Tsunami Blue (2 page)

The body rolled.

Hair as black as mine fell back, reveling his face. He looked still, ashen, dead. My breath caught, and a sudden unexpected sadness washed over me.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

Chapter Two

I knew he was dead.

He had to be dead.

The water had told me. Right?

Max whined, looked at me, then back to the body, then back to me again. He cocked that massive head of his at me and barked. I leaned in, pressing my cold fingers to an equally cold neck to feel for a pulse. Nothing.

“Max.” I spread my arms wide as I sat back on my heels. “What do you want me to do? I can’t raise the dead, buddy.”

I looked at the man’s exquisite features, all hard angles and shadows; he looked like a fallen dark angel, silent and tragic in death. I reached over to give Max a pat. Max licked my cheek, then dropped down on the sand, looking at the still figure. The dog went silent. He, too, had given up.

Loneliness and yearning slammed into me.

I wanted this man to be an angel, damn it. I wanted him to be
my
angel. I wanted him to be alive and good and noble. I wanted him to take me away from the waves and the cold and the damp. I wanted him to take away the ghosts. The memories. I don’t know why, but looking at this man, so still, so lost, just made me want to cry.

A fine rain started, adding more chill to an already cold night. I hated the way the drops fell and pooled on his closed eyes. The rain looked like tears.

I couldn’t stand it.

I pounded the sand with my fist. Max and I were out of here. There was always morning. My head would be clear, no more ghosts, just another body to deal with come first light. I’d done it before, and I would do it again.

I started to push up from the sand. “I wish we could have saved him, Max,” I whispered. And then, just as I prepared to stand, I saw…what? His coat had draped open, revealing a black thermal shirt stretched taut across a broad chest. Movement. A breath? Not possible. Was it?

Suddenly everything Uncle Seamus had drilled into me came back in a rush of adrenaline. My uncle had been a mean, cold bastard, true, but he did teach me how to survive. My heart slammed against my chest and I felt hot, frantic, confused. I had to think.
Think!
The voice of my long-dead uncle played in my mind.

Pale skin. Appears dead. Body in hibernation. May be alive. May be alive. May. Be. Alive.

Hypothermia.

Of course. The number one outdoor killer. The two top contributing factors? Cold and wet.

My hands shook as I reached for him. I touched his chest, laid my head down to listen for a heartbeat. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t— Pupils dilated.

Of course. Yes. Of course! I knelt closer and for once I thanked the moon for the light. I gently opened an eyelid and I could see the pupil clearly. Dilated.

I listened once more for a heartbeat. Max knew something was up. He jumped to his feet, barking.

“Quiet, Max, quiet. I can’t hear. I can’t hear.” Max did as he was told and reduced the barking to his signature whine.

Suddenly I knew.

I
knew
he was alive. And I knew I could save him. Maybe. Wait. Not a maybe. I just would.

I turned to the sea and gave it the finger. “Damn you. Just damn you. He is
not
dead.” Max started to chase his tail. “Not now, Max,” I yelled. The sea, wicked and black, laughed. Laughed!
Fuck it.

I turned back to the body. No. Not a body. A man. A living,
almost
breathing man. I ignored the sea and let my uncle’s instructions fill my head.

Okay, I wasn’t able to detect a pulse, so yeah, severely hypothermic. I leaned over, opened his mouth, placed mine over his, and exhaled. I knew that I could increase the rate and strength of his heartbeat enough so that I could detect it. He’d be too fragile for full-on CPR. The pounding alone could cause cardiac arrest. So could moving him. But I couldn’t leave him out here, but…wait. I was getting ahead of myself.

Get the heart going, Blue
, my uncle’s voice whispered through my mind.
Then you get your butt going. Don’t be a damn sucker. Don’t get attached. That’s weakness, stupid girl. Whoever or whatever your bleeding heart is tryin’ to save most likely won’t make it.

I applied myself with a single-minded goal:
Get a heartbeat. Just get a heartbeat, Blue,
I told myself,
and the rest will follow.

The next few minutes were silent as only the surf and my breathing filled the still air. The rain had stopped, and Max now watched intently, not making a sound. I could hear the rhythm of my breath moving into his lungs, promising life. I laid my head on the stranger’s chest, fingers to the neck, and held my own breath as if not wanting to waste it.

