a reason to live(25)

With my Hydroskins already on, I pulled out the Dryskins and began pulling them up my leg. I heard a vehicle approaching, so I turned as I finished dressing. An old, black truck came around the bend and I recognized it immediately.

Shane?

He came to a halt at the opening, and I covered my eyes so I could see past the morning sun. He was staring at me—his jaw ticking in anger for some reason—then he gunned the engine and pulled in. His door opened wide and he bound out. He slammed it hard before he barreled down on me.

“You’re not working for Gregor,” Shane ordered, catching me off guard.

“What? But he hired me yesterday.”

“Call him back and tell him you changed your mind.”

“I don’t understand? Why would I do that?”

“His three-day excursions are for experienced rafters, not a beginner. You’re in over your head.”

“Gregor didn’t seem concerned,” I argued.

“Gregor’s been rafting so long he thinks Niagara Falls is a walk in the park,” Shane returned sarcastically.

“But I need this job. I have limited savings until this stalker business is behind me and Trails End is a small town with a limited job market. Look, Shane, I’m a strong swimmer and catch on quickly. Please, just show me the ropes today and I’ll prove I can do it.”

Shane clenched his jaw again, but he didn’t say no. I stood locked in place while he decided, hoping he would see reason. After waiting a moment more, he finally muttered, “Shit,” and turned toward his truck.

I let out my breath and tried to relax as he walked away. Unprepared to spend time with Shane after being in his presence twice the day before—both times uncomfortable—I was off-kilter and unsure of myself.

Is it me or the reminder of Emma Jane that pisses him off?

“Stay focused, Sage. Learn to raft first, worry about Shane later. If you don’t have a job, you can’t stay here to help him,” I mumbled then moved toward his truck.

There was a tarp over the back of his truck secured with bungee cords. He unhooked them as I walked up and pulled it back, exposing what looked to be a two-man raft. He pulled out two life vests and helmets, tossing them on the ground before he wrestled with the raft. Once the raft was out of the truck, he threw the vests and helmets inside and carried it to the edge of the river.

He grumbled, “Safety first,” as he picked up a life jacket. “This is your PFD. Portable floatation device. Keep it on at all times when you’re on the water.” He flipped the jacket over, pointed to a cushioned flap on the back, and then continued. “When you wear it, make sure the pillow isn’t tucked into the back, it’ll keep your head above water if you fall in.”

Shane helped me get the vest on and secured the four buckles, tightening the straps. When he was satisfied it was secured, he tugged on the top to check the fit, leaning in close to my face as he did. I held my breath at his nearness, keeping my focus trained over his shoulder as he worked. When he was done, he leaned down, picked up a helmet, and put it on my head. I couldn’t help but look at his mouth while he adjusted the strap. It was at eye level.

“Make sure it’s not so loose that it slips over your chin,” he instructed in a clipped voice. I was in a haze when he spoke; distracted by the way his mouth formed the words. He smelled like musk, maybe sandalwood, and the heady scent made my toes curl.

When he paused for my acquiescence, I couldn’t form a sentence, so I nodded that I’d heard him. He turned after I agreed and repeated the same with his own vest and helmet. Once done, he grabbed two paddles out of the back of his truck and handed one to me, and through it all, he still scowled while he completed his tasks.

“The paddle,” he started in a business-like manner, “has an inner core that is metal, so don’t let go of it unless you want to knock someone’s teeth out. One hand should always be on the T-grip, even if you’re stationary. When you stroke, hold the shaft with one hand and the T-grip with the other. Use the whole blade when you stroke, not just the tip. Also, don’t use your arms; you’ll tire out quickly. Lean forward into the stroke like this and then lean back as you pull.”

“Got it. One hand on the tip, one hand on the shaft, and use my back not my arms as I stroke,” I muttered as he demonstrated the correct form for paddling.

Shane didn’t continue for a moment, so I looked up. He had an odd look on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“T-grip, not tip,” he rumbled low, then turned and walked over to the raft.

I was beginning to think he hadn’t had enough coffee.