Free Tsunami Blue by Gayle Ann Williams Page B

in his eyes. His thumbs rubbed back and forth, pushing further under my bra. For a moment, for a heartbeat or two, time stopped.
    And then the fear kicked in.
    He was a Runner. Runners raped. Runners killed. Runners were not gentle, they were not sorry, and they did not care. Not ever.
    I used all my strength to push him back. And just like that he let me. My shirt fell back in place, and I trembled from cold and nerves and something else I didn’t want to think about. Gabriel ran his hand through his long black hair in frustration. It was a moment before either one of us spoke.
    “Go change, Blue.” He pointed to the bow of the boat, where I could see a bunk and not much else. “Please. I’ve laid some clothes out for you on the V-berth. The door slides shut. It won’t lock, but you have my word I won’t come in. Just please get warm. I hate seeing you this way. I hate”—he paused and took a breath—“I hate what I’ve done to you.”
    I read the sadness in his eyes, the conflict. As if he were in a struggle within himself. How could I fight when I didn’t know what I was fighting? Why was I here? It was a mystery, one I had to solve, but for now he was also right: I had to get out of these clothes. I felt sick with the cold and the damp.
    Walking past him to the bow of the boat, I reached the V-berth, the bunk, stepped in, and slid the teak door closed behind me. I breathed in the familiar scent of the sea and leaned against the smooth, warm wood and tried like hell to calm my nerves.
    There on the bed were clothes carefully laid out like I was an expected guest. I looked closely at them, touching and caressing each piece in wonder.
    There were black jeans, like his, stonewashed and soft. There were cargo pants and two long-sleeved thermals, pretty in cream and cornflower blue. The underwear, black panties and bras, were my size exactly. A fisherman’s sweater of soft wool hung on a hook, a women’s size with a large cable-knit pattern. And there were pajamas, cloud-soft flannel. The matching tank top and short bottoms were decorated with tiny dragonflies and Asian coins for a pattern. I’d never owned anything as extravagant as pajamas before; at least, not since I was five years old.
    Lying on this little bunk were more new clothes than I ever remembered owning all at one time. Where? And how? New Seattle? Not possible. The malls were underwater; nothing this nice could have survived. Then where? I thought of Gabriel’s sun-kissed skin, and I remembered my first impression: Not from around here.
    I stripped off my clothes, slipped on the silky underwear, and climbed into the black jeans. They fit perfectly, hugging my body like an old friend.
    I marveled that I actually had a choice of clothing. I chose the cream thermal and fisherman’s sweater. Oversize, it hung to my knees, and the sleeves covered my hands to the knuckles. It felt warm and cozy and welcoming. I loved it. But what I really wanted to wear were the pajamas. I couldn’t help handling them, rubbing them against my cheek, smelling the newness of them. But when, if ever, I’d wear them with Gabriel so close…well, for now it wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t.
    I smelled a heavenly aroma coming from the cabin and my mouth watered with hunger. Time to face Gabriel. And then what? Thank him for the clothes? Thank him for planning ahead, for knowing my size? That was creepy on so many levels. I had so many questions. But would he answer them? And if he did, would there be any truth in his words?
    I turned to leave when I saw a small mirror hanging flush on the door. Standing on tiptoe I peeked at my reflection. I looked at the dark circles under my eyes, the paleness of my skin, and the tangled mess of my hair. I looked at the lump on my forehead that matched Gabriel’s goose egg perfectly. A shadow of a smile passed over my face as I touched the painful spot. Guess both of us were pretty hardheaded. As bone-weary fatigue crept into every