And then, what had it been? Two minutes? Ten? There it was.

A miracle.

Faint. Slow. But steady. Oh, so steady.
A heartbeat
.

“You’re a fighter, aren’t ya, big guy?” I whispered against his cheek. And then,
Get your butt going, Blue.

I jumped up fast, startling Max. He bounded up with a sharp bark. I stripped off my jacket and threw it on the sand, followed by my own thermal shirt. I shivered in the cold with only my bra and cargos on as I tucked my jacket around his torso. It was ridiculously small, but still, so much better than nothing. I quickly wrapped the thermal shirt around his head. Dropping to the sand, I tugged off my boots, pulled my socks off, and covered his hands. I called for Max.

“Lie down, boy. Lie down.” I pushed him close and snug beside the man. “Stay.” Max looked at me like I was crazy. “Stay,” I said again, firmly. “I’ll be back, boy. Stay. Protect.”

I pulled on the boots, hopped up, turned, and ran.

The trick with Max was to not look back. If I said to stay, he would. At least for a while. If I looked back, he would consider that an invite and bolt to chase me down. And that was the last thing I wanted. Max’s body heat could have meant life or death for that man.

I swore all the way back, mad at myself for wearing boots that hindered my speed. Time was the enemy. I burst through my door and started to multitask almost to the point of frenzy.

Boots flew off. A log was thrown into the fire; my favorite beach rocks were tossed on a hot stove. I pulled on a T-shirt and a sweatshirt, shoved into old Puma sneakers—my go-fast shoes—slung a thick rope over my head and onto one shoulder, and then ran out the door and back to the beach.

For the second time that night I slid into the sand next to the stranger with my lungs near bursting. His heart still beat, faint but steady. Within minutes, I had the rope slipped under his arms and knotted into a sling that draped across his chest. I twisted my thermal shirt around the rope, padding it against his body. The end of the rope looped around Max, who had a massive chest of his own. A Burmese mountain dog, Max was not only the biggest canine I’d ever seen, but also the strongest.

“Let’s go home, Max, slow and steady.” I led for a few yards, and when Max got the pace, I followed behind with a cedar bough and swept away our tracks. I didn’t know where this man had come from or who might be looking for him. And I didn’t know how many others he might have brought along for the ride. But I’d get my answers when he woke up. If he woke up.

I bit my lower lip as I watched from behind. An irregular heartbeat caused from rough handling would kill him at this stage. But my Max was doing a great job, and we were almost there. I could see the glow of my lanterns, twinkling, welcoming.

This was one time I didn’t mind if Max went first through the door. The three of us piled into my tiny room with me tripping on Max and the rope and a large man who filled my space, bringing me to the brink of claustrophobia.

From that point on everything was on autopilot.

I pulled my futon in front of the fire, a crude but effective cast-iron stove, then put the beach rocks on the top to warm. I tossed down my huge sleeping bag, and I started with the basics.

First, strip off clothes.

His trench coat was weatherproof—oilskin, expensive in its day. However, in our current reality? The coat was priceless. I’d known men who would kill for the duster and think nothing of it. Talk about holding value. “Fool,” I said as though he could hear me, “a coat like this will get you killed. Haven’t you ever heard of a low profile?” But then I saw my skull boots heaped by the door. “Okay,” I said, “you got me there.”

I hung the coat to dry. I’d check the pockets later. I didn’t have time to be a detective. I yanked off his boots: Docs, thick and steel-toed. If he’d worn these in the sea, it was a wonder they hadn’t weighed him down and killed him. Shoes like these would drown you. Fast.

Next, the black thermal top. Again, high-grade, military-issue, and didn’t that just raise a red flag. I paused, but no, I’d keep going. I’d get my answers later; after all, Max could be pretty persuasive.

I gently pulled on the shirt, untucking it from black jeans. I took as much time as I dared. No rough treatment. I had to protect the heart that I’d worked so hard to get going. I toweled off his shoulder-length hair the best I could and was surprised to see that it really was as black as mine. I brushed it aside as I finished pulling the shirt up and off.

And once again, my breath caught.

His skin was golden, as if kissed by the sun—which, let’s face it, in the Pacific Northwest in December was highly unlikely. So, not from around here. My curiosity shot through the roof. So did my anxiety.

