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I place my hand on his forearm before I think better of it. “It’s very PG-13.”

At first, the touch is exactly what I meant it to be, then Clint looks down at my hand and everything changes.

His skin is warm under my palm. The muscles in his arm shift, not pulling away.

I let my hand slip away as naturally as I can.

Clint’s eyes stay on the place where my hand was for one second longer, then he nods. “Perfect.”

The cab turns, slows, and pulls up near the port entrance.

Don looks out at the line of people. “Just in time to wait.”

I look out the window at the crowd, but I still feel Clint’s forearm under my hand.

Chapter twenty-five

Temporary Alliance

Clint

The line for the boat is a slow-moving test of patience.

We stand between high walls with a hundred other tourists. Every few minutes, we take a step down the ramp. Not because the boat is loading—I can’t even see the boat from here—but more in anticipation that it will load sometime today.

The air is warm in the narrow corridor, a humid mix of various colognes, perfumes and sweat. Paul stands beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch when the line shifts.

Almost has been happening a lot lately.

“You do this every year?” I ask.

“Every year.”

“Is it always the same?”

He gives a weak smile. “Mostly.”

The line slopes downward toward the dock. Somewhere ahead, people laugh. A staff member calls something cheerful and unintelligible over the noise. The whole thing has the feeling of a theme park ride, but for people who drink the occasional glass of wine.

Then I hear it. A splash. A squeak.

A narrow staircase cuts up into the side wall, half-hidden behind a potted palm and a sign pointing everybody in the opposite direction. At the top is a gate that isn’t entirely closed.

Another squeak and a click.

I look at Paul. “What the fuck was that?”

His eyes move up the staircase. “I don’t know.”

“But you heard it, right?”

He nods, eyes focused on the gate.

The line moves three steps. Don moves with it, still talking to a couple from Minnesota he’s befriended out of bored desperation.

The squeak comes again.

I point up the stairs. “I’m checking.”