Anne Marsh - Wicked Nights

Being naively oblivious, she’d hopped on the Jet Ski when Lance had invited her to ride, because it had been that kind of afternoon: a group of casual friends hanging on the beach and enjoying ice cream and the sunshine. In the middle of the harbor, she’d realized Lance was impaired when her close proximity to him had made misinterpreting the alcoholic fumes wafting from him impossible. Of course she’d promptly snapped, “Go back,” in his ear, digging her arms tighter around his waist. Driving drunk was horrifically stupid, and she’d already been measuring the distance to shore. The swim hadn’t looked too bad, although even she had preferred not to take a chance with all the boat traffic zipping through the harbor. Unfortunately, Lance had made an easy dismount impossible, cutting in and out, whooping as he’d driven the Jet Ski left and then right. She’d have to pick her moment or convince him to head back.

“Lance—” She’d gotten his name out, Cal’s motorboat had come around the breakwater and Lance had cut it too close. So close that she’d seen Cal’s face, the look of fierce, calm concentration as he’d thrown the wheel right, ramming the boat into the breakwater as he’d tried to avoid the smashup. They’d hit anyhow. The Jet Ski had smashed into her leg as they’d flipped, and the whole world had narrowed to the pain radiating through her knee as she’d sunk down, eyes open. She didn’t have too many memories after the initial impact, which doctors had assured her was her body’s way of coping with the trauma. She did, however, remember Cal ripping through the surface of the water, swimming hard and fast to get to her.

Now, for the first time since the accident, she was standing on her own two feet. She had a loving, protective, competitive family back on the mainland. Her family had suggested medical school and then law school, before all but begging her to join the family business. She didn’t want that.

Her family was a ranch family. Her great-grandfather had started a small almond farm in midstate California, and the rest of the family had stuck close. Moneywise, there was more than enough in the good years—but they’d never made get-rich money. Other than summers on Discovery Island, her childhood had been full of tractors, ATVs, horses and trails. She’d spent more time outdoors than in, excelling in 4H competitions, winning blue ribbons and awards. Sure, she could have gone home, and they’d have made room for her in the family business, but...she wanted to create one of her own.

She didn’t want anything handed to her. Her three brothers had all happily settled down to ranch, competing amiably to see who could claim the most rodeo buckles, grow the biggest crop or innovate the most. Diving had made sense to them when she’d been diving for a berth on a national team, but owning a dive shop on a vacation island wasn’t aspirational enough for them. None of them had accepted that her new dream included four walls, a sometimes temperamental dive boat and racks of tanks.

Dream Big and Dive’s name came from the heart. Piper had learned firsthand that you had to let go of some dreams, but this time she was holding on. She wasn’t letting Cal Brennan beat her, not when her shot at owning the dive shop was on the line. Her soon-to-be place had a prime location, right off the boardwalk fronting the water, with plenty of foot traffic and easy access to both the marina and the beach where she loaded the dive boats.

Standing there in the front of the shop, she could just read the chalkboard outside, announcing the week’s dive sites and inviting newbies to come on in and sign up for a baptismal dive.

Her cell phone rang, blaring the Jaws theme song. Right now, the ringtone was all too appropriate. Her partner, Del Rogers, was the shark circling in her waters. Her former coach had franchised a string of dive shops in California and Hawaii, including Dream Big and Dive. Del had won dozens of gold medals and multiple U.S. championships, and photos of him caught in midair as he dived off the platform covered the wall in his San Diego office. He was a force to be reckoned with, and unfortunately for her, he was entertaining an offer on the shop. An all-cash, superattractive and almost-impossible-to-beat offer. The offer worried her, but she’d made a career of winning, and she’d overcome the odds this time, too.

“Piper,” he barked in the same voice that had demanded more of her fifteen-year-old self. More sit-ups, more push-ups, more air or more rotations. She’d always given it to him, and he’d coached her to be the very best.

“Good to hear your voice.” Not.

No chitchat. Del went straight to business. “Have you made a decision on the Discovery Island site?”

“I still want to buy out your interest,” she said, playing for time. Her desires weren’t the problem. Finding the cash was.

“Good.” There was a brief pause—she’d spent more time hanging in the air over the pool—followed by, “When?”

“I’ve got a meeting with the bank in two weeks.” Of course, talk was cheap. All she’d had to do to get the meeting was pick up the phone and dial. Unless she changed her cash flow, however, the outcome would be the same as the past two meetings. The banking professional would listen—professionally—and then recommend her application be denied.

“I’m going to take that offer for my share.” And...with nine words, Del benched her. She fought the urge to fling the phone because she couldn’t afford to replace her phone and she definitely couldn’t afford to buy the dive shop. “Money talks and cash sounds mighty good to me.”

“Del—”

He talked over her. “You’ve had a month to meet my asking price. I need to unload the place. It’s not cash flowing, and I’m overextended as it is.”

“I’m closing the Fiesta contract. Give me two weeks.” She was convinced she could turn the shop around and bring in enough business to make the place viable. Del, however, remained unconvinced.

“This is business.”

Her business.

Del had never accepted excuses. He’d always said, “Show me.” She scrambled for something to sway him. “Have I ever not won? You know how I perform in crunch situations.”

The brief pause on the other end lasted a year. Possibly three. Piper wasn’t entirely sure, but time slowed down in a very Matrix -like way.

Del exhaled roughly. “Two weeks. I won’t accept any offers for two weeks. If your offer isn’t in my hands, it’s game over.”

“Got it.”

She had her time. Now all she had to do was deliver. She was used to crunch situations and performing under pressure. Just pretend you’re climbing the dive tower, mere points out of the lead. One perfect dive. That was all it would take.

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