Page 21 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

S he’s here. My barista is here , a thousand miles from home, barging along the treeline and making more noise than a rampaging elephant.

Twigs crack beneath her boots; her breaths are ragged and wheezing.

Betty snarks out loud every few steps, carrying on half a conversation, her blonde ponytail swinging in the muggy air.

How is she here? How is this possible?

The red light of a tracker winks from her boot, answering that question. Obvious, really. It’s the agency, trying to entice me back in—dangling her like bait on a string. Should’ve known they’d see my interest in her, even as I tried to hide it.

Anger and hurt burn through my chest, but I keep silent, moving through the shadows. Why would Betty help them? Did they offer her money?

Doesn’t she care that I don’t want to be found? Can’t she respect that?

As I watch, Betty brushes too close to the trees and a hairy spider drops onto her shoulder. It’s stark against her pale top and tanned skin.

“Assholes,” she mutters, marching up the rocky slope, oblivious to her fist-sized hitchhiker. The spider lifts one leg, then another, and I keep parallel in the shadows, weighing my options.

That species is not venomous. Or not life-threatening, anyway. A bite might leave the barista with a swollen neck, but she won’t die. I shouldn’t interfere.

Because maybe this is the agency’s plan—to put Betty in lethal situations over and over, until I snap and reveal myself like a sentimental fool.

I won’t do it. Betty doesn’t want a spider bite? She shouldn’t have played this game. Should have stayed the hell away from me—here, and in that coffee shop.

She has no idea what kind of man she’s toying with.

“Agent Dawes,” the barista calls, her words sing-songing through the trees, “where are you? Come out, come out.”

And I’d think she was mocking me, except her ear piece buzzes like a hornet as someone from the agency yells at her, probably telling her not to scare me off. Betty winces, rolling her eyes at her boots. Lines of sweat run down her temples.

She’s… warning me. Huh.

And she still has a spider on her shoulder.

Glancing around, I pluck a flower from the foliage: white with a pink blush spreading through the petals. I’m out in the open for a single breath, feet silent, the breeze warm against my cheeks, then I blend back into the darkness again, tossing the annoyed spider behind me.

Betty lifts a hand to smooth her hair. Her fingertips brush the flower tucked behind her ear, and she jumps like she’s been electrified. She snatches the flower down and stares into the jungle.

“Miss Hale,” a tinny voice says, just on the edge of my hearing. “Why have you stopped moving? Do you see Agent Dawes?”

Cornflower blue eyes rove between the trees, and I melt back further into the shadows. A monkey screams high above, and leaves rustle. Shouldn’t have risked it, shouldn’t have moved, but Betty’s gaze sweeps right past me, and I sag, both disappointed and relieved.

“N-no,” she says.

No mention of the flower… so maybe she’s not in the agency’s pocket after all. Before she turns away, she smooths the crumpled petals, then tucks it carefully back behind her ear.

I watch her carry on up the slope, my chest burning.

* * *

I track Betty back to base camp, staying hidden the whole time.

It’s not hard—she’s too busy watching her steps to be observant, trying not to trip over roots or get tangled in a vine, and who can blame her?

I’ve brushed two more spiders, a glossy beetle, and a large caterpillar off her before she reaches the camp.

Betty’s a magnet for jungle critters—me included.

The canvas tents are clustered between the jungle and the beach, partly hidden by two rocky columns.

I count five men in all—one with a headset, sitting at a table of electronics, and one in the kitchen space, chopping onions with a scowl.

The other three lounge around the campfire in fold-out chairs, swigging beers as the pink sky darkens. I don’t recognize their faces.

Mercenaries, then? The agency does like using temps for the dirty work. And dragging me back in is the definition of dirty.

“There she is,” one man by the fire calls, grinning at Betty in a flash of white teeth. The pale line of a scar cuts through his beard. She approaches the camp with stiff shoulders, ignoring everyone and making a beeline for a ramshackle tent on the outskirts. “Nice flower, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

I’ll stuff a melon down his throat.

Hers is the smallest, shabbiest tent, patched and leaning to one side where the rocky dirt turns to sand. Of course they stuck Betty in that tent when she needs the most protection. If it rains, she’ll get soaked. Pricks.

See, this is why I’m done with the agency. Back in the day, I could stomach a few gung ho idiots, one or two assholes on each mission. We were doing important work, after all. Taking down global criminals and keeping people safe.

But lately, it’s less good work and more sloppy, macho bullshit. More secrecy and lies. I don’t recognize half the agents, and I’m tired of it, alright? Getting too old for this crap.

It’s easy to slip around the outskirts of camp, darting from rock to rock. The men are done for the day, more interested in the bottom of their bottles than keeping watch, and their bursts of rowdy laughter set my teeth on edge.

