Page 76 of Pull Me Under

It is interesting. Interesting in the way that standing too close to a fire is interesting – all heat and the knowledge that you’re probably going to get burned.

Brynn’s good at darts. Not that I’m surprised – she’s good at everything that involves precision and steady hands. Each dart finds its mark while I’m struggling to hit anything near the board. We’re down by thirty points when she takes the final throw.

‘Triple twenty,’ Tom says, shaking his head. ‘No chance.’

Brynn throws.

Triple twenty.

‘Bloody hell,’ Bill mutters from the sidelines.

She turns to me, flushed with victory, eyes bright, and for a moment I can’t breathe. She’s not the Trelawney, not the enemy, not the woman I’m supposed to keep at arm’s length. She’s just Brynn, grinning at me like we’re on the same team.

Because we are. We’re on the same team.

‘Not bad,’ I manage, like my heart isn’t crawling up my throat.

‘Don’t cry, Harding. I’m sure you’ll be better at tiddlywinks.’

‘I’m better at a lot of things.’

Her tongue pokes inside her cheek, lips pursing, and she doesn’t answer but her eyes say, Prove it.

We’re standing too close. When did that happen? I can smell her shampoo – strangely light and floral for a woman so boot-stompingly angry – and see the pulse jumping in her throat. I’m thinking about the shed, the boat deck, my mouth on her skin, her hands pulling⁠—

The pub door bangs open.

Dad.

He’s standing in the doorway, scanning the room. He hasn’t come to The Ship on a Friday in weeks – stopped when the evenings got confusing, when he’d lose the thread of Bill’s stories and cover it with anger. So why tonight? Who told him Brynn would be here?

Dot. Always Dot.

When his eyes land on us by the dartboard – on Brynn – his face twists.

‘Jude.’ His voice carries across the pub, cutting through everything. ‘I need a word.’

‘Dad, I’m in the middle of⁠—’

‘Now.’

I glance at Brynn. Her face has gone carefully blank, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.

‘It’s fine,’ she says quietly. ‘Go.’

I cross to Dad, keeping my voice low. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong is that you’re drinking with a Trelawney.’ He’s not keeping his voice low. Not even trying. The old Dad – shrewd, strategic, controlled – would have pulled me aside. Cornered me at home. Used disappointment, not volume. This is new. ‘In public. Like it’s acceptable.’

‘Dad—’

‘After everything that family did to us. After what they cost us.’ He’s looking past me now, at Brynn, and there’s darkness in his eyes that goes beyond anger. ‘Trelawneys have always had a talent for taking what wasn’t theirs. Our contracts. Our territory. Sneaking into places they don’t belong. Destroying everything they touch.’

‘Dad, that’s enough⁠—’

‘Is it? Is it enough that she’s back? Living in that cottage like she has any right to it? Waltzing onto the crew like her family didn’t⁠—’

‘My family didn’t do anything.’