The Brink by Austin Bunn Read Free Book Online Page A

glass.
    â€œCan you dive for it?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s too deep. I tried.”
    Haley shivered. “Shit, Mac, someone could take it.” Suddenly, the water seemed vast and rioting with threat. She thought of sharks and rays—the flappy mouse pad ones—and the Portuguese men-o’-war, which, she learned from the travel book she’d checked out from the library, were translucent brains with stinging hair.
    â€œMermaids might take it,” Mac said. “For their merriages.”
    He was not nearly worried enough. “You’re always in problem-solving mode until the moment I need you to be in problem-solving mode,” Haley said, and worked her arms through the straps of her top.
    Mac climbed onto the raft. “Hang on. Just let me boot up.”
    He lay down and whirred and clicked and sliced his hands through the air like a robot. Mac worked in advertising; he could only be serious after he’d riffed a little. Haley noticed the wet hair on his scalp made a land bridge from one side to another; the bald spot was progressing. The bald spot would need to be acknowledged and accommodated. His threadbare, beloved T-shirt (Madison High School Class of ’99) was glazed to his chest; he wore it even in the water . He was shy about his scars on his belly, from a childhood surgery, but Haley felt, and she’d said something and then knew to drop it, that wearing a T-shirt while swimming made them bothlook like they didn’t belong at the resort, like they’d won the trip on a game show.
    â€œThe ring’s not going anywhere,” Mac said. “I promise I won’t take my eyes off it. But let me just say your breasts look fantastic right now.”
    â€œSee, you just did take your eyes off it.” Haley eyed the beachfront, the crescent of folding chairs and umbrellas. The other honeymooners at the resort, French girls with punky breasts who made Haley feel prissy for even bothering with a top, were nowhere to be seen. Last night, the place seemed overrun with young French newlyweds. She’d seen them all cramming into a hotel shuttle bus to the bars. But now the walkways that bridged between bungalows were empty. Haley untied the outrigger. She’d get help and she’d leave Mac out here if she had to.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” Mac asked.
    And then Haley saw it too, the plume of black smoke in the sky, toward town. Something big was on fire. But they had other things to worry about.
    In the breezy hotel lobby—it was a wind tunnel, open on both ends—the concierge gave Haley the worried expression she was hoping for. He had hazel skin, jet-black hair, and blazing white teeth, with a British flag pinned to the lapel of his white tuxedo.
    â€œThere are divers yes?” Mac asked, dripping on the tile. “We pay dollars. Many dollars.”
    When Mac said it, Haley realized she didn’t even knowyet what the currency was here. Francs? Sand dollars? Mac’s ring was probably worth a half year’s labor. As soon as word got around that the ring was in the lagoon, everybody would be diving for it.
    â€œNo diving this day,” the concierge said. “I am sorry.”
    â€œNot one?” Haley asked. “Not even, like, a guy with an air tank?”
    â€œTomorrow,” the concierge answered. “Tomorrow, everything.”
    One of the French girls slow-walked through the lobby. She pressed a gauze bandage to her head with a crust of blood at the fringe. Too much fun? Haley thought vindictively. The girl’s brown mane was clumpy and uncombed. She carried an ice bucket and barely picked her flip-flops off the floor.
    â€œWhat happened to her?” Haley asked the concierge.
    The concierge studied them both, as though this were a test of his congeniality. Then he handed her an island newspaper, a crudely printed broadsheet with all the weight of a shopping circular. “Beach Bombings Kill 23.”