Uncharted(21)

I can’t be mad at a man for dying.

I can’t be mad at rescue for not coming.

He’s all I have left. He’s the only one here. The only outlet for my rage and terror and guilt. So, it doesn’t matter that none of this is his fault. I bottle up every ounce of emotion raging inside me and blast it at him without remorse.

“The minute I met you I knew you were the worst kind of man!”

“And what kind of man would that be?” he fires back, just as pissed off at me as I am at him. Maybe I’m not the only one who needs to release a little rage. “Since you’re apparently so well versed in the subject of men and their shortcomings.”

“Arrogant. Rude. Impatient.” I’m panting. “Bossy. Manipulative. Condescending.”

And entirely too good looking, I add silently.

He scoffs. “You got all that in the first minute?”

“The first bloody second!” I snap.

His eyes narrow on mine. “Well, I could tell as soon as I clapped eyes on you that you were a pampered little princess. Believe me, baby, of all the women I could’ve ever envisioned myself marooned with… I never once imagined I’d end up with a child.”

I swallow down a scream. “If I’m a child, you’re a cantankerous old man!”

“Does someone need a time out?” he mocks.

I do scream, this time. My hand curls around the bailer and before I can stop myself or think about the repercussions of my actions, I crank back my arm and chuck it full-force at his head — forgetting, in my rage, that it’s fastened to a short tether line. The plastic bucket arcs perfectly toward his face, a straight shot, before jolting to a stop at the end of its rope and falling to the empty span of raft between us.

For a moment, it’s totally silent as we stare at each other. I think he’s stunned I tried to bean him in the head. Frankly, I’m a bit stunned myself.

His eyes flicker from my face down to the bailer and back again. I see a glimmer of humor flash in their depths, but it’s gone so fast I convince myself I’m hallucinating.

Of all the things that might make him laugh, surely me screaming insults and attempting to maim him isn’t at the top of that list…

Shame swamps me. He was right to call me a child — I’ve behaved worse than a toddler throwing a tantrum. I open my mouth to apologize for my outburst, but he beats me to the punch.

“You should rest,” he says carefully, as though navigating a minefield blindfolded and barefoot. “I’ll keep watch for a while.”

“You’re just as tired as I am,” I point out quietly. With the tension finally abated between us, the fight has gone out of me, replaced by such intense exhaustion I fear I’ll pass out before the protests leave my lips. The stress of the last twenty-four hours has officially caught up. I’ve been reduced to a hollow shell of my former self.

“I can hold out a little while longer,” he murmurs, those unreadable eyes burning into mine once more. “We’ll take shifts. There’s no point in both of us staying awake all the time.”

My lips twitch as my eyelids droop closed. “Plus, there’s probably less of a chance I’ll toss you overboard, if one of us is asleep…”

“True enough.”

I’m half-dreaming when a throat clears roughly, pulling me back from the precipice. His voice is uncharacteristically soft when he asks a question that makes my heart clench.

“Your name.” He pauses a beat. “What’s your name?”

I keep my eyes closed, unable to look at him as I answer. The syllables feel strange on my tongue — like a secret I hadn’t realized I was keeping.

“Violet.” My pulse pounds faster. “My name is Violet Anderson.”

He’s silent for so long, I don’t think he’s going to reciprocate. When he finally does, his voice isn’t full of scorn. It’s achingly sincere. Alarmingly sincere.

“Violet,” he rasps softly, sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m Beck.”

Beck.

The name wraps around my mind, smooth as silk sheets, and I tumble mercifully into oblivion.





Chapter Seven





L A N D F A L L





Another day slips by without fanfare.

I doze in short spurts, often jolting out of sleep at an unfamiliar sound: a pained moan from Ian, a particularly large swell crashing against the side of the raft, Beck sorting through his duffle bag and the emergency pack, taking stock of our limited supplies. The only sounds I want to hear — the whirring of helicopter blades, the rumble of a ship engine — never manifest. No salvation appears on the horizon, despite the constant vigil we keep.

Trading shifts, Beck and I are rarely awake at the same time. Even when we are, we speak infrequently. Our conversations are limited to such scintillating topics as how many more sips of water are in the canteen and is Ian still breathing and pass the sunscreen. I think we’re both afraid any further attempts at communication will devolve into another screaming match.

The truth is, we both made assumptions. We held trial and passed judgment before giving the benefit of the doubt. And now, having convicted each other without a shred of evidence besides our own snap judgments, having screamed and raged and mocked one another…