Roxanne St. Claire - Make Her Pay

She might not have thought of the rubber strips to dull the sound, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have been able to lift and maneuver the compressor since it was four feet square and heavy.

So, she really did need him, she rationalized as he attached his harness and mask and grabbed the hookah. Plus, skipping a wet suit saved valuable minutes.

It’s just that ever since she’d brought him into her plan, he’d taken over everything. Including her thoughts.

He slid down to the diving platform, and she handed him the air hose.

“Yank three times when you have it in your hand,” she said.

“More important. Yank two times if someone comes on the deck. You know what to say.”

Night diving was not unheard of, although it was generally done during the warmest months. The only person who would be truly furious was Dave since, as divemaster, he had to grant permission and log any dives.

“Just hurry.” She handed him the hose.

In an instant, he disappeared into the black water, the slice of moonlight offering almost no chance to see him, or even the bright yellow air hose.

So, she just stared at her watch.

When she reached the five minute mark, she looked over her shoulder to check the air compressor, which still hummed along quietly. The hose stayed still in her hand. One more minute and a man with so little body fat in sixty-degree water would be in trouble.

At six and a half mintues, she set the hose down and walked to the compressor, just to make sure it was working properly. The belt was moving. The relief valve was open, which would be normal. The reserve tank was doing its job cooling the air. The…

“Oh my God.” She stuck her hand around the remote air intakes. Gone. Both of them. He was breathing carbon monoxide.

Snapping the motor off, she didn’t even take a minute to think. She had no time to harness or set up a clean air system. No time to get a wet suit on. Grabbing a light hanging by the closest locker, she popped over the side, slid to the platform, took a huge breath, and threw herself into the water.

The scepter. He couldn’t drop the fucking gold scepter. But ever since Con had it in his hands, he’d been disoriented. It was heavy, even in the water. He dropped his flashlight but didn’t care, knowing there was only one way to go now. Up.

He kicked. He breathed. He spun around. Was he even going up?

A sharp pain stabbed his head at the same time his heart rate ratcheted up.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew what was going on. But he couldn’t lose the scepter. She’d be furious. Disappointed. Down here after it herself.

Lizzie. He blinked and saw her face.

Lizzie…

Then she was there. With no mask, no suit, her mouth clamped shut, her cheeks exploded with a held breath. In one move that seemed both sudden and slow, she twisted his regulator, cutting off the air.

What the hell?

She yanked him, kicking the water, kicking him. Pulling him. He squeezed the scepter. Couldn’t drop it. Couldn’t. But he couldn’t fight her, either.

They rose. He started to tread water, more out of instinct than anything. He let out a bubble of air. She did the same, her eyes, sparking from a flashlight she carried, burned on him, her insistence clear. Swim, those eyes said. Swim harder.

And he did. Harder, faster, then slamming through the surface and gulping in air as she did.

“Con!” Her voice was a harsh whisper. Or maybe she screamed. He couldn’t tell.

Damn it!

He shook his head, sucked in more air. Held onto the gold and blinked at her, still treading, still swimming. And so freaking cold.

“Are you okay? Con? Are you?”

He held up the scepter. “I got it.”

She nodded, water sluicing from her hair over her face, fury and fear over every feature.

“Carbon monoxide. You got that, too,” she said, tugging him toward the boat, yanking his mouthpiece out for him. “Do you know that?”

His head spun a little, but he kicked along with her, the first cohesive thought finally taking hold of his dis-oriented brain.

Carbon monoxide. Of course that’s what this was. How ?

“Just swim. Stay with me,” she said, her teeth cracking against each other.

God, she must be so cold. She was so small and thin. He kicked harder, staying with her, oxygen finally seeping through his body and blood along with a determination to take over, to swim for her, not with her.

And not drop her damn scepter.

She yanked him to the boat, hoisting herself up the dive platform first, then turning to him. He lifted the scepter to her, and she barely looked at it, taking his arms in her hands instead and pulling.

“Just get up here, damn it.”

He threw his body onto the deck, and only then did she take the scepter with one hand, pulling his mask off with the other.

“Are you all right?” Her whole body shivered so hard she could hardly say the words. “Do you know your name? The date?”

“Your lips are blue,” he said. “Inside. We have to go inside.”

“Your name?” she insisted.

He ignored her, standing and helping her up, his brain almost clear but for the sharp, stinging headache and the cold that felt like it went right into his spine. “Turn the compressor off.”

“I did.”

“I’ll pull in the hose. You get in a blanket.” He turned, tugging at the air hose, which they had to coil up again. And he had to move the compressor back, leaving no evidence of what they’d done.

Holding the scepter in one hand, she thrust the hose back to the deck. “Let it go. You want to die? Who cares if we leave it? Dave’ll go batshit tomorrow. Inside, Con. Now!”

“I never leave…” He almost said “evidence,” but his head was clear enough to stop, and she was right.

With a cursory glance around the deck, and fairly certain no one was around, he followed her, but stopped at the air compressor.

“How’d you know?” he whispered.

“The air intakes were removed. When you didn’t come up in seven minutes, I worried.”

He stuck his hand under the valve and felt the empty slot. Son of a bitch. He’d checked them. He’d checked them both when he moved the compressor, checked the gas level, too.

Someone took them out while he was getting Lizzie from her cabin.

She pulled his hand, her body quivering with cold. “Come on. You have to get warm. We both do.”

He followed her, instantly warmer inside the stairwell, but she was still shivering.

He was clearheaded enough to close and lock her cabin without making a sound. “Hot shower. Strip.”

But she was already in the head, reaching into the shower stall, turning on the water in the head with one hand, and pulling at her sopping sweatshirt with the other. He shoved his trunks off as she got the top off, both wet pieces coming at once. She skipped the bra, but was shaking so hard she couldn’t untie the drawstring of her sweatpants, so he just pushed her under the hot water, getting in with her and closing the shower door to keep the heat in, grateful her cabin was more deluxe than his.

“Are you okay?” she asked again, color finally returning to her lips. “You still didn’t tell me your name.”

He choked a laugh, pulling her into him so they were both completely under the stream, which wasn’t nearly as hot or hard as he would have liked it to be. “We’ve done this before. Does that prove I know who I am and who you are?”

She nodded, pressing against him, the warmth finally getting through his skin. And then she put her head on his chest and he felt her whole body relax.

“I thought I was going to pull up a dead man,” she murmured.

“You thought I was going to lose your precious scepter?”