Page 9

Anchor

The energy on the island was low but steady. The kind that buzzed under your skin but never broke the surface. Most of the big crowds came through Friday to Sunday. Mondays and Tuesdays, we were closed. The smart play was we shut it down to save on payroll and electricity, give the guys a break. We should have done the same on Wednesdays, but I’d learned a long time ago that some money was always better than no money.

The haunted house still had a line, maybe twenty deep. The next boat tour was prepping, a skeleton crew on deck to keep the illusion alive: half-dead sailors, long-lost fishermen, Victorian ghosts with white contact lenses and prosthetic wounds. All show, all craft. The kind of fear you could package and sell.

The kind of fear we controlled.

Inside the surveillance office, it was just me and Skull. The room was tucked behind the haunted house, hidden between walls, accessible through a disguised maintenance door no guest would ever find. It smelled faintly of stale popcorn, fog machine residue, and dust. Eight monitors lined the far wall, each displaying black-and-white feeds from cameras planted all over the island: the docks, the trails, the house interior, even the path down to the ghost town ruins.

Skull leaned back in the creaky folding chair beside me, one boot propped on the desk as he stared at the screens.

“You ever think about what’d happen if one of these idiots actually saw a ghost?” he asked.

“Depends,”

I muttered, flipping through the camera views with a few taps.

“If they screamed and ran, we’d probably make it part of the tour.”

He huffed a laugh.

“You’re not wrong.”

We watched in silence for a while. One of the monitors showed Prime and Lost hammering something back into place near the guest queue, looked like one of the wooden skeleton signs had come loose. Vin crossed the frame, arms full of chains. Another screen flickered and caught the flash of a strobe light going off too early in the dining room scare zone. I made a mental note to have Push check the timer.

“Painting crew’s settling in,”

Skull said casually.

“That Pearl chick’s hot.”

I didn’t say anything right away.

I just stared at the screen, slowly blinking, then shifted to glance at him.

“Don’t.”

He raised a brow.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Shit,”

he said, letting out a low whistle.

“Didn’t know she was off-limits.”

“She’s not—”

I stopped myself, jaw tightening.

“She’s just not club. She doesn’t strike me as the type.”

Skull turned in his chair, both feet planted on the ground now, and leaned forward like a wolf catching the scent of a fresh trail.

“You saying that like you’re doing her a favor,”

he said.

“Or like maybe you’ve got something else in mind?”

I didn’t take the bait.

Just flicked through more cameras. Boat dock. Concession stands. Entryway of the haunted house. All clear.

“No,”

I said flatly.

“She’s just here to paint. Let’s keep it clean.”

Skull studied me for another second, then grinned. “Sure,”

he said, drawing the word out. “Clean.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Not without giving away more than I wanted to.

The truth?

I’d been thinking about her since she walked back across the island with that duffel bag on her shoulder. Since she’d stood in that tiny cabin and asked about the VCR. Since she looked up at me like she wasn’t afraid of anything, including me.

I knew what this was.

I wasn’t interested in small talk. I wasn’t built for long walks or promises. But Pearl? She stirred something. Something sharp. Something hot. Maybe I wanted a taste. Maybe I wanted more than I should.

I flicked the camera feed again, switching to the long-view angle of the cabins.

Both were dark, but the floodlight on the side of the clubhouse cast a soft glow through the trees. Then, motion. The infrared picked up a blur of movement in the cabin on the left.

Pearl.

She stepped out onto the porch, wearing a loose sweatshirt and a heavy blanket slung around her shoulders. A big mug cradled in her hands. Her legs were tucked under her as she settled into the porch chair, bare toes peeking out from under the fleece.

I leaned forward slightly in my seat and watched her.

She looked peaceful. Like she belonged there.

Like maybe, if I walked over, sat next to her, and talked to her, she wouldn’t tell me to fuck off.

There was always a chill at night on Skull Island. Especially this close to the water. And especially when you were alone.

Maybe I should go see her. Check on her.

Just for a minute.

Just to make sure she was okay.

Pearl

The porch creaked softly as I shifted in the chair and tucked one leg underneath me. The blanket wrapped around my shoulders wasn’t doing much to keep the chill off, but I didn’t care. I liked it out here. Liked the quiet hum of Skull Island at night.

