Going Under (Wildfire Lake Book 2) Read online

  Going Under

  Wildfire Lake

  Skye Jordan

  Copyright © 2020 by Skye Jordan

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Also by Skye Jordan

  About the Author

  Prologue

  My dad’s been gone three years now, but somehow, when I’m diving, I still feel him floating at my side.

  He would have loved these warm South Pacific waters with the killer visibility. I can see for at least one hundred and fifty feet. Coral in a hundred different colors blanket the rocks and caves. A school of fish spirals around me, mirror basslets in shades of purple and red so vivid, they make my eyes hurt. And while I know this place seems mythically beautiful, I’m well aware of its lethal dangers.

  There are countless caves and caverns and myriad poisonous creatures in these waters, from lionfish to eagle rays, but I’m searching for one cave in particular. I was told I could surface in Bubble Cave, an enclosed chamber where stalactites cling to the ceiling. But I’ve been searching for forty minutes and haven’t found it.

  Probably just as well. I’ve been diving for twelve years, so I feel comfortable on an average dive going it alone, but if I’m going to start exploring caves, it’s really best to have a buddy. I’m also a calm diver, allowing my oxygen tank to last longer than normal, but it’s about time I start toward the surface.

  I wouldn’t consider this dive a loss. This is the most serene I’ve felt since I landed on this island four days ago, which is saying something, considering I came for a spiritual retreat. I’ve been missing my dad a lot lately and decided to try to sort out my sadness in the downtime between gigs as a marine engineer on the Norwegian Cruise Line. Turns out, while I enjoy learning the concepts of spirituality, I can’t seem to master the practice. But here, beneath the water, I enjoy the soothing sound of my air bubbles escaping my regulator as I defy gravity to explore.

  A small school of brightly striped clown fish catches my eye. They’re one of my favorite fishes, but a species not normally seen here. They’re floating calmly in and among gold-green sea anemones, their tentacles flowing back and forth with the current.

  I float that direction to watch them. Their orange-and-white stripes make me smile, and the rise of my cheeks allows water to seep into my mask. I lift my mask and blow through my regulator, pushing bubbles into the mask and filling it with air before securing it back on my face.

  When I search for the fish again, I find them darting chaotically among the flattened sea anemones. I glance around for a predator but find none. A strong, invisible current sweeps through, pushing me toward the shore like a bully on the playground. All sorts of creatures come out of hiding. They dart and flit and run into me, bouncing off my wet suit and mask.

  Unease tingles across my shoulders. There’s a tropical storm forecast today, but it’s estimated to miss the island by several miles.

  I look up, make sure I have a direct path to the surface, and ascend slowly. The currents grow stronger. Debris begins flying through the water, hitting me from every angle. My visibility drops from feet to inches. I’m anxious to get to the surface, but I have to give my body time to adjust to the pressure changes as I rise or risk developing life-threatening decompression sickness.

  I pause every so often to check my gear, and by the time I’m twenty feet from the surface, I know I’m in deep shit. Whatever’s going on up there is way more intense than a tropical storm.

  I’m pushed rhythmically by the current toward the shore. A shore with coral reefs and rock and tide pools surrounding the entire island. No safe place to land in this kind of weather. I’m tempted to ride out the storm here, under the water, but my regulator is showing there’s no way I have enough air. If I knew how to get to Bubble Cave, I would risk waiting out the storm there, but that’s not an option.

  I really have no choice but to try to make it to shore.

  This is going to suck so hard.

  I watch the waves roil above my head and try hard to control the panic. Panic eats oxygen. Panic causes mistakes. Panic kills.

  Okay, Dad, if you’re here, I could really use some help.

  I send up the prayer as I kick toward the surface. The surging currents grow stronger, shoving me this way, then dragging me that way. The playground bully is back, slamming me into rock faces only to pull me back and do it again.

  By the time I break the surface, my body is exhausted from the fight and the waves are five feet tall. The wind blows at the water, hammering me with blow after angry blow of seawater.

  This is no fucking tropical storm. This is a cyclone.

  Don’t panic. Trust your instincts.

  It’s my dad. I hear his voice as clearly as if he’s right next to me, and my whole body tingles with adrenaline.

  I wait for the swells and kick as one approaches, body surfing with the current toward land. The wind pulls the ocean into whiplashing waves, carrying the water toward the island and hammering it against the rock cliffs. The tide pools are swamped with each wave, only reappearing when the water recedes.

  I can’t begin to imagine how I’m going to reach land, or how I’ll get up the cliff to the resort. I have no fucking idea how I’m going to survive.

  Shit just got way too real. I might be seeing my dad sooner than either of us expected.

  It’s not your time, he tells me. You’ve got this.