His arms were solid, thick, corded with muscle. “Guess I’m not the only one who works out,” I said to Max, who looked at me like he couldn’t care less.

I ran my hand over his chest. He had a full six-pack of abs, a tapering waist, and well…wow, just wow. He was perfect. I rested my hand over his heart and I could feel the beat, soft and sure. I blushed, thinking for a moment that he looked like one of those models from an old Las Vegas calendar I’d found floating in Seattle. A chorus line of gorgeous men from Australia, “the Thunder Down Under,” they’d called it. Wait, not models—male strippers.

My cheeks burned. “I can’t believe I’m blushing,” I said to Max. And then, “Not a word to anyone, buddy. I mean it.” Max, who was so used to me talking to him morning, noon, and night, just yawned and rolled over.

I stripped off the leather belt. Black and lethal, it had tiny rows of silver spikes that seemed way too sharp for a fashion statement. The sticky fingers of paranoia crept along my spine.

My hands trembled as I reached for his fly. This was it, and I had to be quick about it. There was no time to lose. No time to be shy. Embarrassed. I had a life to save. And yeah, I hadn’t had much experience with men, but yes, I’d seen some naked. Two, actually. As I fumbled with the button and zipper of his jeans, I shuddered at the ugly memories.

One had been dead, murdered and stripped of all his earthly belongings. The thief had gotten away with some ratty clothes, a pair of Nikes, and some photographs. It was the Nikes that had cost the man his life. Maybe our new world wasn’t so unlike the old: a life for a pair of designer shoes. It had happened before. I’d found the clothes down the road, thrown away like garbage. The photos of three little kids were stomped and crushed in the sand.

The second naked male, a Runner, had tracked and hunted me for months. One night, hidden in the dark and fog, he’d followed my radio signal and caught up. After stripping off his clothes he came at me. I still remember the haunting,
You won’t be so pretty when I’m done, bitch
, in my nightmares. Runners are like that. They like their women beaten, bruised, bloody. He’d come at me and he’d died. By my hand. Uncle Seamus had taught me well. I’d been thirteen. And already lethal.

I unbuttoned the jeans, pulled at the zipper, and peeled the pants down past slender hips and muscular thighs. Every bit of clothing was soaked, and it was imperative I get him dry and warm. And there was only one way to do it. The jeans came off, leaving only snug black underwear, shorts really, and they had to come off too.

But not before the rocks. I placed my smooth beach rocks, now warmed by the stove, in assorted wool socks. I carefully put the makeshift heating pads on each side of his neck, in his armpits, in his palms, on his soles. Last would be the groin. But first…

I stoked the fire for the last time and hung his clothes all around the tiny room to dry. I blew out all the lanterns, so the only light was from the moon, a pale gold streaming through my one small window. I knelt beside him and once more felt for a pulse in his neck. It was there, faint yet stronger. Good. All good.

I had to prevent afterdrop at all cost. He couldn’t afford any continuing loss of core cooling, something that could happen during the rewarming process.

And now there was nothing to do but the obvious. I stood up, stripped naked, and caught the reflection of my tattooed left arm, a full sleeve that stopped at the wrist, in the tiny window. The cobalt, aqua, and teal blended to form a magnificent Japanese wave, a tsunami, rising up on my arm and cresting over my shoulder. The name Finnegan was scrolled in the waters, riding the wave upward toward my heart.

As I dropped down to my knees and pulled the last garment from my mysterious guest, I tried not to focus on how magnificent this man, this raw picture of perfection and beauty, really was. I placed the last two stones timidly on his groin, handling his penis gingerly, gently, moving him to a position I hoped would be comfortable.

I climbed in beside him and pulled the oversize sleeping bag closed. The zipper, long broken, dangled in places, so I tucked the fabric around us as best I could. Pressing against him, I gave him my warmth, my life force, and my prayers.
Please, God, let him live
.

My body ached from the long day and the even longer night. My heart ached from the memories of a long-past event wrapped up in a painful anniversary.

Fatigue washed over me, and as I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer, every nerve ending tingled with an awareness that was foreign to me. Sweat formed on my brow, and beads of moisture pooled between my breasts. There was dampness high between my thighs and a low pull in my belly. Strange yet tempting. But tempting how?