Page 3 of Free Wind (Lifeguards of Barking Beach #2)

As pale arms shot up from the turquoise water, waving madly, Damo groaned. When he was a kid, a Wednesday afternoon at Barkers would never be this busy, even at the height of summer. Too bad the clubbies didn’t volunteer during the week.

The radio had been running hot with rescue after rescue, and he’d just paddled in with a tourist who’d ignored the warnings not to swim at the north end of the beach.

Now, here were two more—young men wrestling with their useless boogie boards they’d probably bought for ten bucks at Target.

Damo grabbed his radio from the buggy parked on the sand and tossed down the sunnies he’d only just put back on. “Central, I’m getting wet again. Croc’s got two blokes out the back.” He shielded his eyes from the glare, keeping track of them.

“Copy that—we see them. I’ll send Cody down to help, but it’ll take him a minute to get through the crowd.”

Grabbing the long rescue board by its rope handle, Damo raced back into the surf. The tide was low, and the rip the lifeguards called the Croc was dragging out the boogie boarders at three meters per second.

On his knees, Damo paddled hard with both hands. He punched over a swell in the impact zone, shaking saltwater and his hair out of his face. He used the power of the current to get him out to the two flailing men, who were full-on panicking.

One had the arm rope from the boogie board around his ankle as if it was a surfboard leash, and Damo choked down frustration. They had no business swimming outside the safe, flagged area. Even then, they should probably stay waist-deep, and those cheap pieces of Styrofoam wouldn’t do shit.

But now that Barking had become a hot tourist destination after being named Australia’s top beach, it was packed with people who had no bloody business in the water.

Damo kept his eyes locked on them as he neared, assessing which patient to grab first. Normally, the lifeguards went for the person farthest out, but the nearer man’s ginger hair was plastered over his eyes, and he bobbed under, disappearing for long seconds.

His boogie board had disappeared, finally torn away.

He looked to have about two gasps left in him.

Then he wouldn’t come up.

Paddling hard, Damo watched him go under again in the one-meter swells rolling by.

Heart in his throat, he willed the man back above the surface.

The bloke remained hidden, swallowed by the Indian Ocean, his mate beyond him shouting, trying to fight the Croc head-on instead of swimming sideways out of the rip.

Ten meters away from the closest man now.

Come on! Stay with me!

Five. Two.

Plunging an arm in and reaching for the blur under the clear water, Damo snatched the redhead up by the hair, hauling him over the rescue board. The man was deathly pale, his ginger freckles stark, but he gasped and muttered.

Damo had no time for relief—he still had to get the other patient. He glanced back to see if Cody was in the water yet. No sign. He knew Cody was coming as fast as he could, but for the moment, Damo was alone with two lives in his hands.

He struggled to get the hefty ginger man on the board fully, pushing his head down near the nose before paddling with the guy’s arse in his face.

Rescuing two adults with one board could go bad in a blink, but he had no choice.

He stroked, yelling at the other patient in the water to stay calm.

The man flapped and squawked something in a thick Irish accent.

Damo yelled, “You’re okay! Grab my board. I’ve got ya!” He sat up and straddled the rescue board, reaching for the bloke’s shoulder and—

They tipped, the Irishman in the water so panicked that he was going to drown them all.

Damo sucked in a breath, keeping an iron grip on his board as he went under.

He shoved at the panicking patient, trying to get a safe distance between them before he resurfaced, the stupid boogie board whacking him.

The thrashing man grasped blindly, pushing Damo under to keep himself afloat. Choking down the flare of fear, Damo held his breath, relying on his training and years of building his lung capacity. Punching at the bloke’s balls, he hit close enough to his target, and the man released him.

Damo resurfaced, still gripping his board like the lifeline it was, his heart pounding.

The panicking patient clutched at him again desperately, but someone was suddenly there on a surfboard, shoving hard at the man.

Damo gulped in a grateful breath as he straddled the rescue board, blinking saltwater from his eyes.

“Stop!” he shouted at panicking patient number two while grabbing the dazed ginger man around the chest and keeping his head out of the water.

The surfer who’d come to lend a hand looked familiar, but he wasn’t one of the locals Damo had known forever.

Looking a few years older than Damo, he was white with a tanned, round face and short brown hair, and he was solidly built, dragging the worn-out ginger man sideways over his surfboard with a grunt.

