They left without me.
I returned from downtown and her car was gone. It took me under ten seconds to jimmy the lock on the back door and it was a real delight to find a random butcher knife just sitting out in the open, nobody around to ask for an explanation. My heartburn is acting up like a son of a bitch. I’m convinced my antacids have been replaced with placebo. I should be investigating Oscar Stanley’s murder and instead, I’m chasing a second grade teacher all over Cape fucking Cod. Because the possibility of her in potential danger has me in a headlock.
And because she’s a suspect, too, I’m forced to remind myself.
I’m definitely not stomping across the beach in steel-toed boots because the idea of her in a bathing suit in front of other men gives me a splitting headache.
That has nothing to do with it.
I prove myself a liar almost immediately. Taylor comes into view down in the cove—in bikini bottoms and a rash guard—smiling and nodding at the instructor like an A-plus student. Beside the instructor there are four other men present. Jude is here, thankfully. I don’t mind her brother. He seems decent. But there is some dude, I’m guessing it’s MBA Ryan, who looks a lot more interested in Taylor’s body than he is in the body of water behind him, and the burn shoots into my throat like a geyser.
How many men show interest in her per day? Ten? Twenty? It’s getting ridiculous.
I’m shoveling a handful of antacids into my mouth when Taylor catches sight of me.
“Oh,” she says weakly. “You found us.”
I look dead at Ryan while crushing the white tablets between my teeth.
“H-how exactly did you find us?” Taylor asks.
“I looked for the snorkeling place with the stupidest name,” I inform her. “You would pick a place called Something is Fishy.”
Gasping, she shoots a look at the instructor. “He’s only joking.”
“It’s fine. My daughter named it when she was eleven.” There is a mesh bag full of equipment resting in the sand at the man’s feet and he gestures to it now. “Will you be…uh…joining us? I’m not sure I have large enough flippers…”
I kick off my boots. Leave my socks in the sand. “I’ll manage.”
The instructor starts to pass out the equipment. Goggle-snorkel combos and flippers. Life jackets. I take everything he hands me, but I can already tell nothing is going to fit, so I don’t put any of it on. Taylor frowns at me the whole time. Good. Fine.
“All right, we’re going to split up in groups of two,” says the instructor.
“Taylor…” Ryan begins.
She turns in his direction.
Over the top of Taylor’s head, I promise him a slow death with my eyes.
“Fuck off,” I mouth, very precisely.
“I’m going to pair up with Quinton,” he blurts, feigning interest in one of his life jacket buckles. “B-but I’ll catch you on a flippity flop, yeah?”
The others waddle off down the beach in their gear, listening to the older man explain how to keep their goggles from fogging up. Instead of following them, Taylor crosses her arms and cocks a bikini-clad hip, making my fingers itch to tug on the strings.
“Did you hear that?” I drop all of the equipment, except for the goggles and snorkel. “He’ll catch you on the flippity flop.”
“Oh shut up.”
The look she’s giving me is pure venom. I want to kiss her so bad, my stomach is in knots. Don’t you dare. Some annoying sense of self-preservation warns me that I can’t get used to having my hands and mouth on her. I can’t make it a habit or it’ll be impossible to break. I’ve resolved to back off from this woman or risk becoming too distracted.
If I put myself in a position to make another life or death mistake, what was the point of leaving Boston in the first place? Didn’t I turn my badge in and leave so I wouldn’t have the power to misread evidence and ruin another case? Another set of lives?
Clearly interpreting my silence as irritation—with her—Taylor turns on a heel in the sand and sashays toward the far side of the cove. “Could you just stay on the beach, please? I’d actually like to enjoy myself.”
Of course, I follow her, fascinated by the way her bikini bottoms are creeping up the sweet split of her ass, revealing more and more cheek as she goes. “You heard him, half pint,” I say gruffly. “It’s a buddy system.”
“Obviously we will never be buddies.” Her steps slow a little. “Not unless you want to share with the class anything you learned at the police station.”
“Nope. You want to tell me why there was a knife at the front door of your house?”
“Nope.”
I grind my teeth. Not only because we’re at odds and I find I really don’t…enjoy that. Being combative with people is normal for me. It’s how my family communicated. In blunt facts and fights and insults. Honestly, I could give a rat’s ass if people think I’m a disagreeable bastard. And it’s embarrassing to admit, even to myself, but I kind of wish Taylor would smile at me more. She did it a yesterday, didn’t she? What needs to happen on my part in order for there to be more smiles?