Anchor

Chapter 2

Gabriel

The boating safety class I teach runs long. In part because the students are curious, but the real reason is because I love being on the water. It's what inspired me to join the Marines after high school and what cemented my decision to volunteer for the Coast Guard when I got out. And I'll admit to myself, though I'd never say it aloud, I kinda enjoy the teaching aspect, too. Something I never got to do in the Marines. Badasses don't like being told when they're doing something wrong.

"If you have questions," I say when the chatter has died down, "please don't hesitate to give me a call and stay safe out there."

I leave before anyone can bring up the search and rescue missions, which seem to be a hot topic among the safety courses. Most of the instructors don't mind chatting about it afterward, but makes my skin crawl. I scrub a hand over my face as I walk down the hall to the exit. Whispers follow behind me and I don't have to guess what they're talking about.

It was easier when there was an enemy to face. When the bad guys were bad guys. People. Living, breathing things I could combat with weapons.

A mission is so much easier to complete when the bad guys stay down after a shot to the head or the heart. Combatting an enemy with no end, no conscience, and even less regard for human life than any degenerate I've ever come across is infinitely harder.

The elements don't have compassion. The ocean doesn't give a rat's ass about the lives it takes.

It's unforgiving. Relentless. Never-ending. Unconquerable.

And I both love and hate it.

Until a few months ago, I enjoyed battling the unpredictability, pitting my will against it. It is the ultimate rush.

Until I realized I could never stand a chance against Mother Nature.

The shack on the beach, where I run the part-time tourist business that pays the bills, offers little reprieve from the late summer sun. Its neon colors have long since faded from the combination of wind, salt, and water to ghosts of their former selves, the wood worn smooth by the constant breeze from the water. A lone figure rests against the counter flirting up a pretty customer.

My mood lifts when I recognize the old man, his customary bottle of Coke, and his lazy smile. "Don't let him lie to you," I say to the girl. "He doesn't even work here."

Tyler snorts. "I'm here more than you are, I might as well work here. Here are your keys, darlin', the rental lasts through the day. Key return is at five on the dot."

She smiles at him and flounces off with two of her giggling girlfriends.

"Official business?" I say and nod to his police uniform. He and my dad were on the local force—which isn't saying much since the edges of the island are within spitting distance of each other. He's more like an uncle and has made it a point to keep tabs on me ever since my parents died in a freak boating accident a couple years ago.

"Sure," he says as he pops open a soda from the mini fridge I keep below the counter. "Ready to spread 'em?"

A plane buzzes over our heads, but I dismiss it as another advertisement or parasailing operation running in loops across the beach. Gulls caw in the distance and circle around forgotten snacks for their lunch. A car beeps, but it sounds far away. Above all is the constant rush of waves smashing into the surf. It was a sound that used to haunt me, but one I can't quite escape on the island.

Tyler offers a soda, and I drink it in a few gulps. "You're living the dream, man," he says as he sips his own. "Come and go as you please, a new hot woman every night. Fuck, I hate you."