With what happened with the pirates, this feels like the worst possible time to go out drinking in public.

But what I really want is to sleep for two days straight.

“Come on.” She drags the single syllable out.

After I got out, I promised myself no one would be able to pressure me into doing things I don’t want to do anymore. I’ll have to make an exception. This will probably be the last time I hang out with them. I’ll wrap some things up at the lab, then head out within a few days. It might be months, or even years, before I get the chance to surf again, so I’ll take advantage of it while I can.

“We’ll see how I feel tonight.”

Deedee gives me a look that says, “I see right through your bullshit.” I ignore it the same way she’s ignoring our problems.

My complacency sure as shit didn’t make Tommy any less abusive. Doing nothing will only make our issues with the pirates worse, and I feel like I’m the only goddamn person who cares whether or not this business fails.

It might not be my problem in a couple of days, but I neither want to burn bridges nor watch them burn. Nat and Deedee are good people.

I lower my chest onto the board and start paddling closer to the incoming wave before she can say more. I speed up my strokes, preparing to move to my feet at the right moment. This usually relaxes me—makes me feel invincible—but my mind is elsewhere, jumping from Tommy to passports to Wayan’s lack of response on when our next shipment might be, and…rows of firm abs, silky black hair, hypnotic blue eyes, and his scent—Gods, I’m out in the open, breathing in the real thing, and I swear, he still smelled better.

I push to my feet as the wave catches me. I know the second before I lose my balance that I’m going under. Pressure forces the nose of my board upward, my feet with it. Oxygen is yanked right out of my lungs from the force of the collision against the water’s surface. Bubbles and the roar of the sea explodes all around me. My arms flail, trying to get to my board, or at least get some kind of stability. But it keeps coming, coming, coming, turning my body upside down, contorting me to the sea’s wish.

Panic, raw and debilitating, tears through me. None of the tricks I was taught work. Instinct isn’t saving me.

My leg slams into a stone. Bubbles explode around my muted cry, and my lungs burn from the lack of oxygen.

I shouldn’t panic, but shit, I’m going to drown. Something hard hits my head, sending me into a stunned daze muffled by the surge of adrenaline. I twist my body to try to fight the water’s drag, using every ounce of my power to claw out. Every time I get a glimpse of the surface, I’m yanked back under.

Something wraps around my legs just as my body curls from the force of another wave. It stops me from being pulled further from the shore. A scream tears through my throat and bubbles around me from the faint puckering against my bare skin. Through my blurry vision, I just make out a huge, reddish-brown thing curling around my arm toward my board.

Is that a fucking tentacle?

Oh, fuck no.

I whip around, trying to dislodge whatever the hell it is. I swear it lifts me toward the surface, because the next thing I know, oxygen slams into me at once with a choked gasp. My board bobs beside me, and I scramble onto it, hoping and praying it doesn’t take my desperation for escape as an act of aggression. It isn’t until my body is plastered on top of the board that I’m certain I’m not becoming octopus chow.

“Jesus Christ,” I gasp, lying on my stomach to catch my breath. The shore has to be four-hundred yards away. I can just make out Nat and Deedee’s ant-sized frames watching me from the distance, oblivious to my near-death experience.

Paddling back to shore, I try very hard not to think about what might be in the water. If that thing latches onto me again, I’m going to pass out.

The next wave carries me along the water to make it back in half the time it would’ve taken me to paddle. There’s none of the familiar joy or euphoria I’d usually get, only stone-cold relief. I know I said I could die happy out here, but I wanted to go peacefully—not by getting mauled. Drowning, on the other hand? I wouldn’t hate it, I don’t think.

“Holy shit. I think a fucking octopus just touched me,” I pant as I use the last of my energy reserves to jog over to our area on the beach, surveying the surroundings.

Nat cocks a brow, looking at me from above her book. Her blond hair is splayed out on the towel like a halo. “Did it now?”

“It was giant.” I shove my surfboard into the sand and drop onto my ass, lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. My body succumbs to the fatigue, and I collapse onto the sand. “It wrapped around my leg and my stomach, and I thought I was going to get strangled—or eaten.”

I narrow my eyes at Deedee as she laughs. “Cindi, zero. Seaweed, one.” She rummages through her bag and throws a few things onto my lap.

“What’s this for?” I croak. Shielding my eyes from the harsh sun, I lift my head to inspect the painkillers, medicine bottle, and metal tube. “Are we drug dealers now?”

“Hold up. I think I’ve got a condom in my car to add,” Nat teases.

“Anjing.” I call her dog in Bahasa.

Deedee snickers. “The ointment is for your back. My doctor friend said it’s an antibacterial or antifungal cream—I can’t remember. Actually, it might be an antihistamine. Just try it. The rest are from Nat.”

I resist the urge to glare at her. This is all her fault. Maybe trusting a non-tattoo artist to do my first tattoo was a bad idea. Slightly inebriated me was sure it was a great idea to get one at the time. Tommy hated them on women, and I thought it was a good fuck you to Tommy and a symbol of my freedom. It’s a cross between a motif design with a plant-leaf thing—I’m not really sure, honestly. I let Deedee decide, and apparently, she chose to give me the exact same tattoo she has.

Hindsight is a beautiful thing. Had I known I’d have a reaction to red ink, I would never have used so much of it. It’s been over six months, and it still hasn’t healed.

Nat points at the painkillers. “That’s what I took when I had a back injury.” She winks when she points at the bottle. “And the vitamins are for your hangover tomorrow. But I should be giving you my condolences.”

“What? Why?” My brows flatten.

“Because we’re eating calamari tonight.”

Ugh. “It was an octopus, not a squid.”

Can my day be over already?

Kill me now.

I’m getting too old for this shit. Or maybe I’m too cynical. Or altogether an angry, hateful woman.

My migraine is in full force from the loud, thumping, bad music and the screeching men and women alike. I’m not sure what the science behind it is, but I feel two seconds away from a heart attack from all the flashing lights.

How I enjoyed these things when I was in college is beyond me. I used to be out every Friday or Saturday night—before Tommy, of course. As per his expectations, a proper woman wouldn’t have more than a glass of wine, and God forbid she do anything to enjoy herself.

I bounce the heels of my wedges against the floor. I grip my drink, using the cold to numb the ache in my wrist. I keep close to the bar and dart my eyes around the room, studying every new face. I can just spot Natalie dancing with another woman I’ve met several times, but I can’t remember her name. Deedee isn’t that far away either, happily getting felt up by some guy—probably a tourist. They’re the most fun, apparently.

They’d both always had a carefree air around them, even though our line of business could land us in a ditch or in prison.

My second cocktail isn’t doing shit to stop me from grinding my molars. My mind isn’t registering the taste. The lack of food and water is making the alcohol go straight to my head—I don’t feel even remotely laid-back. The atmosphere sure as hell isn’t any more tolerable.