The dock sat quiet in the afternoon sun.Two double-decker ghost boats were tied up side by side, both painted dark with skulls and ghostly lettering along the sides.They looked harmless in daylight, almost cheesy, but I could imagine them at night cutting across black water with fog rolling low and actors waiting in the ghost town.
Beside them was a smaller boat.Push stepped into it first and held out a hand to me.
I looked at his hand for maybe half a second too long before taking it.
His grip was warm, strong, and steady as I stepped down into the boat.It rocked slightly beneath me, and my free hand grabbed his forearm automatically.
He didn’t move until I was settled.
Piney hopped in behind us with far less grace than a man his size should have possessed and sprawled across the back seat with both arms stretched along the top.
“Wake me when we solve crime,” he said.
I sat in the passenger seat beside Push as he untied the boat and started the engine.
He handled it easily.
Of course he did.
The man apparently knew how to operate motorcycles, boats, underground tunnel systems, and my nervous system.
The engine rumbled beneath us, and Push guided the boat away from the dock with one hand on the wheel and the other adjusting something near the controls.His posture shifted as we moved onto the water, shoulders loose but focused, eyes scanning ahead.
In charge.
That was the only way to describe it.
Push didn’t make a big show of taking control.He just took it.
I was used to being on my own.Used to handling things myself.Used to being the one who figured out where to go, what to do, who to call, and how to keep standing when everything fell apart.But sitting beside Push while he steered us across the water, steady and capable, I felt something uncomfortable.
Relief.
It was nice having someone else take charge for a few minutes.
Not because I couldn’t, but because I was tired.And maybe because Push didn’t make me feel weaker for letting him.
I looked away toward the water before that thought got too loud.
The lake shimmered in the afternoon sun, little flashes of light dancing across the surface.The island stretched beside us, wooded and green and deceptively pretty.From the boat, Skull Island looked like a tourist postcard.
Come for the ghosts, stay because a biker president won’t let you leave.
I snorted softly.
Push glanced at me.“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I was just thinking your tourism slogan needs work.”
Piney lifted one hand from the back seat.“Our slogan is perfect.”
“You have a slogan?”
“Probably.”
