on my face, but I didn’t dare wipe them off. Next to me, Dax swore in French, and my smile grew. He clung to the side as I dropped the hammer, flying toward the pier at a speed that would have caused most people to yell a warning. Dax didn’t breathe another word. He knew me too well.
He knew exactly how I would rein the boat in before it thudded into the wood and metal structure. He also knew there was no way in hell I was letting Demario win this race.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Angelica’s dark hair flying behind her in the wind as we passed them on the starboard side. I couldn’t spend any time relishing in the one-fingered wave she gave me.
Instead, I cut them off and slid past the buoy marking the end of the race.
I’d already throttled back and was slowing down as Dax patted me on the back.
“Putain de bordel de merde,” he said. Holy fucking freaking hell was right. “You did it. That was the closest I think we’ve ever come. Can we please not do it again?”
I laughed. “That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
He rolled his eyes at me but didn’t comment.
Once upon a time, racing boats had been danger and rebellion. There’d been years when it had been the worst of me instead of the best of me. But now…now I’d grown it into a livelihood. A damn good one.
The shiny black-and-red jet boat we’d used for this race was one of five boats we used on a regular basis. All different lengths, engine sizes, and fuel capacities that we could tailor to the race at hand. Our newest design was on its way to America in a container ship while we waited to hear about the race of a lifetime that would start in New York.
We tied off the boat and jumped onto the pier.
The warm sun glimmered over the crowd gathered on the dock, covering them in a hazy shimmer. Their expensive clothes and even more expensive jewelry were a statement to exactly where we were—a private yacht club in Tarifa, Spain. One whose annual membership fees cost more than the average American made in a year.
The murmur on the dock was a mass of varied emotions. Some congratulatory, some growling with displeasure, but all poised and groomed enough to keep it together and not throw punches. The wagers on the race had been bigger than the prize itself, and Demario had just lost his followers a boatload. Even if they could afford to lose the cash, it still stung to watch it wash away with the tide. It would make Demario even hungrier to agree to the terms of the next contest.
Demario docked in the slip next to us. His dark, Italian face was broody as hell, and Angelica was still scowling. If she’d been at the helm, I might not have been able to pull off the win. She put my skills to the test every single time we went up against each other.
This adventure from Tarifa, across the Strait of Gibraltar, to the tip of Morocco and back had been her idea. She’d raced it in their boat more times than I had. Hell, she’d practically grown up racing it.
