Deeper Than The Ocean by Julie Ann Walker

 

 

Chapter 4

 

9:07 PM…

 

Chrissy was late.

Which meant Wolf’s mood was quickly approaching the depths to which it’d sunk earlier. And the jackhole sitting on the barstool on the other side of Romeo certainly wasn’t helping matters.

The guy was drunk and getting drunker by the minute. He’d been rude to the bartender, wiggling his beer bottle and snapping his fingers when he ran low on brew. And he’d made comments about every woman who walked by in a voice loud enough to be heard over the crooning lead singer of The Salty Cod Band.

In short, the man was the human equivalent of gas station sushi. A guy garan-damn-teed to give everyone around him a bad case of the shits.

Wolf leveled a stony stare at the drunk’s nose and wondered how good it would feel to plant his fist there.

Good,he decided. Awful good. A little somethin’ to take the edge off.

Unfortunately, he had to satisfy himself with a grumble under his breath as he turned back to his own beer. If he’d formed actual words, they would not have been polite. Which would inevitably have started a fight. Which would have led to him putting the douchebag in a chokehold until the bastard went limp. And even though that entire exercise would have been soooo satisfying, with so many witnesses, no doubt he’d have ended up spending the night in an eight by ten, looking at assault charges.

As his grandmother told him many times, “The way of the troublemaker is thorny.”

He already had enough things giving him fits—cough, Chrissy Szarek, cough, cough—without adding Mr. Drunkovich to the mix.

Apparently, Romeo wasn’t of a similar mind. When a young woman in a green halter top walked by—she couldn’t have been much older than twenty-one—and the drunk said, “I bet she sucks dick like there’s a prize inside,” Romeo turned and growled lowly, “Hey fuckwit, how about you shut your face-hole before I stick my fist in it, eh?”

One of the drunk’s eyelids hung lower than the other, but his voice was surprisingly clear when he said, “Fuckwit, huh? In my experience with humans, the ones who cast the first stones are usually the most guilty.”

“Oh, yeah?” Romeo’s smile was patently false. “Well in my experience with fuckwits, you are one.”

A storm cloud that would put a supercell to shame fell over the drunk’s face.

Wolf sighed heavily and carefully set aside his beer. He might’ve let the better angels of his nature win out when it came to starting a fight, but the devil in him wasn’t going to let him walk away from a brawl once it was in the making. Especially one that involved one of his closest friends.

To his surprise however, the drunk didn’t take a swing at Romeo. Instead, the dude grabbed his beer and slid off the stool, muttering something about guys who couldn’t take a joke as he stumbled into the crowd.

Guess Mr. Drunkovich wasn’t so wasted he hadn’t seen the two-on-one odds were stacked solidly against him.

“Don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, pendejo,” Romeo snarled at the dude’s back before taking a long slug of beer.

The heavy vein beating in the side of Romeo’s throat told Wolf that Romeo’s blood was up. Well, that and Romeo only slipped into Spanglish when he was super excited or super pissed.

Spiro “Romeo” Delgado had been given his nom de guerre not only because he was known to woo more than his share of the fairer sex, but also because he took chivalry to the next level. Romeo revered woman. Treated them like queens. The quickest way to get on his bad side was to disrespect a lady.

Wolf decided to take Romeo’s mind off the drunk. And if he happened to take his own mind off Chrissy being—he looked at the large black diver’s watch on his wrist—ten minutes late? Well…win/win.

She wouldn’t stand me up, would she?

Chrissy was many things, but flaky wasn’t one of them. Maybe she and Winston were nose-deep in business discussions and she’d lost track of time.

Yeah,he assured himself. That’s got to be it.

“What do you reckon the odds are of us findin’ the treasure buried somewhere on the island?” He picked at the label on his beer with the edge of his thumb. The cold bottle sweated in the humidity of the night, and the drops of condensation had softened the glue beneath the paper.

Romeo shrugged. “Alex’s instincts have proved infallible so far. So I’d say better than fifty-fifty.”

“Lord, I hope so.” Wolf took a swig, enjoying the taste of hops on his tongue. “Caleb needs new basketball shoes. He made the JV team.”

Romeo frowned. “Which one is Caleb again?”

“Roxanne’s oldest. The one who broke his arm last year on the rope swing.”

“The same one who pulled the whoopee cushion prank on his biology teacher?”

“No. That was Eli, Rebecca’s middle boy.” Wolf smiled, remembering how pissed his sister had been while relating that particular tale.

“I can’t keep all your nieces and nephews straight.”

