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Subject: My Gift

It is when it’s from a self-confessed asshole. Especially one who refused to see me when I returned to the boat on Monday. I got your message loud and clear. So here’s my gift to you—Fuck off.

—Keely

PS—Happy to arrange for the message to be delivered in sign language for the seventh and (hopefully) final time, if words and their meaning elude you.

I lean back against the railing and consider my answer before I reply.

Subject: My Gift

Full disclosure: I wasn’t in a good place on Monday. Accept my gift, and I’ll consider accepting yours. I’m heavily into sign language.

—Mason

I hit send, knowing I’m exploiting that vein of compassion I glimpsed in her tough armor back in my kitchen. She may fight it, but ultimately, Keely Benson is a curious and compassionate creature. I stare at my screen until her message pops up.

Subject: My Gift

Full disclosure: I shouldn’t have stayed. Being horny made me greedy. But you were still gone when I woke up. For both our sakes, stay gone.

—Keely

Thoughts of Cassie and my mother recede as the challenge of how quickly I can dominate this situation heats up my blood.

Subject: My Gift

I can’t. We’re on the same yacht. Besides… you’re different. Also, greedy and horny work for me. Let me make it up to you.

—Mason

Subject: My Gift

We’ve managed to avoid one another for four days. If you ask me, we’re doing brilliantly. Also, in what way am I different? (Not that I care, of course)

—Keely

Subject: My Gift

In all the ways that shouldn’t matter, but do. In all the ways that matter, but shouldn’t.

—M

PS—Happy to repeat that in Pig Latin. I hear that turns you on.

She doesn’t reply for almost five minutes, and I wonder if she’s still annoyed at my overhearing her Pig Latin confession to Bethany back in Montauk. When she eventually replies, my eyes narrow at her answer.

Subject: My Gift

It doesn’t. I have to go. Goodbye.

—K

I let her go for a minute. Five minutes. Ten. My fingers tremble as I ponder the abruptness of the last text and fight against the screaming instinct that urges me to let this be.

My soul craves the calm wildness of Roraima. My gaping heart howls with the rage of loss that has never dimmed. I’m a walking razor blade. The odds of her not being hacked to pieces just by being around me are ludicrously low. I already know she’s caught a glimpse of the seething mess beneath. She caught a glimpse, and I responded by kicking her out of my bed and my house.

Logic dictates I should let her go before I risk turning her into another Cassie. But no. Keely will never be a Cassie. She’s her own unique brand of titanium-plated strength and kitten-soft weakness. Both are lethal in their own way. Both shimmer with a mesmeric compulsion that keeps me tethered to this time and place.