Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
I already know I won’t like where this road leads. But in my world roads only go one direction once blood starts flowing. Forward. Through whoever stands in the way.
Gunny stands there. Tired eyes locked on mine. Waiting for the king of these islands to decide if his daughter becomes another piece on the board.
My fists stay clenched at my sides. The war’s already started. Now it has a new shadow stretching across it. And I protect what belongs to my territory. Even when that territory includes ghosts from the past asking for mercy I rarely give.
3
Tia
The fluorescent lights in my tiny Marathon apartment buzz like angry bees overhead. I stand at the kitchen counter in my mismatched socks. One has tiny pineapples. The other has dancing tacos. My hair sticks up in seventeen directions because I keep running my fingers through it while staring at the same page in my notebook for twenty minutes. The notebook holds sketches of signal patterns I shouldn’t be noticing. Weird little blips in the data streams I monitor for my boring tech job. Blips that feel like eyes on the back of my neck.
The air smells like burnt toast and the honeysuckle candle I lit to pretend everything feels normal. Outside my window the ocean whispers against the shore. Waves slap the rocks in steady rhythm. But tonight that sound feels different. Less soothing. More like something hiding between each crash. I shake my head hard enough to make my brain rattle.
Stop it, Tia. You’re not the main character in a spy movie. You’re the girl who once apologized to a vending machine for taking the last bag of Cheetos.
I giggle at my own ridiculous thought. The sound bounces off the yellow walls I painted myself last summer. Bright and sunny like I could chase away every shadow with color. My feet pad across the cool tile as I move to the window. The glass feels cold against my fingertips. Streetlights cast long orange pools on the empty road below. A car passes slowly. Too slowly. My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with the leftover pizza I ate for dinner.
Okay brain. We’re not doing the paranoid thing tonight. Maybe it’s just a lost tourist. Or a tourist driving a stolen golf cart. That could happen in the Keys, right? I mean, tourists do weird things all the time.
I press my forehead to the glass. My breath fogs a small circle. The feeling returns stronger. That heavy watchful pressure between my shoulder blades. Like invisible fingers tracing my spine. I whirl around fast. Nothing there but my sad little couch covered in throw pillows shaped like sea creatures. Mr. Octopus stares back at me with one button eye missing. I hug him anyway because sometimes a girl needs eight arms of emotional support.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Dad. The screen glows soft in the dim light. I swipe to answer with my pinky because my hands feel shaky.
“Hey Dad. Calling to remind me I need more vegetables in my life or is this the weekly check in on whether I’ve been kidnapped by pirates yet?”
His voice comes through rough. Tired in a way that makes my chest squeeze. “Tia. Listen to me. Pack a bag. Now. Something’s wrong.”
The playfulness drains out of me like water down a sink. “What do you mean something’s wrong? Is this about the weird cars I keep seeing or are we finally acknowledging that my apartment building has a suspicious number of men in dark sunglasses?”
He doesn’t laugh. Dad never laughs when it matters. “I’m coming to get you. Stay inside. Lock the doors. Do not open them for anyone but me.”
The line goes dead before I can ask more questions. I stand there holding the phone to my ear like an idiot. My heart thumps wild against my ribs. The honeysuckle candle suddenly smells too sweet. Almost sickening. I blow it out fast. The smoke curls up in lazy gray ribbons. My hands tremble as I shove clothes into my favorite backpack. The one with the cartoon kraken on it wearing sunglasses. I thought it was funny when I bought it. Now the tentacles feel like a bad omen.
Great job, universe. Send the girl who names her houseplants after 90s boy band members into actual danger. At least let me meet a hot mysterious man before I die. Preferably one who looks like he could bench press a yacht but also appreciates good puns.
I zip the bag and peek out the window again. Another car creeps past. This one has no lights. My pulse spikes. I back away from the glass and trip over my own feet. I twist my ankle, and I scream out in pain.
“Ow. Okay. Note to self. Graceful exits are for romcom heroines. I’m clearly the comic relief who dies first in horror movies.”