Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
We stay like that for a while. The ocean is calm tonight, and warm. Not warm the way it was at the Rock in the summer, but close. And the air tonight is thick with heat. High eighties, probably.
Finally, after maybe ten minutes of this silent floating, he takes a stab at talking. “It’s nice. The moon. The water. And even a few stars.”
I’m over the initial shock and ready to get past my stupid reaction to hearing Maart’s name come out of this guy’s mouth, so I add a bit of an explanation. “I’ve been floating on the ocean like this for as long as I can remember.” It’s really hard to get those words out without crying.
And then I am crying. I don’t sniffle or anything. And I don’t think he knows. I’m not really a crier, I’m not. It’s just… so confusing. One moment everything is normal the way things are normal for most people, and then Maart’s name is right there, floating in the air in front of me.
I wasn’t ready for it. That’s all.
“Do you want to fight, Irina?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what I do.”
“Could ya maybe do something else?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would be a waste.”
He huffs out a small chuckle here. “I’m not really fond of the ocean, ya know.”
“So?”
“So I’m gonna go now. But I’m gonna text you an address. And if you want to fight, you can fight with me.” He rolls off his back and he’s right-side up now, bobbing in the water next to me. I turn my head a little so I can see him. “I hope your phone wasn’t in your pocket.”
“I didn’t bring a phone.”
“Good.” He smiles a little, but it doesn’t go all the way up to his eyes. “I don’t know what this is”—he makes a vague motion that encompasses the ocean—“but I was part of the Ring camps, Irina. So I can take a good guess.”
I roll over and upright myself too. Shocked. Again. “You?”
He nods. “Dead Eyes. And you were one of Sick Heart’s kids, weren’t you?”
I nod in affirmation before thinking this through. I should not tell him anything. I should just swim away and forget about him.
He knows I’m thinking this. I can tell because he wants to leave it here. Wants to leave me hanging so that I think a little harder about his offer before I dismiss it outright.
So when he turns and swims away without saying another word, I’m not surprised.
I just watch him. I watch him get out of the water, pick something up off the sand—probably his phone—and then start running back the way he came.
I stay in the water until I’m shivering and my teeth are chattering so hard, the whole way home I do nothing but tremble. When I get to my condo I stand under the hot water of the shower and this alone, the very fact that I have a condo and a hot shower, is enough to make me believe in God.
The text comes in while I’m sleeping, but there is no way in hell I will ever sleep through the buzz of my phone. A siren four blocks away will wake me up. Even after four years, sleep is something I do with one eye open.
An address appears inside a little green bubble on my message stream. Then another one pops up. 4 A.M. Don’t be late.
It’s three thirty-eight right now.
I pull up the map as I get out of bed. I brush my teeth, dress, and slip my feet into my trainers. At three forty-seven I’m outside, following the map on my phone. If I want to be on time, I should run. If I want to show up defiant and late, I should walk.
I run.
The building isn’t the one where those two parted ways last night, but it’s only just down the street. Oceanfront—nice. And on the second floor of a café. It takes me an extra minute to actually find the door, so I’m still two minutes late when I arrive at a brightly-lit gym where I find two men on the mats. One of them is my new friend. The other is an older guy. Tall, lean. A fighter, or maybe a trainer. They both look over as the heavy door slams closed behind me. A third man is standing in the corner stirring a coffee. He looks like… not a fighter.
There’s a moment of silence as we all look at each other. Then Dead Eyes—or whatever his name is—gets up and walks towards me. His eyes travel up and down my body, which unsettles me. I don’t like men to look at me. I’m self-conscious about that shit. And even though I’m here to train, and training and leering looks are mutually exclusive in the world I grew up in, I don’t know what kind of world he grew up in.