CHAPTER 4
Emmett
Two years ago…
OUR EYES MEET across the bar. And for a beat they lock.
She lifts her black retro sunglasses up over her forehead with one hand to analyze me more closely. Her gaze roves over my bare chest, swim trunks, and down to the slides on my feet before meandering its way back up to my face. The music thumps so loudly through the open-air pool area that all I can hear is the heavy bass. The one that seems to beat in time with the blood rushing through my veins.
She takes me in critically, but her expression is blank, bored even. She drops her shades back onto the bridge of her nose. And then—as though she’s examined me and found me entirely lacking—she turns her back on me.
Dhruv claps me on the shoulder solemnly, and Caleb removes his mouth from the straw in his drink only to laugh at the silent but vicious rejection.
“Damn! Turning thirty has killed your game,” Caleb exclaims, drawing a nod from Dhruv.
I roll my eyes, taking a sip of my beer before I bother responding to my two best friends from high school. “We all know that isn’t true,” I reply. We haven’t seen each other in forever, so when they invited me to join them on a Caribbean cruise over Christmas, I thought, why the fuck not?
With the WBRF, I’m on the road from November through May, save for Christmas break. But my parents died at Christmas, so the vibes at home are always a little… too sentimental. It means my family spends an inordinate amount of time talking about their feelings and reminiscing about our parents— something I prefer to avoid. And as much as I’m sure they wish I’d show up, they also love me enough to let me do what I need to do.
So the stars aligned for this makeshift high school reunion because the tickets were cheap, Dhruv’s family doesn’t celebrate Christmas, and Caleb’s an only child whose parents planned a trip to Paris without him.
But what they failed to mention when they sold me on the idea is that this is a singles cruise. And while we are all very, very single, being stuck at sea with thousands of people looking for a relationship is not my idea of a good time.
Especially not with her here.
It’s weird seeing her outside of the bull-riding world or in passing around town. During the season, my home base is a condo in Calgary for its easy access to an international airport, but I’m still at the family farm in Emerald Lake frequently. Hell, I spend all offseason living and working there.
It’s a wonder we haven’t run into each other already—a testament to how ridiculously massive this stupid boat is. At least there’s only one night left on this floating city. But it wasn’t all bad. Free drinks, endless sunshine, and catching up with old friends who didn’t talk about scores, bulls, and work the entire time meant I actually relaxed for a week.
“You ever going to tell us why that girl just looked at you like you were gum stuck on the bottom of her shoe?” Dhruv asks, interrupting my reflection on the week.
A chuckle rumbles in my throat, because that is exactly how she looked at me.
Caving in, I cast another glance in her direction.
With those shades still securely on her face, she has a drink in her hand, gold flashing from the multiple rings on her fingers and bracelets stacked on her wrist.
Her deep-pink bikini draws the eye, and the white scarf tied around her waist almost glows against her skin—more tan than usual after a week in the sun. She’s slicked her dark brown hair into a low, tight bun that looks downright uncomfortable.
A group of men and women about her age surrounds her, but there’s one guy specifically who’s sidled up close to her while two others do a dramatic reenactment of the story they’re telling. They’re all vying for her attention, and why wouldn’t they? Her brother annoys me, but I’m not above admitting their family genetics are pretty good.
And I can’t help but wonder what the dynamic is with Mr. Too-Close. Not that it matters, and not that I care. She’s with a large group of people, still pretending that I don’t exist, and she seems to be enjoying herself, which is all good enough for me.
So I turn back to my friends, who are waiting patiently for me to explain the silent exchange they just witnessed.
“That is my biggest competitor’s little sister. Julia Silva.”
“So… should you go say hi?” Caleb asks, his tone giving away his confusion.
A smile quirks my lips as I imagine marching over there just to say hi.
Oh, she’d hate that. And so would Theo—which makes me want to do it even more.
“No. Maybe ‘competitor’ isn’t the right word for Theo Silva. Rival? Enemy?
He hates me, and by default I’m sure she does too. So, I highly doubt she wants me to say hi.”
The guys look over at her again. They don’t keep track of the sport, but even they recognize the name Theo Silva.
“Well,” Dhruv announces with a disbelieving laugh, “there’s no accounting for taste, and we’ve only got one more night in paradise.” He lifts his drink. “So cheers to the haters. May we know them. May we be them. But most of all, may Emmett beat them this season!”
Caleb and I both laugh and join him in his toast. Because truly, what is better than showing up your haters?
Then we order another, making our stand at the narrow high-top table, and move on to better and more interesting topics of conversation.
The sun sets low on the horizon, painting the ship in dreamy hues of pink, purple, and gold before fading and snuffing out any last glow of natural light. As night falls around us, conversation flows, and so do the drinks. The DJ keeps the music going, and the night takes on that hazy, ethereal quality that comes with the heady buzz of too much alcohol.
Only one day left before it’s back to the grind, so I might as well enjoy myself, even if it makes the flight tomorrow morning miserable.
A few women join us at our table, and shortly after, Dhruv leaves with one of them. The other two stay and talk. The blonde latches on to Caleb, and the
redhead to me. I absently wonder how I should break it to this woman that I am officially too drunk to get a boner and that—nice as she seems—all I want to do is get hammered and shoot the shit with my friends on our last night together.
There are no shortage of hookups on the road. From buckle bunnies to local girls at the bar, the allure of the one-night stand on vacation has long since lost its excitement for me. It’s just the norm now. And it remains preferable to touching a relationship with a ten-foot pole. But it’s not exhilarating. There’s no thrill, no rush.