  I guess he knows better than I do.

  I shut down the fear ringing in my brain and tune in to my body. I pick up on the deliberate surge of the ocean. Watch the timing of the waves dumping onto the tide pool shelves.

  This feels a lot like gauging the speed and trajectory of double jump ropes, attempting to enter the pattern without getting whipped.

  But a jump rope doesn’t threaten to kill.

  Just go for it, I tell myself. It’s not like things will get better anytime soon. Cyclones can last hours.

  I watch behind me for the next wave. It’s a monster, at least eight feet. I turn back toward the island and kick hard. The wave picks me up and carries me into the air toward land. Everything shifts into slow motion. As I rise, the resort grows small, then, like a roller coaster, the water drops, and I free-fall.

  Instinctively, I curl into a ball and cover my head. I hit the tide pool shelf so hard, all my bones jar, my teeth snap together. All my air releases like a shot, and my regulator pops out of my mouth. My mask flies off my head, and I bounce—once, twice. When
I finally land, I don’t think, just roll to my butt, rip off my fins, and scramble along the shelf, using the jagged rocks to pull myself forward.

  Look out!

  I don’t know where this voice comes from, but it’s not my dad’s. I don’t have time to think about it, because I look back and find a wall of water headed toward me.

  This is gonna leave a mark.

  There’s nowhere for me to go, nothing for me to do. I’m completely at the mercy of the ocean. Usually, I love communing with Mother Nature, but she’s in a seriously shitty mood today.

  I tuck into a ball again and fill my lungs with as much air as they’ll hold. The wave picks me up and tosses me around. I have no sense of up or down, no way to gauge time except the burn of my lungs. I’m damn sure I can’t hold my breath even one more second, when I hear my dad.

  Hold on.

  I end up on the tide pool shelf again, but don’t remember how I got there. I’m working on rote survival now. I’m dizzy and weak as I scuttle toward land, but time warps. I don’t think I’m making any progress. I don’t know how much fight I’ve got left.

  Then I see the stairway leading from the resort to the tide pools. An instant before the next wave hits, I put all my strength into my legs and push off, lunging for the last vertical iron pipe in the stairway. I lock my arms around the metal and hold my breath.

  The surge of water drives me toward the pole, and my head slams against the metal. For an instant, I realize I’m going to black out. And when I do, I’m going to drown.

  Hang tough, baby. You’re almost there.

  At this point, I want to tell my dad to go fuck himself, and I wonder if I’ll get the chance to say it to his angelic face.

  When the wave recedes, I’m dumbfounded to find my body still intact, still clinging to the pole. I’m even more shocked to see a woman rush down the stairs toward me. I’ve seen her during the retreat, but can’t remember her name. She fists one hand in the shoulder of my wet suit and the other around the pole. There’s so much I want to say—where the hell did you come from? What in the hell are you doing out here? You crazy bitch, get back to the resort. But I know I only have mere seconds to speak.

  “Lock your arms around the post.” When she does, I twine my arms through hers, then around the pole. “Hold on through the next wave, then run like hell—”

  A punch of water steals my words. I pray this woman can hold on. Can hold her breath. How shitty would it be if I survived, but the one person who tried to save me died? I couldn’t live with that kind of guilt.

  The water recedes, and we’re both still holding on. Both still breathing. I use the pole to get to my feet and cling to the other woman as we climb the cement stairway until we’re out of the ocean’s reach.

  I collapse on the stairs, arms doubled around a vertical iron post. She does the same, one pole ahead of me. And when our terrified eyes meet, her name fills my head: Laiyla. But that’s all I know about her, and I can’t fathom her risking her life for me.

  Then someone else comes down the steps. The blonde. An instructor. She pulls on my arm, and I get to my feet. I’m so heavy, I can barely stand. I reach for the strap across my chest holding my oxygen tank and release it.

  Before the metal can hit the ground, a gust of wind catches me, spinning me like a top. My tank collides with something behind me, and I’m hoping it’s the iron rail, but when I look, Laiyla is on the stairs, out cold and bleeding from her head.

  “Fuck.” I pull my arms from the straps and let the tank roll down the stairs and back into the sea while I tap Laiyla’s face. “Wake up, Laiyla. Come on.”

  “Grab her arm,” the other woman yells. Chloe. Her name is Chloe.

  We get Laiyla between us and start up the stairs. I’m ready to drop to my knees and crawl when Laiyla comes around and gets her feet under her.

  Anything that’s not nailed down is flying through the air—tree limbs, rocks, outdoor furniture. The wind peels roofing and siding from buildings and launches it through the air like missiles.

  All three of us crouch to restore some strength, and when we start out again, we’re all stronger.

