Page 7 of Claiming Ours (Anchor Bay #2)
MEMPHIS
T he rubber soles of my black combat boots gripped the wet, slime-covered wooden planks as I stepped off the boat and onto the dock.
Through the Aviator’s dark lenses, I scanned the busy marina before turning my focus back to the asshole who captained the enclosed passenger boat I took from Anchorage to Anchor Bay.
With a cutting glare, he grabbed my two worn duffel bags from where they were stowed and tossed them onto the damp wood by my feet.
Lips pursed, I scowled at the jackass who’d almost pitched everything I brought from Florida to Alaska into the murky water lapping below us.
My annoyance eased when he helped my best friend, Elvis, off the boat with much more care.
Though who wouldn’t with that smiling face and a tail that wouldn’t stop wagging. The massive yellow lab could win over even the worst human’s heart.
Like now.
“Elvis,” I called with a sharp whistle.
With a reluctant look at his new friend, who distracted the cheerful dog with head scratches, Elvis trotted closer and sat at my feet, leaning his heavy body against me. Wet nose in the air, dark eyes locked on me, his thin tail slapped at the wood in happy thumps.
Smiling at my friend, I ran a hand over his head and glanced back at the captain—Langston or something like that. “We good?”
Instead of responding like a normal person, the massive man just continued to glare at me like I had somehow offended him during the trip, which I knew I hadn’t, since I was preoccupied with plotting out my first few days in Anchor Bay.
Never one to back down from a fight, I folded both inked arms over my chest and met his stare straight on.
The man’s intense gaze scanned me up and down, from my styled, long, dirty-blond hair to the shaved sides that exposed the tattoos on my scalp.
The designs didn’t stop there—hell, there wasn’t much of my body that wasn’t decorated with either tattoos or piercings.
When his narrowed eyes focused on the dark tattoos decorating both hands and all ten fingers, I lifted one between us and flipped him the bird. “Do you give everyone this kind of inspection when you drop them off, or am I just fucking special?” I snapped.
Sure, I was used to it, but I figured a man with tattoos of his own trailing down both arms wouldn’t judge me too hard. It was unnerving. His probing gaze left me feeling exposed, which I fucking hated. I focused on not reaching down to pet Elvis, my nervous tell.
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, uncaring that he’d pissed me off with his judgmental stare. “What are you doing in Anchor Bay?” he asked. Squatting low, he looped a rope around a metal tie-down and tightened the line, securing the boat to the dock.
Well, fuck. He just had to ask the one question I sure as hell didn’t want to answer.
I hitched my chin in defiance. “What’s it to you?”
“Just answer the damn question, kid.”
Both brows shot up my forehead in surprise. Did he just call me kid? There was no way I looked that young to the guy. After what I’d been through and survived, I thought it had aged me, giving me a hard, weathered edge—the tattoos not helping, of course.
Adjusting the full pack on my shoulder, I watched as a fisherman passed by, lugging a cart behind him. “I’m visiting a friend,” I muttered, hoping he wasn’t an asshole and a human lie detector.
Not waiting for more questions I wouldn’t answer truthfully, I wrapped my fingers around the handle of each duffel and hauled them into the air.
Ignoring his shouts for me to come back, I strode along the creaking planks, Elvis happily trotting beside me with his nose in the air, catching all the unique scents.
Apparently, rotten fish, oil, fuel, and salt water was a heavenly blend for a dog, based on his wagging tail and tongue hanging out of the side of his smile.
It took no time to reach the parking lot where the resort instructed me to wait for a complimentary ride to The Nest. The fancy-ass resort wasn’t the typical accommodations I’d normally book, but it was the only fucking place to stay in Anchor Bay unless I wanted to secure a camping spot for me and Elvis way outside town.
That wouldn’t be terrible—we had slept worse places—but I didn’t pack all the gear that would be needed.
Turning in a slow circle, I took in everything around me, from the mountains piercing the sky to the brightly painted buildings lining the street. This was my first time in Alaska—hell, on this side of the States—and it felt like a different country.
With a quick glance at my phone to check the time, I slipped it back into my pocket.
The ride was scheduled to pick me up soon, and then my reason for flying out to Anchor Bay on a whim, unable to resist the pull once I found her after all these years, would kick into gear.
Anxiety over what was to come twisted my gut and constricted each breath.
Her reaction to me not only searching her out but flying to see her with no warning had the potential, and likelihood, to be terrible considering the circumstances and years that had passed.
Which was why I’d decided to start with a bit of recon work before letting her know I was in town.
Maybe wanting to prolong the inevitable made me a coward, but I had to consider my mental health and what her reaction had the potential to do to me and my recovery.
Her rejection would shatter the part of my soul that still clung to our shared past. Plus, there was the chance that seeing me could rip open her emotional wounds.
The last thing I wanted to do was cause her more pain than she’d already been through the last two years.
“This was a dumbass plan,” I muttered to Elvis just as a late model Land Rover with The Nest’s logo on the side pulled into the parking lot. “But it’s too late to turn back now.”
Not that I wanted to.
I had to see her, even if it was only from the shadows without her knowing, to gauge the woman Baylee Smith had grown into. Was she different or still the same genuine, fun-loving girl I remembered?
Once I figured that out, spent enough time watching and waiting, then I’d decide my next move.