Page 5

These guys? They were local, I could feel it. Sloppy, overconfident. I’d have them begging for mercy before the week was out.
“Get some rest,” I told Teresa, grabbing my jacket. “I’ll handle it.”
I glanced at Vivi one last time, and the demon roared, its claws sinking deeper. She was trouble, the kind I didn’t need but couldn’t resist. I told myself I was staying for the job, for the challenge.
But as I walked out into the humid Charleston night, the truth burned in my chest.
I was coming back for her.
3
VIVIENNE
Dragging a kayak through my studio apartment wasn’t exactly a glamorous look, but it was the reality of living above Liquid Courage.
The air downstairs always smelled like tequila, pineapple syrup, and bad decisions, but I loved it.
It was home.
I wrestled the kayak out the door, bumping the frame, the stairs, probably a few ghosts.
Down below, a few of the regulars spilled onto the sidewalk, plastic souvenir cups in hand, singing some off-key song about heartbreak and slushies.
One of them—Big Mike, a bearded guy who lived on rum punch and charm—saw me and laughed.
“Where you headed, Vivi?” he called.
“Night cruise,” I said, struggling to get the kayak onto my shoulder.
“Don’t drown! I ain’t sober enough to save you!”
I blew him a kiss and dumped the kayak into the back of my dented SUV.
The harbor was only a few minutes away, and the drive was a breeze with the windows down and the salt air tangling in my curls.
I found Jessa waiting at the launch, spinning a Red Bull can on one finger like a circus act.
Her long dark braid whipped around in the breeze, her board shorts clinging to her legs.
Jessa was the kind of girl who thought "danger" was just another word for "good story."
“About damn time!” she shouted as I pulled up.
“I had to evict my kayak from my living room!” I called back, laughing.
“You and that bar apartment,” she said, shaking her head. “One day they’re gonna find you crushed under a kayak and three frozen margaritas.”
“Better than dying bored,” I said as we shoved our kayaks into the water.
The night wrapped around us thick and sweet, heavy with humidity and the low hum of music from downtown. The moon hung fat and golden over the water, slicing silver ribbons across the surface.
Technically, paddling out into Charleston Harbor after dark wasn’t the smartest thing two women could do.
The harbor wasn’t just pretty lights and tourist sailboats—it was a working port, and even at night, tugs and cargo ships cut through the water like silent giants. Their massive wakes could flip a kayak in seconds if you weren’t careful.
Not to mention the currents—strong, unpredictable, twisting through the inlets and around the barrier islands like invisible hands trying to drag you under.
And then there was the wildlife. Bull sharks liked these waters. So did the occasional rogue alligator that wandered too far south from the rivers.