Plus, the wholesome charm of catching up with guys who had teenage hormonal acne at the same time as me is really what this trip has been about.
Still, the woman—whose name I keep forgetting—continues to talk and run her nails up and down my spine. All flags are green. It’s a slam dunk. A home run.
And a younger me would have been all over this opportunity, but at thirty years old, I’m shocked to find myself… bored.
Which is why I end up looking back over at Julia Silva, who appears to be having a grand old time chatting up the same group of guys.
She’s turned to one of the men, away from the table where her drink still sits, though her hand stays wrapped around it. My gaze snaps to the one who has been eagerly edging closer to her all night. He watches her raptly, the hand shoved in his pocket moving as if he’s playing with something inside. His eyes only leave her to
look at the drink in her hand.
Once. Twice. Three times.
He practically bounces on the balls of his feet as he watches. All while his hand continues to fidget in his pocket.
I’ve spent a lifetime watching out for strange body language like this. I used to think my dad would fly off the handle at the drop of a hat, but that was before I learned what to look for.
Small signals that he was agitated. A smirk that was only a cover for the cruel twinkle in his eye. He never laid a hand on me—he didn’t need to. Fucked me up with his words and head games just fine.
My chin tilts as I assess the man across the bar. Something feels off about his behavior—an anxious edge, a deliberate watchfulness.
Julia stumbles backward, wobbling on her feet, and I swear he anticipates it.
Like her clumsiness isn’t a surprise to him at all.
He props her up and sweeps a loose piece of hair from her face to whisper something in her ear before dragging his lips over the slope of her neck. She laughs in response, hitting him with a look that isn’t hard to read.
Then he reaches for her wrist, lifting her hand with the cocktail, urging her to take another drink.
She lifts the drink and takes a sip with a woozy smile, and as she does, one of the other men subtly nudges his chin at his friend.
My stomach drops. Hard, fast, sizzling with nervous heat as I realize what I’m watching play out. You spend enough time on the road, living in hotels and partying in scuzzy bars and you see it all. The best of people. But more often than not, the worst of people.
Julia doesn’t look like she even realizes what’s going on, but the guys she’s with
are very aware.
Suddenly, I’m infinitely more sober.
I shake the redhead’s hand off, shoot off my stool, and storm away from my table without a single word. My pace quickens as I weave my way through the pack of writhing bodies toward Julia’s table. By the time I get there, Sleazebag number one is practically holding her upright.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t even stop to think. Swooping in beside her, I wrap my arm around her lower back and grip her hip with my other hand, pulling her into me. Her hands splay against my bare pecs as I reach around and give the guy one hard shove in the middle of his chest.
“What the fuck?” he shouts as he spills his drink and struggles to regain his footing.
The group of people surrounding us goes still, all gawking as the music blares on.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” the guy says, stepping closer as he shakes soda from his arms. He looks like a frat boy Dracula with his dark slicked- back hair, feline features, and eyes nearly black with indignant fury.
“Ruining your plans, you piece of shit,” I reply, tugging Julia closer to me as I step back and away from the group of guys. Her head lolls, neck almost boneless
as she struggles to look up at me.
I tip my chin down to inspect her.
“Nooo,” is her first slurred word in my direction. Followed by, “You fucking suck.”
She sounds like she’s got a mouth full of rocks, and her body grows heavier by the second as her forehead crashes against my sternum, losing its battle with gravity.
“I know,” I mutter under my breath, though I doubt she can hear me. I might suck, but not as much as this guy does. And I’d suck a lot more if I didn’t step in to help her.
Turning my attention back toward the wall of dude-bros in front of me, I arch a brow.
Vampire guy steps closer, like he’s going to do something about it. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He moves toward me like I’m the problem and he’s got the solution.
But you don’t spend your entire life being a scrappy, unlikable shit-disturber to
not have a plan.
And I do have one.
The minute he draws near enough, my knee shoots up, catching him in the ballsack. All that predatory air leaving his lungs is music to my ears. And as he folds in on himself like a cheap lawn chair my hand dives into his pocket, bringing out a small plastic baggie of pills.
He’s still doubled over when I dump them out in front of him. They scatter across the floor like hail during a summer storm. Small white tablets bouncing across the concrete surface. It’s loud around the pool, but I swear every tick of them landing rings out like a gunshot.
Wide eyes and shocked murmurs spread like wildfire through the crowd as everyone pieces together the woman slumped in my arms with the man surrounded by pills. A couple of girls announce that they’re going to get ship security, and I give them a stern nod as my thanks.
“Let’s get you to the doctor,” I tell Julia, but it’s only when a soft tapping lands on the side of my neck that I glance back down. The pad of Julia’s finger is featherlight against my skin, like she can barely muster the energy.
“No doctor. Just get me out.” She breathes the words faintly, but I hear her loud and clear. And as much as I’d like to stick around to kick the guy in the face while he’s down, Julia is losing consciousness against me—something I know she would never willingly do.
So instead of seeking vengeance, I honor her wishes and scoop her limp body up into my arms, turning away from the confrontation.
Her small purple purse, still slung across her body by a dainty gold chain, taps against my leg with each step as I move across the ship. She’s altogether too damn heavy to give me any sense of relief. Instead, I carry her to my room with an overwhelming sense of terror.
All I know is that she asked me to get her out.
So I do.
