Page 11 of A Shore Fling

TRAVIS

M y brothers are standing around drinking beers when I arrive. The volleyball net has already been set up, and Ginger and Willow are sitting in beach chairs.

“Hey,” I call out the single greeting to everyone as I grab a beer from Reed’s cooler.

“What’s up, bro?” Jordan asks.

“Nothing new. How about you?” I kick off my slides. The tide’s out, and the sand’s packed firmly beneath my feet.

“I’m just happy to be outside enjoying this beautiful day,” Jordan replies, sipping from his can.

“Are we gonna play or what?” Reed asks.

I walk past him, patting his cheek. “You’re eager to get your ass kicked.”

“Not today, motherfucker,” Reed fires back, flexing a bicep.

Jordan holds out his fist so I can bump it. “We got this.”

“You two act like you never lose,” Drew says.

Jordan guzzles the rest of his beer and then tosses the empty can in the cooler. He casts a nonchalant glance at our baby brother. “I think you and Reed have beaten us twice in the past two years. It must suck to lose so often.”

As expected, Drew laughs. He’s a lover, not a fighter, and probably the nicest person I know. “Our time will come,” he states confidently.

“Yeah, but it won’t be today,” I say, taking my position on our side of the net.

“Ladies, are you sure you don’t want to get in on the fun?” Reed asks Willow and Ginger.

Willow holds up her margarita. “No, thanks. We’re conducting important business here.”

Reed grins. “I can see that.”

Ginger wrinkles her nose. “We’re going to keep our distance. One of you always ends up with a black eye or a bleeding body part.”

“Are you saying you’re not willing to play nurse for me, Ginger?” Jordan teases.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you can find any number of willing females to jump to your aid.”

“Maybe your hands are the only ones I want on me.” He winks.

She snorts. “I bet you tell all the girls that.”

“Jordan, get the fuck in position,” I finally shout. If there’s a pretty woman within ten feet, he’s liable to get distracted. He jogs over to our side of the net.

“Heads or tails?” Willow asks.

“Heads,” I reply at the same time Reed chooses tails.

Willow flips the quarter, and it lands in the sand at her feet. She leans forward in her chair. “Heads.”

“What the fuck, Will? You’re my best friend. Would it kill you to give me a leg up?” He throws the ball to me.

She rolls her eyes, or at least I imagine that’s what’s happening behind her large sunglasses. “It’s a brotherly game of volleyball, not a dead body that needs disposing of.”

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I shout, “Stop whining, Reed.” He laughs, giving me the bird. I grab the ball, flipping it from one hand to the other.

“Shall we place a wager on this match?” Jordan asks.

Across the net, Reed doesn’t answer right away, but his smile sharpens, like he’s already dreaming up the terms.

“Are we talking money, bragging rights, or lifelong shame?” Drew asks.

“You two have already fulfilled the lifelong shame part with all your previous losses,” I point out.

“I’ve got it. Losers have to hold hands with their teammate for an hour,” Reed suggests.

Jordan quirks an eyebrow. “You like Drew that much?”

“Hey, I’m likable as fuck,” Drew defends.

“You are, bud.” Reed rubs his hand over Drew’s head, then sends a cocky look our way. “Let’s just say I’m feeling confident today.”

“You’re on,” Jordan says, agreeing to the stakes.

“We better win this. I definitely don’t like you that much,” I grumble.

Jordan laughs. “Dude, we’ve got this.”

The serve is mine. I toss the ball into the air, flex my wrist, and slam it over the net. Reed’s prepared, popping the ball up effortlessly.

“Try again, Grandpa,” he says, brushing sand from his hands as Drew hustles under it shouting, “I got it! I got it!” Like an enthusiastic puppy. He bumps it over.

Jordan lets it fall to the sand without even trying.

“Jordan,” I say flatly.

“Figured we’d spot them a few points,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “Then, bam! We destroy them.”

“Don’t get too confident. I don’t want your sweaty palm glued to mine for an hour.”

His lips stretch with a smirk. “Like that would happen.”

Shaking my head, I scoop up the ball and then throw it over to Reed. He tosses it up, making the serve. Jordan gets under it this time, jumping into the air, then slamming the ball downward over the net. Crack. Drew’s face takes the hit. I flinch at the sound.

“Shit! Sorry, bro,” Jordan calls out.

Drew drops down on one knee, groaning and clutching his bleeding nose while Willow and Ginger let out a collective gasp. Reed hurries over to him. “You okay?”

“I think so. Is it still straight?” He stands, moves his hand away, and tips his head back.