  An ear-piercing crack sounds behind us, followed by the continuous pop-pop-pop just before a century-old banyan tree falls into our path, inches from smashing all of us. We stand there shell-shocked for a long moment.

  With our path to the resort cut off, I look around for shelter and spot a few of the outlying studio cabins. “This way.”

  I don’t wonder, worry, consider…I don’t even think again until all three of us cross the threshold of a building and slam the door behind us.

  We all drop to the floor in exhaustion. In shock. For several long moments, no one speaks, no one moves.

  You’re not done yet, cupcake.

  My father’s voice vibrates in my head a split second before something bounces off the glass louvers covering an entire wall of the studio. I roll to my knees, but before I can drag myself to my feet, Chloe does the same, crowding me. She leans forward to take Laiyla’s face in both hands. Laiyla’s head is bleeding. Head wounds create so much blood, and Laiyla looks like she’s in the cast of Carrie.

  While Chloe checks on Laiyla, I work my way to my feet and move to the louvered glass windows to shut them, blocking out the wind and rain.

  Every move feels like a monumental effort, and I have to rest in between.

  “Laiyla, help me upend this mattress,” I say. “Chloe, drag those chairs over here.”

  Pulling at the mattress makes every muscle in my body scream. For the first time, I realize I taste blood, but I’m terrified to consider my injuries.

  While Laiyla holds the mattress up, I drag a dresser and two nightstands to brace it against the glass.

  I knew you could do it. My father’s final comment warms me. Now, get to know these women. They’ll be important to you the rest of your life.

  1

  KT

  Seven and a half years later.

  My phone dings with a text message from Chloe, and I stop scrolling through Instagram to read it.

  My meditation session went longer than expected. I’m running late.

  I laugh because her meditation session is self-scheduled and self-propelled. She lives next door in our small marina on Wildfire Lake in central California, so I barely have to lift my voice to ask her, “Is that code for you fell asleep?”

  “I did not fall asleep,” she calls back. “And it’s so much more serene to text.”

  The lack of privacy works for me, especially since I’m not hooking up the way I did when I worked on a cruise ship with a plentiful, varied supply of sexy men looking for nothing but fun.

  Now, I live in a small town where everyone knows everything, and I’d rather not get a reputation as a slut. But the real reason I put my sexuality into hibernation is because I don’t do serious or long-term, and I really don’t want any complications or bad feelings in town. When the weather warms up again in a few months, I’ll head to Santa Barbara and catch myself a few surfer boys.

  The heater in my houseboat kicks on, and that insidious engine tick starts up again. I clench my teeth and look toward the back of the boat, where the engine compartment lies beneath the deck. I’ve been meaning to look at that, but there’s always so much other work to get done.

  I push from the futon I use as a sofa, stuff my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, and turn off the heater before I head outside. The winter air is crisp enough for my breath to create clouds, but not much more, and the marina is lit up by thousands of twinkling, multicolored Christmas lights. Laiyla, Chloe, and I strung them everywhere—the marina, the boats, even the construction equipment being used in the marina’s renovation.

  The sight brings mixed emotions. I always miss my dad at Christmas, but I’m so grateful I’ve been able to reconnect with my best friends, Chloe and Laiyla. I’m also excited about this venture we’re undertaking together and the freedom it will bring me in the long term.

&nb
sp; I grab one of the hanging lamps I’m always using in my work and crouch to pull open the door to the engine compartment. On my knees, I hover over the engines, looking for anything out of place. When nothing obvious catches my eye, I reach in and tug on the belts and test the tightness of various nuts and bolts. The smallest engine controls the heating unit, and it’s tucked into a dark corner. Stretching, I reach around the back and squeeze my hand into an area I can’t see to feel around.

  Everything seems to be in the right place. I sit back on my heels and try to pull my hand out, but it’s stuck. I wiggle and pry, trying to get free. Pain stabs my forearm, and I reflexively draw back, causing more pain. Now my arm is stuck in the engine. “Perfect.”

  I hang the light on a deck chair and feel around with my other hand to figure out a way to get my injured arm back without any more damage. But, shit, it hurts like a mother, and the sticky warmth on my skin tells me I’m bleeding. Then and there, I decide to make Chloe drive to Santa Barbara for our Christmas Eve dinner tonight, so I can have an extra drink, or ten.

  But that won’t happen if I can’t figure out how the hell to get my arm out of here without making things worse. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “What are you doing?” Laiyla’s voice coincides with the click of her heels on the dock.

  “I thought you left for dinner with Levi already.”

  “He’s on his way. Why are you all contorted like that?”

  “I’m trying to find the source of a knock that’s driving me insane.”