The Lies They Tell(10)
She jammed her phone into her pocket so hard it hurt—nothing compared to the splintery heart-stab of being mad at Reese—and stepped out of her car into the night.
The yacht club landing was lit by old-fashioned lampposts that made her think of Narnia; Dad had read those books to her growing up. She walked through pools of light, passing rows of yachts and powerboats, reading the slip numbers, half expecting some official type to come up and demand proof of membership. She’d explored this place plenty in the off-season, but never during the summer. The public landing was for locals like her, where the water rippled with prisms of diesel fuel and the benches were sticky with ice-cream handprints.
“Pearl. Hey.”
Down the floating dock, Bridges stood aboard a huge, muscular-looking speedboat. Pearl walked down to meet him. “Holy shit,” he said. “You actually showed.”
She shifted. “I said I would.”
“I know, but . . .” He shrugged. “Climb aboard. Need a hand up?”
“I got it.” She didn’t, but he let her find her own footing on the ladder, ending up nose to nose with him. His eyelashes were light, sun-washed, like the rest of him.
There was a thump, and Akil came up from belowdecks, dropping into the passenger seat. “So, she’s here. Let’s go,” he said.
Pearl sidestepped Bridges and perched on the bench seat, watching him pull the lines free and coil them. No sign of Tristan, no movement from below. “Where’s this party?” Bridges cocked his hand, pistol-style, at the dark, rocky mass crouching in the harbor. “Little Nicatou? That’s private property. Nobody goes there.”
The boys traded a look, but whatever Bridges said next was lost in the roar of the motor.
Pearl twisted around to watch the dock grow distant, all her tension and mental preparation dissolving like sand underfoot. He wasn’t coming. She rested her chin on the back of the seat, squeezing her eyes shut, wondering how she was going to survive this night—then swore as Bridges opened the throttle and almost pitched her to the floor.
They shot across the harbor, both boys standing, facing into the wind. Akil looked back once and laughed at the sight of her sitting stark upright, belted in, gripping the seat as spray buffeted her from all sides.
The headlights of three other boats were visible ahead of them now, cutting their own paths to Little Nicatou. There was a dock on the island—Pearl had seen that much from the harbor—and tonight it was lit with electric lanterns. Firelight was visible on the beach. Bridges muffed the landing twice, finally dropped anchor, and tied off on a piling before he noticed Pearl brushing water from her arms and face. “Sorry. I’m a pretty crazy driver.”
She had an answer for that, but when she saw Akil’s look, she swallowed it. One bitchy remark and she’d fail the first test, be labeled a typical girl: whiny, temperamental, and weak. “No worries.” Wiping her face, she took Bridges’s offer of a hand-up onto the dock ladder, passing Akil without a glance.
The beach stretched out to their left, Adirondack chairs strategically placed here and there. Globe string lights illuminated a pathway up into the trees, where windows glowed through the branches and hip-hop pounded from unseen speakers. There must be one hell of a generator up there—and an Exxon tanker to fuel it.
Most of the summer kids sitting around the portable fire pits were at least somewhat familiar to her, faces she’d seen in the dining room, or coming and going from the fitness center or spa. Even money none of them recognized her without her club colors.
Bridges grabbed two beers from an ice-filled cooler in the sand, microbrews Pearl had never heard of. Not a Bud or a Coors Light to be seen, and nobody seemed the least bit concerned about drinking right out in the open. Local kids made campsites in the woods, holed up in abandoned houses just to get some privacy. She didn’t drink anyway, but tonight, it seemed safer to carry one as a prop.
He put his free hand in his pocket, taking in her running shorts, gray V-necked T-shirt, and flip-flops. “Wow. You look . . . really . . .”
“Butch?” Akil hooked three beers under his arm and set off across the sand.
“Dude, don’t be like that.” Bridges looked back at her. “Ignore him. He’s pissed at the world, not you.”
“What a relief.” Pearl watched him choke on his first sip, his shoulders shaking. “What?”
“Just—you’re always on defense, that’s all.” He put his hands up. “Not a bad thing. Don’t maul me.”
Smiling despite herself, she gestured to the others. “Sorry. I’m a little out of my tax bracket here.”
“Ah, who cares. None of that shit matters.”
“Says the guy who owns an island.” She nodded at his hesitation. “That’s what I thought.”
“It’s my grandpa’s island, okay?”
“Right. You just use it to entertain a few hundred of your closest friends.” He tipped his head back and laughed. Pearl laughed with him; it was impossible not to. “How come I’ve never heard anything about this place belonging to the Spencers?”
“Gramps kept the deal pretty quiet. The family who owned it for, like, sixty years decided to sell, and I guess the old guy figured, why not? He loves Tenney’s Harbor. Been coming here ever since he was a kid.” He shrugged. “So, we own a big chunk of rock now. Don’t hold it against me.”