Reed nods. “Good news is, it’s not broken. Bad news is, you’re still ugly.”

We all laugh, Drew included, because he’s a handsome fucker. Not even a crooked nose would change that.

I grab a towel from one of the beach bags and hand it to him. “You’re fine.”

He wipes at the blood trickling toward his mouth. “Just another battle wound from one of you fuckers.” He blows his nose dramatically.

“Are we going to get back to playing or what?” Jordan asks, all out of sympathy.

We get back into position as the wind shifts, blowing a cooler breeze over us. I sigh, enjoying the respite from the heat, and pick up the ball. “You sure you’re okay to play?” I ask Drew.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

I spin the ball in my hands before tossing it up in the air.

I send it sailing over the net, and Reed dives, barely making contact.

The ball pops up just enough for Drew to get his hands underneath it and send it over to our side.

Jordan pounds it like it’s a mortal enemy, sending it forcefully back.

Neither Reed or Drew gets there in time.

“Yes!” Jordan high-fives me.

The match continues until we’re all sweating profusely. Jordan and I are up by five points, and we only need one more to win.

Reed signals for a time-out. “I need water.”

“Yeah, we could all use some,” I say, passing out bottles. I crack open the cap and take deep gulps.

Willow stands up, shielding her eyes with her hand as she stares out at the water. “Is she trying to float away?”

Ginger rises to her feet beside her. “What should we do?” I hear the concern in her voice.

Putting the cap back on the bottle, I set it in the sand and then move over to them. “What’s going on?”

Will points straight in front of her. “That little blob of orange is the inner tube Nina is floating away on.”

“Why doesn’t she jump off and swim back?” I ask.

Ginger’s eyes are lit with worry. “She told us she can’t swim well.”

My gaze snaps back out to the tiny orange dot against an endless sea of blue. “Unfucking real,” I mutter. That woman might be beautiful and successful, but it seems she doesn’t have an iota of common sense. I turn to my brothers. “Guys, I’m taking a break. We can continue our game later.”

“Trav, we only need one more point,” Jordan reminds me.

“I know, but Nina is floating out to sea, and I need to get her.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Jordan says.

“If we stop now, Drew and I will win by default,” Reed states.

“No way. That’s not fair.” Jordan goes right back at him.

Reed’s expression is smug. “Neither is quitting mid-game.”

As much as I want to win, I can’t wait. What if Nina falls into the water and drowns? Besides, by the time we finish, she might be halfway to Nova Scotia, and it’ll only be that much more difficult to get to her.

“Fine. You win.” Yanking my red t-shirt over my head, I toss it onto the sand and run toward the shore.

The frigid water stings my feet and then my calves as I keep progressing forward.

Once I hit groin depth, I’m hit with an icy junk punch that feels like it came from the Abominable Snowman himself.

I try to breathe through the painful shock, but my breath gets stolen for a moment.

It’s barely recovered when the water hits my chest, stealing it all over again.

Fuck this. I dive under the water, hoping to put an end to the torture, like some body shock reset, but I resurface with the added agony of a brain freeze so brutal it feels like my skull might implode.

Goddammit! Maybe I should let her drown…

just for like thirty seconds. Enough to make her never do this again.

But, no, of course I won’t do that. While I may be a sarcastic asshole, I’m not actually an asshole.

So here I am, throwing myself into hypothermic oblivion for Nina, the fancy disaster from New York City.

My limbs are numb and heavy, like they’re made from slabs of concrete. Each stroke is a clumsy flail, as if my body forgot how to swim. All I know is I need to keep going for her sake.

Saltwater repeatedly slaps me in the face as I continue onward. She’s about thirty feet away now, reading a book as her tube rocks in the current. Wait a damn minute. She’s reading a fucking book as if nothing is wrong?

My anger cancels out everything else. I attack each stroke with renewed vigor, unsure if I want to save her or push her farther out to sea just so I never have to rescue her again.

Digging deeper, I kick harder. Only ten more feet to go.

Then five. As I approach, Nina is entirely unaware.

Her eyes, shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, are focused on the paperback she’s reading.

I swim up behind her and place a hand on the tube.

She doesn’t notice, so I call her name. “Nina.”

She jumps, flexing her calves on the orange vinyl with enough force to topple her into the sea, but I quickly stabilize the small float, shouting, “Nina, hold still.”

She settles down, placing one hand over her heart. “I was perfectly still until you scared the bejesus out of me. I thought you were a shark.”

“Yeah, because sharks always address their prey by name before they eat them.”