His smile is slow and victorious, like somehow me stopping him was him winning.
“See!” I point at his face and he gives me that I’m so innocent look again. “It is an inner game to you. You’re winning because you’re fucking with me.”
“Am I?”
“Oh my god, you are infuriating.”
“Yes,” he takes in a slow breath. “I feel the same about you, my love.”
My lips press together, but before I can tell him once more I’m not into that or any other pet name, the waitress returns. Blue comes out from under the table and sits by my side politely waiting for his steak. I cut it up into Blue-sized pieces while Robert watches me, sipping wine, and smiling like he won. Like he always wins.
I stop cutting, the silverware hovering over the half-cut-up steak. That’s it. If we can convince people they are winning—that they can have everything they want—then they are more likely to get it. If we can convince them they deserve to win. That’s what Rida did: her lies, her story, sold women on their worthiness.
My mother, for one. A doormat her whole life—except when defending a man—she found her feet, her worthiness. My jaw tightens because the motivation still comes from outside. What if the next prophet tells her she needs to bow down to all men, would she do it?
I can hear her voice in my head. The prophet’s message resonates with me, that’s how I know it’s true.
But just because something feels like it’s true doesn’t make it gospel.
“Sydney?” Robert says, but I shake my head, trying to let the thought finish.
It’s slippery though, trailing through my mind like sand through fingers. “You win because you think you’re destined to win,” I say.
“I win because I am beholden to no one but myself, Sydney.”
I look up at him, blinking. The top two buttons of Robert’s shirt are undone, the breeze toys with his hair, he holds a wine glass by its elegant stem and watches me, a subtle smile teasing the corner of his mouth. He looks smug. And rich. And like he wins.
“What about your mother?” I ask.
He tilts his head, considering the question. “What about her?”
“Were you beholden to her? When you were a kid you must have been. All kids have to do what their parents say.”
“Spoken like a childless adult,” Robert says, leaning forward and picking up his fork. “Let’s not forget my son is actively trying to kill me. And that’s not under my orders.”
“But you won’t kill him?” Robert spears a bite of his fish and shakes his head. “Why not?”
His gaze rises to meet mine. “I’m not a monster, Sydney.”
“So you are beholden to something. To some moral code.”
“Yes, mine.” He raises the white flaky fish to his mouth.
Blue whines softly next to me, a gentle, polite reminder that the steak he is dying to eat is ready…I just have to give it to him. “Sorry, boy,” I say, shifting to place it on the floor for him.
My head is down at my knees, my attention on the plate as I place it on the wooden deck, when Blue growls and stands. My focus shifts to sliver of open space between the boards. A black form—wet and large—rises from the sea beneath the deck. Fuck.
I drop the plate and grab my bag, drawing my weapon as the first shot comes up through the deck, splintering the wood and thunking into the table.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Robert’s wine spills across the white cloth as he stands, drawing his own weapon.
“Get inside,” he growls, as if I needed the advice to flee. Blue follows as another bullet splinters the deck, hitting my empty chair. Somewhere close a woman screams, but I don’t look at her—my focus remains outside.
Standing on the solid floor of the restaurant I feel a little safer—they can get under it but it’s not a deck—it’s a thick tile floor.
Brock’s suddenly next to me, his own pistol drawn. “Get Mrs. Maxim to safety,” Robert says.
“Fuck that,” I respond.
Robert’s gaze whips to me. “This isn’t your fight.”
“They just shot at my dog,” I point out. Robert shakes his head. I’m incorrigible. “I saw a black figure in scuba gear,” I say. “Only one but there may be more. I was looking between the boards so I couldn’t see well.”
Brock takes my arm as if he is going to lead me away to some ‘safe’ place but when I catch his gaze he swallows audibly. “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice low.
He clears his throat. “Mrs. Maxim, if we could—”
“Let go.” I say it very clearly so there can be no confusion as to my request.
Brock releases me—he doesn’t look at Robert first. He just lets go. I give him a slight nod and he clenches his jaw. Blue’s nose taps my hip.
The dining room has cleared out—chairs are tipped over and plates of food abandoned. “They will probably come around to the beach on the north side,” Brock says.
“We can exit through the kitchen,” Robert says.