Betty’s not safe here. This is a different kind of jungle, and she’s trapped right in the middle of it. Juicy and tempting.

Have they hassled her already? Or are they building up to it? Peeling the back of her canvas tent open, I slip through the gap. I’ll be here when they do.

Betty squeaks when she sees me, clapping one hand over her mouth. She’s in the doorway, but she can’t stay there. Too suspicious.

I put a finger against my lips. She nods, her eyes so blue even in the dim tent, then marches right back out.

Shit.

My gut sinks as her footsteps thump away against the dirt. Did I read this all wrong? Maybe she wants to be here; maybe she volunteered. The knife strapped to my belt whispers as I pull it loose, because I won’t hurt Betty either way, but the rest of these fuckers are fair game.

But then: “Here’s your earpiece. Now get this wire off me, will you?” Betty says on the other side of camp, her voice clear as a bell. “It’s giving me a rash.”

A man replies: “Fine. But keep those boots on.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

I smirk at Betty’s sarcasm, eyes adjusting to the gloom of her tent. My knife sighs back into its sheath.

There’s a narrow cot with a foam mattress, a tangled thin blanket and a pillow. A makeshift nightstand made from an upturned box. A flashlight, a toothbrush, a bar of soap in a travel dish. A hairbrush and a stick of deodorant.

It’s the barest sliver of her life, but I can’t help moving closer, nudging the flashlight with my fingertip. I lift the soap silently, breathing in the scent, then place it next to the hairbrush, tangled with a few golden strands.

At the bottom of her cot, a duffel bag sags open, spilling crumpled vest tops and underwear onto the mattress. A towel hangs from the tent bars overhead, dusted with sand and left to dry.

Have they gone through her stuff? Did they watch her bathe? My pulse slams in my ears, and I thank god I followed her back here. She’s alone with all these men, and so vulnerable. At their mercy.

Unacceptable.

I’ve been so caught up in getting an ocean away from this woman—keeping my distance. Keeping her safe.

I forgot there are worse monsters than me.

* * *

Two months ago

I’m back at the coffee shop, ordering the same drink from the same barista. It’s a pattern, and I know that’s dangerous, but for some reason I can’t resist.

Betty , her name badge says. It’s clipped to her black polo neck, the corner snagging on her apron strap.

She grins at me as I approach the counter—stands a little straighter, and tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her ponytail swings as she turns to check for her colleague, but the other barista slipped away when she saw me coming.

Smart woman. If only Betty had the same instincts around me.

There’s blood on my hands, after all. If I ever touched her, she’d be stained too.

“Hey, stranger.” Betty always greets me the same way, her head cocked to one side and eyes sparkling. Eight times I’ve been here, now. Eight times in one month.

Like I said: it’s a pattern.

Reckless. Stupid.

Electrifying.

“Black coffee?” She’s already placing a cup in the machine; already grinding the beans.

Betty watches me from beneath lowered lashes, her tattoos so vivid on her bare arms. Roses and birds and a string of pearls, even an old fashioned anchor on her wrist. Every time she moves, I catch a new sliver of color. Another puzzle to solve.

I clear my throat. “Please.”

“For the mystery man,” Betty says when she places the take out cup on the counter.

When she spins it around, the words are there in purple sharpie.

Mystery man . And there are a thousand fake names I could give her, even names that I have passports to match, but for some foolish reason, I give her my real one.

“River.” The cardboard is hot in my hand. I take a scalding sip, and the coffee is dark and bitter. “River Dawes.”

“River,” Betty repeats, fiddling with the napkin holder. “Suits you. Sounds kind of… wild.”

It does, huh? I lower the cup, pulse spiking. Every time I see this woman, I’m left wrestling with my worst instincts—with the urgent desire to throw her over my shoulder and carry her away, that ponytail swinging against my hip. Finders keepers.

“You always come in when there’s no line, River.”

I lift one shoulder. “Lucky, I guess.”

Luck’s got nothing to do with it—I’m careful. Can’t afford too many eyes on me, not in my line of work, and especially not with this dangerous pattern I’m in. But Betty grins like she sees right through my bullshit, like she knows exactly how well-timed my visits are.

“Next time,” she says, her husky voice doing something to my insides, “you should come on my break. We could sit together. Shoot the shit. I’ll sneak you a free biscotti.”

I could never drink in, could never take such a risk, but when she says it like that… it’s tempting. Too tempting.

“I hate biscotti,” I say.

Betty’s eyes sparkle. “Too bad.”

My neck is hot as I leave the coffee shop. Nerves prickle under my skin, and I can feel her eyes on me, watching me go. The bell rings above the door, and the street outside is hot and stifling, the air scented with baking concrete and ozone.

I need to stop coming here. Need to give Betty up.

She’s not mine anyway—and she never could be.