“Tell me about it. And brother, I swear, when someone decides to have kids, they might as well go light a pile of money on fire.”

Romeo lifted a considering brow. “Meaning you plan to remain childless?”

Wolf sighed, but the sound was lost in the noise as The Salty Cod Band started in on their snappy version of “Baby Got Back”and the crowd in Schooner Wharf Bar went wild.

“That would seem like the smart move, wouldn’t it?” he asked when the cheers died down. “But I got the urge to be a father same as the next guy.”

For the last few months, ever since he’d started staring down the barrel of his thirty-fifth birthday, that urge had been growing stronger. And, yeah, okay. His recent brush with death via an Iranian bullet that barely missed his brainpan and netted him a two-week stay in the hospital probably had something to do with it as well.

“Nuh-uh.” Romeo shook his head. “Not the same as this guy.” He hooked a finger toward his chest. “The world is overpopulated enough as it is. I’m not adding to it.”

Wolf studied him. “But what if you meet a woman who wants kids?”

“Settle down and get myself an old lady? Pfft.” Romeo shook his head. “Have you met me?”

Wolf shrugged. “I spent more than a decade watchin’ you work your way through the female population, but I can’t help noticin’ the time you spend on the prowl has gone way, way down in recent weeks. You reckon that’s got somethin’ to do with our resident marine archeologist?”

“Coincidence.” Romeo waved him off while taking another long draw on his beer.

“Right.” Wolf nodded. “But before you get that on a tattoo, you might want to consider what Albert Einstein said.”

“E equals MC squared?”

“Sure. That and, ‘Coincidence is God’s way of remainin’ anonymous.’”

“Why do you keep busting my balls on this?”

Wolf chuckled. “Because they’re such low hangin’ fruit?”

Romeo glared at him. After a few moments he said, “Please don’t take my silence as agreement. No one plans a murder out loud.”

Wolf’s chuckle turned into a full-on belly laugh. The way Romeo’s mouth curled up made him think the guy might join him. But then Romeo stiffened and turned to look over his shoulder.

When Wolf leaned forward, he saw Mia Ennis had wandered up to place her hand on the barstool Mr. Drunkovich had vacated.

“This seat taken?” Wolf couldn’t hear her words, but he read her lips.

“It’s all yours,” Romeo told her, at the same time waving to the get the bartender’s attention. “What are you drinking?”

Wolf didn’t catch Mia’s response, but apparently Romeo did. He ordered a gin and tonic. After the bartender turned away to make Mia’s drink, Romeo inspected Mia’s new haircut—which in Wolf’s estimation didn’t look much different than her old one.

“I like it,” Romeo told her. “It looks pretty under these neon lights.”

Mia’s expression turned sheepish and Wolf had to strain to hear her response. “Everyone looks better under neon and—” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes going pie-plate round as she stared at something over Wolf’s shoulder.

He turned to see what had caught her attention and nearly shit his own heart.

Like so many establishments on the island, Schooner Wharf Bar was open air. It backed up to the marina. Which meant he had an unencumbered view of Chrissy stumbling up the wooden dock.

She was soaked clean through, splashing huge pools of water onto the weathered boards. Even from a distance, he could see her face was contorted with pain. No doubt caused by the long rivers of blood that slid down her arm to drip from her trembling fingertips.

He didn’t remember jumping from the barstool. He didn’t remember pushing his way through the crowd. In fact, if you’d asked how he got to Chrissy, he would’ve said he flew.

“Wolf.” She reached for him when he was still a few feet away.

“Christina!” He caught her before she crumpled onto the dock, cradling her like a baby as she fisted the front of his shirt in a desperate grip. His lungs lodged firmly in the center of his throat, making it impossible to breathe. Still, he managed, “What happened? Who did this?”

“Dunno,” she wheezed, her blue eyes frantic as she pushed her cell phone into his hand. “The old warehouse. Winston. He’s shot. I think—” Her eyes squinted shut and a loud, choking sob hit his ears like an atom bomb. “I think he’s dead!”

He cradled her to his chest as he thumbed on her phone to make an emergency call. No go. Her phone’s case was cracked and water had seeped into the device, rendering it useless. Yelling over his shoulder for someone to call 9-1-1, he didn’t recognize his panicked voice as his own.

He’d been scared plenty of times in his life—contrary to popular belief, Navy SEALs did not have ice water running through their veins. But he’d never experienced the kind of heartrending terror that gripped him when he glanced down at Chrissy and found her chalky pale and leaking blood over his forearm.

“It’s okay, darlin’.” He brushed a strand of wet hair away from her forehead. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got you now.”