Loreth White - Safe Passage

He watched in numb fascination as the bride lifted her dress, straddled the motorbike and kicked it viciously to life.

Tires screeched as she pulled out of the parking space and smoked down the road, hair, ribbons of white fabric fighting in the wind behind her.

“Oh, sweet Mother Mary.” He snapped into action, fired the ignition.

“Buckle up, Honey. Looks like we got us a runaway bride.”

Scott floored the gas, swerved out onto the coastal highway in hot pursuit of the bride bent low on the Harley. Honey skidded across the seat, bashed against the passenger door as the truck hugged a corner.

“Sorry, bud. Hang ten.”

The road grew narrow, climbed, hugged cliffs that dropped sheer to the ocean. Skye veered to the right, following the curve of the twisting tar ribbon.

His hands tensed around the wheel.

She leaned low into the bend, naked knee almost skimming the tarmac. Scott winced, prayed her long dress wouldn’t catch on anything. If she wiped out at this speed, she’d be grated to shreds. And that laurel garland on her wind-whipped tresses was nowhere near a helmet.

But by God, the woman could ride. She looked as though she’d been born with a machine between her legs. She was one with it. And it looked as if nothing else but speed mattered to her right now. Speed and escape.

From what?

He matched her pace.

She veered sharply off onto a dirt track.

He rammed on the brakes, skidding sideways onto the shoulder.

He could see a plume of dust as she followed a rough switchback down to the sea.

“Hold on to your teeth, Honey!” Scott gunned the gas, kicked up dirt, fishtailed back onto tar and swerved onto the rutted track.

It was pocked with small craters, rock. He squinted into the dust. He’d have to slow down if he was going to make it down alive. Damn, he’d lost sight of her.

By the time he reached the isolated cove at the base of the dirt track, the bike was propped on its stand alongside a gnarled arbutus tree.

Scott opened his truck door and stepped out into a cloud of settling dust. Honey followed, staying close at his feet. She seemed to sense this was no time for play. “Where is she, girl?” he whispered to the dog at his side. Then he saw her in the dim evening light, across the white sand of the cove near a rock at the water’s edge.

She was frantically tugging at her clothes, shedding layers as though she was yanking and discarding parts of her life. She tore at the garland in her hair, tossed it to the sea. Wild wind-knotted curls fell loose below her shoulders.

Scott swallowed.

Her back was to him. She had nothing on now, save for a scrap of lace cut high away from the graceful curve of her buttocks. And she wore a white bra, the strap thin across the olive skin of her back.

“Sweet Mother Mary,” he whispered to no one in particular. Then he saw the lacy wedding garter around the top of her lean thigh.

What happened, Doctor? What happened to your wedding?

He watched, immobile, as she rubbed her hands through her hair, shook it free. Then she stepped into the water. Even from this distance, he could see the shiver that ran through her body. Then she took another step.

And another.

And she didn’t stop until she was waist deep. Scott watched as she dived, sleek, into the steel-gray water. He held his breath as the calm ocean swallowed her, leaving nothing but ripples where she’d last stood.

Then he saw her head come up yards away. She struck out with a strong, smooth crawl. And she was going.

Going.

Straight out to sea…

Scott came to his senses in that instant.

The woman was suicidal.

She had no intention of coming back.

He started to run down to the water, buckled in pain. He turned back, hobbled to the truck, grabbed his cane. He might not be able to run with his crippled leg, but by God, he could swim. He knew once he hit the water he’d get to her in no time.

But when he looked again, he saw her dark head over the gentle swells. And he saw that she had turned and was swimming back to shore.

The relief was overwhelming. He stopped, held back, retreated to his earlier vantage point under cover of the orange-skinned arbutus, heart beating wildly.

He gave her the space she seemed to need. But still he watched. He could leave. But he told himself it was for her own safety.

He told himself this was his assignment.

These were his orders.

To watch the doctor.

But never, not once in the course of his undercover work, had he ever felt so much like a voyeur. He was looking into some very naked, private and anguished moment in this exquisitely beautiful woman’s life. He felt both privileged and dirty. As foul and titillated as a damn Peeping Tom.

He wiped the back of his hand hard across his mouth, realized his heart was still hammering in his chest. He sucked down a deep breath of salted sea air, strained for calm. She was emerging from the water, a spectral vision in the dusk. He could see now how her bra was cut low against the firm swell of her breasts. Water shimmered down her flat belly. The garter was gone. Left to the sea. Her hair was slick as a seal’s. She ran her hands up over her face and over her head. Her chin was held high and she was breathing the night air in deep. He could see her chest rise and fall from the exertion of her swim, her ride…whatever had made her flee.

She sat on the rock, upon the remains of her wedding gown, facing the ocean, her back to him.

She sat like that for a long time, until it got dark. There was pale light from a fat gibbous moon. It shimmered like silver sovereigns scattered in a path over the bay. Scott could see Skye’s silhouette against the water. Honey made a plaintive little noise at his side. It was getting cold. Still the doctor sat, damp, on her rock, wearing nothing but her underwear.

Scott crouched next to Honey, spoke softly in her ear. “Wait for me in the truck, pooch. I think the lady out there needs some help.” Either that or she was going to get pneumonia.

Scott let Honey back into the truck, grabbed his old brown leather jacket, made his way slowly over the sand of the cove. She didn’t seem to hear him approach. She was shivering, holding her hands tight over her knees.

“Skye,” he whispered behind her. A jolt cracked through her body at the sound of her name. But she didn’t move otherwise.

“It’s okay, Skye.” He carefully positioned his jacket over her shoulders, lifting her wet hair away from her back. A small noise escaped from somewhere deep in her throat at his touch. It was so primal, so basic a sound of need, it sliced clean through to his core.

“Skye, I’m going to take you home. You need to get dry. Warm.”

She turned then to face him.

He sucked in his breath.

Her face was pale as porcelain in the moonlight. Her eyes dark and big. Mascara traced sooty trails of tears and saltwaterdown her cheeks.

She looked like a broken doll.

“Oh, Skye…” He didn’t plan it, just did it. Gathered her into his arms. It was the right thing to do. The only thing. And he held her like that, under the moon, wondering what in hell he’d gotten himself into.

“Skye, I’d carry you if I could, but I can’t, with this bloody leg. Lean on me and I’ll lean on my crutch and we’ll both get there. Together.”

She did as he asked. In silence.

Honey’s face was eager in the truck as she saw them approach. Scott helped Skye into the passenger seat. She climbed in, grasped on to Honey as if for warmth, for tactile comfort.

“Is that your bike?”

She shook her head.

“Okay. So we’ll leave it here. Is there someone I can call to come and fetch it?”