I was cold—socold—that no matter how many blankets I piled on the bed, the shivering wouldn't stop. It felt as though the bone-chilling cold of the October Gulf waters had seeped into my very being, leaving me shivering uncontrollably. Whenever I closed my eyes, I couldn't help but replay the haunting scene on theNetfish and Chill, witnessing my beloved boat burning in the dark water while two kind souls pulled me to safety.
The only blessed relief from all of it was that my phone was lost in the Gulf. It saved me from the onslaught of concerned family and friends who, no doubt?—
“Yoohoo!” A voice called from the deck of my houseboat.
Damn it. They found me. “Kendra’s not home,” I mumbled, tunneling deeper into the blankets. “Please leave a message.”
“They’re not going anywhere, Ken,” a deep voice said softly.
From inside my room.
My locked room.
It’s coming from inside the house!
I scrambled off the bed, screaming and holding my blankets before me like a shield. As if they’d protect me from the axe murderer who broke into my boat and tried to kill me in mysleep. My heart pounded against my chest as I struggled to make sense of the chaos.
I peeked around the side of the blanket shield and couldn’t tell if I was relieved or pissed that it was my brother, Brock. He stood inside the room, wearing head-to-toe black like he had just come from a Liam Neeson movie. The dim, filtered light from the window accentuated the contours of his chiseled features, giving him a mysterious and enigmatic aura. He was one year younger than me, but the way he moved with grace and precision was almost ethereal. It was as if he could blend into the shadows and appear at will, like a silent spy navigating through the night.
I don’t know where he learned these skills, but they made him an invaluable asset to Saber Security, where he worked. Despite the shock of his sudden appearance, a small part of me couldn't help but admire how he effortlessly infiltrated my supposedly secure space.
Even if he was a pain in the backside to annoyed siblings.
“What the hell, Brock! You scared the daylights out of me.”
His short brown hair stayed in place as he squatted before me, a huge hulking shadow against the natural light coming through the window. The closed window. His blue eyes, which were so much like mine, crinkled around the edges. “We gave you time to wallow. Now, it’s time to face the music.”
I held up my hands. “No. No music. Wallowing is not done. Send them away.”
“No can do, big sis.” Brock hauled me off the floor like I was a sack of feathers.
“Then do your magic so we can escape through a pinhole or porthole or some other hole,” I cried, thought better of it, then said, “That sounded weird.”
“Indeed. Get up. Get dressed. Ten minutes.”
I bent to pick up the blankets from the floor, but when I stood back up, Brock was gone from a locked room.
“How the hell does he do that?”
Many songs have been written about growing up in a small town. How close-knit it is. How everyone knows your name. But the downsides of growing up in a small town are how close-knit it is and how everyone knows your name.
Pleasure Point is no exception. The island off the Gulf Coast of Florida was once a thriving nudist colony. In the 1980s, the owner sold it to my parents and six other families, known as The Seven. They saw it as a haven, a place to escape the world's prying eyes.
The prying eyes of island residents, however, were exempt from this escape plan.
“There you are!” My mother, Chloe, fluttered over and hugged me tightly. “I’m so sorry about your boat!”
“You’ll get a new one in no time flat,” my father, Bolt, added as he encircled us both. “Insurance payouts can be quick these days.”
I snorted. These guys forgot it was the late 20s. Bureaucracy for the sake of bureaucracy is a mission statement for some companies. “Thanks, Dad.”
When my parents decided to let me come up for air, I noticed we were not alone on my houseboat. Mom and Dad brought several of The Seven with them. With a scowl on her face, Cranky Gail Keck shoved a steaming casserole of her famous five-cheese mac and cheese into my hand, then turned and walked away without uttering a single word. I couldn't help but smile at the unexpected gesture. That dish was my favorite.
Her arch-nemesis, although maybe they patched things up a few months ago, June Atwell, smoothed the mostly silver anddark hair out of her face and held her husband’s hand. Donald Atwell stood beside his wife, always supporting whatever she did, even if that meant antagonizing June’s longtimefrenemy, Gail.
Uma Maddux, Pleasure Point’s Mayor and mother to my other best friend Joy, stepped closer and gripped my non-casserole hand in both of hers. “My darling, we’ll help you however we can. Rashida sent me a phone from her store. What else do you need?”
Joy came to the rescue, prying her mother away from me, grabbing the 1980s brick phone, and saving Gail’s casserole from my trembling hand. “What we can do is leave her alone so that she can get her ship fixed.” Joy leveled hertake-no-prisoners billionaire boss babeglare on all the seniors on my houseboat. “You can see she’s okay. Now, she has work to do. Off you go.”
