Chapter 13 January 7th Day seven. I know because I've been keeping track, carving small tick marks into the trunk of a palm tree near our camp. It started out as something to do-something to ground me when everything felt surreal. But now, a full week into this nightmare, I found myself staring at those seven tiny slashes this morning, trying to wrap my head around how quickly everything can change. A week ago, I was cruising around Miami in my G-Wagon, spending my dad's money, shopping for gifts for my soon-to-be nephew, and avoiding any real responsibility. Now? I'm here. And I'm half drunk off shipwreck bourbon that made its way on shore this morning while I was sitting in the sand watching Henry fish. Thankfully, Henry hasn't said much about my behavior, but I know he has to have noticed how closely I'm following him around these days. We're practically freaking leashed at this point, like those kids with the little teddy bear backpacks in the airport. I know it, and yet I haven't been able to stop. He ended up catching one fish after three long hours of trying, which we shared promptly, but for as good as he is at everything else, catching these little finned fuckers doesn't seem to be getting easier. Still, despite the hardship, we're ending the day with food and booze, and as such, we decided to have a little party tonight. Okay, I decided to have a party, and Henry, as luck would have it, is a very captive audience. A captive audience that is currently shirtless, sweat-slicked, and sitting right beside me. I discreetly glance at the way his muscles glisten beneath the firelight and wonder if being stranded isn't entirely the worst thing to ever happen to me. Of course, there's no cushy couch, VIP section, or dark, pounding dance floor, and my get-ready-with-me routine was severely lacking in makeup and hair products, but the company is nice, annoyingly hot, and I look toned, tanned, and skinnyyy in my bikini, so I'm not complaining. I unscrew the cap of the bottle of Evan Williams and take another long, slow swig. The burn races down my throat, warming my insides, loosening my limbs, and making everything feel a little too good. Henry pokes at the fire with our stick, his bare chest illuminated by the golden-orange glow. His muscles ripple with every movement, the flames casting sharp shadows over his sculpted abs and broad shoulders. The scruff on his jaw has grown into an all-out beard, thick enough now that he looks less like my brother's best friend and more like some rugged, untamed lumberjack, ready to throw me over his shoulder and carry me off into the woods. Goodness. I lick my lips, tearing my eyes away before I say or do something dangerously inappropriate. Normally, when I drink, I kiss. Lots. I'm also not usually a bourbon girl, but then again, I'm not usually a stranded-on-an-island girl either, and look how that turned out. At least the company is good, if slightly lacking in volume. "I guess our pilot liked booze enough to carry it on his plane, huh?" I question quietly, still watching Henry mess with the fire, my words half to myself at this point. I don't know that I've felt this free since before I woke up to thinking Henry was dead two mornings ago. I'm a quarter of the bottle deep, and everything feels pleasurably numbed-except for the growing heat low in my stomach every time my gaze lands back on him. "I guess." Henry shrugs, indulging me. "I've only flown with Mario a few times, but I've never seen him drink on the job." I hum, watching his hands, the way they move when he talks-strong, tanned fingers that could probably break me in half if he wanted to. There's a lot of things I wouldn't mind him doing to me with those fingers of his... I clear my throat and force my focus elsewhere. "What do you think happened to him?" I ask. "To Mario?" Henry leans forward, draping his forearms over his knees, his muscles tensing with the movement. "Probably a heart attack. Maybe a stroke," he says, his voice low, rough, like the subject isn't easy for him. Which I understand. It's hard to think about the fact that Mario died. I didn't know him at all, and yet there's a part of me that feels so guilty for the way we had to leave him. "Honestly, I don't know," Henry adds, meeting my eyes for a brief moment. "I'm not entirely sure, but he was unresponsive with no pulse when I got to him. I don't think there's anything we could have done to help him even if the plane hadn't been in a dive." I nod and swallow hard against the emotion that is now threatening to creep up my throat. I don't know anything about Mario. I don't know if he had a wife or kids or grandkids. But I do know that I wish his life hadn't ended the way it did. Rest in peace, Mario, I silently pray and raise the bottle toward the fire in a quiet toast, "To Mario," before taking another swig of comfort to settle my always-ragged nerves. Henry reaches for the bottle with a waggle of his fingers, and I hand it to him without complaint. As much as I'd love to down the whole thing myself, sharing fluids is an unspoken agreement these days. He raises it to the fire just like I did, repeating my toast. "To Mario!" He takes a swig of his own and then sets the bottle down on the other side of his thigh, just out of my reach. I narrow my eyes. He must think I won't notice as he pretends to yawn and stretch like Mr. fucking Magoo, casually blocking my access to the booze. Oh, hell no. I hold out my fingers toward him, wiggling them in demand, but he has the audacity to ignore me completely. "Excuse me," I snap. "Are you trying to steal my booze?" He sighs. "I know you're going to hate this, but I think you've probably had enough for tonight. Tomorrow's another day, and your stomach isn't exactly full right now." "I'm not hungry," I protest. "You caught that fish earlier, and I had some breadfruit." Henry gives me the look. The one that's equal parts exasperation and amusement, like he knows me better than I know myself. "Please, Ave?" he says then, his voice lower, softer, almost coaxing. "I don't want to worry about you tonight." I stop short. Something about the way he says it settles inside my chest. It's completely unexpected but totally expected at the same time-he's worried about me. And for some reason, that makes me feel warm in an entirely different way that the bourbon hasn't been able to achieve. Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf or something, but I surprise both myself and him by agreeing. "Fine. I'll save it. But if we go another week here without getting rescued, I'm downing the rest of the fucking bottle, and there's nothing you can do to stop me." Henry chuckles, shaking his head. "Deal." I sigh and fall back into the sand, looking up at the sky, at the endless blackness stretching above us, at the way the stars are scattered across it like diamonds on velvet. "You know, for all the bullshit we're dealing with, I have to admit... This view is insane." Henry tilts his head back, glancing up toward the heavens. "Yeah. I guess it is." I shift my body so that I can watch him watch the sky, and my focus trails down to his sharp jawline, the slope of his nose, the cut of his throat. God, he's hot. I press my thighs together, heat burning low in my stomach, a mix of liquor and desire stirring up bad decisions inside me. Good grief, I need to do something with this energy. "So, what am I supposed to do now?" I question. "I'm not ready to go to bed, and you took away the booze. I'm tired of being bored." "We can talk." "Ugh," I gag. "More talking. Talking, talking, talking, it's all we do these days." Henry laughs. "All right, then. What do you want to do?" I pause, considering. Then, the best idea I've had in a long time crashes into me like a tidal wave. I grin at him. "I know!" I say, giddy with inspiration. I sit up straight quickly, and Henry's eyes flare at the sudden movement. "Let's have sex!" "What?" His voice cuts through the quiet night like a gunshot, and I have to laugh at how scandalized he looks. Henry Callahan-seasoned playboy, known ladies' man, a guy who has undoubtedly seen more pussy than the ASPCA-is looking at me like I just suggested we commit a federal crime. It's like me saying I want to have sex has turned him into a schoolmarm. I don't get it. "What, what? You heard me." I tilt my head, smirking as I move closer to him, liking the way his throat bobs when I do. "We should have sex. It'd be fun, probably feel really good, and would definitely be less boring than sitting here watching you poke a damn fire." I gesture vaguely to his abs, his broad chest, the way the firelight twinkles against his ridiculously sculpted body. "I mean, look at you. You're a walking, talking thirst trap. And judging by your track record, I'd say you've got enough experience to make it worth my while." His brows furrow, like he's actually offended. "Track record? How many people do you think I've slept with?" "Oh, puh-lease." I snort. "Don't try to play innocent with me, Callahan. I have eyes. And I've known you forever." I raise a brow. "We both know you've banged your way through a whole fucking squad." His mouth twists in amusement. "Maybe I'm an illusionist, like you. Maybe I just like kissing all these women." I narrow my eyes. "Are you?" "Well, no. But that's not the point." I guffaw. "It's almost like the entire point, Henry!" I shove to my feet and hold out a hand, swaying only a littlllle bit from the booze. I try my damnedest to conceal it before he gets all high and mighty about being honorable and sober and responsible and shit. The last thing I need is for Mr. All-of-a-Sudden-Honorable-and-Responsible to latch on to that and turn this into some stupid lesson about good decision-making. "Come on, Henry." I extend a beckoning hand, grinning like I just solved world peace. "Let's go have sex." "Avery..." He scrubs a hand down his face and sighs heavily. "What now?" I blow out a frustrated breath from pursed lips. "What possible excuse could you have?" "You're a virgin, Avery." "Uh. Yeah. I know. I am the bearer of the hymen after all." His jaw clenches. "Then you have to know it's not just as simple as saying, Hey, let's go do it. There are consequences. Things that it will change." I scoff. "It's only complicated if we make it complicated. We're just two bodies, passing the time." "We're going to get off this island, Avery." His voice has the kind of careful cautiousness that grates on my nerves. I don't want to overanalyze this shit. I just want to...escape. "And then what?" he questions. "Will you regret it then?" I cross my arms. "Why are you making such a big deal out of this?" "Because," he snaps, running a frustrated hand through his hair, "I can't handle the thought of you regretting it and deciding never to talk to me again." His words come out raw and unfiltered, the sharp edges of his restraint fraying. "I get that it'd be easier-that it would make this whole situation easier if you had someone to hate or blame or lash out at. But God, Avery..." He exhales, shaking his head. "I...I can't have you hating me. I can't." And just like that, the weight of it all slams into me. The air between us shifts, heavier than before. I stare at him, my pulse hammering, the firelight casting shadows over his sharp features-the cut of his jaw and the heat in his stormy blue eyes. And fuck, I want him. I want him so badly it's making my head spin. I swallow hard. "That'll never happen, Henry. I swear." And I mean it so deeply that my whole body shakes. Two days ago, when I thought he was hurt or missing or...dead...I realized a lot of things about Henry I'll never be able to forget. Rich or poor, healthy or sick, happy at home or stuck on this godforsaken island, Henry Callahan is the kind of man you ride or die for. He says what he means. Does what he says. And I can't imagine a world without him in it. Fighting the overwhelming emotion of everything I've been working so hard to drown in bourbon, I suck my lips into my mouth, my next words no louder than a whisper. "I don't know if we'll ever get rescued." His gaze darkens. "Avery..." "I don't. And you don't either. But either way, this is something that's happened to both of us. Something we can't go back from." I exhale, stepping closer and kneeling before him until I slide my body between his opened thighs. "You will always be part of my life. No matter what. Okay?" He stares at me, hard, then finally nods. "Okay." I smile. "Good." Then, without missing a beat, I grin wickedly and waggle my brows. "Now, let's go have sex." "Avery!" Henry lets out a strangled sound, something between a laugh and a groan, rubbing a hand down his face. "Oh, come on!" I push, desperate for the connection, desperate for the distraction-desperate for something that'll make me feel alive. I graze my fingertips down his bare stomach, and heat coils in my belly at the way his muscles tense under my touch. "What are you so afraid of, Henry?" I question, locking my gaze firmly with his. "Do you think I'm going to fall in love with you or something?"