Swells lifted them all rhythmically under the sun’s powerful glare.

Damo kept the nose of his board between himself and the Irishman, who clung to it as another swell rolled by. The nut-punch had apparently taken the edge off his panic, thankfully. Damo’s heart still thumped, but he kept his voice even.

“You’re safe now! Breathe.” To the surfer, he said, “Thanks, mate.”

“No worries.” The surfer kept a strong hand on the whimpering, coughing patient’s shoulder. “Guess even the lifeguards need rescuing sometimes, hey?” He smiled, but he wasn’t being a dick about it. He had freckles across his cheeks and nose, and his lips were a pretty—

Stop thinking about that!

Damo nodded. “Yeah, I was in the shit there.”

“Here’s your backup.” The surfer nodded his chin toward shore.

Damo sighed in relief as he watched Cody paddle hard toward them, a determined look on his face. He was small but mighty.

To the patient who’d freaked, Damo ordered, “Get rid of that boogie board.” He leaned forward and tugged the leash free before tossing away the light board, which was decorated with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

“Trust me, cheap Styrofoam Michelangelo won’t save ya, and it’ll only get in our way.

Get on my board. Head down the front.” The man struggled to follow orders, first putting his head toward Damo at the rear.

Finally, Damo had him on, both of them flat on their stomachs. He angled to shore and caught a wave, nodding at Cody as Cody took the other patient from the surfer. Mia was waiting on shore with the medikit, her long, black ponytail dancing in the breeze.

On the sand, the patient who’d panicked collapsed on his arse. His face was bright red, and he gulped in a massive sob that shook his sunburned shoulders. Damo crouched beside him. “It’s okay. You’ll be right.”

“I c-could have killed you!” He trembled violently.

Damo gave him a few pats on the back. He wasn’t stoked that he’d had to fight the guy off, but that was what panic did to people. “You were off your head. Next time swim between the flags. It’s okay, mate. Take some deep breaths.”

“I’m so sorry. Feckin’ hell.”

“No dramas,” Damo said, watching Cody and Mia get oxy on the pale ginger man, whose face was too gray. “We’ll have to call the ambo for your buddy from the looks of him. Should check you over too. Even if you feel okay, you could have inhaled some water.”

The man nodded and apologized over and over, and Damo repeated that it was all right, staying with him while keeping an eye on the water until the ambos rocked up.

Cody stopped Damo from leaving with a squeeze of his shoulder, his expression serious. His brown hair curled over his sunburned ears, dripping water. He was wiry and compact and had a sure grip on Damo.

“You right? That looked hectic. Sorry it took me so long. Could barely get through the crowd.” He nodded at the beach, which was chockers with tourist families under bright umbrellas and all sorts of people.

“It was intense, but that surfer backed up.”

“Yeah, good thing.” Cody nodded his chin at something behind Damo before giving his shoulder another squeeze and returning to the patients.

The surfer who’d helped was standing there with his mango-colored longboard under an arm, his half wetsuit that ended above his knees unzipped and peeled down to his waist. Water glistened on his bare skin in the summer sunlight.

He was a few inches taller than Damo and stockier. An average guy—not ripped, but sturdy and strong. Tattoos spread over his left ribs—four simple black birds in flight with wings wide. There were tan lines on his arms, and dark hair scattered over his chest and around his nipples.

Not that Damo noticed.

He definitely didn’t notice a drop of water hanging on the end of one dark pink disc on the surfer’s strong chest. Nope.

Stop thinking about nipples!

He realized with a jolt that he was standing there staring. But the surfer didn’t seem to mind, watching him right back in a silence that should have been awkward but felt strangely…electric.

The surfer’s eyes were light hazel-brown, and he eyed Damo with a quiet intensity that made his stomach flip like he was on his surfboard paddling hard for a set—anticipation zipping through him laced with a twist of nerves.

“They going to be right?” the surfer asked. A drop of water clung to his full lips, and he brushed it away. There was a bit of scruff on his face. Damo had never kissed anyone with scruff.

And you’re not kissing him, you boofhead!

“Uh, yeah. Thanks for your help. You’re a legend.” Damo held up his hand for a slap-shake.

The surfer took it, squeezing firmly as he said, “Blake Holbrook.” His voice was low, his hand work-rough and big, and there was no reason for Damo to notice that either. Or to kind of like it? But he’d been liking things lately that he hadn’t thought about before.