The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [106]
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Making a sharp left as we leave the marina and ignoring the “No Wake” signs, Gillian shoves the throttle forward, guns the engine, and sends us skipping across the water. The bouncing ride is enough to knock us to our seats, but both of us grab the dashboard and fight to stay on our feet. “If you don’t stand above the windshield, you can’t taste the ocean!” she shouts over the engine. I nod and lick the salty air from my lips. When I first started at Greene, Lapidus private-jetted me to St. Bart’s and took me out on one of our client’s personal yachts. They had wine-tasting classes, Thai massage, and two full-time butlers. It sucked compared to this.
Thanks to a foglight on the front of the boat, we can see a few feet through the darkness, but with the moon hidden by a pack of clouds, it’s like driving with your brights on through an abandoned field. In the distance, the ocean fades and the whole world turns black. The only things in sight are the parallel jetties that run along our right- and lefthand sides—a natural guardrail that leads us out toward the ocean.
“Ready to get on the magic bus?” she calls out as we hit the open water. I expect her to punch the engine. Instead, she slows down. At the end of the jetty, she pulls a hard left around the rocks and cuts the engine.
“What’re you doing?”
“You’ll see,” she teases, rushing toward the front of the boat.
We’re a good hundred and fifty yards from shore, but I still hear the faint crashing of the waves against the beach.
“Can people see us?” I ask, squinting toward a barely visible lifeguard stand.
“Not anymore,” she says as she cuts our foglight. The darkness hits quick, swallowing us whole.
Searching for safety, my eyes go straight for the hot pink, sky blue, and lime green neon signs that trace the tops of Ocean Drive’s Art Deco hotels. This far away, they’re like Day-Glo landing lights. Everything else is gone.
“You sure this is smart?”
There’s a loud plop of water and a slight jerk from the front of the boat. There goes the anchor.
“Gillian…”
Flipping toward the back of the boat, she yanks the Dolphin seat cushions from the bench, lifts up the wooden seat, and reveals a storage locker underneath. From the locker, she pulls out two wet suits, masks, flippers…
“Give me a hand here,” she calls out, struggling with something heavier.
I race next to her and help her lift a cold metal canister from the locker. Then another. Scuba tanks.
“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” I ask her, struggling to sound unintimidated.
She pulls out a flashlight and shines it in my face. “I thought you were up for some adventure…”
“I am,” I say, blocking the light with my hand. “That’s why we came on the boat.”
“No, we came on the boat to get under. The adventure starts here.” Flushed with adrenaline, she props the flashlight on the bench and pounces for the pile of equipment. Reading the gauges, adjusting knobs, untangling a knot of hoses…. “Just wait till you see it,” she says, her voice whizzing with excitement.
“Gillian…”
“It’s gonna overload your senses—sight, touch, sound—boom—blown like a giant speaker.”
“Maybe we should…”
“And the best part is, only the locals know about it. Forget the tourist parade gawking on South Beach—this is just for the homegrowns. Here, put this on.” She tosses me a wet suit, which hits me in the chest.
Even if I lose cool-points, it’s no time to hold back. “Gillian, I don’t know how to scuba-dive.”
“Don’t worry—you’ll be fine.”
“But isn’t it dangerou—”
She unzips her jeans and slides them down to her ankles. As she steps out of them, she unbuttons her shirt and tosses it aside. “Relax,” she says, standing there in her sheer bra and white cotton panties. “I’ll teach you.” Right above the thin waistband of her underwear is a tiny purple butterfly tattoo. I can’t take my eyes off it.
“Careful, you might go blind,” she teases, wiggling into her wet suit.
“Have I ever told you how much I love