Surviving Us (4 page)

“Which resort are you staying at?” Stefania asks me as we wait for the people at the front of the plane to disembark.

Once all of my things are securely inside my backpack, I swing it over my shoulders and answer. “Ti Kaye. What about you guys?”

“We’re at one of the Sandals
—the
adults
only
one.” She loops her arms around Marcel’s waist and gazes up at him dreamily. “We’re on our five year anniversary trip, and I think Papi has a surprise or two in store for me.”

I force a small smile as I look at them both, cringing internally. I know by the intonation in her voice she’s hoping for an engagement ring . . . or a big ass orgy . . . maybe both. But I also know by the look in his eye, she isn’t getting one.

Well, at least not the ring.

“I hope you two have a great time doing all those
adult
things,” I snicker, unable to hold in my inner-smartass any longer. “Don’t forget sunscreen if you’re gonna run around topless.” I wink at her as I step out into the aisle and begin to move towards the exit.

Stefania’s high-pitched giggles fade quickly as I hurriedly step through the hatch door, only to find myself outside, walking down a portable flight of stairs pulled up to the side of the plane.
Where in the world are we
?

As my feet find the solid ground, my eyes dart around the unfamiliar area, trying to figure out where to go, but all I see is a big-ass parking lot and a grass-roofed shack the rest of the passengers are walking towards. There isn’t another aircraft in sight, and the airport—if that’s what you want to call it—looks like the cabana bar in Lyv’s dad’s backyard.

“Just be happy they didn’t kill all of us,” a gruff voice from behind me mutters.

“Huh?” I spin around to find
him
standing behind me, his face expressionless, hiding in the shadow of his brim.

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, then walks past me, softly nudging my shoulder with his arm. “Come on. Let’s get our bags and find a ride; you don’t need to be left alone.”

I stand there dumbfounded for a moment, wondering how in the hell this trip can continue to get weirder by the minute. “What?!” I finally squawk, taking brisk steps to catch up. “What did you say to me? Who do you think you are? And why can’t I be left alone?” My feet have to work just as fast as my mouth to keep up with him, his long legs striding dead ahead across the pavement.

We reach the open-air structure—no doors or windows, just a wide-open space—and he still hasn’t answered my questions or even looked back to make sure I’m still with him. There’s a guy in a red t-shirt and jeans directing us where to go to retrieve our luggage, and as we step into the makeshift airport, emo-boy
abruptly grabs my hand, jerking me close to his side.

“Don’t fight me on this,” he insists, speaking low under his breath. “This place isn’t safe for a girl like you. I’ll help you find your bags and get us to the resort. Then, you never have to speak to me again,” he leans down to whisper suggestively in my ear, “or you can thank me later, if you’d like.”

I attempt to yank my hand from his, but he holds on tight, laughing heartily at my reaction. “Calm down. Jesus, I was only joking. For some crazy reason, I’m trying to help you, not hit on you.”

Lifting my eyes up to meet his striking light brown ones, I hiss in a jagged breath—he’s so much
more
than good-looking. Panty-dropping gorgeous is probably a better description, but having already been exposed to his self-proclaimed
dickishness,
and then seeing his juvenile outburst on the plane, my brain is sending messages as quickly as possible to my panties to hold-on tight.

“I didn’t think you were trying to hit on me,” I retort, turning my nose up in the air. “According to your shirt, your taste in women is much more refined and
experienced
.”

Another deep laugh emanates from him, resulting in a grin that shows off two perfectly-placed dimples, one on each side of his pearly-white smile. “Come on.” He tugs me into an area to the left, where apparently our entire plane’s luggage has been dumped in the corner of the room. “You’re funny, Mets girl. And yeah, your mom is probably more my style. Now, what does your luggage look like?”

I flinch at the mention of my mom, my face heating up. “I’ve got two bags, both zebra-print with hot pink tags, and unless you’re into necrophilia,
Yankees boy
, she’s probably not your type either.”

This time when I release his hand, he lets me go.

I shuffle over to the mess, immediately locating both of my suitcases, already feeling bad for what I said. I’ve never been one to throw my parents’ deaths in anyone’s face; pity is the last thing I’ve ever wanted. Before I go find a taxi, I need to apologize to him.

He’s sorting through a pile of black luggage when I locate him, and as I approach him, he grabs one and lifts it into the air with an “Aha!”

“Found it, eh?” I ask, my words an olive branch of sorts.

His head snaps in my direction and he nods. “Yeah, you get yours?”

