Again.
I don’t think he would make it out of his black hole again if something happened to them while he wasright there.
The weight of the situation presses down on me, making it hard to breathe. My gaze shifts between Hunter, who’s lost in his own storm of trauma, and Saylor, whose guilt-ridden eyes mirror the storm outside.
Making a decision, I gently close the bathroom door, muffling the sound of the storm and Hunter’s soft mumblings. My heart races as I sprint toward the exit, the urgency of the situation now propelling me forward.
Saylor’s voice, filled with disbelief, cuts through the air. “What the fuck are you doing? Weneedhim!” But I’m already out the door, the cold rain instantly soaking me. Pulling up the hood of my rain jacket, I dash to Hunter’s truck, the rain pelting me like a thousand tiny needles.
The moment I slam the truck door shut, the engine roars to life, and Saylor sits in the passenger seat. His face is a mask of frustration. “What the fuck, Slo,” he growls out, his brows furrowing deeply.
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, and floor the accelerator. The truck speeds through the rain-soaked streets, the wipers working overtime to clear the windshield.
“You’ve never driven a boat. You don’t know how this works. This isn’t a nice sunny day on the water! It’s a fucking rescue mission in a raging storm! You need experience for this shit,” Saylor’s voice rises with each word, his anger palpable.
The truck screeches to a halt at the harbor, and I turn to face him, determination burning in my eyes. “My experience sits beside me.”
Without waiting for a response, I leap out of the truck, the rain immediately drenching me again. I hear Saylor’s exasperated, “For fuck’s sake,” as I sprint toward the Jones’s boats. The dock’s wooden planks are slick with rain, and I narrowly avoid a nasty fall as I make my way to the nearest boat.
“Grab the rope over there!” Saylor shouts over the roar of the rain. I rush to the indicated rope, but it’s too heavy for me to lift. Saylor’s voice, tinged with desperation, reaches me again, “Fuck it. There are some on the boat.”
I quickly untie the knots securing the boat, my fingers already numb from the cold. The boat rocks precariously as I climb aboard, making my way to the wheelhouse. Pulling down my hood, I squint through the rain outside the window, ready to face the storm head-on.
“What do I do?” I ask frantically, looking over all the buttons before turning to look at Saylor beside me.
“Slo—” He starts, his expression tortured.
“You said we haven’t got much time. Where are they? What do I do? Fucking help me here!” I yell at him.
“You’re going to kill yourself,” he states. “This is a suicide mission.”
“At least I’ll die trying,” I reply. Thankfully, the key is in the ignition, so I start the engine, and the boat springs to life.
“Put on the lifejacket so it doesn’t look like you’re as stupid as you are acting right now when the coast guard finds your body,” Saylor commands with a mixture of exasperation and genuine concern.
I shoot him a glare, but his point is valid. I momentarily let go of the wheel and scramble to grab the bright orange lifejacket hanging on a hook nearby. I fumble with the straps, securing it around me as quickly as I can.
“Happy?” I snap, pulling the zipper up to my chin. “Now tell me what to do.”
“Throttle up slowly. You don’t want to jerk out of here and hit another boat.”
I nod, reaching for the throttle and pushing it forward gently. The boat’s engine hums louder, and we begin to move, cutting through the water with increasing speed.
“Good. Now, keep an eye on the buoys. Green on your right, red on your left as you exit the harbor,” he instructs, pointing toward the floating markers that guide boats safely out of the harbor even in these bad conditions.
I squint through the rain, spotting the first green buoy. Steering the boat to the right of it, I then look for the red one, ensuring it stays to my left.
“Watch the depth gauge,” Saylor adds, pointing to a dial on the dashboard. “The water can be shallow in places, especially near the harbor entrance. You don’t want to run aground.”
I nod, my eyes darting between the depth gauge and the path ahead. The numbers on the gauge decrease as we approach the harbor entrance. A knot of tension tightens in my belly, but Saylor reassures me we are within a safe range.
Once we clear the harbor entrance, Saylor’s voice fills with urgency. “Head northeast.”
I have no idea where that would be, but before I can even ask, Saylor points to my right.
The storm rages around us, each wave bigger than the last. The boat is whipped around mercilessly, and I struggle to keep it upright. Saylor’s guidance is the only thing keeping us from being swallowed by the waves.
“Hard right!” Saylor shouts, his voice barely audible over the howling wind. I yank the wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding a colossal wave that would have surely capsized us. The boat groans in protest, its frame creaking under the strain.