Even now, I could hear faint echoes from the haunted house in the distance: low moans piped through hidden speakers, the occasional shriek of laughter or surprise from a guest. Fog machines hissed somewhere beyond the trees. The air smelled like damp wood, salt, and smoke, and every now and then, a gust of wind swept through the trees and made the porch boards groan like the cabin itself was waking up.

It was just past nine, but it felt later. Probably because Bernice had already gone to bed nearly an hour ago, muttering something abou.

“no good ever happening after sundown.”

Not that that stopped me from staying awake. I’d considered taking a walk and maybe checking out the tour path just to see what all the fuss was about, but the warmth of the mug in my hands and the way the night wrapped around the island like a heavy quilt had rooted me here.

I let out a soft sigh and leaned back in the chair. Out here, away from town and streetlights, the night sky was huge. Endless. It made you feel like you were part of something wild. Something forgotten.

Movement to my left caught my eye.

I didn’t jump. Didn’t flinch. But my heart kicked up a notch as Anchor stepped out of the trees and into the clearing between the cabins.

God help me.

He moved like a shadow with purpose, dark jeans, boots, a black hoodie half-zipped to reveal the collar of a worn tee beneath. His sleeves were shoved up just enough to flash the edges of tattoos running along his forearms. Hands in his pockets. Club patch on his chest.

Calm.

Watchful.

Dangerous.

He was walking toward me, his eyes already on mine. Even from here, I could feel his stare.

My pulse thudded. Low. Heavy.

He stopped just shy of the porch, leaned casually against one of the support beams, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“What you thinking about, doll?”

he asked, his voice low and rough with the edge of a smirk behind it.

I blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward me.

“You had that glazed-over, faraway look. What was it? Ghosts? Paint colors? Or how to hide a body?”

Heat shot to my cheeks.

“Uh... I was, um, thinking about the difference between moss and seaweed.”

He arched one brow.

“I mean,”

I added quickly.

“the colors. They’re alike but not.”

I had really been thinking about which one was the color of his eyes.

Anchor chuckled. A deep, rough sound that did something stupid to my insides.

“You always think about things like that?”

I grinned, slightly embarrassed.

“I mean, yes. Color is kind of my thing. Though I never really tell anyone what I’m thinking about unless they are a scary biker, I guess.”

He smiled, slow and easy, and I swear I forgot how to breathe.

“That your way of calling me scary?” he asked.

I tilted my head.

“That your way of saying you’re not?”

His laugh this time was softer. He didn’t answer right away, just looked at me. Really looked. And I let myself look back.

His eyes were the color of moss.

Not bright green. Not brown. Somewhere in between, like dark forest and cool stone. Something wild. Something alive.

“Settling in okay?”

he asked, pulling me gently from my thoughts.

I nodded and wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s no five-star resort, but I like it.”

“Not too spooky for you?”

he teased.

“Not yet,”

I said.

“Ask me again when the fog machines go off outside my window at three a.m.”

Anchor pushed off the post with a lazy kind of grace that only made him seem more dangerous. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, rolled it between his fingers, then struck a match against the porch railing and lit it.

The flame briefly lit up his face.

He took a long drag and exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around him like a ghost too lazy to haunt.

“Where you headed?”

I asked, trying to keep my voice casual, even as my pulse was anything but.

He flicked his eyes to me, then back to the darkness.

“Haunted house. Gotta check some shit before close.”

Part of me wanted to ask if I could come with him. If he’d show me around. If he’d let me see what it looked like through his eyes.

But I didn’t.

And he didn’t ask.

Instead, he gave me one last look and said.

“Sleep tight, doll. Stay close to your cabin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees with a trail of smoke swirling behind him.

I watched him go until I couldn’t see him anymore.

Then I sat back, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

Anchor was... something else. Something carved out of steel and smoke and silent tension. He hadn’t come within six feet of me since he had shown me my cabin, but it had still felt like he’d touched every nerve in my body.

He made me feel things I didn’t want to admit. Made me think about things I had no business thinking about.

He was a mystery.

A walking warning sign wrapped in black ink and muscle.

And I wanted him.

God help me, I wanted him.