“Yep,” I tilt my head downwards, “I guess I gotta find a ride now.” People are still milling around us, searching through the luggage, asking if anyone works here, and the level of disgruntled confusion is rapidly growing by the minute.

The gap between us is eaten up in two of his lengthy paces, and before I know it, he’s right up in my personal space again. “I told you I’d help you get there; it’ll definitely be safer for both of us to travel together. You don’t need to be going anywhere on this island alone. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, unsure why he keeps mentioning safety. I read up on the island quite a bit in the months leading up to the trip, and everything I read was positive, saying how nice the locals were and how they couldn’t wait to come back. “Which way should we go? Not that there are a lot of options.” I laugh nervously, glancing around the open space as I think about spending an extended period of time in a car with this guy whose name I still don’t know, and whom I am finding more captivating by the moment.

He tips his head towards the opposite way in which we entered. “Over there, I think.” I grab hold of my bags, thankful they’re both on wheels, and roll them behind me as I follow his lead. The good news is he was right about where to go; the bad news is it’s a freaking madhouse of disorganized activity when we get there.

People are shouting, running around, and trying to make phone calls everywhere I look. The pandemonium is unsettling. I’m not sure who to talk to or where to go. I just want to get to my resort.

“Stay right here. Do not move for any reason. I’m leaving my stuff here with you and I’m going to arrange a car for us.” His voice is firm and commanding, but surprisingly soothing to my nerves.

With not much of an option, I nod and wait for him, watching as he works his way through the crowd and talks to a black man dressed in solid white from head to toe. They shake hands before he heads back over to me, leaving me alone for less than five minutes.

“That guy’s gonna grab his car from the lot and come pick us up,” he explains.

“Awesome. Thank you, uh . . .” I snicker at the absurdity of this all, “I don’t even know your name. Sorry I haven’t asked yet; this has been a little overwhelming today . . . first flight ever, wrong airport, crazy swingers on the plane, and all.”

“No apology needed. You can call me D,
Bristol
, and yes,” he chuckles, “I was eavesdropping on your
interesting
plane conversation, so I know your name.”

A small, white car pulls up across from where we’re standing, and the man giving us a ride climbs out of the driver’s seat, motioning for us to come over. Before D steps off the curb towards the car, he smiles apologetically and squeezes my hand.

“I’m sorry for the comment about your mom earlier; it was very disrespectful of me,” he says softly. “It’s true, I’m usually a dick, but I should’ve known better.”

“How could you have known?” I ask puzzled.

Freeing my hand, a wave of sadness washes across his face. “I’m staying at Ti Kaye too.” He picks up his bags, turns around, and starts walking away as the realization slaps me hard across the face and my mind begins to race.

He’s like me.

He’s a survivor too.

AS BRISTOL HURRIES OVER
to the car where I’m lifting my suitcases into the compact trunk, I see the acknowledgement light up her eyes and questions form in her mind. Now she knows
what
I am, but still not
who
I am. Though there’s a good chance even if I told her my full name, it wouldn’t ring any bells for her;
m
ost teenage girls don’t follow high school and college football much, unless it’s where they go to school.

I’m a washed up has-been, yesterday’s news, my life but a shell of what it was a couple of years ago before everything happened. Once the most highly recruited quarterback in the country, now the only football I play is Madden on XBOX, while lounging on the couch in my parents’ house.

She stops beside me and reaches down to lift one of her bags up.

“I’ve got them both. Go ahead and get in the car,” I say, more as an order than a suggestion.
Can this girl not see all of these guys openly gaping at her and her mile-long legs sticking out from those jean shorts?

“Thank you,” she mumbles, turning on her heel and moving towards the backdoor.

I finish loading the luggage, then get in the backseat next to her as the driver slides in behind the wheel.

“So, Ti Kaye, man? Is that right?” the local asks in a heavy island accent, peering at me through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, sir,” I reply politely, “that’s the one.”

“Dr. Secret, not sir,” he says as he pulls out onto the gravel road, the warmth of the late afternoon funneling through the open windows of the car.

“Excuse me?” I question, unsure if I heard him correctly.

He twists around to look at us directly and smiles widely; his teeth are as bright white as his outfit, which is a drastic contrast against his ebony skin. “I said, man, my name is Dr. Secret, not your sir,” he repeats, shifting back around just as he makes a sharp ninety-degree turn with the wheel.

She and I share a look; I’m positive her thoughts are mimicking mine
—
Dr. Secret? Really? What have we gotten ourselves into?