Page 22 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

A gent Dawes is still in my tent when I slip back inside. The sight of him there, looming over my crappy nightstand and poking at my hairbrush, makes something agitated settle deep inside me.

Guess I figured he’d disappear. Melt into the night like a wisp of smoke.

Exhaling slowly, I raise my eyebrows at the man who turned my life upside down.

In the darkness, Agent Dawes frowns. Gestures me closer.

Even with the crackle of the campfire, the low drone of voices and the distant sighs of the sea, he’s too cautious to speak.

To make a single noise. Because we’re out of view in here, the canvas flap of my tent blocking out roving eyes, but that doesn’t mean we’re secure.

It’s not like Echo and his goons are the knocking type.

You know… I could yell right now. Could let those jerks know he’s here, let them taze him or worse, then go back to my regular life at the coffee shop. Back to my rut. This would all be over—assuming they’d keep their word and deliver me safely home.

Instead, I step forward, my heart thudding against my ribs. Agent River Dawes is taller than I remember. Broader, too, his muscled shoulders stretching that black t-shirt.

Maybe I’ve just never looked at him properly. Seen him to scale, you know? After all, we’ve never stood in front of each other like this, without the cafe counter between our bodies—nothing but sticky evening air between us.

Dark eyes roam over me, detached and clinical. Agent Dawes takes my wrist and turns my arm to check for injuries; he scowls at the scrapes on my palm. They’re pink and itchy, though I wash them with soap every chance I get.

“Tripped over a root two days ago,” I whisper.

He puts a finger over his mouth again. Ooh-kay.

Silent pat-down it is. And as I let him poke and prod at me, turning me in a slow circle, brushing the dirt and sweat from my shoulders, a weird sense of calm settles over me. Aaaah.

It’s so zen, having this big, scowling brute fuss over me. Ever since those agents pounded on my door in the middle of the night, I’ve been wound tight, a knot of panic twisting my belly.

I’ve seen movies, y’all. I know how this story ends for the idiot civilian. But with River here, his strong presence at my back and his breath puffing against my neck, I finally feel… safe.

It’s nuts, really. He’s one of them , after all. He’s even got the same kind of curved knife strapped to his belt, though the blade’s hidden in a dark sheath.

Do they hand those out at secret agent orientation? Welcome, Double-Oh-Whatever, here’s your badge, your parking pass, and your big-ass knife? At the coffee shop, I had to wait a month before I got my own apron.

With my back to his chest, River pauses at the flower tucked behind my ear. The flower he put there. And I press my lips together, fighting a smile despite the nightmare I’m in, and stare at the canvas tent wall as River strokes the fine green stem.

Shivers race down my arms, and it’s like he’s touching me. Stroking me. Our bodies are inches apart, but his warmth seeps through my clothes.

Out by the campfire, an empty bottle clinks against the ground. Someone belches, and someone else jeers. It’s nearly fully dark in this tent, and I should light my lamp soon or it’ll look weird. But two shadows behind the canvas will look even weirder.

“Food’s up,” one of the agents calls. Foxtrot, I think.

Boots scuff, chairs creak, and another glass bottle clinks against the ground. I scrabble behind me for River’s hip.

He’s so solid. So sturdy and strong, his leather belt warmed by the sun.

“Don’t leave me alone with them,” I whisper, talking ban be damned, because I can’t go out there again without his promise. I can’t. They haven’t laid a finger on me yet, but how long will that last?

“Never,” River says, deep voice hushed.

One minute later, I stride out of my tent again, chin high.

* * *

Dinner is chicken and potato mush, served in a scratched metal bowl with a spork. What our glowering chef Foxtrot lacks in culinary imagination, he’s made up for in lashings of salt and pepper, and as I swallow the first sporkful, my eyes burn with the effort not to cough.

“Good, right?” The agent next to me says, leaning in and wafting me with his beer breath.

He’s the only redhead of the crew, his bare arms pale and freckled.

Known only as Tango, he set out a camp chair for me by the fire in a fit of gallantry—then immediately ruined it by scooching way too close.

Every time he speaks, I see the food stuck in his teeth. “Our man Foxtrot knows his shit.”

“Sure,” I say, because I may think this is pig slop, but I’m not about to insult the armed man. Foxtrot has his knife across his knees, watching us all eat as he drags a stone along the blade. Isn’t he hungry? Or did he already taste it and nope out? “It’s great. Thank you.”

One day, I swear, I won’t have to play nice with men like this. I won’t have to be polite , and fake a thousand smiles, because I’ll be a scary motherfucker in my own right, and no one will dare cross me.

Except maybe the man I left in the shadows of my tent. I clear my throat and push all thoughts of Agent River Dawes away. Don’t want to blush and waft out pheromones around these jerks.

“Enough chit chat,” Echo says, glaring at me over the flames. “You didn’t find him. Again.”

As far as I can tell, this guy is the leader—even though he’s the smallest, and looks like an office worker gone feral.

Like he just stripped off his shirt and tie one day, down to the white undershirt beneath, and walked into the forest, never to return.

Echo’s brown hair is neatly cut, and he wears glasses at all times.

He has a mustache, but it’s a real work in progress. He has pimples, for god’s sake.

But every time he looks at me, I get the chills. There’s something not quite human behind those lenses.

“It’s a big jungle,” I say, forcing my shoulders back. Don’t show weakness; he’ll smell your fear. “And Dawes is a trained agent. Of course it’s gonna take me a while.”

The firelight dances over Echo’s face, casting eerie shadows. Overhead, the stars spin slowly across the night sky. He doesn’t blink.

“I could go with her tomorrow,” Tango offers, but Echo shuts him up with a look. The mood around the campfire is tense, the beer-drunk frivolity suddenly gone.

“Check the caves,” Foxtrot says, frowning down at the knife across his knees. Schniiiick , goes his stone across the blade. Schniiiiick. “Around the shoreline. Lots of places to hide there.”

Echo grunts. He’s still staring at me, eyes hard.

“Dawes knows we’re here,” he says slowly, like he’s thinking out loud. I shovel another sporkful of chicken mush into my mouth, chewing to hide any reaction. “And he’s not interested yet. She’s not tempting enough on her own.”

My throat works as I swallow, mush clinging to my vocal chords. Just as well, really, because the not-so-hidden dumbass in me wants to laugh and point to my tent and say: “Ha! How’s that for temptation?”

Instead I thump my own chest, trying not to cough, then shoot Foxtrot a wobbly smile. “Delicious,” I assure the big brute.

“I’d come for her,” Tango declares, slinging an arm over the back of my camp chair. I laugh nervously and shift forward an inch. “Dawes is missing out.”

Echo looks ready to slit the redhead’s throat in his sleep.

When he leans forward, firelight flashes against the lenses of his glasses, and he looks like a big, mustachioed bug.

“No one gives a shit what you would do, Tango. You think if you took off anyone would follow? You think this girl would give you the time of day if she had any other choice?”

Tango reels back, his spork clattering against the side of his bowl. Even in the dark, his blush is fierce.

Ouch. It’s all true, but still… ouch.

I wince, staring into the fire. A log collapses in a shower of sparks.

Awkward silence rings through the base camp. Echo may be their de facto leader, but these men hold no love for him in their hearts, that much is clear. He rules by fear and fear alone.

“I’ll sleep on it,” Echo says, suddenly relaxed and all smiles. The flip in his mood makes me shiver, and I’m not the only one. The other agents shift in their chairs, all watching him closely. “Tomorrow, we’ll get him. I can feel it.”