The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (The Devils #2)(14)

At the appointed time, Josh and I wander to the beach. He’s clad only in a pair of black swim trunks, still damp from the pool and clinging to his thighs. They’ve slipped to the top of his narrow hips, low enough to show off that perfect v of his abdomen, which I swear to God is pure muscle, not an ounce of fat anywhere to be found. He tucks the rental board under his arm and moves toward the water, leaving me to wait for the instructor, who arrives late and clearly has no fucks to give. Normally, I’d appreciate the fact that he’s treating me like everyone else, but I’d prefer someone who seems at least vaguely invested in keeping me alive.

He shows me how to pop up on the board. I practice twice, he yawns and says, “Whatever, it’s easy,” and then we are off. Josh is now a tiny speck on the horizon, approaching other tiny specks.

“We’re not going that far, right?” I whisper.

The dude, whose name is Stan, all but rolls his eyes. “Yeah, unless you’ve discovered a new way to surf that doesn’t involve waves.”

Gosh, I sure hope Stan wasn’t expecting a tip.

We paddle, and paddle—requiring more upper body strength than I probably have.

If he were nicer, I’d tell him I find the ocean slightly terrifying, and that I find things that live in the ocean similarly terrifying—the movie about the surfer who got her arm bit off took place in Hawaii, after all. I’d also like to mention that I want to keep all my limbs, which doesn’t feel like the sort of thing I should have to mention, but bears repeating.

A wave crashes over my head for what feels like the hundredth time, knocking the board out from under me and dumping me in the ocean. It seems as if we’re making no progress, and I want to weep from the ache in my arms when Stan heaves a sigh and pinches my board between his toes. “I’ll tow you,” he says, not hiding how tiresome he finds the fact that I cannot propel myself with ease, using only my upper body, for extended periods of time.

When he finally stops, we are really, really far from the shore, and nearly as far from Josh.

“Okay, lie flat on your board,” he says. “We’re gonna catch this next set.”

“We?”

“Sure, I’m gonna surf when you do,” he says. “That’s why I do this job.”

“What if I fall, though?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You won’t. That board’s like an ocean liner. But if you do, just float until I get back.”

Right. Just float in the middle of the shark-infested ocean alone ‘til you get back. Excellent plan, Stan.

He pushes me while shouting frantic instructions about paddling and standing. I only make it to my knees because the board is less like an ocean liner and more like a flimsy piece of plexiglass going god-knows-how-fast over rushing, uneven water. Fortunately, he’s still there, though he looks a little disgruntled. “That was a perfect wave you just missed.”

“I’ll try to stop being so bad at surfing, then,” I reply. “Surfing, something I’ve never done.”

He is looking into the distance, not listening. “Get flat,” he says. “Hurry. This is a good set.”

This time I manage to get up, for all of two seconds. Stan gives me a thumbs up as he blows past me on his tiny little board, and just the act of looking at him is enough to send me right over the side.

When my head comes back up, I’m alone and there’s an endless ocean on three sides of me. The shore is so distant it almost seems like a mirage and I feel panic setting in.

God. Don’t do this here, I beg. Do not do this here. I take shallow sips of air and try to ignore what’s happening—though after Amsterdam I should know this tactic doesn’t work. Passing out in front of thousands of people, and on camera, sucked. But not as much as passing out in the middle of the ocean.

I attempt to get my board right side up, but just as I do, a wave hits, knocking me for a loop, the board tugging dangerously on the ankle strap and flying into the air. I cover my head with my hands as I go under. What happens if it lands on me? What happens if I’m knocked unconscious? No one will even know. No one will even see me.

Don’t panic, I plead. My head breaks the surface and I look around frantically—no one is nearby. I see Josh in the distance but he’s not even looking my way, and another wave is coming. Stan told me to dive under them, but I can’t get on the board in time. Once again, the wave hits, and this time my leash doesn’t survive. When I emerge, my board is sailing away without me, heading straight for the glamorous shores I can’t possibly reach on my own. My breath is coming short now, and without my inhaler, I’m going to pass out in the water and no one will have a clue.

My head goes under again and when I reemerge, I see Josh paddling toward me fast. I have no idea how he does it, but within seconds he’s there. He jumps into the water and grabs me from behind, holding onto his board with one hand while the other arm wraps around my waist, keeping me safely above the surface.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I panicked,” I weep, placing a hand on his board and trying desperately to get air into my lungs. He’s the last person I want to freak out in front of, but there’s no helping it. “I get asthma attacks when I panic.” Deep breath in. “It always happens at the worst times. And now my board is gone. And…” I’m still trying to get air in and out. I squeeze my eyes shut tight trying to control the quiver in my lower lip.