I make my way to the cabin, hearing him roar off behind me. Cabin. The label completely undersells the impressive wooden structure built on the shore, with a balcony spanning two sides over the water and a jetty stretching into the ocean. A few jet skis line the wooden quay, all docked, ready to be tested. The inside space is quiet, word yet to spread through the jet ski community that this little gem is here. It won’t be long. Not only is the setup fucking remarkable, so is the timeframe in which Danny made it happen. This place has been built in his head for many years.
Leon, the young lad hired to manage the place, is behind the shop counter scanning through spreadsheets as he chews on a pen. He suits this place, all free-spirited, shaggy-haired, board shorts, bandanas, and beaded man jewelry. He doesn’t, however, suit the spreadsheet. But this wild kid was set to become an accountant before his love of the ocean won over pen-pushing his way through life. And perhaps his love of a joint every now and then. He was a good find. “How’s recruiting going?” I ask as I pass.
“Interviewing this evening, J-boss.” He chucks his pen down and snaps the laptop shut. “You going out?”
“Yeah.”
Leon falls into stride next to me. “Which ski? I’ll get it ready for you.”
His footwear catches my eye. Because they’re filthy, the once-white Converse high tops as grubby as hell. “The black Sea-Doo.”
He falters, falling a few steps behind. I know if I glance back he’ll have a look of horror on his face. “I have three strict instructions,” he says, pulling me to a stop at the men’s changing room door. “First rule, no one goes near the green container. Second rule, if the Feds show up, smile.”
I turn, my own smile threatening. Really good hire. “And the third?”
“Only D-boss and his kid ride the black skis. So, you see, we might have a prob—”
“I was fucking with you, Leon.” I push through the door and go to my personal locker. “The gold one’s mine.” I pull my wetsuit out and grab my gun from the back of my jeans, slipping it inside.
“Don’t pull that shit, man,” he grumbles, freeing my hands of my suit so I can strip down. “I still haven’t decided whose bad side is worse.”
“Mine,” I say, hanging up my jeans and T-shirt. “Always mine.”
“Funny, D-boss said the very same thing. How do you two know each other, anyway?”
“Rule number four.” I claim my wetsuit and pull it up to my waist. “Don’t ask too many questions.” I cock my head and his proud nose wrinkles.
“But I can ask some, right?” His smile is cheeky. I shake my head to myself and head out to the water.
“Are you getting my ski, or what?” I get no answer, making me stall at the door. Leon’s a statue by my locker, his eyes wide. “What’s up?”
He gets his lax mouth under control and rakes a hand through his beach waves, diverting his stare, becoming flustered. “Um . . . nothing. Nothing’s up.”
I frown. And then I click, looking out the corner of my eye to where my scar begins on my shoulder. “War wounds,” I mutter, picking up my feet.
“You went to war?” he asks, full of zeal, coming after me as I head for the containers. I slide the doors open, revealing my backup source of relaxation. I smile to myself, stroking down the side of the glimmering paintwork. “We’re at war,” I murmur, reaching the back.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Fucking beauty, right?”
“Right, J-boss. Total beauty.”
My eyes drop to the stern. “Motherfucker,” I breathe over my light laugh, crouching and running my fingers across the text.
“Sounds mysterious. What’s the story?”
“What’s rule number four?”
“Ah, J-boss, come on.”
“Get the Jeep,” I order, hearing him sigh and trudge off, muttering claims of unfairness. “The Enigma,” I whisper, tracing the text, my eyes following. Smart-arse. Bastard. It’s ironic. I’m not an enigma anymore.
I push myself up and round the ski, grabbing the drawbar of the trailer and pulling it out of the store as Leon backs up in the Jeep. I hook it up and smack the side, starting to pull my wetsuit up my torso as he gets The Enigma into the water. I look out across the ocean, seeing Danny zigzagging across the sparkling cove.
“Ready,” Leon calls.
I wade into the water and ease my jet ski off the back, calling out, “We’re good,” when I’m done. I board, start her up, and inhale the clean sea air.
“Have fun,” Leon yells as I chug slowly into deeper water, and the moment I reach the buoy, I yank at the throttle and stand, crashing across the water at breakneck speed. The buzz is instant, the roar, the crash of water, the salt spray on my face. Fuck, it feels good. Needed.